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Dust coats everything – your lashes, your tongue, your throat. Try to hack it up and flashes of color bloom behind your lids to match the aches and pains that cover your body. Something sticks deep into your back; sharp, hard, uneven – a rock?No, it is too long and rough. Wood, broken and sharp at one end. Questions tumble through your mind half finished; too much focus makes your head ache and your stomach lurch. How much did you drink last night? Not enough for this, at least, not that you remember.
This is not the Armasse day you had in mind.
A cough echoes to your left, a low groan to your right, but there is still no light.
Finally, a voice calls from the velvet black, “Who’s there?”
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Dust coats everything – your lashes, your tongue, your throat. Try to hack it up and flashes of color bloom behind your lids to match the aches and pains that cover your body. Something sticks deep into your back; sharp, hard, uneven – a rock, most likely. Questions tumble through your head half finished. Your head aches and your stomach lurches; You can’t be dead, or it wouldn’t hurt so much.
This is not the Armasse day you had in mind.
A cough echoes to your left, a low groan to your right, but there is still no light.
Finally, a voice calls from the velvet black, “Who’s there?”
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Dust coats everything – your lashes, your tongue, your throat. Try to hack it up and flashes of color bloom behind your lids to match the aches and pains that cover your body. Something sticks deep into your back; sharp, hard, uneven – a rock, most likely. It catches on one of your scars, tumbling a memory through muscle and bone. Questions weave and stumble through your mind half finished; too much focus makes your head ache and your stomach lurch.
This is not the Armasse day you had in mind.
A cough echoes to your left, a low groan to your right, but there is still no light.
Finally, a voice calls from the velvet black, “Who’s there?”
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Dust coats everything – your lashes, your tongue, your throat. Visions rise in your mind, and settle again. It’s dust, not brimstone. Try to hack it up and flashes of color bloom behind your lids. They match the aches and pains that flare across your body, bringing to mind another time and place before settling into this reality once more. Something sticks deep into your back; sharp, hard, insistent. Relief floods through your blood when it proves to be only a rock. Still, questions tumble through your head half finished; too much focus makes your head ache and your stomach lurch.
As bad as it is, it gets no worse quickly. As unlikely as it is, perhaps reality has finally caught up to the visions.
A cough echoes to your left, a low groan to your right, a scuff of a rock behind. Senses, somewhat reliable check in one by one. Taste, touch sound…even the faint scent of dirt floods back, but still sight remains elusive.
Finally, a voice calls from the velvet black, “Who’s there?”
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Dust coats everything – your lashes, your tongue, your throat. Try to hack it up and flashes of color bloom behind your lids to match the aches and pains that cover your body. Arched awkwardly over a large rounded mound, muscles in the back and sides flare brilliant white with pain. Over extended as they are, in directions they were never meant to go, it is a wonder that you can roll free from the position. Questions tumble through your head half thought; too much focus brings another nauseating blossom of ocher and plum within your mind. Your stomach roils in sympathy, threatening to return a lunch you can’t recall.
In the distance, a cough echoes, a groan whispers. Something scrabbles beyond that. Sound, but not sight anchors you to the now.
“আপনার চোখ খুলুন এবং আপনার নির্বুদ্ধি স্বপ্ন সীসা আছে দেখুন."
As if in answer, a voice, hesitant and soft calls out, “Who’s there?
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Dust coats everything – your lashes, your tongue, your throat. Try to hack it up and flashes of color bloom behind your lids to match the aches and pains that cover your body. Something sticks deep into your back; sharp, hard, uneven – a rock? The hex of some witch unseen in the blackness? Questions tumble through your head half finished; too much focus makes your head ache and your stomach lurch.
This is not the Armasse day you had in mind.
A cough echoes to your left, a low groan to your right, but there is still no light.
Finally, a voice calls from the velvet black, “Who’s there?”
*cough*
*cough*
"Kastor! KASTOR! Are you alright?! Talk to me lad," Serra says as he tries to brush the dust off his lashes and look around. "Are you okay, lad? Do you have a rock in your back too?"
*cough*
*cough*
Coughing, Serra tries to stand and find his squire. He will even try to open his be-dusted eyes.
His head throbs, bringing a pulsing behind his eyes that he hasn't felt in years. He brings himself to stand very slowly, keeping the pressure in his chest low, staving off further pulsing. This has nothing on you, Saul. This let up at least. You saw fit to keep me in the black for a couple of days, at the least.
Eli takes in as much as his mucusing eyes will allow. He allows spittle to form in his mouth, enough to spit out most of the dirt. He is not noisy about it, though, dribbling it to the dust below, avoiding his beard as it falls.
"Where... where are you? I can't see you. Show yourself. I'm here, follow my voice. I will not move from where I stand. Come to me. Please." He considers groping for his possessions, but Eli waits instead. He notices a huge tear in his overshirt, and mends while he waits. His hand passes over his garment once, twice. It empowers him for a brief moment. It steadies his heartrate. He waits more patiently now.
Jurin stands, confusion about his circumstances clear in his eyes. He removes the rock from his back before trying to see in the dark.
"This bakery is milling it all wrong. They've got the people and the stones mixed up."
"Serra? Serra what are you doing here? Did you catch the mumbly wumbly too? And are those new pants? They sound bright."
With a cough and a hack the man clears his throat and rubs his eyes.
"This flour tastes like people, maybe they know what they're doing?"
His voice sounds small, distant. It echoes slightly through the darkness, at first coming from the North, then the East, then fading again.
The voice comes again, clearer, but shaky. "Are you hurt?! I'll be..." A gasp, sharp, sudden and surprising cascades into the space, echoing off walls somewhere in the surrounding distance.
