A bit unsteady, but swiftly, Jemini uses her ability to fly to rise forward to reach the translucent form of Elsir's ghost. Her blade is a shining arc that flashes with utter certainty through the incorporeal form. The lack of impact does not faze the paladin, instead she smiles grimly at the ghost: "There is no easy escape for you now - nor did you ever have a hope; did you consider what will happen when dreamers cease to dream?"
Elsir summons the magical energy from the Ethereal plane and raises it at his specter. With four thrums of energy, he blasts the ghost with magical force. At the last moment, he redirects the fourth and hits the skeletal Borodin, knocking it to the ground next to him. He hangs on to the stones as he slips closer to falling into the pit with Nikolai and the false Verik.
From the ground, the skeleton seems to show some degree of fear. It summons duplicates of itself to hide, using magic to shield its true face. Five additional skeletons lay on the ground. All six slash at Borodin, who dodges out of the way gracefully even though he is also on his back.
The zombie swings clumsily from its side, but manages to strike Nikolai. Still, the blow is weak and Nikolai determines to finish the abomination quickly. Standing in the cramped pit, his arm is vulnerable to another swing from the corpse-Verik, who takes the opportunity.
The maneuver is costly, as the gash in Nikolai's arm opens wide. The Dragon Lord ignores it and swings down with both hands, but spurting blood makes his arms weak and unsturdy.
Nikolai's frustration with the fight pushes him deeper into his fury.
"Will you never fail to be a coward, priest? Stand!"
[ooc]Current HP 22/63
Arcane Pool 4/7
Condition: Enhanced Blade +1 and Flaming (1d6) 7 rounds remaining
SWA: Arcane Strike (+2)
SA: Attack Skeletal Champion
Borodin, already on his feet comes down with a crushing downward stroke aimed at the Skeleton's head. The undead warrior tries to block it but it is too late. Instead of hitting helmet and bone, Augur passes through a false image. Borodin lets out an uncharacteristic scream at the remaining five skeletons.
"Enough!" The thundering voice rumbles through the dreamscape, rippling reality to pieces as it emanates from every point at once. Like smoke blown aside by a stiff breeze, the trio of ghastly undead dissipate. Standing in their midst is Vordekai, ancient and terrible. He raises a dessicated hand to wave them off. "Yes, you will serve me well. One by one, you will learn of my divinity. I could show you more..." The cyclops seems to disregard the thought, "Unnecessary. The intent of this illusion was to learn of your worthiness to be my champions, rather than to convince you. That will come later. Which of you will be the first to seek me out in my sanctum to offer himself unto me?" The dream begins to break like the dawn over the horizon. As the lich begins to fade from view, he fixes his imperious gaze upon them one final time, as if promising to see them again in person.
Nikolai checks his swing, noting with irritation how quickly the combat ends and the landscape reverts to barren terrain, the big man refuses to let go of his anger. He steps forward, red-faced, with his weapon still held high.
"You banish your minions before their weakness is confirmed? You pick a fight and then wave your hand to save embarrassment? A man grows tired of cowards and braggarts, lich. Come find my blade so you can realize what you are."
Nikolai spits on the ground, still wearing an angry sneer that radiates contempt. His breath does not slow and his muscles remain hard. The flames that leap from his greatsword burn bright orange and bath his red dragon cloak in their glow. The dragon's eye seems alive—as angry as the man who wears its skin.
The sound of Augur slamming loudly into it's sheath is followed by Borodin striding up next to Nikolai. He spits on the ground as well and just glares towards Vordekai.
The dreamscape continues to fade away as Nikolai hurls threats into the encroaching darkness. Vordekai's voice echoes through the shimmering dream. "Soon, my champion. Soon." Soon, the only things remaining in an everlasting, never-ending void are the Founders and the glowing crimson gem in the sky. Their quest to learn more about the cyclops lich has been fruitful, if unexpected in how close they came to Vordekai. Nikolai's threats notwithstanding, confronting the lich in the dream world would be all but suicidal. It will take a battle on the physical realm to bring the ancient threat down. Within a few more eyeblinks, the gem fades and the dream separates entirely.
The Founders awaken in the same room that they slumbered in. Willard Pharn lays between them, groaning in terrible pain and softly crying as he awakens from the nightmare. Lesions and tears cover his skin, but he lives. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he cries softly to himself. The noises of the town come back to them as they wake up, louder than it was when they went into the dream. There is a sense of urgency outside, with men shouting orders and running boots on the hard ground. Looking around, they see that the injuries sustained in the dream have bloodied and injured them - though they look to be wounds created by contact with negative energy rather than steel weapons. What is most surprising is that Berrin is not there, though Jellicoe sits up with a start when they stir.
