Inubrix walks up a short time after Meridian, says nothing, and looks like a positively mundane adventurer compared to the others, save for his staff made of strange segments of polymers and metals.
Anaxian had been contemplative and quiet, taking in the complexities of the Worldwound. He had never been to this place, and information on it was scarce. His various minds were all observing different nuances and having a silent conversation as they compared notes.
When he reached the Werewolf with Inubrix, he raised a scaled eyebrow at Illia's antics.
Lycanthropy. Such an interesting affliction. I have never understood why it is considered a curse rather than a blessing. his mental voice said to his allies.
The werewolf continues to cower in fear, as this party of heavily-armed angels and their dragon talks to each other in his presence without actually saying anything to him.
Well, there is the whole go crazy once a month thing, isn't there? And wouldn't fur be itchy?
"Fine, I'll fix this another way."
Pop.
Demon Cricket. Demon Cricket.
Pop.
"Here." Illia offers a small bundle of CLW potions.
"Oh, right. "
Before he has a chance to use the potions Meredian casts a spell and touches the werewolf. Dark energy seems to dance in his various wounds as they close (to whatever degree). The sound is oddly reminiscent of a squeaky door closing.
"Keep the potions." Meredian motions to the small bundle he holds.
"So, your clan is from here? Presumably you know a lot about the area? We're in need of a guide I suppose. Think you and/or your clan could manage that? It'll be worth your while. "
The werewolf's wounds heal, although he still seems weak, leaning on his hands and clearly unable to stand completely.
"If you can see me safely returned to my pack," he replies, still skeptical of the outsiders, "I can find you a guide, though none of the Scarpatch will go further North than the demonfey trees."
Meredian raises her open palm in his direction and telekinetically lifts him off the ground.
"Which way?"
She says aloud, though she mumbles something to herself, clearly not meant for others to hear.
"I hate escort missions."
The werewolf, clearly suffering from what he explains is dryad poison, moves sluggishly and is unable to stand, but after dragging himself along the ground for a mile eventually consents to being carried. The Scarpatch clan are out hunting far from their burrows, but he is able to track his fellows by scent to a clearing some miles away.
A dozen lightly-armed werewolves, some in hybrid form or wearing capes of mail, growl and menace at the party's approach, but relax upon a bark from their alpha. These are not the princely werewolves of Ustalav proper; blood and dirt coats their fur, which grows black and clumpy, and there is a hungry look in their eyes. But they are creatures loyal to their word, and at the Prince's suggestion, a young member of the pack named Grinmar offices his services as a guide to the Shudderwood.
While Illia- carries the werewolf, being the only non-lich party member with strength above 10 who is not more than half of the time a breeze, she throws a lesser restoration his way, after he explains the dryad poison.
"Anyway, we're here looking for a powerful druid, so it kinda makes sense that they'd either be good friends of the dryads or big enemies, so, could you lead us towards their territory? We're pretty tough, so don't worry, we'll keep you safe."
"A Powerful druid?" Grinmar asks, incredulously. "No powerful druids in the Shudderwood. Siabrae ate them all, a long time ago, and they're friends to nobody. Certainly not the blightfey."
"Aw... Well, that's alright, seeing we really just need to find part of a powerful druid. Do you know where the Siabrae ate them?"
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Anaxian padded along, taking in the worldwound's interesting scenery. This was the sort of place he could see himself retiring to. It would be nice to hollow out a den and rest on top of a horde of gold and bones and wait for the eventual onset of demilichdom.
Dris watches the werewolves and ponders the possibility of recruiting them. Having shapechangers would certainly be ideal for his network of spies, thieves and assassins.
However, they're on a mission right now, and it would have to wait. Thankfully the Worldwound wasn't too far away from their budding city, at least for him.
"Hmm." Grimnar sniffs. "Bogeymen. Not many in the forest. They hunt demonfey, mostly, but stories tell of them trapping wolves alike. Trouble is, they travel beneath the earth and leave no scent. But this was never their home; the curse of the druids-that-do-not-die is said to come from the forests to the north, brought on by a great demon."
Planes
History
Geography
"I researched the local histories and legends of this area as preparation for coming here." the dragon said allowed.
"A Vrolikai demon named Shaorhaz was said to have overthrown the Green Faith of Sarkoris. The location of where the Green Faith was destroyed is not on any map, but folklore speaks of the Forest Stones at the boarder of Old Sarkoris. I theorize these stones are the site of the Green Faith's seat of power, and a likely place where Shaorhaz destroyed them. In later lore, the Stones also seem to be associated somehow with Siabrae."
"All we require is a local guide who knows the location of the stones..." the dragon said with a meaningful look toward Grimnar.