Agony limns a line through her previous thought as she tries again. "I... I don't think I can."
Rocks, or rather boulders, lay scatter about you. Closer examination proves one to be a sizable chunk of granite and masonry as stall as a horse and twice the size.
Whatever people there are, however, must lay beyond, as nothing living makes itself known to your eyes.
Another voice, and then another comes from the darkness. Male, female. Another male.
And then another. Older, more focused, used to getting his way? Perhaps. There is conviction in it's bass. "Ho! Who's there?!?! State your name and business. Bring light if you have it, man!"
Grasker coughs and spits to clear his throat. "I didn't think I'd feel this bad... until after Armasse."
Whatever pressed into his back does not seem to be a terrible wound, still he tries to cautiously shift and move off it. He tries not to touch anything, being disadvantaged by the darkness. Was there a cave in, or an attack? What just happened?
Hearing voices, he coughs again and calls out, "Survivors here! Does anyone have light?"
Does he have his gear with him? He usually does - one never knows when the demons will strike. If he has his pack (less likely but still possible) he cracks a sunrod and tosses it a few feet away as he looks around. If he does not, he checks himself over carefully for injury and then catalogues what he does have.
He says nothing though. If there's a demon about, it'll eat the voices first. Easier to find...
The rock seems to catch on a stud in his leathers and grind into his rough flesh, tweaking a memory that is far more painful than the physical crick sticking in his back.
"يا الكلبة لاذع من الانتقام! ظهري المؤلم! اللعنة! اللعنة! اللعنة!"
He wants to yell, but the pain whirling in his throat and stomach and blurry head only let out a hoarse whisper "Who the hell is Caster? Or Ciera? And what in the name of the heavens did you give me?"
The breathy, screechy voice echoes down into a whispering mumble:
"يجب أن يكون هؤلاء أسوأ من أي وقت مضى الفطر!"
More voices rumble through his addled mind, but he does comprehend a word or two. Survivors? Light? Yes, light sounds wise... His hands fumble their way through the pain and dark and general discombobulation, until one reaches the chain around his neck, and the other grips at the bracer covering his left forearm.
"Ragathiel, I beseech your holy fire!"
With a tug on his chain, one set of fingers stroke his medallion while the others reach up and sprout frolicking licks of fire.
The flicker of sparks rise from his hand and coalesce into four small balls of shimmering flames floating a few feet above his small, prostrate form.
Crowds jostled you awake ... when? Not long, but it might as well have been a lifetime. At first, it seemed a dream, one of those that starts so ordinary that it takes a moment to realize it is nothing more than a figment of too much wine and sausage. Across the plaza, that self-same... Tourist ... from the night before, preened near the Dueling Arena, moving as if she owned the place. Three men danced attendance, waiting their turn for her attention, like she was Somebody. Their shadows pooled beneath their feet – just before noon.
Armasse officially began at noon, with the blessing of the festival by Lord Hulrun himself, ruler of Kenabres. The crowd gathered in Clydwell Plaza quieted as the aged inquisitor took the stage, clad in shining, resplendent armor. He cleared his throat, but just as he was about to speak, a bright light shone from the west, as if the sun were rising from the wrong direction. Hulrun's shadow fell huge and distorted across the cathedral's facade. A moment later, the sound of a thunderous explosion ripped through air and earth, along with a violent tremor.
To the west, the fortress known as the Kite — the location of the Kenabres wardstone— vanished. In its place, a brilliant plume of red fire, lightning, and smoke erupted into the heavens.
A moment later, a powerful roar accompanied a welcome sight rising from the crowd—the city's greatest guardian, the ancient silver dragonTerendelev, who had until that moment been attending the opening ceremony disguised as a human. Above, another form appeared, as nightmarish as the dragon was breathtaking. A humanoid shape three times the size of any man, with skin coated in fire and lightning, gripped a flaming sword and whip. The creature's identity was immediately obvious: Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the Worldwound, had come to Kenabres!
The ground shook, disgorging demons into the streets. The first ripped through the obstacle courses, barrels and contestants scattered indiscriminately. A boy, no older than Cole was on his first Trial, stood statue still; his training dagger in hand. Eyes on the sky, he didn't even flinch as the dragon and the balor lord clashed above, nor see the quasit flying at the easy target from behind. His bow in hand, Cole shot several arrows, finally driving off the quasit. Above, the Dragon and the Balor fought on.
The fight was over in a few harrowing moments, as the balor cut deep into Terendelev 's body, swooping down to strike the dragon and arresting her charge. A few more blows, and the titanic duo spiraled downward toward the crowd.
The sight of the dragon smashing into the facade of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell is one no witness could ever forget. It leers in the memory, whatever shred of innocence clung to this town crushed like the granite of the nave as it showers the crowd below. Huge splinters descend like hornets, the buzz echoing off the walls. One, the size of a house, crashes into the Dueling grounds. It careens at least 40 feet, smearing the ground with The Tourist and her companions.
At that moment, a titanic demon erupted at the far end of the plaza, reducing several buildings to ruins as it smashed into this world. The rift it created shot across the plaza, and this time there was no escape—it opened below your feet, angling away into darkness, your mother's bench following after.
It should have been the end, you knew it as the ground yawned wide and hungry. The Demons had come for you, not as an equal, but as a happenstance bi-product of a ravenous hunger for something larger and more radiant than you could ever be. You drop into the rift with less care than the contents of your father's chamber pot yester-eve.
But even as you fell, the dragon noticed your plight. Though Death stood over her, she seized this final chance to save a few more souls. She uttered a few arcane words and stretched out a bleeding talon, a last hopeful act for another even as her blood poured like rain from her wounds.
