"I agree that we should investigate that field Markham told us about." the monk adds quietly, staring down at the boar's body and fearing the stench that will eventually arise from it. "I actually think that introducing the Korzhas to Abner is a good idea. He's harmless enough in his dotage; I fear he will not be influencing the minds of anyone else in his lifetime."
The monk adjusts the straps on his outfit, tightening them for travel, and looks to the others to lead on toward the cultists' meeting place.
Calwen feels terrible for the old men. Regardless of what drove him those paintings were of outstanding beauty and as far as she knew he did not deserve this. For a while she was speechless.
"I am somewhat concerned that our utter absence at the festivities may raise unnecessary suspicion and will not go unnoticed by our enemies. We should make an appearance there." On top of that she was worried about Marleyna. She was not good at reading human expressions, but she did not think that Bacarov was easily fooled. It occured strange to her but for now she had to assume that everything that Markham said had been the truth.
The situation got more and more complicated. They had many enemies already and all the deaths around them did certainly not make them friends. She needed a way to report; either to the order or to some trustworthy fey. Unfortunately it was always difficult to tell which fey was trustworthy in which regard, since they had a concept of honesty and honour that differed completely from that of elves or humans.
"Wherever we do decide to go, my only concern is splitting up." Dramin's face is grim, "As I said before we have no way to know what kind of abilities these cultists have and I would rather not risk us getting picked off one by one." The scythe still lay on his back, heavy with not only weight but something else. "If these cultists are as crazed as Markham was, and as deadly, I don't think that splitting ourselves will do us any favours. No offense to you Bacarov, but he nearly cleaved you right through and this was an unfair fight."
He hoped his pragmatic voice would talk some sense into these people with raw facts.
"Face it, they may have us outmanned and outskilled. We travel together or not at all."
He puts his pack down.
"Does anyone require Markham's belongings? Its best we make use of his enchanted gear; though I hope people can't tell who it belonged to just on a glance."
"I don't feel comfortable taking what was his, to be honest." Calwen answers carefully. She goes back to Windmane and mounts him.
Dalton feels no such reticence from claiming booty from the dead. If he ever felt such qualms about post-mortem looting, they were scrubbed out far earlier in his adventuring career.
Doffing his plain old traveling cloak in favor of Markham's, Dalton is pleased to see that despite the rough nature of its previous owner, the cloak is still in pretty good condition, and is elf-make.
The boots require considerable adjustment and tightening to go from Markham's feet to Dalton's, however.
As he tightens the straps, he speaks up again. "I'd rather miss the festival and go to the "sick fields" at full strength; Dramin is right, on this one. As sad as I am to miss the festival," he thinks wistfully, thinking of Marleyna.
After gathering their belongings and the spoils of battle, cleaning up, and deciding on a course of action, the party finally departs the Dagwood cabin and begins trekking southward toward the "sick fields" Markham had spoken of. The fields in question lie just beyond the Chenowitz farm, long-abandoned if the words of the Ravenmoor locals are to be believed.
The southward path cuts across the moor, skirting just outside of Ravenmoor's limits; while the town remains in sight, at this distance and with the Founder's Festival in full swing, no one so much as catches a whiff of another human being.
Ravenmoor's non-human population, unfortunately, does not bother to make itself so scarce. As the group presses on through the thick brush and evades the sucking mudholes and patches of reeds taller than a man, the trilling of the insects becomes a neverending drone that borders on maddening. Mosquitos and other flying bothers zip about the necks of the investigators, leading to more than a few sudden, loud slaps as the offending bugs are swatted. A few stirges flap about in the distance, though none venture near enough to threaten the party.
The hike from the Dagwood residence seems longer than it should. While Ravenmoor is a small village, it still covers a fair amount of ground. The Chenowitz farm finally creeps into view after a while, and from this distance, it indeed looks as if it has been abandoned for a long while; long tendrils of moss and vegetation have almost completely overtaken it, while twisted, dead trees surround it on either side, partially hiding it from view. The wheat fields beyond it are also plainly visible, though again it is too far to make out anything further.
Meant to be...!
OR vs. Surprise
As the party draws ever closer to the Chenowitz house, the magnitude of the wheat field beyond the farm becomes clear; this is easily the largest such field in all of Ravenmoor, and by no small margin. The field appears to stretch out over a few acres, almost all of it so thick that no spaces can be made out between the rows. Somewhere in the middle of the field there is a rise in the land, less a hill than a bump.
