At 42, Elsbeth had seen many dramas unfold in Dies Drear over the years - the little heart-breaks and the great tragedies. The star-crossed affair of Rowan Ruske (now Finiose) and the Apothecary was closer to the latter than the former - made more heart-rending by Ezekiel's unwavering fidelity. It was romantic, gallant, and tinged with sadness - and Elsbeth Rallo wasn't the only woman from her generation who thought so.
Elsbeth places a gentle hand on Ezekiel's arm to regain his attention. The touch matches the soft look in her eyes, "If you're... when... When we have you over to supper, if you'd like to have company other than a pack of my children, I could certainly invite Mara or another of the townswomen over." she pauses briefly, "If you'd like that... Just think on it."
On the verge of saying more, she reflexively wipes her hands on her dress and changes the subject, "Speaking of my children, I should really find out what they are into - trouble, no doubt. Good evening, Ezekiel." She quickly heads towards her home.
"I'll...consider it. Enjoy the gathering, Elsbeth." Watching her go, he forces himself not to look where he had seen Rowan. It seems everything here was well in hand. Ezekiel had some other items to tend to this evening as it was.
As evening draws nigh...
Aerik shoves closed the tight door of his hut, feeling the rough timbers from which it is cut. He doesn’t bother latching it. Hidden deep in the woods on the bluff above the left side of the Wahika gorge, only a local would be able to find his well concealed home wrapped in brambles and half-sunk into the earth. He double-checks that he has his harvesting tools and breathes a sigh of relief. While Winter’s discomforts didn’t bother him much, he was running out of magical supplies. Mistletoe had a limited shelf-life. He glances through the trees at the horizon, already feeling the full moon that would be rising later this night. The most efficacious mistletoe was always collected under the first full moon at Winter’s end. He would chase the retreating snows up the mountain to find the wizened Oaks, untouched by man, and collect their bounty of mistletoe. It would take several hours but he should be warming himself in front of the hearth by midnight. As a Druid in touch with the Wolf, he has no fear of the four-legged predators that stalk the mountain heights - unlike most of the townsfolk.
The Druid checks his gear once more and strides quietly through the woods, moving along the narrow game trails he knows like his own face. After less than half a league Aerik cuts back towards the gorge and breaks from the treeline near the edge of the bluff – the sound of the Lower Cataract guiding him. The fall’s ghostly spume rises from the gorge and jigs in the air, glittering in the last dying rays of sunlight. The Standing Stone awaits him.
Aerik hadn’t intended to come this way. He wanted to avoid this spot but somehow, as it had many times before, it tricked his feet into making the journey regardless of where he was bound. He glances at the Stone, one he’d helped to carve. He hoped it would hurt less to see the inscription now; He hoped his emotions would be blunted by the passage of time. It didn’t and they weren’t. Sorrow carved through the man as painfully as the day the townsfolk put hands to chisels to carve the epitaph for their loved ones.
In memory of those lost to the Swamp Fever of 1063. Gone but not forgotten…
Zozar Rallo
Napoli Ruske
Beren Guthwite
Mira Braun (Howell)
Riva Zirk
Salenford Zirk
Ellie Wynn
Memories – many bitter and few sweet – chase themselves through Aerik’s head. It is all he can do to turn away from them as his body turns from the Stone and heads up the mountain. In a few short hours, he’d be at the tree-line where the wind bites like a Rime Wyrm and there would be no time to brood over the past...
A few hours later...
Aerik skitters down the mountain in the bright light of the moon, his pouches filled with Mistletoe. It had been an uneventful, though frosty, evening until that moment.
Then the unthinkable happens.
Ezekiel packs his bag and leaves his stilted yurt after night has fully fallen. He navigates through the quiet village, watched only by some of the local dogs, and follows the winding river up the gorge. He moves quickly in the wider areas, only slowing to a crawl as the terrain gets narrow and treacherous. Eventually the sounds of the Lower Cataracts echo down the gorge. The Alchemist speeds along and begins his search in the mist-shrouded ravine dominated by the falls.
He is soaked to the skin by the time he is finished but he comes away with a pound of the precious fungi. He turns back down river when...
Jak polishes off dinner in record time, makes up some excuse about having to help the Hetmon in punishment for his latest prank, and takes off like a bolt from a crossbow. The sun is fading as he sneaks to the edge of town, trying to avoid notice and questions. His course is set for the Tumbling Pool – a small lake down the gorge that catches the Wahika briefly before it spills over the rocks in a short waterfall. It provides a fantastic and romantic view down valley. Naturally, it is a favored spot among the Dies Drear youths for clandestine assignations... far from the eyes of prying parents.
