Agony lances through your body, your every particle screaming in agony, and you black out.
The scene shifts again. You are underground, making your way cautiously alone, a lantern held in one hand, a brutal mace in another. The journey here has taken your companions, in one way or another, until only you remain. But you take that as an omen, that only you were to reach this goal. You are approaching the place which has called you since you encountered the shrine those years ago, since you were a boy hiding in a rotting tree.
You awoke before the altar, your wounds healed. And you understood that you were chosen for a reason. The goblins that found you, gore-spattered amid the middens, looked on in fear when they saw the purpose in your gaze. They became your first congregation. You proselytised for your god, first to the goblin-folk and then to the refugee slums. In war-torn Khorvaire many came to understand the creed of the Keeper first-hand. Death was never far away.
But something called you north. You resisted at first as your ministry grew. Then power struggles within your church, and assaults from do-gooding worshipers of the Host, distracted you. But in the end you had to submit. From among the most capable of your faithful you mounted an expedition to the northern extremity of Khorvaire.
Your followers have all since fallen to the horrors you found - relentless cold and biting gales, volcanic eruptions spewing lava and deadly gases, murderous feral tribes, demonic incursions, magics that warp mind and body. But you persevered, and now you are nearly there.
There is a ruddy glow up ahead. You douse your lantern and move forward cautiously. Up ahead the passage narrows to a crack. A steady red glow shines through. You press through the crack but your heavy armour stops you making progress. You tug at the straps and your shuck it off, leaving it in a pile with your pack. You squeeze through, putting your head into the cavern beyond.
The chamber is huge, a gigantic chasm stretching up and away on either side, hundreds of feet high and disappearing in the distance to left and right. The walls and roof are studded with millions of khyber shards, giving the illusion that the ceiling is open to the night sky and showing a riot of blood-coloured stars swirling in overlapping constellations, glowing and filling the place with their eerie radiance. Each shard, you know, contains a soul trapped at the mercy of your god.
The floor is covered in a sea of bones. They carpet to bottom of the cavern to an unknowable depth. Fleeting grey shadows circulate in the space above.
You have found what you sought - the Lair of the Keeper.
You find a route down the rock wall, cutting yourself on jagged shards and rough projections as you climb down. The Keeper is not without servitors, but they pay you little heed, lost in dreams of their lost mortal lives. You reach the bottom, and pick your way along the edge, at times floundering and sinking up to your waist in the layer of bones before pulling yourself free again. The cold is bitter, seeming to sap both mind and body - an effect, you know, of the nearness of this place to the oblivion that is Dolurrh.
There is a susurrus of movement in the air. He comes, soaring on ragged wings through the cavern, made tiny by the distance but growing rapidly as he closes. Scraps of flesh hang raggedly from his exposed ribs, blowing like pennants in the breeze of his own motion. He cuts through the drifting bodiless undead, sending them whirling like motes in his wake. As he banks he stretches four clawed legs and lands lightly on the ossuary morass, striding unimpeded and panther-like towards you.
You are rooted to the spot, unable to move, as your god approaches. His neck a tower of massive bleached vertebrae as he gazes down at you, two red lights burning in the eye-sockets of his skull. You are crushed like a fly by his presence, you insignificance magnified by his immensity and magnificence.
He speaks. The voice is soft, but the power in it makes you weep with terror and joy. It is the voice you have been hearing all your life.
"I am Death. Abase yourself before your god."
Agony lances through your body, your every particle screaming in agony, and you black out.
The scene shifts again. You are underground, making your way cautiously alone, a lantern held in one hand, a brutal mace in another. The journey here has taken your companions, in one way or another, until only you remain. But you take that as an omen, that only you were to reach this goal. You are approaching the place which has called you since you encountered the shrine those years ago, since you were a boy hiding in a rotting tree.