Her magic took hold, slowing your plummet into the darkness as if you were feathers falling into a pit. Yet the fall remained just as inexorable, and as you drifted downward into the depths, the last thing you saw was the Storm King standing before the ancient silver dragon, his sword lashing out and cleaving full through her neck.
As her severed head rolled, the rift above you slammed shut, and the light of the world above was gone.
Armasse officially began at noon, with the blessing of the festival by Lord Hulrun himself, ruler of Kenabres. The crowd gathered in Clydwell Plaza quieted as the aged inquisitor took the stage, clad in shining, resplendent armor. He cleared his throat, but just as he was about to speak, a bright light shone from the west, as if the sun were rising from the wrong direction. Hulrun's shadow fell huge and distorted across the cathedral's facade. A moment later, the sound of a thunderous explosion ripped through air and earth, along with a violent tremor.
To the west, the fortress known as the Kite—the location of the Kenabres wardstone— vanished. In its place, a brilliant plume of red fire, lightning, and smoke erupted into the heavens.
A moment later, a powerful roar accompanied a welcome sight rising from the crowd—the city's greatest guardian, the ancient silver dragon Terendelev , who had until that moment been attending the opening ceremony disguised as a human. Above, another form appeared, as nightmarish as the dragon was breathtaking. A humanoid shape three times the size of any man, with skin coated in fire and lightning, gripped a flaming sword and whip. The creature's identity was immediately obvious: Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the Worldwound, had come to Kenabres!
As the ground continued to shake and disgorge demons into the streets, the dragon and the balor lord clashed above. The fight was over in a few harrowing moments, as the balor cut deep into Terendelev 's body, swooping down to strike the dragon and arresting her charge. A few more blows, and the titanic duo spiraled downward toward the crowd.
The sight of the dragon smashing into the facade of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell is one no witness could ever forget. At that moment, a titanic demon erupted at the far end of the plaza, reducing several buildings to ruins as it smashed into this world. The rift it created shot across the plaza, and this time there was no escape—it opened below your feet, angling away into darkness.
Even as you fell, the dragon noticed your plight. Though she saw death standing over her, she seized this final chance to save a few more souls. She uttered a few arcane words and stretched out a bleeding talon. Her magic took hold, slowing your plummet into the darkness as if you were feathers falling into a pit. Yet the fall remained just as inexorable, and as you drifted downward into the depths, the last thing you saw was the Storm King standing before the ancient silver dragon, his sword lashing out and cleaving full through her neck.
As her severed head fell, the rift above you slammed shut, and the light of the world above was gone.
Armasse officially began at noon, with the blessing of the festival by Lord Hulrun himself, ruler of Kenabres. The crowd gathered in Clydwell Plaza quieted as the aged inquisitor took the stage, clad in shining, resplendent armor. He cleared his throat, but just as he was about to speak, a bright light shone from the west, as if the sun were rising from the wrong direction. Hulrun's shadow fell huge and distorted across the cathedral's facade. A moment later, the sound of a thunderous explosion ripped through air and earth, along with a violent tremor.
To the west, the fortress known as the Kite—the location of the Kenabres wardstone— vanished. In its place, a brilliant plume of red fire, lightning, and smoke erupted into the heavens.
A moment later, a powerful roar accompanied a welcome sight rising from the crowd—the city's greatest guardian, the ancient silver dragon Terendelev , who had until that moment been attending the opening ceremony disguised as a human. Above, another form appeared, as nightmarish as the dragon was breathtaking. A humanoid shape three times the size of any man, with skin coated in fire and lightning, gripped a flaming sword and whip. The creature's identity was immediately obvious: Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the Worldwound, had come to Kenabres!
As the ground continued to shake and disgorge demons into the streets, the dragon and the balor lord clashed above. The fight was over in a few harrowing moments, as the balor cut deep into Terendelev 's body, swooping down to strike the dragon and arresting her charge. A few more blows, and the titanic duo spiraled downward toward the crowd.
The sight of the dragon smashing into the facade of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell is one no witness could ever forget. At that moment, a titanic demon erupted at the far end of the plaza, reducing several buildings to ruins as it smashed into this world. The rift it created shot across the plaza, and this time there was no escape—it opened below your feet, angling away into darkness.
Even as you fell, the dragon noticed your plight. Though she saw death standing over her, she seized this final chance to save a few more souls. She uttered a few arcane words and stretched out a bleeding talon. Her magic took hold, slowing your plummet into the darkness as if you were feathers falling into a pit. Yet the fall remained just as inexorable, and as you drifted downward into the depths, the last thing you saw was the Storm King standing before the ancient silver dragon, his sword lashing out and cleaving full through her neck.
As her severed head fell, the rift above you slammed shut, and the light of the world above was gone.
In the distance, lights flare. Sight floods back, bringing memories with it ... .
Armasse officially began at noon, with the blessing of the festival by Lord Hulrun himself, ruler of Kenabres. The crowd gathered in Clydwell Plaza quieted as the aged inquisitor took the stage, clad in shining, resplendent armor. He cleared his throat, but just as he was about to speak, a bright light shone from the west, as if the sun were rising from the wrong direction. Hulrun's shadow fell huge and distorted across the cathedral's facade. A moment later, the sound of a thunderous explosion ripped through air and earth, along with a violent tremor.
To the west, the fortress known as the Kite—the location of the Kenabres wardstone— vanished. In its place, a brilliant plume of red fire, lightning, and smoke erupted into the heavens.
