Foramdar gently takes the Key Coin from Niyut and examines it. Flashing it towards the King, he mutters, "From the Bank. I'll see to it." He pockets the coin just as the swashbuckler begins his rant.
When Garidan finishes, the King finally stands and slowly approaches the end of the raised platform. With his arms clasped behind his back, he looks dow at the young man and speaks in a low calm voice, "You know nothing of the greater world, boy, and should hold your tongue until the years have wizened you. For the purpose we serve here in Earthenwork is far greater than you could possibly imagine." He stops speaking and makes eye contact with Rhykal, who nods at the sovereign. Looking back to the visitors, he continues, "And you should fear the Hazard far more than my wrath as King. In fact, you may want to apologize to her for the flippant "leashed" remark before she deposits you on a distant rock floating aimlessly into the Void. I am neither her master nor her liege lord. She has pledged herself willingly to Haemil and the burden we bear. Now, with that, Rhykal you look as though you wish to offer me counsel."
The gnome looks at the Garidan and the others with a apologetic smile. "Fear not... I'll keep you here, on this floating rock a little longer, Garidan," she whispers under her breath before chuckling audibly. Regaining her composure, she turns to the King, "Yes, your Grace. It appears that what we suspected is true, another portal has been opened. The Harbinger became aware of the Magi while he kept vigil over the Ealintaine. He was able to contain portal for now but a new gate must be conjured. He has summoned the Hazards. I must go... and so should your people."
Garidan blinks at the king's words, realizing that he's perilously close to saying something very unfortunate for himself and his companions, but some perverse impulse drives him to reply nonetheless. "'I think we shall keep our Hazard here, to provide aid to our kingdom, our grand city, and our blessed people,'" he recites, an almost word-perfect repetition of one of the King's earlier statements. "Sounds like a leash to me, but since you're the ruler around here, I can concede that it meant whatever you wanted it to, and not wanted it sounded like." Eyes shifting to the smiling Hazard, he examines her silently, then shrugs. "And with all due respect to Rhykal for her knowledge and skill, and apologies for the unintentional insult I gave, the threat of her power doesn't come close to the reality of the rift. Whatever she can do to me pales before the all-consuming oblivion found in there." The last is delivered with an apathetic monotone, the swashbuckler really not bothered by the prospect of having a fraction of Hazard's might directed his way. At this point, some vestige of sense--and manners as well--takes hold of him, and he falls silent, likely to the relief of those with him.
Niyut slaps the back of Garidan's head lightly, puffing his hair.
"Shush. You are not helping anyone. Meditate on grace."
Gruskorb takes a noticeable sidestep away from Garidan. Damn it all. He's going to get us tossed in a cellar someplace! The quick-thinking rogue felt it best to use a spot of levity as an unguent here, and he hoped the more learned vocabulary of his heritage would be respectful enough for the king.
"May the gods grant your people as much longevity as his juvenile tongue, your highness."
The King seems intent on comprehending the Hazards words. His gaze turns inward as the swashbuckler responds to his harsh words. Finally snapping his attention back to Garidan, the King continues, "I have no doubt as to the power of your Rift, but you lack the capacity to understand what it truly is."
Rhykal steps forward and interjects into the conversation, "The rift is like any portal into the ethereal realm. It opens a doorway to the infinite possibilities of reality, allowing the arcane the ability to draw upon its energies and create any reality they desire. For Bærwynnd it allows him to see all that has happened and all that will happen but has not yet... For me, it allows me to open doorways across our world and summon forth creatures or to enter those doorways and move at will. For the Ealintaine, it allows them to cross over from the ethereal realm into our world. This is undoubtedly what Kiravor sought to do." Turning from the group back to the King, the gnome continued, "Your Grace, the world is in ruins and the portal must be sealed. But your people will not survive here much longer. And while we cannot abandon Haemil to Rgulblux and his horde, we must find a way to move them to Talanor. And it must be soon. I'd ask that the Circle of the Whispering Wind be opened."
"It is now less a portal and more of a tear. It is no longer a gate through the Veil, but a rip in the Veil itself. I doubt it will serve its intended function."
Just thinking about the hubris on Bærwynnd's part to violate the very conditions of the world of flesh itself. The Primogenitors swore the Compact, so there would be a place where the greater wills could not rewrite the very nature of what is created. It was one of the few useful things that they ever did.