It takes Jak an hour to reach the Pool... and another hour to realize Rina won’t be coming. He’s been played. As he heads back to town – a good deal colder – it crosses his mind that perhaps trying to woo Rina after he’d paid court to her younger sister Renata might have earned him the anger of the elder Ruske girl. The scoundrel weighs this possibility when...
It’s been a long winter for Lyrica – weeks of chores and poor weather with no chance of getting out of the village. But tonight will be different. Lyrica finishes dinner and washes the dishes practically before her sisters finish their meal. She keeps a close eye on her father, the question unasked.
Spying the desire in his daughter’s eye, Harmon lets her hopes swing in the wind for a moment before giving her an indulgent smile. He turns on his three girls, ”Gophers might be getting into the potatoes in the upper patch. I think someone is going to have keep a watch on them. Now that the weather has turned – seems like a good night to start. So which of you wants to spend a couple hours doing that?” He waits for two of three to look dejected before he makes his choice, ”Lyrica, you just volunteered. Don’t roll your eyes, girl. Go grab some warm clothing and a staff. I’ll walk you up there.”
Lyrica bundles up and mopes around, for show, before heading out to their furthest family patch on the right bluff – night a forgone conclusion. Her father walks with her, eyes always on his crops, even in the dark. ”I left your equipment near the old stump. Don’t be gone all night. Your mother will start to fret if you’re not back at a reasonable hour. Bring back a gopher or two, if you can. They really are sniffing around the potatoes. And don’t forget what I taught you about handling that blade – subtle moves – you aren’t chopping wood.” He gives his favorite daughter a kiss on the head. ”Stay safe. Good night.”
Harmon turns and leaves his daughter alone in the darkness. She finds her family arms and armor where he said they’d be. She scoops the bag up and quickly moves deeper into the woods heading for the shielded glade she found last year before the snow reclaimed the heights. It looked like an ideal spot to practice her sword-work without anyone in town finding out. Girls dressing in full armor and whipping scimitars about wouldn’t sit well with many of the townsfolk... particularly Lyrica’s own mother.
A few hours later...
Lyrica wipes her brow and leaves her blade hanging slack in her sword-arm. She is exhausted from a solid hour of full speed combat training – running across the glade fighting dozens of phantom opponents. Lyrica takes a couple of cooling breaths in the frosty air, enjoying the unusually clear night. She stretches her aching muscles, sheathes the family sword, and takes a knee in prayer.
Lyrica prays, as she had for many months, to feel the touch of Sarenrae. Despite her own faith and her father’s training, she’d never truly felt graced by the Goddess. It was said that all Holy Warriors in the service of the Dawnflower felt Her eyes upon them... and it worried Lyrica that she had not. So she practiced and prayed - hoping. On this night, her prayers are answered.
A holy fire starts behind her closed eyes, flares into a blinding light, and scours away her flesh, bones, and soul in a hellish blast. It is excruciating and... empowering. Lyrica feels her flesh and bones reknit and reform, infused with flame. Her soul reconstitutes with a core of molten sunlight. As the eye-blinding glare fades, Lyrica sees a woman watching her soberly. Her golden hair flows like fire.
Her voice is soft but emphatic. “Few will rise, many will fall. Prove yourself worthy.”
Searing flames lash Lyrica as the Goddess vanishes in a flash – sealing the words in her memory. The pain forces a yell from her lips and Lyrica’s eyes snap open. Steam and smoke rise from her body in the night air. The frosty soil around her is cooked dry and the sparse vegetation crumbles into ash. When she rises, she rises a Paladin.
Then something even more unthinkable happens...
Marcus and Eluon finish a fruitless survey of the grove. Marcus checks the angle of the shadows and estimates they have a half hour left before full darkness – enough time to scout one more stand of trees that showed potential. The lumberjacks climb up the steep slope to the small glade. Marcus smiles at his luck. There are Fey Birches clinging to the steep slope.
Eluon, breathing heavy after the hike, comments, ”They’ll be worth harvesting if the rot hasn’t gotten into them.”
Marcus pulls a throwing axe and cuts into the bark of the nearest one. The tree’s resistance to the blow tells the tale. The tree is solid and in good health – well worth the time to harvest. He clambers just above the birch and leans against it, catching his breath in the thin air. On a lark, he throws his axe at the thick birch on the opposite side of the glade. The axe smashes into the core of the tree with a sickly squelch - rotted through and through. Then the tree gives way with a loud, wet, crack and tumbles down the steep hillside.