A moment later, a powerful roar accompanied a welcome sight rising from the crowd—the city's greatest guardian, the ancient silver dragon Terendelev , who had until that moment been attending the opening ceremony disguised as a human. Above, another form appeared, as nightmarish as the dragon was breathtaking. A humanoid shape three times the size of any man, with skin coated in fire and lightning, gripped a flaming sword and whip. The creature's identity was immediately obvious: Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the Worldwound, had come to Kenabres!
As the ground continued to shake and disgorge demons into the streets, the dragon and the balor lord clashed above. To your right, a bloated midget ripped into a young squire, leaving bits of him to drip from his teeth. A cultist giggles beside him, dancing around him in the gore.
The fight above was over just as quickly, as the balor cut deep into Terendelev 's body, swooping down to strike the dragon and arresting her charge. A few more blows, and the titanic duo spiraled downward toward the crowd.
The sight of the dragon smashing into the facade of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell is one no witness could ever forget. At that moment, a titanic demon erupted at the far end of the plaza, reducing several buildings to ruins as it smashed into this world. The rift it created shot across the plaza, and this time there was no escape—it opened below your feet, angling away into darkness.
Even as you fell, the dragon noticed your plight. Though she saw death standing over her, she seized this final chance to save a few more souls. She uttered a few arcane words and stretched out a bleeding talon. Her magic took hold, slowing your plummet into the darkness as if you were feathers falling into a pit. Yet the fall remained just as inexorable, and as you drifted downward into the depths, the last thing you saw was the Storm King standing before the ancient silver dragon, his sword lashing out and cleaving full through her neck.
As her severed head fell, the rift above you slammed shut, and the light of the world above was gone.
Armasse officially began at noon, with the blessing of the festival by Lord Hulrun himself, ruler of Kenabres. The crowd gathered in Clydwell Plaza quieted as the aged inquisitor took the stage, clad in shining, resplendent armor. He cleared his throat, but just as he was about to speak, a bright light shone from the west, as if the sun were rising from the wrong direction. Hulrun's shadow fell huge and distorted across the cathedral's facade. A moment later, the sound of a thunderous explosion ripped through air and earth, along with a violent tremor.
To the west, the fortress known as the Kite—the location of the Kenabres wardstone— vanished. In its place, a brilliant plume of red fire, lightning, and smoke erupted into the heavens.
A moment later, a powerful roar accompanied a welcome sight rising from the crowd—the city's greatest guardian, the ancient silver dragon Terendelev , who had until that moment been attending the opening ceremony disguised as a human. Above, another form appeared, as nightmarish as the dragon was breathtaking. A humanoid shape three times the size of any man, with skin coated in fire and lightning, gripped a flaming sword and whip. The creature's identity was immediately obvious: Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the Worldwound, had come to Kenabres!
As the ground continued to shake and disgorge demons into the streets, the dragon and the balor lord clashed above. To the left, a horn-headed cambion fell upon a young girl. Your reaction comes swiftly, the cambion never saw you coming. Still, the terror in the girl's eyes will never go away.
The fight was over in a few harrowing moments, as the balor cut deep into Terendelev 's body, swooping down to strike the dragon and arresting her charge. A few more blows, and the titanic duo spiraled downward toward the crowd.
The sight of the dragon smashing into the facade of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell is one no witness could ever forget. At that moment, a titanic demon erupted at the far end of the plaza, reducing several buildings to ruins as it smashed into this world. The rift it created shot across the plaza, and this time there was no escape—it opened below your feet, angling away into darkness.
Even as you fell, the dragon noticed your plight. Though she saw death standing over her, she seized this final chance to save a few more souls. She uttered a few arcane words and stretched out a bleeding talon. Her magic took hold, slowing your plummet into the darkness as if you were feathers falling into a pit. Yet the fall remained just as inexorable, and as you drifted downward into the depths, the last thing you saw was the Storm King standing before the ancient silver dragon, his sword lashing out and cleaving full through her neck.
As her severed head fell, the rift above you slammed shut, and the light of the world above was gone.
Armasse officially began at noon, with the blessing of the festival by Lord Hulrun himself, ruler of Kenabres. The crowd gathered in Clydwell Plaza quieted as the aged inquisitor took the stage, clad in shining, resplendent armor. He cleared his throat, but just as he was about to speak, a bright light shone from the west, as if the sun were rising from the wrong direction. Hulrun's shadow fell huge and distorted across the cathedral's facade. A moment later, the sound of a thunderous explosion ripped through air and earth, along with a violent tremor.
To the west, the fortress known as the Kite—the location of the Kenabres wardstone— vanished. In its place, a brilliant plume of red fire, lightning, and smoke erupted into the heavens.
A moment later, a powerful roar accompanied a welcome sight rising from the crowd—the city's greatest guardian, the ancient silver dragon Terendelev , who had until that moment been attending the opening ceremony disguised as a human. Above, another form appeared, as nightmarish as the dragon was breathtaking. A humanoid shape three times the size of any man, with skin coated in fire and lightning, gripped a flaming sword and whip. The creature's identity was immediately obvious: Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the Worldwound, had come to Kenabres!
As the ground continued to shake and disgorge demons into the streets, the dragon and the balor lord clashed above. Kastor stood bravely beside you as the hordes barreled down in your direction. At the last moment, you managed to drag you both out of harm's way and turned to face the fly-headed albatross zooming in.
The fight was over in a few harrowing moments, as the balor cut deep into Terendelev 's body, swooping down to strike the dragon and arresting her charge. A few more blows, and the titanic duo spiraled downward toward the crowd.
The sight of the dragon smashing into the facade of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell is one no witness could ever forget. At that moment, a titanic demon erupted at the far end of the plaza, reducing several buildings to ruins as it smashed into this world. The rift it created shot across the plaza, and this time there was no escape—it opened below your feet, angling away into darkness.