Mindful of the party's position, with some friendly assistance from Niyut, Garidan keeps silent. He does find it mildly fascinating to discover that the rift had another use, but at this point he's more interested in seeing closed than learning what it used to be capable of. And so long as Rhykal gets moving to Talanor, he doesn't really care about the condescension he's getting from the Hazard and the King; he doesn't like it, mind, but he can endure it. "With an attitude like that, I can see why Helluddar would have problems with Baerwynnd though," the swashbuckler muses silently. "The First Hazard likely isn't remotely impressed or intimidated by his control of Haemil, and probably looks down at him in much same way as Helluddar does to us. Only from a far greater height and with much greater justification." For all of his displeasure with Baerwynnd for his part in the rift's destructive manifestation, that thought can't help but bring a very faint smile to Garidan's features, which remains for the duration of his time in the throne room.
"I have no doubt as to the power of your Rift, but you lack the capacity to understand what it truly is."
Try me.
Or you could politely interject that you might be able to-Did I ask for your opinion?
After it is explained Malz crooks his chin in his hand. "What are the difficulties and problems associated with opening this circle?"
Rhykal turns to Mlthazir, "The Circle is just that a teleportation circle, and as with all teleportation spells, Amber is the key component to unlocking the mysterious passage ways of the ether. As you know... well, as you will learn when your powers are great enough, amber dust is used for most telportation spells... but the Circle, it is ancient and draws directly from the ethereal plane. It's magic must be focused by shard of amber shaped to open the circle as a key may open a lock..."
"And the amber shard that opened the Circle of the Whispering Wind has been lost to time," interrupted King Helluddar as Rhykal began to recount the magic of conjuration. "Not since the Godling Wars has the Circle been opened. For in the dying days of the war, Amus, the Whispering Wind, took the Amber shard and hid it so that Kiravor and his brothers would not find a way to use the Circle to their advantage. It was Amus who made the Circle. He was the first summoner, and it was he that locked it away from the world."
After Malz's whispers in his ear Malz nods. "Right. It was Ralloryss, the Hearty, that taught the mortals to conjure. Among the Elves, he was known as the Summoner long before he revealed his true name. Ralloryss was the first being to summon creatures using small portals into the ether. During the Godling Wars, he summoned first creatures from many planes to battle against Kiravor and his brothers."
Niyut waits with barely concealed patience for the King, who did not rule her, and the Hazard, whom she did not know, to finish their argument.
"Yes, yes, it was Ralloryss who was the first summoner. His shrine was consumed by the world in a violent earthquake that tore the mountains asunder!" the gnome shouted with excitement. Collecting her thoughts she recounted what she could recall. "High upon the mountain pass, deep within the Iron Mountains, the Shrine of the Summoner was built by the priest's of Ralloryss. When Gaeruhn laid siege upon Earthenwork during the Godling Wars, he shook the mountains to the core. When the world opened up, the mountain pass and the Shrine were cast down and never seen again. Within the Shrine an ancient Aspen tree was planted by Brandaynë, the Dryad. She was kin to Ralloryss and first learned to move amongst the first trees of the world. Among the most learned in conjuration, it is believed that the Brandaynë found the first pieces of amber lying in the fields of petrified wood of the first trees. She used the amber to open the first teleportation portals within the trees. If we are to assume that the legends are true and that the gods created the Circle of the Whispering Wind, it would make sense that both Ralloryss and Brandaynë were part of that creation. I would think that Brandaynë may have made the Amber shard and would have hidden the shard during the Godling Wars..."
"In the Shrine of the Summoner," Helluddar concluded her thought as he stood to his feet. "Foramdar, assemble your cavaliers and make for the mountain pass. Find the Shrine and the amber shard; bring them to me!" the King commands as he turns to find the knight engaged in a conversation with another man clad in bright armor.
"Your Grace," Foramdar says as he bows before the King. "The western patrols have returned. The gnoll armies led by Rgulblux have crossed the expanse between the lost plains and those connected to Haemil. They are amassing now and could move within sight of our walls within a few days time. I do not think it is wise to take our riders and move them into the mountains with the Ogre so close."
The thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. "Rhykal, I would ask that you stay and continue to provide what provisions you can for the army and for the city. But that leaves Bærwynnd's misfit group to find the Shrine and recover the amber shard. What do you advise?"
"I would stay here, your Grace. The people and the city must be protected. If it were to fall, recovery of the shard would prove pointless. And I think Bærwynnd choose this group wisely. They have come far and through peril to get here. I think they are capable," Rhykal says with a confident look as she sizes up the group.
