#kindadumb

It’s early evening in Voonlar. Enough light to see, be seen, but just enough darkness to make it...interesting.

Fortunately, (for those who would make life interesting for others more than any) there is enough light to see why our trio should be allowed to dwell in the depths of boredom evermore. 

As is common in the smaller towns, no one really knows what to make of Paladin. They may have heard of golems, but he doesn’t really fit the bill. For one thing, he radiates happiness at simply being alive. Literally. Paladin’s aura is the kind of pure shiny thing that gives even the foulest demon a strangely happy feeling. In a world of worry, Paladin walks without fear, in search of new smells, or familiar ones that have brought him pleasure. (Paladin neither consumes nor expels food, he is truly the cheapest of dates.) 

He does whirr a bit as he walks, for he’s a warforged. Which is like a golem, except, as Paladin puts it, he doesn’t just murder things. It does make it a bit jarring when he smiles, or gets giggly about butterflies. Well, anything, really. The giggle of a warforged has broken many an evildoer’s courage. The upshot though, is that even the thought of giving Paladin a bad time causes guilt in the coldest of hearts, or cavities that once held hearts. There’s a lich near Waterdeep who has given Paladin a standing invitation for chess lessons whenever he has the time. People just like Paladin.

People do not just like Monk. People (sometimes) tolerate Monk, people (regularly) hate Monk, people (constantly) want to do awful things to Monk, (especially Storm Silverhand), and would except for the fact that Monk is well, a monk, and a very good one. It doesn’t help that he moves as though he is at the center of the world and it moves around him. Half-buried rocks don’t have the balance Monk has, and the most accomplished dancer in Waterdeep became almost suicidal after observing him rise from his seat to applaud her performance. Monk is very pretty, Monk is beyond graceful, and upon first glance, it is very difficult to understand why people hate Monk so.

Then he opens his mouth. 

Someone once asked Elminster about the hate Monk creates, and Elminster replied, “That child is a being of angelic grace and beauty, with a mouth worse than the foulest middens on three worlds.” Monk is aware of this, but stopped caring some years, perhaps centuries ago. No one is sure how old Monk is, they’re too busy trying to make him go away. Storm Silverhand commented that if you want proof that Paladin is made of purest kindness and mercy, the fact he has not tried to kill Monk is all the proof anyone should need. Storm dreams of turning Monk inside out.

Regularly.

When asked about his effect on people, the most detailed remark Monk ever provided was “Some people think about other people. Their feelings. Their cares. I haven’t seen people as anything more than a collection of places to be hit in longer than I care to remember. You see a butcher, I see someone who I would avoid hitting in the ribs because of the extra suet butchers seem afflicted with.” Somewhere along the way, Monk became rather disassociated from everyone else. If that bothers him, no one can tell. 

He is however, as much as he can be, solicitous towards Paladin. “Just look at the boy, he’s the most innocent thing ever. I mean, he’s a living battering ram incapable of being hurt, but even beholders think he’s cute. It would be an act of pure chaos to be unkind at Paladin.”

Monk, everyone agrees, is totally not chaotic. They do wish his definition of “good” was more “makes other people smile” and less “makes me giggle.” But he will relentlessly follow any and all rules. He just doesn’t always tell others which rules he happens to be following at any given moment.

The upside for Monk is that simply being him makes people think twice about talking to him, much less giving him a hard time. This works out well for them, since Monk can collapse a minotaur’s skull with less effort than a leaf uses to float on the wind.

Sometimes, there have been groups that have braved Monk’s “go away” aura and Paladin’s “Everything is beautiful” aura to give them a hard time. They’re buried in small boxes around Toril.

Ever since Monk and Paladin went through Yulash a week or so ago, even those groups give them a wide berth. Well, not so much Monk or Paladin. They give Barbarian a wide berth. Beholders give Barbarian a wide berth. It is rumored that on its last rampage, the Tarrasque was stopped by Barbarian. She didn’t kill it, she gave it a bad look. Barbarian inspires fear the way Monk inspires hate. Only worse. 