Marcus doesn’t need to hear the other lumberjack’s warning cry of ”” before he tries to dodge aside... but the steep slope slows his movement. He doesn’t quite make it to the lee side of the tree before the rotted, half ton, stump crashes into him. A branch the size of a barbarian’s thigh slams across the ranger’s skull sending his mind swirling into blackness…
Later...
Marcus wakes to Eluon’s curses and grunts, ”Wake UP, Marcus! Damn you, I can’t move this bastard piece of hell-spawned, whore-wood by myself!”
Marcus also wakes to pain, darkness, and the sickly sweet stink of rotting wood. Night has clearly fallen; he’s been unconscious for an hour, if not more. He quickly assesses his condition – a hell of a headache, bruised ribs, and numb legs. It suddenly strikes him that he is upright. His legs are pinned between the rotting stump and the sturdy tree. Eluon has driven his long axe between the stump and the tree, trying futilely to wedge the gap open wider. Blearily, Marcus reaches for his long axe, hoping that two axes will do where one has clearly failed when...
From positions both up and down the mountain Aerik, Ezekiel, Jak, Lyrica, and Marcus (along with Eluon) see the same things – some familiar and others ominous and frightening. It comes as no surprise to our heroes that night fell like a hammer, mercilessly black, in these mountains. Equally, they all know a measure of calm as the darkness retreats before the gibbous moon that claws its way across the sky to cast a cool yellow light on the implacable mountains. The stars glitter like still sparks. It is almost peaceful. And that is the last thing they experience that is familiar and comforting.
A rumbling peal of thunder howls across the mountains and valleys, sets rock slithering down the mountain-sides and sunders the quiet night. A slender tongue of crimson lightning slashes through the sky. It fires upward from the mountains somewhere Southwest and jags around the sky before striking like an adder at the moon herself. Unless their eyes deceive them… the bolt strikes the moon leaving a small crimson wound, a blossom of blood that mars her beautiful white face. The blossom spreads, stamping a bloody streak - a murderer’s touch - across the moon’s face. Even as the crimson stain moves across her face, the grand lady of the night, the moon, seems to swell and grow... or perhaps she falls from the heavens and draws closer to the world?
Our heroes can’t even begin to wonder at this horrid event when another crack of thunder races across the mountains. And in its wake is something both unnatural and unholy. Like a stone dropped in a still pond, a wave ripples from the source of the lightning and thunder. But this wave is comprised of fog and misty vapor – black as death. And it moves with a speed no arrow can match – crossing miles in minutes.
The Black Mist streaks across the mountains, tracks like a hunting beast through the forests, and skulks like an assassin into every ravine. It moves with a purpose and a will, and leaves corruption in its wake. Along the heights, Aerik, Marcus, and the shocked Eluon watch the black wave expand, thinning ever so slightly as it moves. As it sprints through the open forests of the heights, animals flee from it. Those that can’t, those that it catches unawares – shriek, fall to the ground, twitch spastically, and die piteously. Birds on the wing drop from the sky after brushing a hint of the inky mist. Tendrils of blackness move uphill against the wind. They swirl towards the Lumberjacks and Druid in their remote spots.
Taking the lesson from the dying animals, Aerik backs away from the approaching tendrils of mist and sprints from the tree-line across a wind-blasted open scree. The black fog anchors itself to the thinning trees and, octopus-like, attempts to stretch itself across the open field of stone in pursuit of the Druid. The winter wind scours the fog, shredding it. The fog surges again and again but the wind is the victor. Those bits of the evil black mist that remain retreat back towards the tree-line then flow away – down valley. But its touch has left abomination in its wake. The trees appear black, twisted, and strange to the Druid’s eyes. And one of them, a long rotted stump from a noble oak, shows eyes full of malice, a twisted wooden sneer filled with sharpened stone teeth, and long, grasping roots and branches that pull it from the ground even as it reaches for Aerik...
Pinned as he is by the rotting stump, Marcus tries to squirm free, to no avail, as the mist feels its way up the mountainside towards him. It moves against the wind and then tacks suddenly to the right, moving away from the Ranger. The reprieve gives Marcus little comfort as the black fog sinks into the ground on the far side of the grove... Moments later the ground starts to heave as if something is pushing to the surface. A boulder breaks ground, flinging earth and rubble in all directions. Then it spins slowly, as if unscrewing itself from the mountainside. As the boulder turns showing its side, Marcus realizes it isn’t a boulder at all. It is a huge, malformed skull - the skull of a giant. The skull slowly rotates until the dead sockets face the lumberjacks. Tiny green flames flicker to life deep within each socket and the skull rises from the ground, shedding the last of the earth that encased it. It floats in the air for just a moment before it surges for Marcus and Eluon...