"Then it is agreed. We will make ready for war against the Ogre overlord and his armies and the outsiders will make for the Iron pass and search for the Shrine of the Summoner." Looking down at the group, the King awaits your response.
At this point, Niyut is fed up with both the King and to a lesser extent the Hazard.
"Bærwynnd did not choose us. We were those caught up in the Storm who survived. Five of us out of who knows how many. We also survived the trek here to give you warning. Along the way we threw down the gnolls at the High Mark Keep and rescued Captain Foramdar. We did none of those things for fear or favor of you. If you are looking for our credentials, do not look to faltering wisdom that got us into this mess, look to what we have accomplished. We will do this not because we are impressed with your lineage or cowed by your authority and power but because if we do not, you will die. Your deaths could lead to our deaths as well. Misfit? The Storm played no favorites. It was a catastrophe for all people. There are too few of the living left to despise any offering aid because they do not look like you or pray like you. We must put aside pride and fear because if we do not we are doomed."
Wow. What an ungrateful b-
Hey, be nice.
But seriously. Even I'm not that much of a dick.
At least you admit it.
Malz steps forward. "Peace. We have more pressing issues than fighting amongst ourselves. As you say Niyut, we must put aside pride. For now there are only two sides: life, and death. I know what I choose."
He turns to the King. "Yes, we accept this burden. We will do whatever we can to accomplish it. Your help and guidance is much appreciated in this time of instability."
The faint smile creasing Garidan's lips turns into a broad grin for a momemt when Niyut's own temper finally slips its leash. He doesn't say much beyond a murmured confirmation of Malthazir's acceptance, however, since his own mood isn't all that securely reined in, and he figures that they're likely balancing precariously on what little good will they have left.
Displeased about being deflected to run another errand, albeit an important one, Gruskorb held his tongue instead of bickering more with the monarch. A point cuts sharpest when it's not expected.
He did, however, mouth a suggestion to Malthazir quietly. "Isn't conjuration the branch of teleportation? Could Whykal at least get us to the temple?" Though hopes were kept low, halving the journey would at least save them time.
At least your beasts don't waste their final hours arguing, Querkus.
Rhykal looks a bit shocked at Niyut's aggravated reaction to the King, but quickly settles down when, surprisingly, the elf plays the peacemaker.
"Good!" shouts King Helluddar. "Provide them horses for the journey into the Iron Mountains... and any provisions that can be spared," he continues barking orders to the guards who come to show you back out of the grand chamber. Rhykal follows along, providing any information she can regarding the Shrine.
After retrieving his own equipment--and checking surreptitously with his sister that nothing was disturbed--Garidan approaches Rhykal and bows slightly. "Speaking for myself, Hazard, I apologize for my...," And here, he stops a moment, searching for the right words. "My intemperate words. While I did mean them, they were poorly aimed and ill-timed as well. The journey has been wearing, and dealing with people that are both alive and not trying to kill us is somewhat strange." His apology offered, as best he can manage, the swashbuckler continues. "I'm sort of the one in charge of our supplies, such as they are, and would very much appreciate your aid in acquiring some particular things, if they're to be had here." With that, Garidan rattles off a list of items, counting them on his fingers to keep track. He also takes some time to check with his companions, inquiring if they have any items they'd like him to look for.
After gathering and bartering for supplies, the group is shown to a large dining hall where hundreds of armor clad warriors are feasting in relative quiet. Great banners hanging from the ceiling signify different divisions and brigades within Haemil's military. Many of the tables are being addressed by what clearly appears to be an officer of some rank.
Foramdar greets you at the entry and leads you to an unadorned table near the front of the room. Informing you that it is one of several tables reserved for guests, he offers each of you a chair and signals for food and refreshments to be brought. "This isn't our usual fair. In quieter times, the feast would be much better, but given the calamity we've all suffered these past weeks, this will have to do." Despite what the Knight tells you, you enjoy the best meal you've had since the world was broken.
After a time, Rhykal arrives and gives you some more explanation as to your goal. "The Great River that flows through Haemil originates high in the Iron Mountains. There is an ancient road that runs parallel to the river that once led to the Shrine of the Summoner. Follow the road deep into the mountains. Legend has it that the Shrine is carved into the summit of a great peak. From under neath the outer wall, at the base of the Shrine, the river flows. The road will wind up and lead you to a courtyard upon the second tier of the Shrine. The entrance to the Shrine is there. The High Priest of Ralloryss has entrusted with me, this key." The gnome hands Malthazir a silver medallion shaped like an octagon. One one side, is engraved with flowing draconic script that reads, "Ralloryss, the Hearty". Upon the other side, the figure of a majestic griffon is engraved. "This should grant you access to the Shrine."