Barbarian has not been a part of the group for very long, but she knows two things: first, she knows that Paladin is both someone who cannot be hurt and someone who she will protect from even the slightest attempt with every fiber of her being and every inch of her axe. Halfway between Yulash and Voonlar, a bird attempted to relieve itself on Paladin. Barbarian didn’t kill the bird as much as she erased its existence. Paladin doesn’t know it, but he is the safest being in existence. Ever. (She is much of the reason why the Voonlarian prejudice towards non-humans is curiously missing when it comes to Paladin.)

The second thing she knows is that Monk stirs feelings in her that make it hard to not kill things even more than she normally does. There is something in the complete and utter discipline surrounding Monk that sets her insides on fire, and she plans on breaking a lot of beds to see if he’s any good at quenching the fire. Or making it worse, she’s not fussy. The entire trip from Yulash, she’s been splitting things with her axe to keep from possibly shocking Paladin with what she’s thinking of doing to Monk.

Trees. Rocks. Random ancient adamantine pillars that survived at least two battles between major deities. Stone bridges. Four bandit companies. That sort of thing.

Barbarian is a human female, six feet tall, with the pinkest hair Monk has ever seen. Monk is well aware of how Barbarian feels about him, he feels much the same about her. In fact, in the week since meeting her, he has tripped three times. Monk has not tripped at all in decades, perhaps centuries. They haven’t discussed it yet, but Monk is fine with seeing if they can break a bed. Or an entire inn, in this instance, he’s not fussy. Monk may be perfectly lawful, but Monk is not an ascetic. Monk likes his beds soft, his coffee hot and Barbarian. He would never admit it, but he actually likes Barbarian more than coffee.

Barbarian is clad in armor which is covered in spikes. Spikes which have spikes, and disturbing stains. “I got the idea from the battlerager company I asked to stop bothering me. Those spikes are proper dwarven craftsmanship.” She smells a bit like the back of a butcher’s shop. Well, her armor does. No one really knows what Barbarian herself smells like, although Paladin has an idea. Paladin is a connoisseur of smells, he thinks Barbarian smells very pretty under all the armor. 

Paladin would never state this out loud, it might hurt Barbarian’s feelings. Paladin likes Barbarian, he thinks she is very nice. Barbarian would say that Paladin is just darling except she doesn’t know that word. At all. She’s caught herself starting to use the word “sweetie” when addressing Paladin, which is quite disturbing since prior to meeting Paladin, she didn’t know that word either.

Barbarian’s weapon of choice is a large double-bladed axe. It may be magical in nature, but the encrusted gore makes it hard to tell. No one wants to get close enough to tell in any case. After dealing with what she called a “minor problem” in Phlan’s main graveyard, (she called it a “minor problem”. The people of Phlan called it “a legion of undead bent on killing everyone in the city.” Perspective, it’s a thing), the mayor of Phlan emptied the city’s treasury into her sack. When asked why he overpaid to that extent, his answer was “I have seen things in the dungeons of Zhentil Keep that came not close to what that woman did to a vampire.” He then waddled off to change his clothing, as the memory of her had caused him to soil himself. 

Thoroughly.

When it comes to killing people, Barbarian is an artist. A gruesome, terrifying artist. Her and Monk are opposites in almost every way, and if they do not get some private time, and soon, they may just break a town.

As neither Monk nor Barbarian are particularly fussy about where they have dinner, they allow Paladin to choose. He initially thought the Sign of the Shield had nice smells, but the lack of a proper dining room puts him off. “I don’t like to smell food by myself, there is no one there to eat it when I am done, and the servants never believe that I didn’t do something to it. I feel bad about wasting food.” Monk and Barbarian note the very private room setup, and resolve to spend the night here. The building seems solid, it should survive.

Paladin nixes the Swords Meet immediately. Aside from his disdain for over-spicing food, (”If  all I wanted to smell was spices, I’d be a caravan guard in Sembia”), the fact the inn is basically a local gathering place for Zhents means that instead of smelling food, he’d be watching Monk and Barbarian slay Zhents. That doesn’t particularly bother him, but it’s been a long walk from Yulash, he really wants to smell some nice, properly-cooked food, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with the smell of dead Zhents. 