"You're awake!" The loyal commander opens up the shuttered windows to the garrison's council room, letting in far more of the noise from below. The sound of men readying themselves comes into focus, as does the moonlight streaming into the room. "You've been asleep for almost eight hours, except for Boyar Myrdal. I tried to wake you all, but it was to no avail. Not long after you started your ritual, we received word -- Pitax has invaded Mivon! The preliminary reports are most strange, with tales of legions of metal men under King Irovetti's command mixed in with their phalanxes. Pitax has apparently already won significant victories again Mivon's troops, driving deep into their territory. Boyar Myrdal had to ride to Sanctuary to muster the troops and put them into fortified positions along out southern border, to ward off Irovetti in case his gaze turns towards Newhaven. I'll be leading Dragonswatch's men to back them up, though we'll be keeping an eye out on Restov and Brevoy as well."
"So," Nikolai say, turning his head to face Elsir. "We learned the lich is arrogant and hidden from our site. This vital information we already had, yet we slept through this news while so much changed around us."
The big man stands and nods to Jellicoe before turning to his friends. "I will never waste my time like this again."
He strides toward the door with a grim expression. When he breaches the open doorway, he look back to Jellicoe and nods toward the broken form of Pharn.
"Put him in the infirmary under guard. Bind his hands and mouth. If he lives, we will execute him. If he dies, burn him. No ceremony, no friends. Just get it done."
Elsir sternly stands to disagree with the much larger Nikolai. "Surely, you are not so blinded by your anger. The information we learned is vital, and his arrogance leads me to believe that this information is not deception. We learned that Vordekai is tied somehow to the tower on Candlemere Isle, and that there are likely others. We learned that his power is tied to that crimson gem - a fact that I must research further to understand better. We learned that his resting place is in somewhere in the mountains to the east, within sight of the great linnorm skeleton and below the Tors of Levenies. I am not so foolish to believe that we learned nothing."
Verik blinks twice and looks around in disbelief, his eyes adjusting to the flames of lit lanterns and torch sconces, seeing that night has fallen outside. He had just set his enchanted warhammer back to his belt before the dream dissipated, and looks down with concern as his stance seems to mimic what he was just doing in the Dimension of Dreams. ”Thoroughly unpleasant that was,” mutters Verik mostly to himself, ”but Tandlara, if you can still hear me, I say my goodbyes until the next time we may meet.” He puts a gauntleted hand to head and heart in a brief reflection of an elven parting ritual he learned – one of many he tried to rudimentarily grasp when learning the intricacies of their language. Once done, the High Cleric of Newhaven turns and assesses what he hears in the rest of the chamber.
”We will not be so arbitrary about it while I have power still left,” says Verik curtly. He channels the last of his powers to counteract the visible wounds of negative energy left from their ordeal in the Dimension of Dreams, even to the traitor Willard Pharn himself.
Staggering noticeably to the others, the Banker mutters ”Cogs!” as he manages to keep himself from pitching forward to the floor, putting a hand to his temple. Never has he been so utterly expended in power bestowed to him by Abadar, except possibly at Hydra’s Bridge over two years ago. His face is slightly reddened from embarrassment, but he walks over to grasp a simple wooden crossbow bolt from a bolt case slung up on the wall. ”It should be golden, but I shall make amends and make do with what I have…” He takes the crossbow bolt and holds it sideways out towards Willard Pharn, healed somewhat now but still on the cold floor sobbing.
”Willard Pharn, I have heard your confession of high crimes upon you by your own words and deeds, witnessed by all present. I have heard your own admittance to these heinous crimes, and furthermore you freely waived your own rights under the Laws and Obligations of the Accused, including that of punishment. All of this would still demand a full and proper trial to enter it into record under the Laws of Newhaven, except that as of now these lands are under martial law, due to imminent threat of invasion.” He steels himself and continues coldly, ”Under these conditions, I therefore name you traitor to the Realm, seconding the Founder and Enforcer Nikolai Rogarvia that you be put to death by military execution at the earliest opportunity, on grounds of treason and continued threat to Newhaven’s citizens and soldiers.”
Lowering his hand with the substituted bolt of judgment before him, Verik frowns at the ruined wretch before him, but offers one final pronouncement in a softer voice. ”It may be well beyond my reach, but I give you my solemn oath that, in my lifetime, if I can use my power to directly or indirectly free the lost souls from these accursed Final Blades, I shall do so. For your own parents as well as the countless others lost to the Galtans that now call Newhaven home. May you find fair Judgment and opportunity of redemption for your soul in the Boneyard of the afterlife.”
