Njord smashes a vial against his forearm as he’s done before, creating a durable barrier. He follows that with a pungent bundle of herbs that he crushes in his fist.
”You’re gunna want to make some room…”
The big ulfen holds the crushed herbs to his face and breathes the scent deeply. Almost immediately he begins to change. His already powerful form hulks with additional brawn and bulging sinew. As his broad hairy frame swells with power, coarse fur sprouts up from his flesh. He staggers and kneels over for a moment and when he stands up straight again, his features have shifted into a definite ursine cast.
”Let’s bust some heads”, Were-Njord mutters in an animal growl.
As the party turns the corner, they find three elven men with dark black-purple skin and a flowing ghost-white hair. They sneer with an almost demonic level of hatred and level their weapons.
"Hey, it's a were-bar! woot. I'll give you bull's strength when we find some heads that need busting."
Jametor calls Swiftwing down after she makes one more pass looking for followers. He puts Prickles in a big pocket in his robe, giving enough room to peek out and guide the group if they reach an intersection, but enabling him to have hands free and protection for the hedgehog.
"Lead on Njord, I'll be behind you, Antal, if you would take the back, Asht'el behind me, gives us the ability to fight that way."
Jametor steps beside Njord and with a quick arcane command he flips his hand, which has begin to glow bright red, out and a cone of fire shoots from his hand, engulfing the group of drow.
Jametor's flames wash over the guards. One seems entirely unaffected but the other is less fortunate and suffers serious burns.
As they round the corner of the cave entrance, Asht'el sees three dark-skinnned creatures that look much like elves, if elves were the color of a bad eggplant and so filled with hate that it dripped out their eyes. Without hesitation, he summons a swirling ball of golden particles in his hand, pops it up into the air, and backhands it at the guards, saying as he does so, "Guess those are drow, eh?"
"Whether we release them or not, which way is out? I lost track of things for a while, I guess. And it's so dark in here."
One one of the drow guards resist the golden spell. The others cry out in frustration as they are rendered blind.
Njord lumbers forward and rears back with his suddenly ill-sized weapon for a brutal chop.
The burned drow is almost cut in half by the ursine warrior's two-handed blow.
One of the guards drops his crossbow and draws his rapier. He holds his weapon forward and it seems to drink in the light from the torches lining the walls. The other falls back a step and shouts a shrill warning in elven.
The drow that cried out in alarm regains his sight.
Asht'el smiles as the drow attempts to blind the party with darkness. Well, that isn't going to bother me...
He raises his right hand, points a pinky at one of the guards, and unleashes a thin beam of fire at him.
Jametor mutters an arcane phrase and then touches Njord.
Jametor then pulls out his bow.
Bolstered with even greater might, Njord turns his ursine rage on the still blind guard.
Were-Njord buries his blade in the drow's side. Despite the horrific wound, the guard stays on his feet. He takes a wild swipe at the furry monster somewhere nearby.
The blow is aimed straight for where the big ulfen's throat would be if he'd been standing two feet over.
The other drow's sight returns just in time for an arc of flame to sear his forearm. Leveling his crossbow at the fiery intruder, he returns the favor.
Jametor takes a shot at the one not engaged with Njord.
Asht'el cries out in alarm as the small bolt hits him. It's not a deep puncture, but the goo on the head of the bolt makes him worry a bit. He looks up from the wound, an annoyed look on his face, and fires another beam of fire at the drow who shot him.
Asht feels numb where the bolt hit him and his whole body feels weak and sluggish.
Njord looses a titanic roar in the face of the foolish guard before ending him.
The surviving guard grunts in pain as he is pelted with an arrow and another line of flame. He quickly reloads and fires another shot at the elf
Jametor fires another arrow at the last guard.
Before they start their flight, he will load his crossbow and she will cast mage armor on herself.
Ash't watches another bolt sail past him, then flings another ray of fire, saying, "Fall, damn you!"
Overwhelmed by his burns, the last guard falls.
Jametor begins searching the bodies, looking for anything that might give him more information.
Each guard has assorted coins, a well made rapier, an equally well made hand crossbow, and a bundle of poison-crusted bolts.
Jametor removes his rapier and picks up one of the well made rapiers and straps it to his waist. He gathers the rest of the stuff and stuffs it in his haversack, treating the poisoned bolts with extreme care.
Pulling Prickles out of his pocket, Jametor pets him gently.
"Prickles we need help finding your master. But we can't have you running off to her and alerting others. Can you slowly lead us to Firiel?"
Not sure how much the little hedgehog understands, he sits him down on the floor.
"Those are drow. They are not nearly as awesome as me. Sadly, they have some skills. Njord, let's follow Prickles. Prickles when bad things happen, get behind me."
As soon as his paws touch the damp cavern floor, Prickles takes off to the west.
"I don't know how slow he is going to go, so we best not lose him."
Njord grunts and takes off after their spiny guide.
"Asht'el, welcome to the insanity. Let's go."
Jametor follows after Njord.
Fíriel glances around nervously, touches Randall's arm again, and fires a steaming snowball at the snake.
Firiel notices the mostly not-realness of the snake just as she finishes her spell. The snowball slams into the beast and it pops into motes of sparkling shadowstuff.
The party, lead by the heroic hedgehog, follow into a large room full of clinging shadows. Prickles freezes on the spot as a terrible presence fills the room.
"Fooooolllish Intruderssss!!!" screams a nightmarish voice.
Randall and Firiel enter the room from the northern entrance where Prickles can be seen frozen with fear.
Jametor steps past Njord again and with an outstretched hand sends a cone of fire into the corner where the voice is coming from.
Asht'el has never seen such a strange, forbidding sight, nor heard a voice so full of malice. He lifts his hands instinctively in front of himself, crossing at the wrists and forming a kind of shield before his body. His hands take on a brief, red shimmer and then return to normal.
Unimpressed by the shadowy creature, Were-Njord lumbers forward with his sword held high.
Seeing Prickles in danger, Fíriel charges into the room recklessly. Drawing her dagger in the same motion, she holds it up in front of her like some kind of protective talisman. Her face radiates pure hatred for the monster before her.
Randall draws his crossbow and sends a bolt flying toward the nasty creature that captured him so easily before.
The shadowy creature reels as its insubstantial form is damaged by the furious party. Refusing ti yield, it hisses and gestures.
But it falters under Njord and Firiel's pressure.
Asht'el wonders whether any of the tales he's heard of strange creatures from other planes have any relevance to the mysterious creature confronting them.