They all agree on the Three Elves. It has unlimited food for only five silvers (Barbarian approves), plenty of coffee, (Monk approves) and there is no wall between the kitchen and the dining rooms, so not only can Paladin smell his food, he can smell the cooking, and that is an uncommon joy for Paladin. 

The three sit down and fork over their money. Barbarian pays, she lost a bet with Monk in Yulash. Haundrae, one of the four owners of the in starts to look askance at the money, (understandable given the stains on the gauntlet that drops it into his hand), but sees that it’s attached to Barbarian and decides that well, silver washes just fine. The owners, also the cooks, are soon busy as can be cooking the vast amount of food the trio requests. Barbarian can out-eat a small company, Monk doesn’t eat as much, but he does adore food, and Paladin orders one of everything so he can smell it. 

They’re seated near the kitchen area, and soon the cooks are beaming in the light of the joy emanating from Paladin at the plethora of smells he is bathed in. (Literally. Paladin gets a bit glowy when he’s this happy.) Well, the smells from the food and the kitchen. The smells coming from Monk and Barbarian are not as joyful to him. Fortunately, the food and the kitchen smells outweigh them. Paladin resolves to spend the night in this inn. Hopefully near the kitchen. 

The other three owner-cooks of the inn are a trio of large women, in all dimensions, two are sisters. They’re fantastic cooks, possessed of bubbly flirtatious natures. They are not however, flirting with Monk. This is less due to his personality than the fury they see on Barbarian’s face if they become too familiar with Monk. Monk would normally not be okay with this level of possessiveness, but he’s too enthralled by both Barbarian’s hair and her oft-demonstrated artistry with dismemberment and mayhem. He has found his soulmate. She has found what she hopes is the first man who can keep up with her. Regardless, she makes it clear any extraneous touching of Monk may result in the sprouting of bloody stumps on the toucher. She does this by calmly licking the blade of her axe while glaring.

Perhaps “calmly” isn’t the best word. But the growling is barely audible and her teeth only chatter a little.

The meal is served and devoured with no unnecessary bleeding, so it all works out. This is helped by the large tip Barbarian leaves. (She’s a very good tipper. It’s why she’s welcome in almost every tavern in Toril. Especially the ones she’s destroyed.) As dessert and the empty third keg of Brown Nut Ale are cleared, Paladin says “I like this place, it smells nice. I think I’d like to stay here tonight, what do...” He never finishes the sentence, Monk and Barbarian are already out the door heading for the Sign of the Shield. Fortunately, Monk is slightly faster than Barbarian, so the door to the inn remains intact. Monk only breaks down doors when required, totally not chaotic.

Paladin hears the door to the Shield open and slam shut, then something that sounds like an innkeeper (Mester) starting to refuse to rent a room to Barbarian and Monk followed by...well, imagine the sound pure fury makes as it shoves a handful of platinum into an uncomfortable place and I don’t mean the back of a ffolkewagon. Paladin and everyone in the Three Elves all decide that everything is fine, no need whatsoever to check on the innkeeper over at the Shield. Mester will be fine. Probably. It can absolutely wait until morning.

A few minutes later, there’s the sound of what might have been some of the Shield Trading Company’s veteran guards running into the inn to deal with unruly guests, being tied in a knot and flung into the street through the front door. But everyone who heard the clanging and the thudding and the soft sobbing decided the best course of action was to Mind Their Own Business, and let the clerics at the House of Holy Light know they may want to do something about the guards, the sobbing was somewhat off-putting. Also, no one should be left in the shape of a square knot for too long, it’s a bit hard on the back.

To this day, no one is precisely sure what actually happened to the Sign of the Shield, the other guests, along with the remaining un-knotted staff had fled within minutes of Monk and Barbarian going into their room. None of them would ever speak of what they saw or heard. It took three days before anyone could walk near, much less into the building without instantly sprouting hair all over their bodies. 

This was particularly disturbing to the elves in town. They’re not used to needing depilatory magic. 