Borodin stands beside Verik while he pronounces judgement upon Pharn and is quick to support his friend. ”I concur with my comrades and find you guilty of treason. Are there any Founders with dissenting thoughts?”
The Magus looks at Jemini and Elsir both, waiting for them to call a halt to the execution order. The Pathfinder is clearly disturbed by the alacrity of the consensus between Nikolai, Verik and Borodin. He opens his mouth to speak and catches Borodin shaking his head slowly as if saying, ’it’s too late, we’ve lost this one’. When neither says anything, Borodin continues. ”Master Jellicoe, please carry out the order.”
Jellicoe looks down at the supine prisoner, then back up at Borodin. "Right now?" Willard doesn't even seem truly conscious, pathetically moaning softly on the floor. Verik's healing might seems to have knocked him loose from near-total stupor, but he is still in a miserable state. He looks up at Verik, barely acknowledging the promise - a mere dim comprehension crosses his face, mixed with the slight flash of relief.
Elsir clenches his jaw. He goes down on a knee next to his former apprentice. "I am disappointed in you, Willard, but I do not know if I can damn you. I have known great loss, and men are wont to do strange things in response. I had such high hopes for you," he says sadly. "Newhaven would be a far better master than Vordekai ever was, if only you saw. I hope that you find peace, apprentice."
Borodin understands the turmoil Elsir feels. It is not the first time he has seen betrayal. He waits for the elf to finish and motions for Jellicoe. "You may find a more appropriate place to do so. Just to tarry too much." He puts a hand on his shoulder and whispers "Thank you, for your service."
He strides out the door towards the direction Nikolai hoping they did not spend too much time in the dreamscape. 'Knowledge is no use to us if we're dead and can't act...'
Elsir stops the others as they begin to walk out of the garrison. "I intend to return to Sanctuary to collect some research, then join Berrin on the front lines. I believe that my presence will be necessary there, as the armies controlled by Pitax seem to rely on a lightning speed offensive. If we are to prevent them from taking our land as well, I will need to use my divinations to tell what they are doing." The four other Founders nod in understanding, even though they could use his assistance in the investigation into Varnhold. "I will remain in close contact with you via magical communication, so do not be surprised when I contact you."
The next hour is one of planning and preparation. They rehash the war planning of two days prior, but with the new challenging circumstances just beyond their southern border. Their forces will be stretched thin, moving nearly half into a protective and fortified position. The rest have to act as guards, securing the towns and countryside without the help of the main armies. The Founders discuss raising another army - by draft or by volunteer - to augment the others. They could muster a thousand footmen, or perhaps more if they were to pull deeply from the ranks of eligible men, but it would take at least a month to outfit them and give them some minimal training.
Berrin was apparently quite upset at having to fulfill his duties as general rather than lead the rescue of his father-in-law, but he left a scrawled note that he trusts them to find Maegar Varn. His penmanship has improved greatly since he was welcomed as a nobleman, but not to the point that it could be fairly described as good. It is their responsibility - without the support of their armies - to make the trek to Varnhold and find out what has occurred there. Elsir is similarly stricken, but he knows that his talents are needed with Berrin. Should Vordekai muster an army of the walking dead, they need to prevent being drawn into the war between Mivon and Pitax in order to have an army to do battle with the lich.
Nikolai takes the time to rally the men. He may not lead them formally, and it will be Jellicoe who heads the column as they ride out, but he knows that he has their respect. When he finishes his speech, he raises his flaming sword into the night sky and shouts right alongside the men. They will do their duty to Newhaven, just as he and the other Founders will. They watch as the army marches out, heading southwest towards the border. Nikolai insists that they ride out immediately themselves rather than lose another hour in the fort - but Evelyn Dinarda insists on laying hands upon each of them to heal any lingering injuries, making it as much of a show as possible.
The Founders awaken in their camp, having secured a few hours' sleep in the hours before the dawn. They are still a half-day's ride from Varnhold. It is just the four of them now - Jemini, Nikolai, Verik, and Borodin. It is not the first time they have ridden hard, bringing back memories for them. The first trek through the Stolen Lands, the trip to the elven fortress, the race to get back to Hydra Bridge in time... But it is the first time in years that it is just some of the Founders, stripped of the forces that have pulled them apart in the last two years. There are no alliances to broker, no trades to facilitate, no one to spy upon, no threats to tackle alone. It is welcome to return to what was once their natural state: the Founders against whatever threatened their dreams. They even talk as true friends again, with Jemini asking the details of Verik's date with Aleza and Borodin ribbing Nikolai about the comely Calistrian priestess he saw watching the speech intently.