Following the meal, your horses are brought from the stables and Rhykal escorts you to the northern gate leaving the city. A winding road carved into the mountain lays before you. "Good luck, and may the god's smile upon your journey. We shall await your return."
As they ascend into the Iron Mountains, Niyut wraps a shawl around her head. Less to protect her from the chill -- her brother's ward did that -- but more to keep the wind out of her long, dark hair.
"Now that I have the appropriate bowl for the ritual, I can try to change your essence of water to one of fire, brother. The ritual allows for the channeling of energies through others, so everyone can contribute to the ritual's success. Particularly, Malthazir. His lore will be most helpful."
In the busy scramble to gather what supplies he can, using some of their gathered oddments as barter, Garidan manages to find just enough time to visit Rhykal's tower to see this friend she's mentioned, curious as to who it could be. The Hazard hasn't told him anything, apparently content to let him learn for himself who, or what, this mysterious arrival from Talanor is.
Before leaving the city, the swashbuckler presents Niyut, Truk'tosh, and Gruskorb each with a thick bundle of clothing well-suited to standing up to the harsh conditions they face, with a fourth such outfit visible beneath his armor. Eyeing Malthazir, he nods at the elf's robes and explains the lack of a fifth set. "Whatever magic is in those is as good, or even better, than anything I could likely come up with for you, so I didn't bother." He then turns his attention to getting Tacal properly repacked, including divesting Niyut's own robes of the vast store of feed she's toting about. Garidan isn't entirely sure, but he rather thinks that phlegmatic beast is pleased to have his ever-present load streamlined, particularly by use of one of the magically-expanded packs Garidan was fortunate enough to lay hands on.
Finally exiting the city--and still riding with all the grace and skill of a sack of produce--Garidan is pleased that at least his new clothing is doing what it should; the touch of the chill that grips the land isn't nearly as bad as it was before their arrival in Haemil, and consequently, he doesn't feel that sapping fatigue that it brings with it. Having their supplies repacked more efficiently is also contributing to his good mood, as is the knowledge that he has a rather hefty quantity of raw materials to use in his alchemical pursuits. However, Niyut's words cause an expression of curiousity to appear on his face, and he carefully nudges his mount up alongside hers. "I'm quite curious to know how I could possibly aid with this ritual you mention. The others, I can understand, as they all have at least some gift for magic. But I don't even have the magic to match Gruskorb, to say nothing of the rest of you."
"That is an excellent question, Garidan. One of the secrets of ritual magic is that one does not need to have magic to perform it. If there are the right components, in the right setting, with the correct actions performed, and the correct words are spoken then the magic simply happens. The power comes from without rather from within. I believe that we are channeling the energy of the two worlds when we perform ritual magic. It helps if one has magic of one's own. It also helps if you have access to a ley line. Like that broken stone from the forest. But they aren't required. As for your role? You will be repeating a counter-chant for about forty minutes. You, Gruskorb, and Truk will be providing a counter point to the working that Malthazir and I perform."
Truk'tosh doesn't speak it but he is glad to be outside again, free from King Helluddar and his gilded hall. The king of men seemed more focused on the importance of his title than the people under his care and those misplaced priorities colored everything the man said. Had his nobility faded under the stresses brought on when the sky cracked open or had he always put his pride above the well-being of his people? Either way, Truk'tosh understood that it would up to himself and his companions to act.
The big orc accepts the bundle of supplies with a nod of gratitude when the young swashbuckler makes his way around to him. Truk'tosh doubted he'd have need of most of it - the harsh lands of the Firebird having inured him physically to most hazards offered by the elements - but he appreciates the thought and he knew it served Garidan well to keep his mind and body occupied with a task. It was a trait he recognized early in their childhood in his twin.
He slides a strip of dried fruit into his mouth, biting off the end and chewing thoughtfully. He reaches across his chest to the opposing shoulder to offer the last bit of fruit to his familiar only to be reminded, painfully, of his companion's absence.