One of the minstrels from the Flying Stag was asked by the Bron’s men to describe the noises coming from the Shield that night and responded with “Have you ever heard the sound of a peryton being violated by an orthon while six random demons all sing Rashomeni opera in perfect harmony? No? Neither have I, but I now know exactly what that sounds like, and if it’s all the same to you, I plan on drinking until I can no longer remember it. Or anything else.” In an act of desperation, the Bron sent a letter to Storm Silverhand asking for her help, along with a description of Monk and Barbarian. Her only response was “You let them in, you deal with it.”

The building itself survived after a fashion. The outer walls were mostly intact, the inner structures were almost a total loss. All of the bricks in the second-floor ceiling had to be replaced, they looked like someone had managed to use them as handholds in several places and, somehow, footholds in several others. The tack and other gear in the stables were either found destroyed or so defiled that they had to be burned. At least two rooms required the services of every cleric in the town to get the stones in the floor to stop whimpering. 

There was some thought to mustering up a posse to arrest the trio, but firstly, no one in the town was even slightly willing to take part. The un-knotted members of the Shield Trading Company all lined up at the dismemberment crosses when ordered to ride after them under pain of slow death, stating “this will hurt less.”  

The second discouraging factor was the very large mound of platinum found in one of the bathing rooms, (when counted, enough to buy a new inn and half of Voonlar), the only undamaged room in the building. On top of the platinum was a note in precise, perfect script that read “Thank you so much for your hospitality and professionalism during our stay. We hope this payment will cover any accidental damages we may have caused.” Underneath were three words in less neat script, quite possibly using some form of blood for ink which read: “This. Never. Happened.”

Six Feet of Violence in both hair color and interaction with the world

Monk and Paladin are just outside of Yulash. This isn’t a scenic area with trees and squirrels. Yulash is a pit, little more than a battleground between Hillsfar and Zhentil Keep with the occasional escaping slime god. At this point, the only real difference between the factions is the color of their helmet brushes. That, and the Zhents don’t have helmet brushes, they’ve always won the style war on Toril. Completely evil, but fabulous on the runway.

Monk and Paladin are standing outside of what would be an open road into Yulash were it not for the barricades. And the slime. Yulash generates slime the way Monk generates hate.

Monk: “Paladin, I can’t remember, are those mercenaries Hillsfarian or Zhents?

Paladin: “Zhents. They don’t have the silly helmets”

Monk: “Right, I always forget about that. Do they look like they have any pet beholders then? The Zhents love those for some reason.”

Paladin: “Well, they do make winning fights easier, but I don’t see any, it’s hard to hide a beholder.”

Monk: “Good point. Still, it will be a fight, and…”

Just then, the largest woman either Monk or Paladin have ever seen walks up. She’s about as tall as Monk, but where he’s lithe, she’s built like…well, a brick shithouse. She is also carrying an axe of considerable size and sharpness, decorated with what looks like years’ and entire towns’ worth of dried blood. She also has pink hair. Very pink hair. Lathanderites weep in jealous rage over how pink Barbarian’s hair is. This is important to Monk, he has a thing for pink.

Barbarian: “Are these Zhents causing you trouble?”

Monk: “Not as such. They might try in a few minutes, we’re trying to decide if Yulash is worth the trouble of walking through it, or just avoiding the entire mess.”

Barbarian: “Yulash is never worth it, it’s a pit of a pit. Latrines smell better. The only reason people go through Yulash is walking around Yulash takes longer and it smells so bad even Otyughs stay away. But, since they are Zhents and they might possibly get in my way or otherwise vex me…”

With that, Barbarian dons the rather impressive helmet she’d been wearing on her hip, unshoulders her axe, and with a loud and rather profane battlecry, runs towards the barricade, intent on bisecting Zhents.

Paladin: “Monk, I have never seen a helmet like that. Even the spikes have spikes.”

Monk: “Yes…isn’t she dreamy?”

Paladin: “What?”

Monk: “Um, nothing, I said nothing. Come on, let’s see how she does. This could be fun if she’s any good.”

Barbarian hits the Zhent’s barriers at full speed. That’s less impressive than the fact she doesn’t seem to actually notice the barriers. They notice her, in a “turning to flying scrap” kind of way.