A quick meal and they are back on their horses, pushing them hard to overcome the time lost in the Dimension of Dreams. The terrain moves by quickly as they get closer to the foothills of Varnhold. They follow along the roadway built between the two capitals. They stop in the late morning at the fortress that marks the border between their nations, looking for the men that should be manning it. It is empty as if abandoned in the night - or as if the soldiers disappeared into thin air. Their own scout - the one that Nikolai sent to check the watchtower - is nowhere to be seen. The air has a stillness to it that is eerie, and they all feel as if they are being watched as they ride on. A few more hours pass as they ride through the pass between the mountains and foothills. They see not a living soul as they ride, when the road is usually teeming with citizens going about their business. No smoke rises from the villages, nor does sound emerge from the mines.
Finally, in the mid-afternoon, they arrive at Varnhold itself. The town is nestled into a valley, taking advantage of the river on the east side. From miles away, they can see that something is wrong. There is an utter stillness and a total quiet. Not even birds sing. Something is very wrong. They slow down to appraise the situation and devise a plan. The walls of the city are not manned, and the gate to the roadway is wide open.
Jemini takes a bit of time to appreciate the differences between Varnhold and Newhaven. How the two closely related but distinct nations have developed in parallel allows some conclusions to be drawn between how emphasis has been placed. On the one hand, the more traditional nature of Varnhold's governance has given it a credible sense of direction and theme. But on the other hand Newhaven's somewhat eclectic leadership has given it a more organic, if erratic, composure. Secretly she carries some mirth towards how it must vex Verik.
Finally, she sighs as she gets back to her more brooding thoughts that had accompanied her here. "Nikolai," she starts, "have you considered how there are some similarities that can be drawn between your own life and that of Willard Pharn? In your own ways both of you are fiercely loyal to those who you feel allegiance to. Blindly loyal even. Looking back, this was also true for the Stag Lord - Akiros can attest to that, even if many others of the bandits have since been put to the sword. Do you not think there is a rashness to that loyalty, a flip-side, that averts your mind to even greater things? Acting in league with only such loyalties can in extremes and desperation lead to such tragedies."
RPG Superstar 2013
|
Nikolai genuinely appreciates the company of the Founders. He has never regarded himself a true Founder as the other three, but their acceptance and need of him gives him a place. For Nikolai, home is not a building, but the warcamps where other soldiers prepare for the next day's battle, the combat where might and skill determine the victor, and the presence of those who have bled with Nikolai as much as he has bled for them.
Home is one other thing. Home is the sound of her voice. Soft at times, challenging at others. A man of war likes to be left to his brooding, likes for the savagery to be simple. But always her voice reminds him that she expects more. That he is more than a terror with a flaming sword to her. Or at least, that he should be.
Nikolai wishes again that were enough for him.
He faces the paladin, elegantly astride her horse. At once a warrior and a lady. A queen.
"Loyalty is a good quality. Without it, your ally's virtues serve something else. Too much of it though, and you are a slave. Isn't it like love? Peace? Anger? Put to good use, they have value. They make a man effective. Abused, they make room for evil. I am loyal today. Before I was obsessed. Which would you call the murderer Pharn?"
Borodin and Verik reign in their horses roughly twenty yards away from their friends. Yuri paws at the ground on the ridge line they are upon, anxious at the supernatural quiet. The Magus pats his steed on the neck, trying to sooth him. ”Don’t worry my friend, we’ll get you out of this as quickly as possible.”
Verik’s horse is equally ill-at-ease but Verik keeps a tight reign on him. Borodin dismounts, looking for any evidence of people, or undead that may have passed close to their position. They can hear the other two Founders talking amongst themselves, although their speech seems artificially muffled at this distance.
Borodin looks at his friend and quietly gives his opinion on the subject to which their friends are speaking. ”You know what similarities I find in this timeline? Rage….. Or anger if you prefer. Nikolai is still full of it, although he is in much better control of it in than where I came from. While we have grown to respect one another, I cannot help worrying that one day he might do as he did in my possible future/past.”
He looks over his shoulder at the big man, almost completely blocking his view of the First Founder. ”I have never spoken to you before about this, but I count you as one of my closest friends. I have seen more death in my lifetime due to the Dragonlord than you could possibly imagine.” His hand goes to his own throat with the memory of it being torn out suddenly overcoming him. He adjusts his collar and puts his hand casually on his saddle. ”I often wake in the middle of the night and think that I am back ‘there’ fighting for my life every day. This place is eerily similar in feeling to that possible time, and I do not like it.”
Borodin looks down upon Varnhold and asks his friend, ”Can you feel the presence of the undead?”