Even as you fell, the dragon noticed your plight. Though she saw death standing over her, she seized this final chance to save a few more souls. She uttered a few arcane words and stretched out a bleeding talon. Her magic took hold, slowing your plummet into the darkness as if you were feathers falling into a pit. Kastor looked on in shock. Smaller, he flew higher, faster, passing you on the way down as you floated like a feather into the chasm. Your own fall remained just as inexorable, and as you drifted downward into the depths, the last thing you saw was the Storm King standing before the ancient silver dragon, his sword lashing out and cleaving full through her neck.
As her severed head fell, the rift above you slammed shut, and the light of the world above was gone.
Jurin gropes for his spell component pouch through the splitting headache, then adds to the light.
"Up the inky spiral, down the darkened path. The battle lines are twisted, the foe arrived at last."
So close, so very close. A little to the left and all would've been answered.
He quickly searches his pack for a very small vial, tightly sealed, before replacing it.
"لعنة مثل رجل أو لا على الاطلاق."
"Curse like a man or not at all."
The light highlights his jawline as his face turns to the voice calling out.
"Be ye friend or be ye foe? Maybe you don't know until we know what we don't know. Jurin Kreedsön I am. I am he, who is here. And Serra is here too. He is not a she, he's a he, and his pants are shiny and large."
"Serra? Serra what are you doing here? Did you catch the mumbly wumbly too? And are those new pants? They sound bright."
*cough*
*cough*"Who's that?" Serra tries to wipe away more of the dust from his eyes. "Who said that?" Serra squints around, trying to cough out the dust and identify the speaker when the gnome's light causes Serra to squint.
"Jurin? Is that you? I thought you'd be..."dead. Serra stammers before he find a direction to his voice. "I didn't think I'd see you here. I'm looking for my squire...a young lad. With a limp."
Serra slowly brings himself to his feet, his round belly straining the integrity of the scale mail, covered in dust.
"Who the hell is Caster? Or Ciera? And what in the name of the heavens did you give me?"
Serra sizes up the speaker and lightbringer, the gnome. His attention is drawn away from the gnome by the carcass of the spider. Drawing his starknife, Serra marches in his soldier's stance (looking more like a waddling duck) to the spider, giving it a quick kick to confirm it's death.
"Gnome. I am Serra, that is Jurin. I don't know who you are or where we are. But on your feet...oh, you *are* on your feet, apologies. Let's see what else is about. We'll need your light to find my squire."
Cole is 5'8" and wiry with long dark hair specked here and there with gray and he has dark eyes. He shaves infrequently, but his beard is light when present. He is rarely without his hat, a sweat stained dirty affair with a wide brim to protect his eyes from the sun. He is often dirty as well from a general lack of good hygiene. He is a middle aged male human.
Cole stands and quietly checks his gear. Seemingly satisfied, he draws a bow in one hand as he picks up a sunrod lit on the ground with the other. He tucks the sunrod half in his belt.
He turns to the others and mutters, "Anybody seriously hurt?"
Squinted eyes stare almost uncomprehending at the flames bobbing above him, his mind clearing just a tad when he hears a familiar tongue. The response is automatic, the words spitting out of his mouth in rapid-fire succession, sounding very much like a high-pitched chittering chipmunk.
" لماذا على وجه الأرض أريد أن يلعن وكأنه رجل؟ أعني، أنا العفريت الذي حقا غنوم، أو غنوم الذي هو في حقيقة الأمر العفريت، إذا كنت تأخذ معنى بلدي. ولذا فإنني قد ترغب لعنة مثل العفريت، أو لعنة مثل غنوم، أو حتى لعنة وكأنه طفولي، ولكن ليس لدي ميل لعنة مثل الإنسان. أعني، الذي كنت أريد أن أموت بهذه السرعة، إذا كان لديهم خيار، وليس أن لدي حقا خيارا، والسبب أنا غنوم. أو العفريت اعتمادا على من تسأل. وإذا كنت تقصد الرجل، مثل الذكور، حسنا، إذا كان لي بلدي الأفضليات، فما استقاموا لكم فاستقيموا بدلا عنة مثل الزنبور، الذين هم من بين أفضل القاذفون من أي وقت مضى! و، لا أن يهم فعلا، ولكن كما الدبابير هم فقط الزنابير، ولكن المزيد منها سيكون ما البشر سيدعو أنثى، بدلا من الذكور، لذلك إذا كان لي أن تختار، فما استقاموا لكم فاستقيموا بدلا عنة وكأنه أنثى من ذكر، لأنني بدلا عنة مثل الزنبور من لا"
The clacking torrent of words erupting from his little mouth stop quite suddenly, as the thought of a different female's curses cross his mind.
Shaking those thoughts from his head, he struggles up to his feet and blinks the dust from his lashes. Itchy eyes try to focus as he spots two figures at the edge of the bobbing, flickering flame light, and with another blink the bright glow reveals more figures.
Hello Jurin! Hello Sera! I'm Beagan! Is Armasse always like that?
His gaze falls on the remains of the arachnid, and his bleary eyes widen. Wow! That looks wicked!
Grasker can see, thanks to Cole's sunrod. In between him is an unfamiliar face, and he can hear more voices around the debris. As the terrible attacks on the surface return to his thoughts, he grabs up his sword and shield.
"Cole, I thought I saw you before the fall! It is Grass, over here."
Grasker will eyeball the unknown figure he can see and take a count of the other voices from around the corner.
"I have to be me, no one else wants to. Poor Serra, lost his dad and now he can't fit his armor. Why would your dad be here though, didn't he get tired?"