Monk: “Paladin, you have a decent memory. Do you ever remember seeing people killed by someone by running into a wooden barrier so hard, they were impaled by the scraps?”

Paladin: “There was that dragon just south of Anuroch that did that to a bunch of Purple Dragon Knights.”

Monk: “Does that really count? I mean, he flattened a town with one swing of his tale, I think that’s accidental. Look, she hit that second barrier just right to put the scraps into that crossbow-type in the shape of a “Z”. That’s either artistry or showing off.”

Paladin: “You asked if we’d ever seen that before. If you want a different answer, you have to ask a different question.”

Monk: “Fair. Oh my, a beheading that kills the guy behind the decapitee with the flying head. See Paladin, you just don’t see artistry like that any more. Nowadays it’s all hack, hack, slash, slash. Style. that’s what we are missing, style.”

Barbarian: “Are either of you two going to help or just provide bad commentary?”

Monk: “Our commentary is not bad, it is witty and wise. Besides, you need help less than any army I’ve ever seen. The Tarrasque needs help more than you do. Oh wait, you have a scratch on your arm. Here, let me heal that.”

Monk walks over to where Barbarian is doing something very rude to a wizard with the handle of her greataxe and heals a cut that is maybe an inch long.

Monk: “There, I have helped…hm, I never thought about cleaning weapon hilts with arterial spray. That is a neat trick, I’ll have to remember it.”

Barbarian stops mutilating the now quite dead wizard, and stares at Monk with the normal response to his version of “humor”, that is, exasperation and barely-masked annoyance.

Barbarian: “I should let you handle the rest of this and make funny comments of my own.”

Monk: “Will you buy me dinner if I can handle the rest of this lot in under a minute without moving my feet?”

Barbarian gives Monk the once-over.

Barbarian: “if you can do it in under forty-five seconds, you might just get more than dinner, you’re more pretty than your mouth is big. Besides, they’re kind of boring.”

Monk doesn’t waste time agreeing, he simply bends down, grabs an armful of kindling that used to be part of a barrier and turns to Barbarian.

Monk: “The clock starts once you walk back over to where Paladin is standing. You’re blocking part of my view.”

Barbarian gives Monk a wry smile, puts her axe over her shoulder and walks over to Paladin. Some of the Zhents act like they were thinking about using their crossbows on her, then they look at the wizard she’s turned into some kind of very wrong sponge art with the haft of the greataxe and decide that Monk would be a better target.

Barbarian: “Okay, ready…GO”

Monk, without moving his feet, because that’s the bet, and keeping the terms of a bet is totally not chaotic, does a pivot that shouldn’t be possible for creatures with a spine. The crossbowmen who made the decision to shoot at him realize they decided poorly as he catches their bolts with one hand and returns them. At high speeds. Into rude places, and we don’t mean the back of a Ffolkwagon. The remaining wizard casts various things at him, none of which work.

Paladin: “Hi, lady with the very large ax, are you our new friend?”

Barbarian looks at Paladin for a minute. She’s never seen a warforged, much less one as smilely as Paladin. It would look creepy, but he reeks of sincerity, goodness, and a less-than-bright view of life she, and everyone who is not evil find charming. (To be honest, even the evil lot like Paladin. They’d like it if he didn’t cause them so many problems, but it’s really hard to genuinely hate Paladin. That, they reserve for Monk. There’s a town just outside of Neverwinter that has a yearly hate parade in dedication to Monk.)

Barbarian: “Well, I’m definitely yours, I like you, you’re nice. Him, we’ll see.”

Paladin: “We get that a lot…oh, they shouldn’t use magic on Monk.”

Barbarian: “It doesn’t seem to work well.”

Paladin: “It also makes him itchy. He hates that.”

Barbarian: “Understandable.”

As the other two talk, Monk bounces the kindling in his hands a few times, then with a sweep of both arms, launches it at the remaining Zhents. Every one of them goes down with a piece of wood in the throat. Monk looks around at the now-twitching corpses, shaking his head.

