Calla tries to summon up her inner reserves for this hopeless seeming fight.
Hopeless?
Calla heaves herself up supported by her spear. She steels herself and draws on deep reserves. She focuses her mind and becomes almost one with her spear, driving against the siltrunners defenses.
One of the siltrunners backs off slightly as Calla rises, then strikes out with its spear. The other tries to finish Jareen.
Watching her companions fall around her, Irivis does her utmost to see they don't go alone.
Jareen hit's the deck with a thump of old bones.
- Eldritch Blast v Ref
Likely a miss.
What a waste.
vs death
Irivis' blast leaves the siltrunner barely standing, but there are still five more to deal with.
Irivis collapses as a bolt takes her in the back.
Calla steps over the prone forms of her companions, seeking one last blow before the end. She attacks a siltrunner spear with everything she can muster.
Recognising from the fear in its eyes that her foe has lost its appetite for the fight, Calla lets it escape and instead abruptly turns and charges the other spear-wielding siltrunner. Amplified with psionic force her blow blasts it off its feet and sends it scrambling away across the sand. The impressive display of power has the desired effect. The blowpipe siltrunners realise that they have lost their protecting vanguard, and now face the seemingly-unkillable human warrior, her wounds only serving to feed her wrath and baying her defiance, with bits of reed and wooden daggers. They each realise that any one of them could be her next victim and glance nervously amongst themselves. Then they turn tail as one and scamper back into the desert.
Irivis shakes herself, wincing as her maimed leg crunches unhappily under her. She looks at Calla and manages a smile.
"Impressive. I think you just saved us single-handed."
Jareen Blinks in the sunlight. "How on Athas are we still alive?"
Gorad struggles awake looking around in disbelief.
Arakan lays for a while, blinking up at the sky, before propping himself up on his elbows. "Well, look at that, if you actually stand your ground instead of always being so willing to give up, looks like you can accomplish something." He continues to stand and dust himself off, acting as if nothing more had happened to him than get knocked to the dirt. "Shall we continue to seek refuge ahead?" He walks toward the outpost ahead, his knees almost buckling beneath him and spilling him to the ground. He is able to catch himself at the last minute and regain his composure, pretending as if it hadn't even happened.
Calla stands tall and impassive until the siltrunners are out of sight, knowing that a single volley - a single dart - could undo this tenuous unexpected victory. Only when all is still does she rumple, cradling her wounds until she is able to continue.
She wonders if Arakan is talking to her, or to himself.
Arakan hangs his head and sighs, "I think we have little time to take a breather. We must hurry to the pool, or we may be overrun by a larger force." He doesn't wait for the others, he starts moving as fast as he can to the walled outpost ahead. "C'mon, if there is any elven buried in here, let it be in my running speed."
Gorad nods at Arakan's words confirming a force is coming.
Gorad quickly looks around at his companions attempting to aid Irvis and Calla to get moving.
The group begin to stagger and limp towards safety. Ahead they can see the torches and the main gate of the citadel, one door still open and manned by a pair of guards. By the entrance a merchant caravan is drawn up and encamped, seemingly still unaware of the doom rushing upon them from the night .
Irivis notices nothing until Arakan and Gorad point out the danger, but memories of near death help her find an unexpected turn of speed.
"Silt runners!"
** spoiler omitted **
ath
Calla joins her voice to that of Irivis. "Ware! Ware! Silt runners and bandits!"
Shrugging off their near-death experience, the group dash down the road towards Grak's Pool, the siltrunner horde invisible in the darkness behind them. Irivis virtually picks up and carries Gorad as he stumbles and the rest drag Jareen as he minces daintily along. Their raised voices cause those camped outside to turn and look up the road.
Then the siltrunners breast the top ridge and plunge down towards the fort. A broad front of the little creatures, visible in the dim moonlight, is followed by wave after wave of more, whooping in their piping voices. There must be hundreds, if not thousands, of them. They cross the waste like a tide of scaly flesh, intent on murder.
But the warning given by the group gives just enough for those outside to see the danger and run for the open gate of the fort. The traders press through the entrance, leaving behind their wares and animals but saving their lives. Soon they are all inside, and the door begins to close. For a horrifying moment it looks like the group on the road will be left to the spears and darts of the siltrunners, but with the gate barely ajar an armoured figure leans half out, beckoning urgently. They are able to squeeze through one by one, hearts in the mouths as the sound of the approaching host on the road behind grows louder and louder. Then the gate is shut and the bar pushed across and they are safe - for now.
Last in at the rear of the group, last through the gate, Calla leans on her spear gaping or breath in the crush of the courtyard. She tries to look around her; how many here are warriors? How many civilians?
Her eyes turn to the armored figure who helped them in. "Thank... you..." she manages between filling her lungs with air.
Irivis hauls Gorad unceremoniously through the gate and sits down abruptly.
"Can you hold them off?"
The warrior who beckoned them in replies from inside his leather helm, "I don't know. I didn't see any siege weapons so the walls should hold for the moment." He critically assesses the group's wounds with a glance. "Get inside, tell Barsi to give you a drink and bind your wounds. Then get back out here - we might need you for the defence."
As he speaks, the shrieks of the siltrunners by the gate reach a crescendo as they batter on the wooden doors. He shakes his head in disbelief. "A siltrunner army - now I've seen everything."
Just beyond the gatehouse is a shack made of reeds and dried mud. Inside is a dour female dwarf who wordlessly applies bandages and unguents.
Arakan decides that it may be worthwhile to spread a little extra trust in their new environs, and he spreads trust the only way he knows how, by lying. "It's a good thing we made it, we were coming to warn you all of the oncoming horde, but they move faster than we could have planned. With the experience of my guards, we will be a worthy addition to the forces here.... You wouldn't happen to have any weapons we could use, do you? We were traveling light to free our steps."
Irivis quells her rising eyebrows but for once keeps her mouth shut.
Arakan's unlikely tale of weaponless forays across the desert somehow rings true. "You have my thanks, friend," says the man, who eases off his helmet to reveal a mix of human and sharp elven features. "I'm Grak - if we get out of this I'll see you are rewarded. Head to the armoury, tell Hrin I sent you and take what you need." He puts his helm back on and heads to defend the walls.