As Garidan approaches the tower, a number of gnomes bustle about repairing damage and affixing strange contraptions to the outer wall of the tower. The gnomes seem oblivious to Garidan's approach until a loud screech is heard coming from the stables to the west of the tower. The entire crowd turns in time to see two gnomes in muddied clothing scrambling to avoid being trampled by a large griffon. The excitable beast heads for the young human that has approached. Coming up about 10' short of Garidan, the creature stamps it's front legs and screeches loudly several times, before unfurling its wings and taking to flight. After circling the tower twice, the beast climbs out of Garidan's view and is gone.
It takes a considerable effort not to leap back into an embarassing fall of his own when the griffon makes it's attention-getting appearance, but Garidan manages it, barely. He nods dumbly in response to the beast's screeching, though it's more an acknowledgememt of the sound than any intelligble effort at communication, and then watches as it takes to the air and wings out of the city's confines, presumably back to Talanor. "And I see that Niyut was right," a dryly amused voice comments after the griffon's flight has taken out of the range of his meager darksight. "So she was, sister. I honestly didn't expect it, though," the young man answers thoughtfully as he returns to his task of gathering whatever he can lay hands on for the party's benefit. "Who knew a speech made in utter desperation would prove so effective?"
Eyesbrows climbing, Garidan considers the task she has laid on him. "Hmmm, this sounds very much like the sort of thing that wouldn't take well to being interrupted. Perhaps we should have seen it done back in Haemil, where the safety to invest such time and attention was to be had?"
Niyut gives Garidan a stern look. "With an attitude like that nothing would ever get done. This ritual is not so sensitive that it would be ruined if you had to stab someone."
Sighing, he shakes his head and clarifies his concerns. "I'm more concerned with the prospective waste of materials which may be in short supply if we have to delay the ritual to fend off foes. Either because the materials need to be used within a certain time before losing potency, or the more likely cause being the ritual area upset or wrecked in the course of the fight."
"As long as the bowl isn't knocked over, we would be fine."
Domain power use.
The first march into the Iron Mountains goes along uneventfully until near the end when the group is growing weary. Tacal becomes agitated as the way up the broken road is becoming harder and harder to navigate. Cracks from the subtle shifting of the mountings combined with the recent upheaval of the world has made the road near impassable in spots. Combined with the ever-growing cold and harsh winds, the animals are beginning to hesitate to continue onward.
During this first march, you also begin to see signs of snow and ice. Little seems to be falling from the skies but the wind carries it down from further up the mountain. Small pockets of water that have collected from the Great River also have begun to freeze over. To your right the steady roar of the river makes verbal communication near impossible unless you are very close.
After a brief reprieve to warm up and eat, you take to the second march with determination. After a few hours a dense fog of clouds descends upon the mountains making your range of sight even narrower. The wind continues to blow and the flurries of snow become thicker. In time the fog lifts yet the snowy gusts of wind from above intensifies. Hour after hour you struggle to make your way through the storm. At last you come to a sharp bend in the river. Looking across the now 20' wide raging river, you see that a black stone juts from the earth. Around its base the river has pooled and 3 figures crouch down near the water's edge. They thrust their arms repeatedly into the water attempting to catch their prey. One of them turns as sees you across the river, letting out an horrific cry. She resembles an old woman with a thundercloud of hair. Her mouth hangs open, revealing thin pointed teeth with small arcs of electricity jumping across them.
Though he tries his best, Garidan can't identity the three figures. Considering that they're apparently untroubled by the intense conditions--to say nothing of that light show that one of them is putting on--he's confident enough that they're a possible threat, however, and he keeps his eyes locked on them as he address the others. "I don't know what they are, but I'll bet what few coins I have left that they're trouble. Do we want to risk negotiating, try riding on, or what," he asks, trying to pitch his voice to be heard over the wind but not across the water.
On the chance that negotiation is the course his fellows choose, he stays his hand from drawing bow or blade, though he's ready for either at a moment's notice, a target already chosen. For a similar reason, the swashbuckler also remains mounted, ready to ride away in an instant if flight is the answer. After a bit of thought, Garidan murmurs to the stone pressed against the back of his neck, out of the wind's touch. "'Ruza, if this turns ugly, can you paste those three with a spell?" And almost immediately, his sister's voice responds, the tone mingling confidence and concern. "Yep, and I think I have the perfect one too. Leave that to me, and look to yourself right now," she finishes before falling silent.
"Hags! They or their mother have drunk of Zamaz. The witchblood changed them. They will have power aligned with the dominion of one of the ancient crones."
"Daughters of the Lost, we beseech you to meet with us in peace. I am Niyut of the Firebird and I claim the hospitality that is due to any of the five clans as they wander. Our salt and bread are yours to share."