Monk: “The Zhents just hate throat guards. I’ll never understand why.”

Barbarian: “They like choking, and I don’t mean in combat. It’s a thing with them.”

Monk rolls his eyes at that.

Monk: “Zhents. Anyway, you owe me dinner.”

Barbarian: “I do indeed, but not in Yulash.”

Monk: “No, eating here is awful. Even Otyughs know that. This town gets slime on everything somehow. Even sealed ale barrels somehow have globs of slime. It’d be an impressive trick if it wasn’t making the food so rancid.”

Barbarian: “Hmm…not Shadowdale, they annoy me.”

Monk: “Ditto, someone there thinks he knows everything, and never shuts up about it.”

Barbarian: “And how. How about you my new…whatever you are friend?”

Paladin: “I’m a warforged. I’m like a golem, but I’m a person and I don’t just murder people at someone’s command. I’m a paladin because I like being good. But I don’t eat, I just like to smell things.”

Barbarian: “You are truly the cheapest of dates, and possibly quite handy in preventing awkward social faux pas. Okay my fine whirring friend, where is your favorite place to smell food.”

Paladin thinks about this. Fortunately, smelling food is one of his favorite things, and he can actually think about that well. Otherwise, they might grow old waiting for an answer.

Paladin: “Voonlar is nice. Ashabenford is better, but we have to go through Shadowdale, and it’s full of people who know everything and like to tell me about it. Constantly. That much talking makes it hard to smell my dinner. Also, Storm Silverhand threatened to turn Monk inside-out if she ever saw him again.”

Barbarian: “Why am I not surprised. Voonlar it is then, dinner’s on me.”

Monk: “I certainly hope so.”

Barbarian: “What was that?”

Part the Third, Wherein the shop employee learns he does not know better

Monk and Paladin walk into a decently sized town near the Calim Desert. Think Suzail, but without all the dead bodies in the alleys.

Monk: Paladin, do I smell coffee?

Paladin: I don’t know Monk. I smell coffee, well I think I do, I’m never really sure, but how would I know what you smell?

Monk: That was…never mind. Yes, I do smell coffee, and there is the shop it is coming from.

Paladin: Can I have coffee too?

Monk: You don’t drink coffee. Or anything else. It’s one reason why I like you, you neither consume nor expel food. You are the cheapest of dates.

Paladin: I like the smell.

They walk into the shop, oblivious to what their argument sounds like.

Monk: You can smell coffee from anywhere in this building, they make it here.

Paladin: That’s other people’s smells. I want my own smell.

Monk: You mean besides oil and dirt?

Paladin: Huh?

Monk: Never mind. Yes, you can have your own coffee to smell.

Paladin: YAY!

They walk up to the counter in the shop, waiting calmly in line. They are lawful after all. When you are lawful, you follow the rules.

Shopkeep: Can I help you?

Monk: Two coffees please

Shopkeep: What kind?

Monk: The kind that’s already made and able to be poured into the largest mugs you have the fastest. I’m not picky unless what’s made tastes like a beholder’s taint.

Shopkeep: None of our coffee tastes like that, it is all imported directly from Calminshan…

Monk interrupts the shopkeep.

Monk: Kid, I’m sure that story is fascinating, however, I don’t even care enough to argue over the price markup that story gets you. Just give me coffee. Better yet, give my friend here the coffee, I’m going to sit over there and pretend I didn’t have this conversation.

Shopkeep: That will be ten coppers

Monk puts the money on the counter and walks away. The shopkeep commences to making the coffee, and hands both mugs to Paladin. Paladin is puzzled at one of the mugs but doesn’t think about it much. In truth, Paladin doesn’t think about anything much.

Paladin: Here you go monk, your coffee

Monk takes a sip and gets the kind of look a small child gets when you promise them a pony and give them a goat. He is betrayed.

Monk: Paladin, this is not coffee. This is tea.

Paladin: The man said “here’s your coffee” and that is what he handed me. Maybe it’s special coffee.

Monk: It is special in that it is tea. Someone gave me tea instead of coffee.

