The Black Wyrm of Brandonsford

"Fine, just remember not to try and fight any giant we encounter." Nessa mumbles, somehow expecting this venture to go horribly wrong.

The foursome moves quietly down into the clearing—if it could be called that. The felled fur trees look like they’ve been torn up, smashed down, trampled, broken and only roughly organized into piles. The rough, stump-peppered ground itself has been quite chewed up as well… perhaps from the trend of something very large. It’s not difficult to imagine a giant fifteen or more feet tall leaving the mess of tracks that mar the clearing.

From the roughly-made, over-sized cottage at the center of it all, they hear it more clearly now: snoring. Loud and resonant as thunder, but snoring. Outside the building some crude, enormous tools lean up against he wall—a club, a poking stick, a hoe. The smell from behind the cottage indicates a giant-sized latrine somewhere, and a bit of black smoke continues to wisp from the clay-brick chimney.

Peeking under the door reveals that the cottage is a single room, and that over a very large but slow-burning fire is suspended a rudimentary, often patched and soot-bottomed copper kettle that all four of the adventures could fit in at once. It’s difficult to see much more, but it does look like the more slender members of the party could actually slip under the door if they unshouldered their packs.

A boost from Gann allows Sable to look in the pane-less window, just peeking over the sill as Kitt waits nearby, quiet and wary, not liking this place very much. The place is lit by the warm light of the fire, and visible is a wooden dining table, the aforementioned fire and pot, and a sack sat against the wall. Steam rattles the kettle lid a bit; it must contain boiling water… and from the smell, vegetables.

Asleep in an enormous chair is a giant, bushy-haired, stinky, and wearing yellow-brown homemade clothing. His big, ugly head slumps to one side as he snores, wheezes, and makes other very loud mouth noises. A large golden necklace hangs around his neck, and as Sable watches… the sack against the wall moves slightly.

Wren whispers, "So... we should sneak in, yeah? Maybe check on that sack? But stay quiet!"

Sable lithely jumps down and conveys what he saw. He nods at Wren's conclusion that the sack is their target. He keeps his voice to a whisper the whole time like his companions.

"I'll set a trap for that giant if he chases us out the door. Whoever grabs the sack, make sure to keep what is inside quiet."

The prowler takes out his spike and cord, setting up a makeshift trap as he is used to between two stumps on a path out the door.

"We need to pick a place to meet up if we run."

Wren says, "Let's meet back where Gann almost lost his helmet. That's not too far. And yeah, OK, I'm going for the sack. Let's go..."

Wren slides off her backpack and heads toward the door, intending to squeeze under.

"You get it down quietly, but you’ll need me to carry it." Gann says to Wren, shrugging off his pack as well and heading inside with her.

He moves as little as possible, staying as close as he can to the wall. The two look a bit silly now, dressed as shrubs inside the house.

"Right, should he wake up, I'll try and distract him. Maybe it will buy you a few seconds." Nessa whispers and positions herself beneath the window, picking up whatever stones and loose branches she can find here.

Once the trap is set and a meeting point has been made, Sable returns to the others and prepares to join the group to enter the house. He beckons Kitt to stay by Nessa's side, not wanting the cub inside getting distracted or hurt.

A quick search around the enormous, crudely-made cottage reveals that there seem just a few ways in: the front door (when can perhaps be squeezed under), the window (requiring a climb or a boost), and the chimney (which based on the smoke pouring forth... is not ideal). During this same time, Sable sets his trap, and Nessa perfects the bush she can become at a moment's notice.

On the trip out back, the group does discover something a bit unnerving: a bloody circle of broken bones and mashed flesh that's been stomped absolutely flat. It's not clear what kinds of creatures these were; that would require spending some time to investigate, piecing bones back together and so on.

Wren grimaces at the grisly sight of the smashed creatures. When she reaches the front of the place, she whispers, "I'm going under the door. Window folk, go get into position. When you're ready, give the sign and I'll go!"

She leaves her armor on and prepares to wriggle under the door.

EDIT: Whelp, I thought I'd take a chance and it failed. Wren is now stuck under the door. Oops!

Sable's face looks more grim as he hears about what is behind the giant's new home. It sounds like this giant has more tricks up his sleeve than he was expecting. He gives a little salute to Wren as she readies herself to go under the door, then he follows Gann to the window and prepares to go inside.

The smell is worse than he imagined, but he focuses in the dim light to grab the wriggling sack, trying to find the mouth and cover it so it doesn't make noise as he picks it up to head out.

Quietly, Gann boosts Sable up to the broad and unfinished windowsill. The man deftly hauls himself up, shimmies over the knotty threshold, then drops down to the floor—inside the house. The floor is packed earth, and that helps Sable’s footsteps remain silent as he approaches the sack, holding his nose. This is indeed one stinky giant! Cheese-like foot odor, butt, piss, BO — the odiferous package has it all!

Near, or more accurately under the door, Wren is struggling. Her brigandine armor is just too bulky and inflexible, and after a few moments of quiet wriggling, she realizes it’s not going to work. She can shed armor and proceed forward or go back, or she can try and force things in a potentially much louder way. Or… she could stay put and watch how Sable fares, stuck.

At the sack, just ten feet from a bare-footed leg that was considerably taller than him, Sable sees the heavy burlap shifting, like something inside is breathing heavily. Nearby a human-sized pack and quarterstaff rest on the ground.