"I'm not hurt, just covered in dirt, like a worm without a bird. What is your name, voice of light? My uncle used to say, cleanliness is hanging from the rope next to the tub. Cold in winters though."
Jurin is medium height and build, blond hair and blue eyes, completely forgettable if it weren't for the hint of madness in his gaze. A scimitar at his belt and his pack firmly strapped down, he appears to be sweating out of proportion to the heat. He looks to be barely twenty but doesn't carry himself that way.
"Poor spider, lost it's web and now it can't go home. Like us Serra. No home, worms and spiders without birds and webs. We should take this boy gnome who wants to be a girl elf and the light bringer to find the other voices so they can have names too."
He says matter-of-factly - and quietly, "It seems Kenebras has fallen to the 'wound. I think we need to find out way out of here before sunset and get some distance between us and the city. What do you think?"
"I... I don't think I can."
Of course you can't. Eli looks about his feet. As the dust calms, the body of the cloud pulls back to reveal more comfort. There lies his hammer, and his backpack. He picks up the backpack first, rifling through it. His hands fumble, seeking what may be broken. He reassures himself that all is intact, amidst the rubble.
"Well, now. I'm just gaining myself. Be patient. I can't recognize your voice. Do I know you? What is your name? Perhaps, if you talk to me, while I gain myself here, I can follow the sound of your voice, and we can meet each other properly." Eli dusts his hands off, and grabs the lucerne hammer tightly, as he uses it to poke and prod his way in the direction of the voice. He tries to take in the masonry as his first obstacle, and seeks to find a way around it. "Keep talking now. I should be there shortly." Eli taps the hammer's end with metronome precision, slowly, listening to the echoes, and giving enough time between taps to hear responses, or scuffles of movement.
Serra looks over to Cole as he moves to the spider, drawing his starknife. He gives a very neutral look in return. "No injuries here," Serra replies.
It's quite dusty down here...but no demons yet. So we might be safe.
Serra turns to look over his shoulder at the other speaker, Grasker.
So that one's name is Cole. And that one is Grass. How many survivors do we have down here, I wonder? I hope Kastor is among them.
After kicking the spider, Serra puts his foot on the spider head and calls out in a loud voice to all within the cavern. He uses the dual lights to get a good look at all those around.
"Excuse me, people. EXCUSE ME, PEOPLE! IF I MAY HAVE YOUR ATTENTION!" Serra tries to assert some authority that he does not feel.
"If I may have your attention. My name is Serra. Sir Serra Phaer of the House of Delys in the Republic of Andoran," Serra shoots a look at Jurin before continuing. "Now, I don't know where we are...it appears, if you saw what I saw, that the demons attacked and that our brave, noble Silver Dragon friend perished trying to save us." Serra pauses.
"Now, first order of business, is anyone injured? If so, raise your hand and we'll see what healing resources to give you." Serra looks around to see if anyone needs aid, his heel jutting into the eye of the spider.
"Secondly, we're going to band together and find a way to the surface. There might be other survivors that need our help...or more demons about, so we should be careful. I need you to trust in each other here and now. Again, my name is Serra," he says, taking a moment to brush off the dust from his holy symbol of Irori and to adjust his armor to cover more of his big belly.
"All right now, let's see if we can get ourselves organized to move in 5 minutes. There might be others in here or on the surface that need our help. Also, I'm looking for my squire. A young lad of about 8, with a limp on this left leg. If anyone sees him, I'd like to know. Let's keep calm and we'll be fine. We'll be fine."
Serra steps back from the spider. "Now, Jurin, and you, Beagle? And Cole, that's your name, right? Cole? Grassy? Can you help to? If you all could help me with getting organized, I'd appreciate it. 5 minutes and we move."
There you go, Serra. That wasn't so bad. Your dad would have been perfect. Your mom would have been warmer. You did what you did.
"Wait! You there with the light! You're a Zeff, aren't you? You've got the stamp of your father about you! There's nothing to be done about that, I guess, but at least your local! Come help me, I'm injured!" The man, older, well fed nearly to the point of corpulence, and well dressed even beneath the dust and dirt, flaps his arms.
The elf stands, reaching out with one hand, but doesn't advance. " Sir Serra, is it? My name is Aravavashnyel. Do you have light, Sir? It would help us organize."
"Wait! You there with the light! You're a Zeff, aren't you? You've got the stamp of your father about you! There's nothing to be done about that, I guess, but at least your local! Come help me, I'm injured!" The man, older, well fed nearly to the point of corpulence, and well dressed even beneath the dust and dirt, flaps his arms.
You'll get more help from me if you don't disrespect my family.
Sighing, Cole leans over to help Horgus. "Now, where are you hurt?"
He ignores the shiny, bellowing out for all to hear a mile away.
"Well, now. I'm just gaining myself. Be patient. I can't recognize your voice. Do I know you? What is your name? Perhaps, if you talk to me, while I gain myself here, I can follow the sound of your voice, and we can meet each other properly." Eli dusts his hands off, and grabs the lucerne hammer tightly, as he uses it to poke and prod his way in the direction of the voice. He tries to take in the masonry as his first obstacle, and seeks to find a way around it. "Keep talking now. I should be there shortly." Eli taps the hammer's end with metronome precision, slowly, listening to the echoes, and giving enough time between taps to hear responses, or scuffles of movement.
"I... I don't recognize your voice." she tries again, this time her gasp becomes a scream. "I'm S-s-sorry. Yes. I'll keep talking. What's your name? I'm Anevia."
"Excuse me, people. EXCUSE ME, PEOPLE! IF I MAY HAVE YOUR ATTENTION!"