Paladin gets a worried look on his face. he’s not bright, but he does recognize certain dangers. People messing with Monk’s coffee is high on that list. Monk gets up to go talk to the shopkeep.

Shopkeep: Is there a problem?

Monk: This is tea.

Shopkeep: Yes it is, our special house blend.

Monk: I ordered coffee. I got tea. Can we fix this.

Shopkeep: But you’re one of those monks, aren’t you?

Monk raises an eyebrow at this. Paladin can see his friend starting to get tense in what he calls his “beatin’ arm” and decides that he needs to pay full attention to the aroma of his coffee. In truth, it does smell rather nice.

Monk: Yes, but I fail to see…

Shopkeep: Well, everyone knows monks drink tea. You look like you’ve been walking a while, clearly, in your fatigue, you misspoke.

Monk: No, I didn’t. I want coffee. Cof. Fee. Coffee. Comes from a bean. Keeps you awake. Keeps me from getting headaches that make me all murdery. Coffee. One word, two syllables. Right behind you on the stove. Dump this shit out, pour some coffee in the cup. Hand the cup to me.

Shopkeep: Our tea is most certainly not shit good sir. I’m insulted that you would even implrrrk!

The shopkeep suddenly finds talking to to be a bit of a chore, what with Monk grabbing the shopkeep’s tongue between his index finger and thumb in a painfully tight grip.

Monk: Paladin?

Paladin: Yes Monk?

Monk: I believe I saw a butterfly outside. You should go play with it.

Paladin: Monk, this is a more arid climate than butterflies…

Monk: <STARE>

Paladin: Oh look, a rare desert butterfly! Come here butterfly, we can smell my coffee together.

Paladin quickly leaves the shop. He has a good idea what is about to happen and not seeing it will be very helpful in him keeping his vows intact and his docent on his chest and not in an inconvenient place.

Monk: Allow me to demonstrate the ramifications of your error in judgement.

Sounds come out of the shop. Sounds that would not be out of place if made by someone with a full mug of tea inserted into their colon at high speeds while their limbs are bent into the shape of a coffee pot and the lid of a coffeepot fused into their skull. All done in a very methodical, well-planned fashion. Totally not chaotic.

Passers by try to ask Paladin what’s going on, but Paladin ignores them while running around yelling “COME BACK BUTTERFLY, THERE IS MORE COFFEE TO SMELL” in a slightly hysterical tone. The passers by are not sure who is more terrifying, but they all remember sudden business they have. In Zhentil Keep. Where it is safe.

Monk walks out of the shop and sits at one of the tables with a fresh mug of coffee. He takes a long sip, sighs deeply and smiles.

Monk: Ah, sweet, wonderful, coffee. How I love you.

Paladin looks like he’s thinking about going back into the shop, but Monk catches his eye and says “No no my friend. Let us stay outside today.” Paladin is in full agreement with that sentiment.

Part the Second, wherein Paladin is the Biggest Shuriken and A Dragon Says Many Rude Things

<Monk and Paladin walk…oh you get the idea.>

Monk: You look like you’re in charge here

General (Looking not happy about being interrupted): That would be my good fortune. However did you guess, aside from the banners and people calling me “General”?

Paladin: “See, I told you he was the general!”

General: “Is there a point to you two aside from bad comedy?”

Paladin: “We’re here to help!”

General: “…just…how do you plan to do that?”

Paladin: “Monk hits real good and I get hit real good”

General: “anything else?”

Monk: “Hmm…nope. He feels no pain, and I dish it out in interesting ways, that about covers it.”

General: “Well, as you may notice if you look overhead, our problem is a bit long distance and airborne, so unless you have some distance weapons, you’re kind of useless”

Paladin: “Monk could throw me! He can throw anything”

General: “…really now.”

Monk: “Well, yes, I probably could, but then he’d be rather far away, and he doesn’t deal a lot of damage on his own. And he runs faster than an Otyugh. Barely. So it would take him forever to get back here.”

General: “Not a lot of damage? even with that sword?”

Monk: “Not unless the dragon runs onto it several times of its own accord. Paladin just carries it because that’s what Paladins have. They have swords. He is a Paladin, he has a sword. His real value centers on nothing being able to possibly hit him hard enough to hurt him, much less actually damage him.”

