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| Heroes' Feast with the Macho King |
Introduction
1 to 1 time often requires little events like this one. By adjudicating over discord, it is possible to tidy up loose ends, rather than waste time with them in a real session. Although it may appear no real risk was involved, that is not the case, and the players know virtually anything can happen, as in an actual session.
Downtime Actions
On the seventh day of October, Giuseppe and his company returned to Machodor from their perilous ventures abroad, worn but triumphant, having defeated a demon, and having secured a buyer for the golden couch—Radomix Kistomerces, Overlord and master of the rebuilding Trollopulous. Giuseppe, never one to let an opportunity tarnish, proposed a swift delivery by Rocket Cycle, with Sheamus at the controls. Sever, the ever‑vigilant Ranger, would ride above on his pegasus with a small retinue—Rabbit, Poindexter, and Thomas—shrouded by invisibility.
They departed at dawn on the eighth, a brisk October sun cutting like new coin over the eastern hills. The Rocket Cycle’s engine droned with metallic longing, eating mile after mile of clear sky. Five hours later Nummi’s Tower appeared below, crouched like an ancient beast in its crater. Then two shapes coiled from the southern horizon—great copper dragons that turned the sunlight to bronze as they wheeled toward the tower. The elder, vast and dignified, was Nummi himself, the younger his impetuous son. They passed near, immense and unseeing, while the invisible adventurers thrummed past with hearts hammering.
By noon the dragons had dwindled to motes behind them, and Trollopulous lay ahead—a shrouded skeleton of a city, its broken towers masked in mist. But Giuseppe knew the truth: the veil of ruin was a myconid glamour, woven to mislead foes. Beneath the fog, the city lived again. Sheamus banked the Rocket Cycle low toward the palace whose towers thrust up like blackened knuckles, while Sever circled above, muttering distrust.
Giuseppe called out, voice thick with urgency: “It’sa no ruin, Sever—the myconids weava the illusion, spores to scare off foes, but beneath lies the real Trollopulous, alive and rebuilding.”
McScales agreed, “Mesa believe him, boss!” Sheamus chuckled low, “Aye, and if the Overlord’s palace is real, this Radomix will pay for the couch and I can pay for me chickens.”
Sever relented and the group circled down. When the fungal mist parted at last, the true palace of Radomix Kistomerces stood revealed—its marble bones reset, a monument both splendid and foreboding.
The Rocket Cycle landed in the Overlord's palace courtyard, the engine's rumble dying to a hiss and the invisibility faded, revealing the golden couch lashed behind Sheamusa like a gaudy trophy. The Irisman hopped down with a grunt, McScales uncoiled with a gleeful “Yippee, we-sa landed!”, while Sever guided his pegasus to ground in silence. Ever cautious, the Ranger remained invisible, along with his henchmen.
The courtyard erupted in chaos—guards in browned-iron mail levelled halberds, servants scattered with cries of “Intruders!” and “Dragon!”
A pair of archers nocked arrows from the battlements, their shouts cutting the air: “Halt...sky-thieves!” Giuseppe, Dragonslayer sheathed, but shield up, raised his voice, “Peace, amici—we come in trade, nota war!” He waved the wand of office before him like a talisman.
The commotion swelled until the chamberlain in black toga pushes through the guards, his wand of office waving, eyes narrowing as he scanned the group with a hawk's gaze, then barked orders to stand down. “By the Overlord’s grace Giuseppe, you could have mentioned your mode of locomotion, who dares the skies with such a bauble?” he demanded, gesturing at the couch.
Gold lay stacked in chests about him—five oaken boxes, heavy with forty five thousand rilks, each the equivalent of a gold macho. The Overlord’s fingers caressed the couch’s arm, then waved in command; servants bore it reverently to its place beside his own. “Payment as agreed,” he said.
Giuseppe noted with some relief the absence of the two thieves who where present the last time—apparently well favoured by Radomix, the tall red-head with the huge sword, and the small man wearing grey leather. Slippery Pete had warned him to be wary of those two.
As though that thought summoned its like, Radomix said, “Where is Slippery Pete, that sly fox? I savour his humorous asides.”
"He's probably looking out for the next score. Ha!" the paladin offered.
"Oh yes, like Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser I should think. They left seeking a 'big score' not long after you defeated the demon. As long as it's in accordance with the thieves' guild charter mind you,” he winked.
When the bargain was sealed, the adventurers paused at the chamberlain’s suggestion to visit the Prancing Umberhulk—an inn repurposed into spore‑drenched mycelium halls. There the Fungus King awaited, a towering myconid whose mind touched theirs in silent harmony. He gifted them vials of glowing spore‑essence to guard memory against Trollopulous’ mutable veil, and to Giuseppe he entrusted two flasks: one etched with runes for Macho Mandalf himself, another green‑lit to mark the bearer friend to myconid kind.
Before departure Sever’s ever‑suspicious senses swept the treasure with magic—nothing false shimmered within. The rilks were genuine. The return flight was long but peaceful, dusk chasing them to Minas Mandalf's walls.
By dawn they had divided the gold, each throat dry with fatigue yet warmed by triumph. Word reached the court swiftly, and Macho Mandalf himself summoned them to his table for a Hero’s Feast—a rare honour, said to provide powerful benefits. Over eggs and Slim Jims, the tale of the golden couch was told and retold, each retelling truer than the last. And when it was done, the Macho King smiled the smile of one who knows such victories are but preludes to greater perils.
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