Eli continues tapping in front himself, and walks past Serra and spider. "Quiet down, now. Serra, is it? You're making it difficult to hear the others." Eli continues to tap towards the southern rock, and the approximate place for the female voice.
As he continues, he swings the hammer in a swath, managing to tap the shin of Jurin. "Oh, that wasn't rock. I'm sorry. Allow me through, please." Eli manages a slightly sheepish look as he sidles by.
"Anevia? I'm closer now. My name is Eli. Are you hurt, Anevia?" Eli starts to 'look' for the woman.
Sighing, Cole leans over to help Horgus. "Now, where are you hurt?"
He ignores the shiny, bellowing out for all to hear a mile away.
"Look here! I'm bleeding, can't you see it? And here, on my face. I can't help thinking that a Zeff would be more observant. Even your father was pretty observant, in his day." Looking him over, Cole does see several scrapes. None appear to be too deep, though.
"Look here! I'm bleeding, can't you see it? And here, on my face. I can't help thinking that a Zeff would be more observant. Even your father was pretty observant, in his day." Looking him over, Cole does see several scrapes. None appear to be too deep, though.
Cole checks his injuries over carefully and when he's assured it's nothing serious, he says so. "You're injuries are not serious. You'll be fine. Here, get up and stretch - you'll feel better."
Cole moves off then a few feet to give Horgus, and himself, some room. He leans into Grasker, "It's going to be a long day me thinks."
"Anevia? I'm closer now. My name is Eli. Are you hurt, Anevia?" Eli starts to 'look' for the woman.
"I'm... I don't think my leg is right. I can't stand on it." Embarrassed, the young woman's voice trembles on the end, then catches as she sees Eli's approach. "Oh! I'm so sorry! I did try to come to you but..." Taking his hand, she guides him closer.
"I'm... I don't think my leg is right. I can't stand on it."
Eli leans closer, sees the distress on Anevia's face, sees the broken leg. "Oh my. I can understand why we were at odds. I'm sorry. Will you let me help you?" Eli raises his free hand, and waits for her permission.
If she allows, Eli will try to mend her. "I'm rather novice at this, able only to do so much. Let's hope it's enough, shall we?"
Cole moves over to Grasker and helps him to his feet if he's not already standing.
He says matter-of-factly - and quietly, "It seems Kenebras has fallen to the 'wound. I think we need to find out way out of here before sunset and get some distance between us and the city. What do you think?"
In a low voice Grasker talks to Cole:
"Thanks for that. I agree haste is a priority, since stealth is not an option"Seeing that one of the demonic attackers did not fall amongst us in a frenzy, Grasker takes stock of his posessions and new companions. To everyone:
"We were given a gift of our lives by that dragon. Lets not squander it in this caved in room."
He will look around for exits.
It takes more than a few moments for the enormity and the true gravity of the situation to penetrate his normally boisterous, care-free mind.
That wasn't a faerie-inspired mind trip... that wasn't an arcane Elven recreation of an historical event.... these things won't change by letting the celebratory influences drain from my system.... that was *totally* really... His voice lets out a soft and trembling - "Oh blighted berries..." A small hand automatically seizes the amulet around his neck, Gnoman fingers nervously wrapping around the small red wing crossed by a miniature silver sword.
The flames above his head flicker a bit lower for a moment, as his mind wraps around the reality of this mortal world, and his back seizes in remembrance of how painful the truth can be.
Amidst the barked orders, dire statements, complaints of injury, and veiled insults, he hears a familiar voice and spots his traveling companion make his way across the cavern.
"Eli! I'm glad you're o.k.!"
Chasing the fear and pain from his mind for a moment, he picks up his now slightly dented shield and retrieves a beret from the ground. Sure feet stride up to the one barking the orders, as he places the dusty, scarlet beret squarely on top of his leather helm.
His Gnoman voice is now strong and steady, a resolute tone echoing from his small form. "Serra, Sir! I am Beagan, Champion of the Cause, here to help in any way I can, Sir!" Back stiffly straightened, he does his best to mimic what he has seen of Crusaders standing at attention.
Hearing a request for illumination, he blinks his eyes in concentration, the four balls of flame slipping through the air towards the request, in the direction of where he had previously seen an elven-looking man.
The Elven man asks again, "Where are you? Some light, if you have it, please. Follow the sound of my voice." His ears twitch in frustration as he reaches around himself to find some sort of stability.
"Serra, Sir! I am Beagan, Champion of the Cause, here to help in any way I can, Sir!" Back stiffly straightened, he does his best to mimic what he has seen of Crusaders standing at attention.
Serra does his best to return the salute to the gnome, drawing in his chest (giving momentary respite to the usually strained groin section), and offering a clisp snap.
"Excellent, Sir Beagan! You're just the LightBringer we need in these dark times," Serra asserts with false confidence. What about you, why won't you bring the light. Kast would bring it. Fleur brought the light of her smile. You? What do you bring?
Serra stands and listens again, indicating that the gnome should listen again.
The Elven man asks again, "Where are you? Some light, if you have it, please. Follow the sound of my voice."
"There! Did you hear that? Someone needs us, uh, you! You and your light, LightBringer." Yeah, why would anyone need you, you fat fool. Serra straightens his scaled mail again. "Help me find that voice. We have much to do."
Avoiding the swinging of large, barely-tended hammers, Serra leads the gnome towards the sound of the voice. "We are coming! Keep speaking!" Serra follows the sound of the voice.
The elven man that is calling stands only a few feet away, his hands stretched outward as if feeling his way. Very visible in the light of the gnomes bobbing balls of light, he seems unaware of their presence.