You awoke before the altar, your wounds healed. And you understood that you were chosen for a reason. The goblins that found you, gore-spattered amid the middens, looked on in fear when they saw the purpose in your gaze. They became your first congregation. You proselytised for your god, first to the goblin-folk and then to the refugee slums. In war-torn Khorvaire many came to understand the creed of the Keeper first-hand. Death was never far away.
But something called you north. You resisted at first as your ministry grew. Then power struggles within your church, and assaults from do-gooding worshipers of the Host, distracted you. But in the end you had to submit. From among the most capable of your faithful you mounted an expedition to the northern extremity of Khorvaire.
Your followers have all since fallen to the horrors you found - relentless cold and biting gales, volcanic eruptions spewing lava and deadly gases, murderous feral tribes, demonic incursions, magics that warp mind and body. But you persevered, and now you are nearly there.
There is a ruddy glow up ahead. You douse your lantern and move forward cautiously. Up ahead the passage narrows to a crack. A steady red glow shines through. You press through the crack but your heavy armour stops you making progress. You tug at the straps and your shuck it off, leaving it in a pile with your pack. You squeeze through, putting your head into the cavern beyond.
The chamber is huge, a gigantic chasm stretching up and away on either side, hundreds of feet high and disappearing in the distance to left and right. The walls and roof are studded with millions of khyber shards, giving the illusion that the ceiling is open to the night sky and showing a riot of blood-coloured stars swirling in overlapping constellations, glowing and filling the place with their eerie radiance. Each shard, you know, contains a soul trapped at the mercy of your god.
The floor is covered in a sea of bones. They carpet to bottom of the cavern to an unknowable depth. Fleeting grey shadows circulate in the space above.
You have found what you sought - the Lair of the Keeper.
You find a route down the rock wall, cutting yourself on jagged shards and rough projections as you climb down. The Keeper is not without servitors, but they pay you little heed, lost in dreams of their lost mortal lives. You reach the bottom, and pick your way along the edge, at times floundering and sinking up to your waist in the layer of bones before pulling yourself free again. The cold is bitter, seeming to sap both mind and body - an effect, you know, of the nearness of this place to the oblivion that is Dolurrh.
There is a susurrus of movement in the air. He comes, soaring on ragged wings through the cavern, made tiny by the distance but growing rapidly as he closes. Scraps of flesh hang raggedly from his exposed ribs, blowing like pennants in the breeze of his own motion. He cuts through the drifting bodiless undead, sending them whirling like motes in his wake. As he banks he stretches four clawed legs and lands lightly on the ossuary morass, striding unimpeded and panther-like towards you.
You are rooted to the spot, unable to move, as your god approaches. His neck a tower of massive bleached vertebrae as he gazes down at you, two red lights burning in the eye-sockets of his skull. You are crushed like a fly by his presence, you insignificance magnified by his immensity and magnificence.
He speaks. The voice is soft, but the power in it makes you weep with terror and joy. It is the voice you have been hearing all your life.
"I am Death. Abase yourself before your god."
Agony lances through your body, your every particle screaming in agony, and you black out.
The scene shifts again. You are underground, making your way cautiously alone, a lantern held in one hand, a brutal mace in another. The journey here has taken your companions, in one way or another, until only you remain. But you take that as an omen, that only you were to reach this goal. You are approaching the place which has called you since you encountered the shrine those years ago, since you were a boy hiding in a rotting tree.
You awoke before the altar, your wounds healed. And you understood that you were chosen for a reason. The goblins that found you, gore-spattered amid the middens, looked on in fear when they saw the purpose in your gaze. They became your first congregation. You proselytised for your god, first to the goblin-folk and then to the refugee slums. In war-torn Khorvaire many came to understand the creed of the Keeper first-hand. Death was never far away.
But something called you north. You resisted at first as your ministry grew. Then power struggles within your church, and assaults from do-gooding worshipers of the Host, distracted you. But in the end you had to submit. From among the most capable of your faithful you mounted an expedition to the northern extremity of Khorvaire.