"Right... I... no..." Grinmar's eyes widen. "I've heard of the Forest of Stones, never been there, never been close. Could lead you by scent, maybe—even a human could smell their way across Frostmire—but... I'd never make it back alive. And even with a party of angels like yourselves, it'd be crazy to think we could make it there. Three, maybe five hundred miles out in the open, passing into the Rift shadow itself—twice that if we skirt the Outer Rim. We'd be picked apart by sky demons on our first day out of the forest, and if you could even disguise us as demons, there'd still be the avenging angels and what not to deal with. No sane guide could lead you across the most dangerous fortnight's journey in all of Golarion..."
"Right... I... no..." Grinmar's eyes widen. "I've heard of the Forest of Stones, never been there, never been close. Could lead you by scent, maybe—even a human could smell their way across Frostmire—but... I'd never make it back alive. And even with a party of angels like yourselves, it'd be crazy to think we could make it there. Three, maybe five hundred miles out in the open, passing into the Rift shadow itself—twice that if we skirt the Outer Rim. We'd be picked apart by sky demons on our first day out of the forest, and if you could even disguise us as demons, there'd still be the avenging angels and what not to deal with. No sane guide could lead you across the most dangerous fortnight's journey in all of Golarion..."
"Sounds delightful. Also explains why nobody has heard anything for so long. Stealth seems to be our best bet. Well, that and/or speed. Perhaps Dris carries us all in the portable hole while invisible?
"Can you elaborate on 'sky demons?'"
"Warmonger wasps," the werewolf replies. "They hunt the open spaces, in packs. Filling the sky. Even if you can fight them off, they'll call attention to you. And then there's the vulture demons—and, well, half the abominations out there can fly."
"What about under the ground? Any horrific burrowing things? "
"Wolves do not dig," Grinmar replies. "But, yes. Many horrific burrowing things. Here in the forest, the roots grow thick enough to stop them, except for the occasion massacre by wandering Siabrae."
Wolves do not fly either. We were not asking for your sake."
"I am perfectly willing to make the journey afoot simply for the sake of my own interest in observing the worldwound directly. However, if I am alone in that desire, scrying on some site above Old Sarkoris and teleporting in would suffice."
"Dris' ability to turn into the very wind itself seems like a pretty good disguise to me. I vote that plan..." Illia- gives a wink at Dris, combined with an affirmative thumbs up. When suddenly she realizes something. "Or you know, I can teleport."
Inubrix remains silent, with nothing to add that hasn't already been said.
"I say we pick a plan and go with it. They all come with risk. "
"I would not mind either trekking across the Worldwound or i could fly us there. Teleporting is also an option, but think of all the sightseeing we'd miss"
"I say we teleport. I'd rather not have to fight the entirety of the word wound. Exploration is not our goal. Besides, those that wish can come back to explore in due time. "
"Aright, I'll need a destination a bit more exact than 300 to 500 miles that way."
"Aright, I'll need a destination a bit more exact than 300 to 500 miles that way." [/QUOTE
"Maybe Dris can do some scouting to get a better description. "
"Aright, I'll need a destination a bit more exact than 300 to 500 miles that way.""Maybe Dris can do some scouting to get a better description. "
It takes about a day, but Drisquar makes it to the northern forests safely and back. The journey is not so easy as he expects—Bralani have fought and died at the Worldwound before, and out of the hundreds he passes, a few of the swifter flying demons notice and make pursuit. But Drisquar is more powerful than most of his former kind, and with his unprecedented swiftness manages to still outrun any and all pursuers with ease.
The Stonewilds, north of Frostmire and the Wounded Lands, are full of twisted and broken forests, the ground corrupted and smoking. Seen from the sky, hundreds of stone circles dot the countryside over a hundred mile stretch, with stones often more dense than the surviving trees themselves. But there is one grouping of stones far larger than the rest, stretching a mile wide and made up of a dozen smaller circles and rings, and it is this spot that Drisquar describes to Illia-.
* * *
Assuming the party willingly teleports, you find yourselves in the center of a circle of twenty-foot standing runestones—menhirs, as they are called locally—with other stones and circles stretching out in the distance. Behind some of the further stones, caves and tunnels can be seen, curving down and disappearing inside the small hills that dot the landscape. The ground is red and cracked, and no animals stir in the barren remnants of what may have once been trees, their decay itself stopped by blighting of the soil and air.
"I wonder if I could tap into this ley line for fun and profit."
Upon arriving, Anaxian un-joins, his smaller self taking to the air to survey the land. He was quite comfortable in forests, a remnant of when he still lived.
"Now what? " Meredian asks flatly
"Well, we could yell loudly, 'heeeeey can we talk'."
The larger Anaxian inspects the redness of the soil and pads toward the closest of the caves.
The party spends about a minute talking, and Big Anaxian splits off from the group.
Perception