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Using Cloak of Darkness - +4 AC / +2 Stealth | 3 hrs per day
He also has Darkvision.
Lastly, any chance that among the weaponry of our dearly departed woodsman, there may exist a mundane short spear?
As they settle in for a rest, Bacarov leverages his healing wand to settle the remaining bruises and raw flesh.
They depart the Dagwood homestead, disappearing into the surrounding forest and moving get towards the Chenowitz farm from the east. Along the way, as the insects and other creatures make themselves known, Bacarov reaches into his pack and retrieves the leather gorget he'd procured in Magnimar. At a look forward Marsh, the Inspector shrugs. "I told you it'd come in handy, Vinnie." He pulls the strip of linen it came with and wraps it and then the gorget around his neck. "Let's see a stirge get thru this, eh? Now it has to get blood from my inner thigh..and if the courtship has progressed so well for it, then who am I to discourage such an intentional suitor?"
The humor is a cover to Bacarov's concerns over his health. While the healing earlier had closed his wounds, the pain in his spine still lingered. Add to it, upon leaving the cabin he'd noticed that his vision was severely limited in distance, but more sensitive to even the smallest tendrils of light. Then there was his speed. The persistent limp, aided by a walking implement, seemed to be slowing his progress. Though they weren't rushing, Bacarov knew for certain he'd not be able to keep up in a dead run.
But such concerns are pushed aside as the Chenowitz farmhouse skulks low in the distance, a barely perceptible mound to his eyes that matches the indistinguishable hill closer to their posution. As they crouch along the periphery of the field, Bacarov rubs at his eyes and then looks at the others. "My suggestion is to have three of us sneak to the house; myself, Vinnie and Dalton. Calwen, Dramin and Warshawski drops off to the mound there to take a look. Calwen you'll have the advantage of high ground should you decide to say a top Windmane. If one or the other group hits trouble, we're close enough that they can come running."
He looks to the others to ensure the plan is acceptable.
Bacarov nods to Vinnie to lead the way, trusting in the former Watchman's tracking abilities to avoid dangers along the way. "Skirt southward along the field," he mutters to Vinnie and Dalton.
As he moves away, those watching notice Bacarov is enveloped by a cloak made of shadows...
Calwen tries to maintain her composure but all the insects and the constant whipping of Windmane's tail tests her. She rides the way where it is possible but ofter the undergrowth is to thick and she needs to cut a way for Windmane, realizing full well that she leaves a trail even a blind man could follow by feeling his way along it. Thus, outwardly calm and focused on observing her environment, every now and then she would make a sudden move with her hand or a turn of her head and her expression would betray her tension for a couple of heartbeats.
"Performing a a cultic ritual is in many ways not unlike a theatrical play. To enchant the mind and make them believe in things they cannot see or touch... the site down there is theatre, with a stage and a place for the performers - particularly the head cultist - to prepare. The moment and location to make an entry must be wisely chosen to not only ensure attention but also to give credibility to the claim of being appointed by higher powers. But it also has an actual history on its own. Even I can almost hear it whisper." She does not seem to be talking to anyone in particular as her eyes move back and forth over the sight, measuring it and trying to picture how the ritual may be conducted in different arrangements. On the last sentence she glances over to Warshawski.
Apparently someone still tills the field. The mound in the middle may be a good stage, however, that would mean the cultists would have to trample through the field. Maybe the farm house was part of it somehow.
As Bacarov speaks she nods. "May the gods bless you with a lynx's steps. Do you we have means to signal each in case of danger?"
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Bacarov nods in agreement to Calwen's words. "There was a group in Magnimar, a theater troupe to be more precise. They'd traveled from points south and north for a rival of some sort. But their director, he had other intentions...powerful charisma and magiks to coerce a crowd into mass suicide..." Bacarov shakes his head. "We stopped the ritual but only just... I'll never look at thread-of-gold the same again."
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"Skirt the mound but try to keep it between you and the house. But don't crest it or you'll be exposed. Calwen, you're right, perhaps staying astride Windmane might put your sillouette in their sights."
Dalton gets a little uncomfortable around the strange elf, Calwen, when she drifts off into her own trailing sentence, and stares at the mound. What's the source of her fascination? he wonders to himself, before shaking himself into focus. Your mind wanders again, take a care to keep it focused on remaining quiet... he admonishes himself.
Following Bacarov's lead, he makes sure that he holds his sword taut in its sheath, to prevent it from shaking and making noise. His lips feel dry, and he licks them nervously. He could feel a big conflict coming closer and closer, and he can't help but check over his shoulder often.