Verik dabs sweat from his neck with a kerchief as the afternoon sun shines upon him behind in the pass. Looking down upon the vale of Varnhold with a clearly disconcerted look upon his face, he had moved away out of politeness from the open talk that Jemini had begun with Nikolai, only to find there was much upon Borodin's mind as well. Verik regards the man he has come to know over these past near three years with a measure of sympathy, and nods in understanding at what he tries to relate, though he speaks of business first.
"No, I did not pray for that guidance this dawn...I assumed Jemini would sense the evil of their essences quicker and easier than I. YOu are quite right - I am certain one such as Kavken would find my next remark blasphemous or a personal insult to his being, but this town below us devoid of people and activity is unnatural."
He places the kerchief back in his belt and pats Giles a couple of times on the neck in silent thanks for his efforts today, and looks over briefly at where Jemini and Nikolai are atop their own steeds. He's not used to such frankness from the often witty spymaster with the acerbic wit, but then again he can sense Borodin has much on his mind.
"I...well thank you, Borodin. I am glad that we are...even despite our disagreements and differences of opinion over these years," answers Verik somewhat awkwardly. "I am, at times, not an easy man to get along with I know, but the burdens and duties of Newhaven is much the reason for those sorts of issues. At least I'd like to think so."
Verik chuckles then, musing at something in his mind from the past. "Some of my favorite memories were early on when you arrived here, and we had some lively debates over tea at Elsir's library when the Harborage House was in its infancy. Do you remember? Ahh, I used to always look forward to those afternoons in the mid-week, nearly as much as when I used to be able to pray undisturbed down by the Tuskwater, as impossible as that all seems now."
Baron Varn built the city in the middle of a narrow mountain pass, giving him control over the traffic that passes to and from Restov and the south. The city's geography also makes it a natural defensive chokepoint, easy to defend with a smaller army. The river that cuts through the pass also serves as a boundary for the city on the east side, with the mountains quickly rising to both the east and west. Strong walls of wood and stone block the way of anyone hoping to come across, stretching several miles from one side of the pass to the river, with fortifications and guard houses every several hundred yards.
The four of them press forward towards the gates of Varnhold - only to see their horses stop suddenly. They neigh and stomp at the ground, refusing to go forward into the unnatural quiet. Looking around, they see no definite proof that anything untoward has occurred. There are no markings, no tracks to suggest a mass exodus - not to the road to the north. They can either go into the city itself to investigate or head around the city to check the southern road. If they do, it will probably have to be on foot.
Jemini focuses her concentration, looking out for the sense of evil. She may not be able to specifically detect the undead - but she can detect the telltale negative energy of reanimation. The malaise overwhelms her briefly, staggering her with an incredible strength and malice. Something truly vile has occurred here in Varnhold. She shuts her senses to the evil, wiping an unbidden tear from her eye.
Borodin tries to urge Yuri on but his mount will not move another foot.
"Do we turn back and go around the city? I think we will most likely see a similar sight if we do."
He looks as if he is going to dismount but then pauses. He furrows his brow and ponders. "Verik, didn't you tell me once, that the Founders stumbled upon a thorp a few years back? Before you had the moot with the Centaurs. Is this the same as what you observed there?"
@DM Barcas: does Ride skill apply too?
"No, I don't think we should turn back - we need to know what is going on in there. Or what went on in there. There should be some clues." Jemini climbs down and nuzzles her mount with a worried look, "Do you want to stay out here?" she whispers into its ears.
"With the horses spooked, perhaps we should leave them here and walk the rest of the way?"
The Founders dismount from their horses, trying to settle them down without success. Like many animals, they have a keen sense for unnatural auras and refuse to come close. Only a truly extraordinary bond between rider and horse - like Akiros and Valnyr - would compel the mount to step forward. They back away from the city, but do not break and run; they are too loyal to leave their riders behind. The Founders assure the horses that they will return soon, then turn south to investigate Varnhold on foot.
At Nikolai's suggestion, he seeks to check the south for any sign of an exodus. It bothers him that there is no sign of the scout nor his worg pack. They head to the western edge of the wall, where it extends into the low mountains for half a mile. Varn would have extended the wall to the top of the mountain, and then some, if it were possible or feasible; instead, he placed a guard house at the end of the wall to dissuade anyone from trying to bypass it. There are no guards present, the same as at the main gates to the city.
The Founders skirt along the mountainside. They can see the entire city from their vantage point. While not nearly as large as Sanctuary - or even Olegsgrav or Dragonswatch - the town still claims thousands of residents. Most of the flood of emigrants headed to Newhaven, but Baron Varn had attracted a fair number of new citizens as well. Not one of these men or women stirs in the town below. There are no birds flying above or animals moving below. The smiths and craftsmen should be hard at work at this hour, but no smoke rises from the buildings. The traders should be loading ships in the Kiravoy River - one of the many tributaries of the Shrike River - for passage to the north, but the vessels float next to the piers with no one in them. They cannot see a single person, and no sign of anything untoward. The city is simply abandoned. The eerie still quiet lingers over Varnhold, muffling even the sound of the river.