Further down the mountain, in the well-tree’d grove, Lyrica only sees the eldritch lightning and feels the thunder as it beats upon her chest. She doesn’t notice the inky mist until the trees at the edge of the grove vanish in the darkness. She is surrounded. Tendrils of blackness creep across the ground, seeking the young woman. And were she a normal woman, untouched by Sarenrae, the mist may well have claimed her. But the divine fire in her limbs and core of molten sunlight that resides in her soul challenges the fog where her flesh cannot. The tendrils approach… and retreat from the Paladin, unable to take her. The fog swirls past her and away – like a river flowing around an unwavering stone. But in its wake, it leaves corruption. From the earth, a creature rises. Its flesh is all but gone. Tatters of skin and sinew remain. The bloody moonlight reflects off its blanched bones and casts it in stark silhouette. Only the flickering red pinpoints of light in the long muzzled skull show any color. The skeleton is equally heavy and malformed – whether by the corrupting effect of the mist or due to its own perverse nature, Lyrica isn’t sure. Its claws clack together and it comes for the newly anointed Paladin...
Ezekiel ducks and sprints away from the narrow gorge walls as rocks and dirt rain down due to the earth-battering thunder. In retrospect, it probably saved his life... since he is unprepared for the black mist that pours into the gorge from both sides, carried by the wind and the water. He backs away from the necromantic fog, sensing more than knowing that it is predatory. The funneling winds off the Cataracts carry the inky mist downstream past the Alchemist (towards Dies Drear) before the fog can fully turn its attention on him. But in its wake, Ezekiel encounters another horror. The river water churns and boils as small and delicate bones, dozens of them, emerge from the water. Piece by piece they organize themselves in the air above the water. They quickly form into the skeleton of a single small fish. It begins to swim in a slow circle in the air, as if it resides in an invisible aquarium. More bones surface and more fish quickly form. In a moment, at least a dozen of the skeletal fish swim in a shoal across the night sky, bathed in bloody moonlight. They swim along the gorge walls, more and more frantically. The Alchemist’s curiosity at the strange sight is dimmed when the fish sprout sharp wedge-shaped teeth from their thickening skulls and turn on him, hungry...
Far downstream, Jak finds his ardor cooling by the second as he stalks back to town – in part due to his wasted evening but more so because of the eldritch red lightning that raised the hair on the back of his neck. Jak presses on into a narrow culvert he’d hiked down no more than a couple hours ago. He stops when his foot crunches on something that gives – unlike any rock. He looks down to see a songbird beneath his foot, its wings wide as if in flight. Near it is another bird, similarly spread and also dead. Along the river bank, three fish corpses bob to the surface and then are carried away by the current. He shines his light into the culvert. It is choked with animal carcasses. He glances up towards the top and finds himself staring into the dead eyes of a motionless bear – foam and blood dripping from its mouth.
The trader reflexively takes a step back as a black mist, so thin it is barely noticeable, surges away from the carnage and speeds down the river. Jak watches it go, still trying to comprehend the horrid sight before him. A rock shifts at the bottom of the culvert, splashing in the stream. Something pushes free from beneath the water, dislodging additional stones. A skeletal human rises from the water, its neck bent at an improbable angle. The creature wears a ragged shirt and the remains of waxed canvas waders. A broken and all but destroyed creel is slung over its bony shoulder. In one hand, ludicrously, it carries a broken fishing rod.
Jak recognizes the rod and waders. They belonged to Old Sloane Ruske who vanished a decade ago. His body was never found… until now. Red embers kindle in the eye sockets of the creature as the water drips off its bones and pours from the holes in the skull. With the sharp crack of snapping twigs, the creature rights its broken neck and drops its rod. It pulls a rusted gaff hook from the destroyed creel and strides through the stream towards Jak...
Init:
”I left your equipment near the old stump. Don’t be gone all night. Your mother will start to fret if you’re not back at a reasonable hour. Bring back a gopher or two, if you can. They really are sniffing around the potatoes. And don’t forget what I taught you about handling that blade – subtle moves – you aren’t chopping wood.” He gives his favorite daughter a kiss on the head. ”Stay safe. Good night.”