Your followers have all since fallen to the horrors you found - relentless cold and biting gales, volcanic eruptions spewing lava and deadly gases, murderous feral tribes, demonic incursions, magics that warp mind and body. But you persevered, and now you are nearly there.
There is a ruddy glow up ahead. You douse your lantern and move forward cautiously. Up ahead the passage narrows to a crack. A steady red glow shines through. You press through the crack but your heavy armour stops you making progress. You tug at the straps and your shuck it off, leaving it in a pile with your pack. You squeeze through, putting your head into the cavern beyond.
The chamber is huge, a gigantic chasm stretching up and away on either side, hundreds of feet high and disappearing in the distance to left and right. The walls and roof are studded with millions of khyber shards, giving the illusion that the ceiling is open to the night sky and showing a riot of blood-coloured stars swirling in overlapping constellations, glowing and filling the place with their eerie radiance. Each shard, you know, contains a soul trapped at the mercy of your god.
The floor is covered in a sea of bones. They carpet to bottom of the cavern to an unknowable depth. Fleeting grey shadows circulate in the space above.
You have found what you sought - the Lair of the Keeper.
You find a route down the rock wall, cutting yourself on jagged shards and rough projections as you climb down. The Keeper is not without servitors, but they pay you little heed, lost in dreams of their lost mortal lives. You reach the bottom, and pick your way along the edge, at times floundering and sinking up to your waist in the layer of bones before pulling yourself free again. The cold is bitter, seeming to sap both mind and body - an effect, you know, of the nearness of this place to the oblivion that is Dolurrh.
There is a susurrus of movement in the air. He comes, soaring on ragged wings through the cavern, made tiny by the distance but growing rapidly as he closes. Scraps of flesh hang raggedly from his exposed ribs, blowing like pennants in the breeze of his own motion. He cuts through the drifting bodiless undead, sending them whirling like motes in his wake. As he banks he stretches four clawed legs and lands lightly on the ossuary morass, striding unimpeded and panther-like towards you.
You are rooted to the spot, unable to move, as your god approaches. His neck a tower of massive bleached vertebrae as he gazes down at you, two red lights burning in the eye-sockets of his skull. You are crushed like a fly by his presence, you insignificance magnified by his immensity and magnificence.
He speaks. The voice is soft, but the power in it makes you weep with terror and joy. It is the voice you have been hearing all your life.
"I am Death. Abase yourself before your god."
Agony lances through your body, your every particle screaming in agony, and you black out.
The scene shifts again. You are underground, making your way cautiously alone, a lantern held in one hand, a brutal mace in another. The journey here has taken your companions, in one way or another, until only you remain. But you take that as an omen, that only you were to reach this goal. You are approaching the place which has called you since you encountered the shrine those years ago, since you were a boy hiding in a rotting tree.
You awoke before the altar, your wounds healed. And you understood that you were chosen for a reason. The goblins that found you, gore-spattered amid the middens, looked on in fear when they saw the purpose in your gaze. They became your first congregation. You proselytised for your god, first to the goblin-folk and then to the refugee slums. In war-torn Khorvaire many came to understand the creed of the Keeper first-hand. Death was never far away.
But something called you north. You resisted at first as your ministry grew. Then power struggles within your church, and assaults from do-gooding worshipers of the Host, distracted you. But in the end you had to submit. From among the most capable of your faithful you mounted an expedition to the northern extremity of Khorvaire.
Your followers have all since fallen to the horrors you found - relentless cold and biting gales, volcanic eruptions spewing lava and deadly gases, murderous feral tribes, demonic incursions, magics that warp mind and body. But you persevered, and now you are nearly there.
There is a ruddy glow up ahead. You douse your lantern and move forward cautiously. Up ahead the passage narrows to a crack. A steady red glow shines through. You press through the crack but your heavy armour stops you making progress. You tug at the straps and your shuck it off, leaving it in a pile with your pack. You squeeze through, putting your head into the cavern beyond.