They continue to the smaller southern walls. Varn spent most of his time fortifying the pass to the north, as he did not fear invasion of the city itself from the south. The southern roadway leads to the farms and trading posts of the frontier, where the Gudrin River empties into Lake Silverstep. With the peace between Varnhold and the centaurs, little of Varn's attention or fears look to the south. The southern walls are far less imposing, or even truly walls. The Founders pass through easily, making their ways back to the main roadway. It doesn't surprise them to see that there are no signs of a departure of thousands, no drag marks or footsteps that would help them make sense of the seeming disappearance of thousands.
As they look back into the town, a sudden storm darkens the sky and envelops them. It seemingly comes from nowhere, offering little warning as it approaches from the south. As it hits the dirt of the road that cuts through the city, they do not smell the familiar scent of petrichor, but rather a distinct smell of decay and rot. Thunder rolls above as waves of cold rain fall upon them. It seems a bad omen.
"Utterly unnatural," says Verik scowling as he puts a gauntleted hand over his eyes to shield his view of the oncoming storm of decay, the droplets of rain violently bouncing off of his plate armor. "I don't have to be a Gozran or follower of Erastil to know that much...is this another sign of his supposed omnipotence? Yet what we have just passed through in town disturbs me far more than anything the sky can deliver."
He looks over to Borodin and recalls something he asked earlier. "It's just like the village at Silverstep, or close to it. But how? No tracks or signs of disturbance...or even violence at an attack...for thousands? How is this even remotely possible?"
"I... I was rather hoping you'd have an explanation." Jemini furtively tries to spot - at least - some corpses. "Why does it smell so distinctly, but there's no source for it?"
"I have a suspicion that all we have to do is wait. I bet this was the last thing anyone living here saw, a rotten cold rain.."
Certain that conflict is coming, Nikolai draws Dragonsbreath and grimaces tightly. He take a few steps forward, as if he intends to fight the oncoming storm with his flaming blade.
The big man curls his lip in expectation, and spits on the ground.
"Come on, then. Let's see you."
"I have no explanation for a normal rainstorm, let alone something like this. In the histories of the Shining Crusade, I remember reading that the most powerful arch-clerics and paragons of Aroden and Sarenrae brought forth storms of immense destructive power against the masses of the Whispering Tyrant's armies, raking them with lightning, large hailstones and even acid..." He squints to try and see more in the sky as to what lies within the storm, but gives up after a long moment, a hand to the hilt of his elvish longsword. "Logically the townsfolk would have retreated from a heavy storm to their dwellings, shops or other buildings in Varnhold, where presumably they would have been safe from its obvious effects."
The lurking figure of Vordekai does not emerge from the foul rain, nor do they receive answers of any sort. Wave after wave of dark rain pelt all of them, soaking them in the smell of rot and cold water. Thunder rolls in the distance and lightning flashes closer, but they seem strangely out of sync. The four Founders march into Varnhold through the rain, determined to discover what happened to the people inside. Their investigations outside of the city walls seemed fruitless, and those who Nikolai sent to find out more information seemed to join the mysterious disappearance.
As they pass through the gates of Varnhold, a deeper darkness seems to settle over them. Through the rain and the malaise, it is nearly as dark as the night. A miasma of sorts holds sway over the quiet, abandoned city. The buildings - normally bustling with industry - seem to offer no safety; darkness seeps from doorways and windows. Even though not a sound is made beyond their own boots and the storm, they feel as if they are being watched. They pass the town's houses and smiths, making their way towards the city center where they hope there is some answer to the question of what occurred here.
A figure appears in the dark storm, seemingly out of nowhere. The figure is that of a young maiden on the brink of adulthood. She points at them from two dozen yards away. "Failed us! You failed us all!" She flickers and reappears a dozen yards closer, pointing at them with accusation. They are close enough to see that her face is locked in a grimace of terror - and that her eyes are filled with great fear. She is clearly a spectre of sorts, though not a full-fledged ghost; rather, she is a haunt, a manifestation of the psychic trauma that permeates this cursed place.
"Ghost of Malthus..." breathes Verik at the ghostly young maiden coming towards them, intending malice for the unknown terrors inflicted upon her. Somewhere long ago in his studies he remembers something about these types of manifestations and their comparisons with other creatures of unlife that draw negative energy from beyond. Yet at this moment his book-learning and remembrance of seminars in Absalom as a Junior Clerk are as slippery as trout from the Tuskwater. "It...it skips about like the wisp yet has the appearance of a ghost...is there some weakness to be found in that?"