General: “I get all the winners. Well, how about you?”

Monk: “I have shuriken. They’re returning, very nice, but face it, the dragon would die of old age before I killed him with a small circle of metal, even a magical returning one.”

General: “Too bad you can’t stick it into his armor, then you might be useful. Oh well. If you happen to know where I can get some…what are you doing?”

Lots and lots of hammering noises, with Paladin giggling. As Paladin is a warforged, it’s a rather disconcerting sound. Especially as he is face down in the mud while Monk is straddling him while doing what looks like punching him in the back over and over.

Paladin: “MONK! THAT TICKLES! YOU SAID YOU’D NEVER TICKLE ME IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE!”

Monk: “I’m” PUNCH “Not” PUNCH “Tickling” PUNCH “You!” PUNCHPUNCHPUNCH. “There.” He hops off of Paladin. “Okay Paladin, stand up”

Paladin stands up, and shows the now largeish group clustered around the latest addition to his armor: the shuriken that has been beaten into his back plates.

Paladin: “Monk, what did you do?”

Monk: “Well, I can throw you, and I can throw shuriken, and you don’t return, well not quickly, but shuriken do return quickly…oh good, I didn’t use the acid one.”

Paladin: “I’m a shuriken?”

Monk: “Yes, you are now the world’s biggest shuriken.”

Paladin: “YAAAAAY! I AM THE BIGGEST SHURIKEN!!!!”

Monk: “General, you and your men better give me some room here”

General: “I have no idea what is going on, two loonies are beating each other up, and there’s still the dragon. Sure. Men, give the nutter room”

Monk bends over and grabs paladin by the feet. “Hold your shield over your head!” he says, then yanks Paladin off his feet and commences to spinning him around. The soldiers are giving him ALL THE ROOM. With a grunt, he lets go. As Paladin flies at the dragon, complete with fading “WHEEE!!! I’M A SHURIKEN! WHEEEE!!!”, Monk stands there and waits, with one ear cocked. In a few seconds a loud, albeit faint “CLANNNNG” followed by a very surprised and painful dragon roar echoes across the battlefield. not long after, Paladin’s “WHEEEE!!!” can still be heard, only getting louder. Quickly. As if he was flying back at Monk. Which he is.

Monk: “you should probably all get out of his way. Those things move fast on the way back”

At this point, the soldiers are diving out of the way, expecting Paladin to paste Monk, given the size differences. Monk doesn’t even try to get out of the way. All the soldiers duck and wince as Paladin come sailing back at Monk’s outstretched hand and…nothing. No screams, no impact, just Paladin madly giggling and yelling “DO IT AGAIN! DO IT AGAIN!”. The general looks up to see Monk’s hand in the middle of Paladin’s back, balancing him there effortlessly.

General: “Bu..wha…HOW?”

Monk: “Well, if I can catch a razor sharp throwing star that bursts into flame on impact or acid or whatever and it doesn’t do that when I catch it, then logically, that should apply even if it’s nailed into Paladin’s back. One second…”

Monk flings Paladin at the dragon again. WHEE! CLANG! ROAR! followed by ever-increasing streams of dragonese profanity.

Monk: “Well, it’s a good thing he’s already evil. Such language.”

General: <Just stares, slackjawed. As are the other soldiers. Because…wtf.>

Eventually, after 4–5 throws, the Dragon flies off, a bit limpy in the wings, muttering angrily to itself. Something about:

“Screw this, I’m going to take that gig as a spelljammer tow truck my cousin offered me. Illithids aren’t as fucked up as whatever the hell that giggling…nope, nope, nope.”

General: “I don’t want to know how that worked. Ever. I don’t want to talk to either of you ever again. For once, I sympathize with the dragon. I’m going to go home, get really drunk, then retire and do something more sane. Like raising Beholders.”

Monk: “Um…I hate to raise the point, but those shuriken aren’t cheap…”

General: “Payroll wagon’s that one that used to have guards around it. whatever’s in it is yours. Just go away and never let me see either of you two again.