The young oracle cries out to the old women.
As their audience with the king came to a close, Gruskorb could no longer avert his eyes from the vision which stood outside the chamber, waiting for him. However, in the trap's trigger lay an image - a reflection of something. It was hard to make out, though it was warmer than the hobgoblin expected for the iron disk...
The rogue was happy to don some warm clothes. Clean ... well-made. He kept his old set, for he knew these could be torn - or become cumbersome. "Thanks, Garidan." Look at that, me remembering my manners. Maybe I should parlay with these nobles in the future.
As they made headway on their travels though, it was clear no sensible aristocrat would be found for a long while. Chilling wind, rushing water ... these were no conditions for the plump rulers of society. What about you, Querkus? You like this better than the cities we left behind?
There was something jarring about the road's broken nature. Roads themselves only served to connect the hubs of civilization, but they were always taken for granted. Even these basic features of humanoid craftsmanship were felled by the turbulence of the planet, just as basic foods withered in omission of the sun now. At least Tacal managed to persevere.
When they came upon the trio of hags, Gruskorb had thought they were just poor travelers like them. Maybe they were. Yet their reaction to simply being approached by others was hostile enough for him to reach for his weapons immediately. Niyut may have tried using her tongue, but the soft-spoken oracle would have little effect, he wagered. Preparing himself for their flight, he moved a few feet towards the depression in the land, giving himself reach to best protect his group.
"Salt and bread!" shrieks the closest of the hags. "Keep you vile food, girl. Give us the horse flesh... all of them... that would be a fine meal! Perhaps, we would yet let you live." The middle hag leans forward and whispers in the first's ear. They cackle in delight as the last one points towards your Tacal. "And the orc! He too will be ours if you wish to leave here alive!"
Hearing the initial demands made by hag, Garidan's expression flattens and his left hand twitches in minute arcs between rapier and bow. The last demand, however, very nearly causes him to fall off of his mount in surprise. Glancing between the hags, Tacal, and Truk'tosh in turn, he leans toward Niyut and asks, as quietly as he's able. "Uh, she said 'orc', but pointed at Tacal. Did you disguise him again?"
In her quite voice, Niyut responds her words not likely reaching the hags' ears.
"You could have had peace, but now your blood and bones will power my workings."
Truk'tosh lacks his sister's lore but trusts her warning fully. He grips his weapon tightly and scowls at the shrieking hags. "My sister's warning should not be ignored. Leave this place or you will be destroyed."
Hearing--just barely, thank to the wind--Niyut's quiet words, Garidan puts aside the matter of what the hags actually want; it no longer matters, because they won't be getting it unless the party is dead first. Drawing his bow in a swift motion, he readies an arrow, then takes a breath and voices a soft command to the ioun torch against his neck. "Alright sister, do it." In an instant, the trio of hags are bathed by a burst of eye-searing light. Though it lasts but a moment, the burst is of such intensity that the air around them briefly superheats to the point of ignition, covering the hags in flames that disappear as quickly as the light that created them. Before the air has time to fully cool back its previous temperature, it is further disrupted by the passage of two arrows, targeted at the hag that spoke for the trio.
"Storm hags, they are spellcasters." Malz says with narrowed eyes. "You are outmatched, hags, surrender."
Special Defenses: Immune to electricity & high SR.
In a violent burst of light, two of the hags scream and cover their eyes, clearly distracted by the ioun stone's spell. The third hag, with her blue shawl, is peppered with two arrows from Garidan before she can move. Glaring at the swashbuckler she leaps into the air, hovering above her sisters, and shouts in a guttural language.
A massive whirlwind ten feet wide at the base and extending thirty feet into the air descends upon Garidan, Tacal and Truk'tosh, tossing them about.
The twins respond to the coven's power with their own cooperative casting. Filtering her magic through the pieces of Geugal's soul trapped in her wand, Niyut braids together fire and smoke from her brother's incantation to scourge the coven.
Niyut whips her mother's wand angrily at the coven a pearl of frost shoots out only to explode in their midst.
Taking advantage of Ruza's soft light, Niyut weaves the shadows together to obscure her form
Pleased that his unexpected bit of magic had a tangible effect on their foes, Garidan is caught by surprise when the lead hag responds with some magic--because the sudden vortex of air could be nothing else--of her own. Fortunately, he's able to adjust to the rapidly shifting currents with ease and avoids the pull of the rushing wind.