Nikolai looks at the form, tightening his lips and hardening his stance when she vanished and appears closer.
He listens to his friends and spits into the dirt. "The blade bit into the ghost of Elsir before. Just a dream? Or shall I end her suffering and see if someone remains to be reasoned with."
Borodin pulls his blade but does not attack.
"I don't know. If we back off, will it follow? Or is it tied to this location?"
A few more seconds of rain feels like eternity to Nikolai. He calls out to the ghostly image. "We are friends of Varnhold. If you sent word, none reached us. If you show us where the survivors are, or where the enemy is, we will avenge you."
"Is it even real? Another one of Vordekai's taunts?" Jemini examines the flitting woman for any signs of who she might be, perhaps an occupation, something that will help her localize the problem.
The ghostly figure flickers again and disappears. A low moan fills the air. "Stole our souls! Like thieves in the night!" She reappears suddenly, her face turned into a ghastly pale canvas with deep-sunken eyes and rotting flesh. She stands a mere foot in front of Nikolai, pushing him in a rage. He can feel her terror and pain as if it were his own, even with Jemini's calming influence.
The Dragonlord glares, mindful that lost souls can be both victims and unjust at the same time. He feels the woman's need for revenge, but refuses to give in to her.
"We are your friends, friends of Varn. We will save who we can and avenge those we can't. Tell us what happened and we will put you to rest."
After their recent experience with Mordekai, this spectre seems somewhat tame in comparison. He gives the creature a wide berth but makes no aggressive actions against it.
"Jemini, Verik. Can either of you banish this thing?"
Spurred into action by Borodin's call, Verik abruptly channels the pure light energy granted by Abadar to sever her unearthly bonds of terror from this place. Unfortunately, it is the first he has ever encountered such a thing before, the positive energy not focused well enough to truly affect the haunting. Verik sees the haunting young woman slightly shimmer and dull, but grunts in frustration at his failure to get it right. "Cogs! It's going to take our combined efforts to flood her out of this place Jemini! The feel of her it all wrong...like a slippery fish and I cannot quite channel the wave to bear directly upon her!"
Direct holy power? Jemini does not speak for confirmation from Verik, but brandishes her hand out at the form. "May Sarenrae guide you back into peace."
The ghostly figure screeches as both Verik and Jemini channel holy power over her. The first wave of golden light barely seems to phase her, but the up-close efforts of Jemini send splinters of light through her skin. She reacts by trying to grab Jemini as well, but the serene fearlessness of the paladin makes efforts to frighten her into submission pointless. The ghost flickers again and vanishes briefly before showing up behind Verik. She grabs the side of his helmet from behind, screaming into his ear. "He'll come for you, too!"
The ghostly specter flickers a few more times before disappearing entirely, warded off by Verik and Jemini. The Founders remain wary as the dark rain falls upon them, unsure if the angry spirit will return or not. Such entities are difficult to destroy entirely, often requiring some sort of closure to the psychic trauma that spawned them, but they can be warded away through exposure to sacred magic. Unlike ghosts that retain and magnify much of the soul's essence, these hauntings are more of an unthinking echo. Whoever she was, she died in terrible fear with the hope that she would be rescued. After a few minutes, they feel more confident that she will not return soon. Hauntings have no sense of strategy or cunning, but rather simply lash out in unliving rage over and over again like a frightened animal.
They press onwards towards the center of Varnhold. Maegar proudly told them over supper one day that his first order of business upon the founding of his new village was to build a stockade around the town square. He wanted a place that the citizens could retreat to if necessary in an emergency. He expanded the stockade several times as the city grew, making it the walled heart of the city. All of the municipal buildings - the town hall, guard barracks, and the like - sit inside the wooden stockade, along with most of the homes and businesses of the early settlers. If there is an answer in the city, it will reside within the center.
The rain steadily continues as they make their way through the muddy roads of the town. No sound or motion emerges other than the four explorers and the rainfall. The people seem to have simply vanished without a trace. There are several abandoned carts and wagons on the main roadway that cuts through the city. The goods within are in various stages of rot and decay. The horses and other pack animals that would pull the wagons are simply gone like every other living creature within the walls of Varnhold.
After seeing several abandoned wagons in a row, Borodin makes note of something strange. He walks over to a a cart carrying fruit and pulls its doors open. He reaches in and takes out a ripe tomato, tossing it to Verik. The cleric looks down at it and shrugs, unclear as to the significance of the unpickled fruit. "I haven't heard from my contact in Varnhold for more than two weeks. If this cart was here then, this should be rotted like the others." The wagon must have been brought into Varnhold after the disappearances occurred - but where is the farmer that brought it in?
