Rage of Kanaloa - Ezzi

In his studies, Ezzi had learned that Kuapuiwi was thought to be the birthplace of the Lalotai people. It stood to reason that a Kuapiuwi native should aid in its defense, than, he wagered - what kind of cousin didn't look out for his kin, distant, far removed, and of a different species or no? That the island was likely just as hot and humid as home certainly didn't hurt matters.

What did was
fighting the burning things directly. On arriving from the Crossroads
and pledging his services to those he proudly proclaimed to be his
brothers and sisters, it soon became apparent that flinging living
embodiments of flame around bareclawed and nearly bare fleshed,
scales or no, was less than ideal. Nursing burns and blisters from an
ill conceived effort to suplex a smaller elemental – he succeeded,
ultimately, even if it cost him a great deal of his favorite sarong
in exchange, (the locals in all their graciousness were able to
replace it with a gift was all too eager to forget about once all was
said and done) – Ezzi had decided his talents might be better
suited in defense of those even less capable of direct combat with
the fiery creatures than he was.

As much of a paragon
of strength, skill, and overwhelming charisma as the 2 foot something
kobold in the secondhand sarong was, perhaps his lack of experience
showed, since it took him a while to find a set of villagers who
didn’t flock to other volunteers for assistance. But he was nothing
if not patient, and made himself useful in the mean time with menial
tasks, performing for downtrodden folk mourning loved ones and lost
possessions, even wrestling a much larger man whom, with more
difficulty than he cared to admit, he managed to flatten on the sand.
A tiny audience gathered to witness that last feat, and once a round
of claps to his back and congratulations ended, a small girl remained
with the opportunity he’d been waiting for.

The girl’s mother
and her family of 5 couldn’t evacuate to safer ground just yet –
her youngest brother was in such poor condition that moving him
simply wasn’t an option; The hut they lived in with its tarp roof
and wooden foundation couldn’t easily be fortified; and with the
healers’ tents besieged, getting him medical attention could take
far longer than the family could hold out against potential attacks
for. What’s worse, the girl who’d recruited him and her petty
magic aside – she could manipulate water to some degree, but not
well enough to really harm anything – no one was capable of much in
the way of combat in the house. While fully prepared to face the
creatures in all his blistered glory once again – even practicing
in the sand in preparation for it, he managed to bury his foot deep
enough into the soft, pliable earth with one attack that a plan began
to formulate in his head – one that might just save his body, and
especially the bodies of the villagers he’d vowed to protect, from
any undue harm. A plan that would take several precious hours of yet
more menial labor – something the colorful tales other bards
evidently, and, frankly, understandably, neglected to bring up as the
constant facet of an Adventurer’s life they apparently – and, if
it worked, could buy the family at least a little more time.

He took up
position atop the hut once his task was complete and he’d informed
the girl of her part in his plan, his dragon mask placed over his
snout and a patchwork blue cloak with an elaborate leviathan design
embroidered on it drawn around his shoulders. He didn’t have to
wait for long. 5 of them, each resembling some sort of misshapen,
vaguely defined dog, prowled towards the hut.

“Wrong
one, friends.” He called down to them, and as he did, he a strange
looking instrument with cranks and strings floated in front of him,
wreathed in water. “You’ve got a whole village to cook an’ eat
an’ ch’all pick the one hut protected by the Spirit of the Ocean
themself. Wroooong one.” The way the instrument floated, it was
like the water was playing it, and he extended a sleeved claw in the
dogs’ direction, pointing behind them.

“S’alright,
friends. I forgive you, like any good spirit should. Cook some other
villagers, even. Don’t care. Just not these. Persist, an’ brine
an’ foam an’ watery doom’s your future. Your choice.”

But persist they
did, leaving trails of flame as the pack approached. The very same
flames that caught the sand covered tarp he’d laid over several
pits filled with sea water surrounding the hut, dropping nearly half
their number into the pools below. The girl made a show of water
works behind him as he renewed his warning each time, dunking enough
on the heads of those that were trapped that even heat as hot of
theirs was powerless against it. Eventually there was only one
elemental left not drenched and struggling to flail out of a pit, one
that he could ride a wave of water to stand before and scream one
last warning at, which it heeded with a puff of smoke and a trailer
of fire that it as far away from the angry deity as it could manage.

Unable to move and,
most importantly for Ezzi, produce any more flame, knocking each of
the remaining hell hounds out was the easiest part of the day. He
even made a show of lifting the new waterlogged elementals up and
dropping them onto dry land, only removing his mask to bow once the
remaining 4 were knocked out.

Well, the remaining 4 for
now. Replacing his mask, dropping the beasts off with adventurers
with less restraint on what they could and couldn’t do to others,
and replacing the tarp and sand over his traps, he returned to his
post and waited, playing the same tune he’d try to warn the last
set with. Much of a pain as it was to get things back in place again,
let alone fighting them proper, a small part of him hoped at least
one was brave enough next time to really try him.