"I will, Papa! Don't worry about me, I will remember everything you taught me! Besides, I have the everlight burning within me to keep me company. Good night, Papa! I love you! I'll be back soon."
A few hours later . . . .
“Few will rise, many will fall. Prove yourself worthy.”
The young woman looks into the burning flames and as her eyes adjust while her heart races in fear, she gazes upon the goddess, Sarenrae! When at last she awakens from this vision, she lifts her hands to the sky and declares loudly, "Not my will, but yours, O Sarenrae be done in me and through. Let my going in and coming out be in accord with all that you would have me do, and as the call comes, my dear Everlight, here am I, send me, use me!"
The paladin rises!
Even Later . . .
From the earth, a creature rises. Its flesh is all but gone. Tatters of skin and sinew remain. The bloody moonlight reflects off its blanched bones and casts it in stark silhouette. Only the flickering red pinpoints of light in the long muzzled skull show any color. The skeleton is equally heavy and malformed – whether by the corrupting effect of the mist or due to its own perverse nature, Lyrica isn’t sure. Its claws clack together and it comes for the newly anointed Paladin...
Lyrica grips her scimitar tighter as she tries to push the fear aside.
Sarenrae, guide me now, guide me true. Let me strike down this evil that threatens me now!
Initiative
Still dazed from the collision, Marcus wedges the axe between the trees and pushes with all his might against the rotted husk. As the skull flies closer, he yells out to his friend.
Eluon, run! You have to warn the others in town! He rips the axe free and brandishes it towards the skull, despite being pinned.
Aerik looks at the foul plant creature with disgust.
"Gods! What manner of abomination is this?"
The druid grits his teeth, clenching his spear tightly, as he looks around for a branch to potentially set ablaze.
"Eluon, run! You have to warn the others in town!" He rips the axe free and brandishes it towards the skull, despite being pinned.
Despite his fear, Eluon shakes off the suggestion and throws his weight against his axe trying to get Marcus free. He gasps his response through gritted teeth, "That mist is movin' faster than I can fall down this mountain... And I'm not gonna explain to Sara how I made your kids orphans. That ain't my way."
Suddenly all Jak can think of is the raccoon he'd trapped and released in Old Man Ruske's larder about twelve years ago. Nobody had found any actual evidence that Jak had done it, and it was said the old man had lost about a month's worth of his sweet dried fruits.
"Uh... sorry about that, Mister Ruske?" he mutters as he points at the ground at the skeleton's feet. With no one around, Jak's safe to use one of his 'tricks'. With a few unintellible syllables, the recently-frozen ground under Old Man Ruske's feet sprout an inch of spongy, slick mold. Without waiting to see if the old man is actually affected by the trick, Jak turns and runs towards the path home. No one here to see you bolt like a rabbit, Jak. When you retell it, you can play the hero.
A Init - 12
Baddie Init
E Init - 20
Baddie Init
J Init - 12
Baddie Init
L Init - 6
Baddie Init
M Init - 20
Eluon Init
Baddie Init
Eluon STR AA
Eluon STR (with Marcus AA)
Marcus tries to lever himself free with Eluon's help. The stump moves slightly but sweaty hands slip on axe handles and the stump rolls back against the ranger's thigh..
The mist tracks uphill then sinks into the ground and animates the bloated skull.
The skull rises from the ground. Marcus tells Eluon to flee but instead, fueled by desperation, the lumberjack throws his weight against his axe and (with Marcus' own efforts) the stump shifts. Marcus is squeezed between the trees but has room to wiggle free...
Ezekiel moves quickly but the swarm of bony fish is blindingly fast. They swim through the sky and school around the Alchemist - taking chunks from his flesh with their razor teeth...
+ Distraction
The Fisherman struggles from the river, lunges up the embankment and tries to sink the rusty gaff in Jak's chest. The bard sidesteps the gutting blow.
The long skulled skeletal creature charges across the glade at the Paladin. Lyrica raises her shield in time to block it but has never had to compensate for the full weight of an opponent slamming against her. Her shield is knocked aside and dirt-encrusted claws slash across her ribs.
Charge
ORDER:
MAP: Alone in the Dark
14|14
5|10
10|10
12|15
14|14
Suddenly all Jak can think of is the raccoon he'd trapped and released in Old Man Ruske's larder about twelve years ago. Nobody had found any actual evidence that Jak had done it, and it was said the old man had lost about a month's worth of his sweet dried fruits.
"Uh... sorry about that, Mister Ruske?" he mutters as he dodges back from the skeleton's gaff. He lets the momentum of his dodge become a full retreat. No one here to see you bolt like a rabbit, Jak. When you retell it, you can play the hero.