Verik nods with the realization of Bordodin's observations. "If true, someone may still be here, seeing what has already happened to the others, giving us some valuable insight."
"Alright. Let's keep our eyes open and see if we can figure out this mess."
Borodin takes a good look at the cart to determine if there are any clues as to the identity of the owner. He is also looking for something that might give them a hint as to the nature of the spirit that recently attacked them.
Borodin keeps a sharp eye out for anything out of place. He wishes that he had pushed Maegar for more details of his family history, including the loss of his grandfather, but his friend had been reluctant to discuss any of it. He said that it brought him too much pain to talk about what happened to his father, and merely discussed the great man instead. As far as his grandfather went, he merely told Borodin that he never knew him - but that Berrin told him great stories of his bravery and charisma. Borodin has little more knowledge than any of his compatriots, even coming from a time in which this event had already occurred. Surely the Cog would know, but he had not seen fit to give him any information pertaining to the challenges that he would face in the past. With only his own wits to guide him, he notes that several of the carts vary in the length that they had been sitting there. Some were days old, and some were weeks. Some could be even fresher. It seems likely to him that additional tradesmen and farmers have likely been entering the city and falling victim to the malicious aura that permeates the area.
They continue the trek towards the city center, passing through the inner palisades. The denser buildings crowd together, giving them the occasional relief from the rain as they cross through narrow corridors between them. Looking in the windows and open doors, they see a darkness inside. Sometimes they have the feeling that someone is watching them, a creeping feeling of dread, but no person - living or dead - is there except for them.
"There may have been a number of people associated with Varnhold that weren't present when this" - Jemini indicates the desolation - "happened. Hunters, trappers, farmers; people beyond a certain range of here. Some of those may have returned, or seen something. But..." A worried expression spreads over the paladin's face, "But we don't know if this was a once-off event! That, that haunted spirit just now, maybe its warning is true He'll come for you, too!."
A dark wind whips through the buildings, driving the fetid rain over them. They press on, keeping their hoods up to keep the rain off their faces as much as possible. They are a few buildings away from the town square and city hall when the rain stops rather suddenly. There is no transition, merely stopping without warning. After the terrible sights of the day, something strange like this sets their instincts at odds. Looking up into the sky, the clouds are gone - but the sun is not out. They know that it must still be day, yet it seems as though dusk arrived during the storm. It casts everything in an eerie shroud, seemingly draining the color out of the town.
Borodin leads the group towards the town center, all the while on the look-out for threats and clues as to what happened here. They cross the line from rain to stillness and the hairs on Borodin’s neck stand on end.
”Is this it? Have we crossed the threshold into his realm? Perhaps this is what happened to the rest of the inhabitants here. They sought the safety of the walls and trapped themselves in this, this shadow of reality.”
The eerie shadow rests upon them, seemingly even dampening the very sound around them. Borodin seems to have hit the crux of the umbral coverage. The unnatural darkness must have something to do with the disappearances - and now they are hidden from the sun as well. Looking around, they see that they are likely just a few more buildings away from the town center. They stand where several of the narrow alleyways meet, in a clearing of sorts in the dense town. With the turn of the darkness, the group instinctively knows that they are in danger. Borodin and Nikolai both move at the same time, readying themselves for something that Jemini and Verik can't hear. The other pair trusts their keen senses, and so they quickly move into a square formation to protect their flanks should they be attacked. Soon, they can hear it themselves over the eerie quiet, a shuffling and guttural growling from all directions.
Mere moments later, the source of the sound emerges. Dozens of zombies, reanimated and walking dead, shamble towards them from the alleys. From three directions, they pour out until the sound becomes overwhelming. The stench of rotted flesh overwhelms them. Tattered clothing hang from the dead, who slowly approach them like a wave of death. It would be futile to count - the four of them against dozens, maybe hundreds, of the dead slowly approaching. Yet among the dead funneling in from the west, they see one of the zombies that stands out from the rest. It is nearly eight feet tall, with smoke coming from its open eye sockets. It seems even slower than the rest of the horde of terrible undeath threatening to roll over them, but it moans nearly-intelligible moans of hatred towards the living.
Borodin draws his mace and leaps forward to the building closest to the giant zombie. The horde is already advancing, hungry to kill the only living souls present in the square. The Magus is almost overcome by the stench but manages to channel some of his energies into his weapon. It pulses with a cold white glow and the head bursts into flames.
He strikes repeatedly at the slow moving mass of undead, trying to ignore the putrid flesh, some which sloughs off their bodies even before he strikes them. Corpses are falling, burning, and yet still they come. Borodin calls out to Nikolai. ”Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to get angry!?”