The chamber is huge, a gigantic chasm stretching up and away on either side, hundreds of feet high and disappearing in the distance to left and right. The walls and roof are studded with millions of khyber shards, giving the illusion that the ceiling is open to the night sky and showing a riot of blood-coloured stars swirling in overlapping constellations, glowing and filling the place with their eerie radiance. Each shard, you know, contains a soul trapped at the mercy of your god.
The floor is covered in a sea of bones. They carpet to bottom of the cavern to an unknowable depth. Fleeting grey shadows circulate in the space above.
You have found what you sought - the Lair of the Keeper.
You find a route down the rock wall, cutting yourself on jagged shards and rough projections as you climb down. The Keeper is not without servitors, but they pay you little heed, lost in dreams of their lost mortal lives. You reach the bottom, and pick your way along the edge, at times floundering and sinking up to your waist in the layer of bones before pulling yourself free again. The cold is bitter, seeming to sap both mind and body - an effect, you know, of the nearness of this place to the oblivion that is Dolurrh.
There is a susurrus of movement in the air. He comes, soaring on ragged wings through the cavern, made tiny by the distance but growing rapidly as he closes. Scraps of flesh hang raggedly from his exposed ribs, blowing like pennants in the breeze of his own motion. He cuts through the drifting bodiless undead, sending them whirling like motes in his wake. As he banks he stretches four clawed legs and lands lightly on the ossuary morass, striding unimpeded and panther-like towards you.
You are rooted to the spot, unable to move, as your god approaches. His neck a tower of massive bleached vertebrae as he gazes down at you, two red lights burning in the eye-sockets of his skull. You are crushed like a fly by his presence, you insignificance magnified by his immensity and magnificence.
He speaks. The voice is soft, but the power in it makes you weep with terror and joy. It is the voice you have been hearing all your life.
"I am Death. Abase yourself before your god."
Aub:
Agony lances through your body, your every particle screaming in agony, and you black out.
The scene shifts again. You are underground, making your way cautiously alone, a lantern held in one hand, a brutal mace in another. The journey here has taken your companions, in one way or another, until only you remain. But you take that as an omen, that only you were to reach this goal. You are approaching the place which has called you since you encountered the shrine those years ago, since you were a boy hiding in a rotting tree.
You awoke before the altar, your wounds healed. And you understood that you were chosen for a reason. The goblins that found you, gore-spattered amid the middens, looked on in fear when they saw the purpose in your gaze. They became your first congregation. You proselytised for your god, first to the goblin-folk and then to the refugee slums. In war-torn Khorvaire many came to understand the creed of the Keeper first-hand. Death was never far away.
But something called you north. You resisted at first as your ministry grew. Then power struggles within your church, and assaults from do-gooding worshipers of the Host, distracted you. But in the end you had to submit. From among the most capable of your faithful you mounted an expedition to the northern extremity of Khorvaire.
Your followers have all since fallen to the horrors you found - relentless cold and biting gales, volcanic eruptions spewing lava and deadly gases, murderous feral tribes, demonic incursions, magics that warp mind and body. But you persevered, and now you are nearly there.
There is a ruddy glow up ahead. You douse your lantern and move forward cautiously. Up ahead the passage narrows to a crack. A steady red glow shines through. You press through the crack but your heavy armour stops you making progress. You tug at the straps and your shuck it off, leaving it in a pile with your pack. You squeeze through, putting your head into the cavern beyond.
The chamber is huge, a gigantic chasm stretching up and away on either side, hundreds of feet high and disappearing in the distance to left and right. The walls and roof are studded with millions of khyber shards, giving the illusion that the ceiling is open to the night sky and showing a riot of blood-coloured stars swirling in overlapping constellations, glowing and filling the place with their eerie radiance. Each shard, you know, contains a soul trapped at the mercy of your god.
The floor is covered in a sea of bones. They carpet to bottom of the cavern to an unknowable depth. Fleeting grey shadows circulate in the space above.
You have found what you sought - the Lair of the Keeper.