"This way! Who are you? Are you hurt?"
if there are shadows, you can't see into them. When the light moves in, it should show exits, but until that happens, you're not sure.
Jurin stares at the figure, noticing it doesn't seem to track the light.
"So sure we lived. We fell like feathers, like angels, like dragons maybe."
"Look here! I'm bleeding, can't you see it? And here, on my face. I can't help thinking that a Zeff would be more observant. Even your father was pretty observant, in his day." Looking him over, Cole does see several scrapes. None appear to be too deep, though.Cole checks his injuries over carefully and when he's assured it's nothing serious, he says so. "You're injuries are not serious. You'll be fine. Here, get up and stretch - you'll feel better."
Cole moves off then a few feet to give Horgus, and himself, some room. He leans into Grasker, "It's going to be a long day me thinks."
"Wait! Where are you going?!? You need to get me home! I've several major transactions that need my oversight! Get me back to my holdings and I'll pay you good gold!"
Now that the Gnome has moved closer to Serra, he again spies the Elf he saw earlier as the figure stumbles near the cavern wall. The flames clearly illuminate the caller's grasping form, so Beagan hurries his small steps to travel rapidly over to the man.
" वहाँ, अच्छा साहब हो! मैं शुरू कर रहा हूँ और अब मैं यहाँ हूँ. आप रोशनी नहीं देख सकते हैं"
After he sets down his own dented shield on the ground, small hands reach out to the Elf's. His own blues gaze up to the groper's face, seeking to see if the stumbler's pupil's have the same glaze as his recent travel companion's.
Serra follows Beagan, trying to assist and get everyone ready to move.
"Your eyes seem to be damaged, Elf. Come along now, we'll guide you through this. Maybe my squire can tend to you as we move." Now, where is he?
Serra looks around, scratching his beard.
The giant spider's thorax seems to bulge, once...twice. Cracks suddenly erupt from the edge of the bulbous abdomen, running all the way up to the thorax, spilling two pulsing, pink maggots the size of a grown man out onto the ground.
Jurin: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (13) + 1 = 14
Elyanius: 1d20 ⇒ 13
Beagan: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (8) + 2 = 10
___________________________________
Serra: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (4) + 5 = 9
Cole: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5
Grasker: 1d20 ⇒ 5
maggots: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (2) - 1 = 1
The crack/snap/pop of the breaking exoskeleton draws his attention from the Elf. He turns to see the giant larvae emerge and is immediately intrigued. As he steps towards the creatures, he slides his hand-and-a-half sword from its sheath just in case.
"هل الرجال لطيف فقط كزر؟ أم أنك لطيف وخطير، جدا"
Interposed between the emergent worms and the Elf, the Gnome stands guard with his sword just in case the hatchlings' hunger overcomes their innate cuteness.
Round Surprise Init 20
"Bugs in a spider that didn't eat them first. Let's see what they ate."
Assuming anything popping out of a giant spider shortly after a demon attack is hostile, Jurin draws мировник and prepares to attack.
The maggots burst forth, their round, serrated mouths making an odd squelching sound as they lunge at their next meals. Their mid sections bulge precariously, the remnants of their spider feast roiling inside, semi visible through the pale pink flesh.
Jurin: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (13) + 1 = 14
Elyanius: 1d20 ⇒ 13
Beagan: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (8) + 2 = 10
Serra: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (4) + 5 = 9
Cole: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5
Grasker: 1d20 ⇒ 5
maggots: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (2) - 1 = 1
Round 1 Init 20
"Teeth in the dark, teeth in the dark."
The young man begins shuddering as he madly chops with his scimitar.
"Teeth and blood, teeth and BLOOD!"
Round 1, Init 13
Eli brings his hands away from Anevia.
"Let's hope that did something. I wouldn't move yet. Stay where you are for now."
***
He places both of them firmly on his hammer, and attempts to strike out over Jurin's shoulder. His feet shift uncertainly on the stepdown, and he rather swings wide than hit a hopeful ally.
Eli leans towards Jurin. "Steady now. You have others by your side."
Jurin's mad slashes miss the undulating maggot in front of him.
Eli's careful attention helps him line up some of the breaks in Avenia's leg, easing some of her pain, but it's not back to normal. The noise behind him grabs his attention and he swings out of instinct. Only at the last does he pull to the left to avoid the babbling man in between him and the maggot. The correction costs him the hit and the maggot gnashes it's circular mouth.
Round 1 continues
Grasker looks surprised as the two man-sized maggots burst forth. "How did they fit..."
A bit slow in response & expecting Cole will spring into action before him, Grasker will move around the top part of the map and try to slice into a maggot Jurin is working on:
Round 1, Init 9
Serra gingerly leads the Elf's hand to the wall, giving him a place to stand safely. "Stay here. I'll be right back. I need to tender to these beasts."
"Tender", really? Is that how you talk now?
Uh...yeah...all knights speak in 'tenders' and 'thous' and other such rubbish, right?
What would Mom and Dad say?
Serra nearly drops his starknife as a bout of sadness hits him. Taking a breath, he lifts his belt so it doesn't fall as he moves to engage the local larva.
Okay, Serra, let's do this just like Dad taught you. What was it that he always said? Oh yes..."Be perfect." Right? Right.
to hit;
damage.
Serra oofs as he misses by a mile.
"Ooh...I'm a bit rusty."
Round 1 continues
Grasker belatedly springs into action, moving to slash viciously at maggot 2. Still, it wriggles after Jurin, its stomach bulging obscenely.
Serra tries to be perfect, but nearly cuts his foot off instead. If it hadn't been for the sabaton of his armor, his toes would be wriggling off on their own at this very moment!