"Come then. You'll not find me easy prey!"
Round 1
"Dear gods, what is going on?" Ezekiel is stunned for a moment, raising his walking stick defensively as he ponders which of the herbs he had plucked had hallucinogenic effects. As the swarm of creatures rolls over him, he realizes his error. He futilely attempts to bat away the creatures.
As the many little bites strike him, he pulls back from the swarm. "What can I do, what can I do?" Starting to feel panic well up in him, he desparately reaches into his medicinal pouch. Finding a pair of vials he recognized, he pulls them out and throws them at the creatures. He watches as the two mix, a catalyst igniting the other and spread out to burn. "Not their intended use."
;
;
HP: 5/10
1st Level Infusions 1+1/day: xx
Bombs 5/day: xxxx
Mutagen (Strength): x
Round 1
Without her shield, Lyrica feels slightly unbalanced, but in moment decides to grip her scimitar with both hands and swing at the undead as adrenaline races through her veins in her first real fight ever.
Scimitar Attack
Damage
Aerik wracks his brain for any knowledge of this strange creature and comes up with rumours whispered by the Druids... There is a horrid creature called a Black Thorn which is, in essence, a corrupted. corrupting, and thoroughly evil Treant. This strange stumpy beast appears to be some lesser cousin of the Black Thorn. Considering what he knows of Treants and their ilk, Aerik believes that slashing weapons are most effective and it should have a weakness to fire...
Aerik picks up a thick branch and sets flame to the crystallized sap. The branch ignites with a whoosh and spits bright flames.
AC: Good with Touch being lower
Attacks: Slams w/ with fair accuracy and good damage
Defenses: plant traits, DR 5/slashing
Weakness: Vulnerability to fire
Best Save: Fort
Worst Save: Reflex
The fish scatter, avoiding the Alchemist's staff blow before reforming into their deadly school. Ezekiel stumbles free from the dizzying flurry of biting maws and skeletal fins. He hurls a small vial into the heart of the swarm. The dextrous fish separate and flow around the exploding container... but are unable to fully escape its effects. Two of the deadly little fish are caught in the blast and reduced to ash.
Miss Direction:
Nerves and inexperience get the best of the Paladin on her first blow in real combat, sending her strike a touch wide.
"Come then. You'll not find me easy prey!"
The twisted stump accepts the challenge. Rising on a half dozen gnarled roots, it scuttles like a spider across the rocky scree. The loose shale slows it. The Black Root cozies up to the Druid, branches reaching and stone teeth snapping.
Jak realizes that flight might be just as deadly as any other option. Damn, Jak. You're luck simply isn't in, he thinks as he spins back around, dropping his light to the ground as he grabs his quarterstaff in both hands. He spins it as he brings it to bear -- bringing a satisfactory WHOOSH sound -- right up until he plants it in the old fisherman's face. He then tries to tumble back to gain some breathing room.
Marcus stands up groggily, nodding in thanks to his friend. He then interposes his shield between the skull and Eluon.
Nice work, El, but you should have run. I don't think we can outrun this thing now. Stay behind me and I'll draw it in--then swing around and we'll destroy it.
The lumberjack's thoughts turn to his children, and he is resolved to see them again.
Jak delivers a whistling blow to the skeletal fisherman's head - caving in half the skull and re-breaking its neck with a crack - before he dives away and regains his feet along the wider shelf away from the culvert. Water pours from the jagged hole in the creature's skull depositing a small river eel wetly on the ground. It flops and thrashes, trying to struggle back towards the stream.
Marcus moves forward, hacking viciously at the floating skull.
Marcus loses some skin wriggling free from between the stump and the tree. He scrambles up the hill and slams his tree-felling axe between the glowing sockets of the skull. The axe handle reverberates painfully as the blade bounces off the thickened skull...
Seeing Marcus' axe bounce off the thick cranial plate and using the distraction provided by the Ranger, Eluon lunges uphill and buries his axe in a softer target - the joint of the creature's fanged jaw.
The Skull stretches its jaw to relocate it after Eluon's blow. Its flaming eyes glare at him then the beast attempts to headbutt the lumberjack down the hill. Eluon ducks below the blow.
ORDER:
MAP: Alone in the Dark
14|14
5|10
10|10
12|15
14|14
Round 2
Lyrica approaches the Skeleton and in a whirling motion that comes from her dancing, she drives her scimitar into the undead fiend with deadly stab using all of her strength.