You find a route down the rock wall, cutting yourself on jagged shards and rough projections as you climb down. The Keeper is not without servitors, but they pay you little heed, lost in dreams of their lost mortal lives. You reach the bottom, and pick your way along the edge, at times floundering and sinking up to your waist in the layer of bones before pulling yourself free again. The cold is bitter, seeming to sap both mind and body - an effect, you know, of the nearness of this place to the oblivion that is Dolurrh.
There is a susurrus of movement in the air. He comes, soaring on ragged wings through the cavern, made tiny by the distance but growing rapidly as he closes. Scraps of flesh hang raggedly from his exposed ribs, blowing like pennants in the breeze of his own motion. He cuts through the drifting bodiless undead, sending them whirling like motes in his wake. As he banks he stretches four clawed legs and lands lightly on the ossuary morass, striding unimpeded and panther-like towards you.
You are rooted to the spot, unable to move, as your god approaches. His neck a tower of massive bleached vertebrae as he gazes down at you, two red lights burning in the eye-sockets of his skull. You are crushed like a fly by his presence, you insignificance magnified by his immensity and magnificence.
He speaks. The voice is soft, but the power in it makes you weep with terror and joy. It is the voice you have been hearing all your life.
"I am Death. Abase yourself before your god."
Aub:
You are wise enough to know this, Mr. D. The fact that you act in this way makes you truly a fool."
Can I cast some magic on his ass?
Aubrey:
Not my god. One god, one of many. Still, Janosz/Gath knows better than to disrespect a deity to its face. He drops silently to his knees before burying his face in the bony morass. He closes his eyes tightly and waits for oblivion.
+2 if mind affecting
Unable even to speak, Gath prostrates himself on the carpet of bones.
Black flame belches from his jaws, searing the your flesh and scouring your bones.
You awaken on the floor of the Shrine of the Reaper in Gath's Mausoleum. Your companions, like you, are beginning to stir into wakefulness again.
Black flame belches from his jaws, searing the your flesh and scouring your bones.
You awaken on the floor of the Shrine of the Reaper in Gath's Mausoleum. Your companions, like you, are beginning to stir into wakefulness again.
Black flame belches from his jaws, searing the your flesh and scouring your bones. You muscles and organs bubble away in black greasy smoke, yet you do not die. Instead, you are transformed into a form most fitting to serve the Keeper. You stagger to your feet and look at your ruined body, yet you see only the truth of which your master spoke. You are a lich, undying and immortal.
You awaken on the floor of the Shrine of the Reaper in Gath's Mausoleum. Your companions, like you, are beginning to stir into wakefulness again.
Black flame belches from his jaws, searing the your flesh and scouring your bones. Your muscles and organs bubble away in black greasy smoke, yet you do not die. Instead, you are transformed into a form most fitting to serve the Keeper. You stagger to your feet and look at your ruined body, yet you see only the truth of which your master spoke. You are a lich, undying and immortal.
You awaken on the floor of the Shrine of the Reaper in Gath's Mausoleum. Your companions, like you, are beginning to stir into wakefulness again.
Black flame belches from his jaws, searing the your flesh and scouring your bones. Your muscles and organs bubble away in black greasy smoke, yet you do not die. Instead, you are transformed into a form most fitting to serve the Keeper. You stagger to your feet and look at your ruined body, yet you see only the truth of which your master spoke. You are a lich, undying and immortal.
You awaken on the floor of the Shrine of the Reaper in Gath's Mausoleum. Your companions, like you, are beginning to stir into wakefulness again.
"Well, that was unpleasant."
"Indeed, although it perhaps enlightens us to Gath's purpose, but to what end? To engender sympathy?"
Gil awakens with a gasp, "Did everyone have the same vision? You were Gath? What if it is not true? Just created to cause his followers to believe in his divine right? Seems a great way to strengthen a scam."
"I was Gath. I lost my parents, my life and my mortality. Also, the Keeper seems like a pathetic entity, in constant need of fawning, slavish affirmation. I had expected better of a god." Janosz is looking pale and distant after the visions.
"I have no doubt what I saw was real. And even if it was face, the power needed to make something like that means that whether it is a 'scam' or not is completely academic."
Aubrey:
Gil pushes herself up from the floor, having no memory of falling as the visions swept over her. "Much the same as what I saw. The ability to dominate someone's thoughts does not necessarily mean they have direct divine aid. I'll admit, scam was a poor word choice, but the difference between putting on a show and that being the actual truth is far from academic. If that was truth, we are in for something major."
wil save
cha damage
abil damage cured from lesser restoration.
"I assume we all saw this.....vision of Gath's. Anyone else hurt by it?"
"Yes, slightly scarred by it."
I have one more lesser restoration, if anybody needs charisma for some pressing reason.
The door ahead, previously closed, is now open.
Healing Janosz:
again Janosz:
The door ahead, previously closed, is now open.
"Let's get this shit over with. Don't forget the benediction." Janosz grabs his bow and heads for the door.
Once he reaches it, he bows his head and mutters "Merciful Keeper, Dread Reaper, spare your servant this hour" with some fervour. As many as I've sent to the afterlife over the years, the bony bastard owes me a break. He then steps over the threshold.
As she repeats the phrase, "Merciful Keeper, Dread Reaper, spare your servant this hour," Gil cannot deny the chill of recollection of the visions.
"Do I got to say that bull crap?"
"No matter which gods we choose to follow, they are all equally real. Mouthing a small prayer can't hurt - it's not like you mean it, and they can't tell what's in your heart."
"Um,.....they are all real, but offending the one I choose to serve isn't a good idea if I want to keep the power flowing."
"I cannot say what you must say, but my path towards light is not harmed by seeking mercy from shadow. Expecting mercy, on the other hand... might be considered foolish."
Nevharath steps forward, intoning the words to the ritual. "Merciful Keeper, Dread Reaper, spare your servant this hour."
After a pause, he adds, "After all, isn't the great Rodergo known for... skirting church strictures?"
"Church. Not faith."
"Perhaps your faith will protect you. Perhaps the words are unnecessary. Do what your heart says you must."
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"Hmmmmm......I think that people who say...... Merciful Keeper, Dread Reaper, spare your servant this hour..... in earnest are idiots."
Nothing untoward happens as the adventurers pass through the doors. They open on to a wide corridor which stretches on into the dark, illuminated periodically by flickering torches. Sound carries in the confines of the tunnel, bringing the thud of slow, heavy footsteps as they approach the group.
"Stealthy bastards, aren't they?" quips Gelb.
"Uh-huh. Let's take a quiet look ahead and see what it is. It sounds pretty big."
A figure emerges from the distant darkness, walking purposefully up the passage. Sheathed head-to-foot in spiked full plate armour, they clank as their footfalls echo up the corridor, their body is slightly stooped but marching steadily. In one hand they hold a terrible-looking mace, the other is free.
perception. Nope.
"He's been standing around for a while. The armour and mace are rusty and covered in cobwebs. I guess that means he's undead, or maybe a golem?"
"Covered in rust, armor and mace" Nevharath whispers to his allies.
"I assume we have awakened it somehow - or the puckwudgie did. Recent experience would indicate it is a golem, but I'm not sure how easy it is to train one to use weapon and armor. And undead would not be a surprise, either."
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The figure plods on resolutely towards the group before slowing and stopping about thirty feet away. Around the neck, on a leather thong, is the now-familiar shape of a holy symbol of the Keeper. He - assuming it is a he - raises his head and stares silently at the adventurers. His helm is a featureless mask with just eyeslits. There is a slight scraping sound as he adjusts his grip on the mace.
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"Look at all this dust. Yet there are no tracks whatsoever in the corridor. Not only did the pukwudgie not actually continue down this corridor, this guy doesn't leave any tracks either. I'll bet you that it's an illusion, and the pukwudgie is hiding in the chamber behind us."
"It's a good illusion, though. It's even got the glowing red eye sockets."