"Heh! Then it's curtain call."
"What the hell is that mound thing? . . . a burial mound or somethin else man made?"
"Meh. . . anyways it sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle'ah the field. . . this much grain---farmer's gold. There's some bullshit goin on here. Someone woulda claimed this plot o'land for themselves. Either there's a reason this place is abandoned---or it ain't really abandoned."
"Anyways, yeah . . . let's get to it."
Marsh starts creepin and peepin with Bacarov.
or22 vs humans
or 28 vs humans.
As the three are away from the rest Marsh whispers.
@Bacarov
"Hey knucklehead, why ya draggin yer leg. Is that knee busted or somethin? Pick up yer feet. . . and the house is over thata way. What the hell ya lookin at? Geez Sebastian, yer actin like that blind harpsichord player at the Retching Rabbit. All starin off into space weird'n shit."
"No cheesy arrests or gettin yerselves killed tonight either. If we're dealin with Whisperin Whacko creeps we gotta be on point."
@Dalton
" . . . Ey, nice cloak'n boots. . . yeah, real nice."
You can see the front porch of the Chenowitz house. It is in horrid shape, overgrown with all sorts of sickly-looking mosses and nearly colorless vines; as you examine them, you spot what appears to be a human body lying on the porch, crumpled against the porch railing and half-covered in that same mossy stuff.
- - - -
However, at this distance, the mound is more visible; it, too, is covered in foliage, but there seems to be something in the center of it all; some oblong, black object resembling the "troll stones" back in the middle of Ravenmoor is there, lying longways in what might be a clearing between the plants. This space at the top of the mound is likely no more than twenty or thirty feet across, and there does not appear to be anything moving up there.
Warshawski seems particularly tense, hugging her arms as she surveys the fields. "There's something seriously wrong with these fields," she mutters. "It's like all the life's been sucked out of them. There aren't any spirits lingering around... This might sound weird, but this is the most dead place I've ever seen." She swats away a mosquito and draws her Varisian scarf tighter about her neck. "Even when there aren't any people or animals around, every place has some sort of spiritual residue clinging to it. Here, there's nothing." In spite of the heat, she shivers and shoots Calwen a weary look.
After Warshawski finishes speaking, you think you catch a whiff of something strange on the wind, and a sensation like a distant voice whispering pricks at your ears. You and Warshawski both seem to have noticed this, as she raises an eyebrow and her stance tenses. The voice seemed to have come from further into the wheat field.
Dramin puts his hand out in signal to stop. "We do not proceed yet. Warshawski is a good dowser of these types of things; experience you see." He rummages through his pack, possibly trying to find something and comes out with the wand; twirling it in his hand. "If we need to incinerate this place..." He lets the words hang. They seem to float out in the tension.
Dramin looks at Calwen, "Let's hold here. Let me do what I'm paid to do.". He then holds his breath and asks her in elven.
"From horseback, what do you see? The stalks of wheat are obscuring for the most part, it makes my magic detection quite difficult. Do you mind lending me an arm here?"
He reaches out.
His hands sweep out. He is glad the horse isn't moving, because he wouldn't be sure if the precise movements would work otherwise. Within a second of regaining composure he turns toward the mound and focuses. "Detari." The simple Detect Magic spell goes off, sending it off toward the mound.
"Harder than it looks."
"These webs worry me. I know many a creature and no web has ever made me squeal for joy. Some horns can be good, some gels can be useful but webs... Nothing good comes from a web."
♤
He also has Darkvision.
Lastly, any chance that among the weaponry of our dearly departed woodsman, there may exist a mundane short spear?
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Bacarov waves away Marsh's concerns. "My spine, not the knee. It would seem our friend Markham has given me this as a permanent gift. Healing magic, for all its use, has its limits."
He nods for his friend to stay focused, and in the process he notes the swirling shadows draping over his own shoulders like a cloak of darkness. Abadar protect me, what sort of...magic is this? What did Dagwood's blade do to me? My vision...marred and distorted. My spine...
"No cheesy arrests or gettin yerselves killed tonight either. If we're dealin with Whisperin Whacko creeps we gotta be on point." Marsh whispers.
No, Vinnie. No arrests. Not in this place.
They continue around the house, Marsh finding trail sign along the way. When he points out a second building, Bacarov grinds his teeth but simply nods. He can see the outline of the farmhouse, but that's it. The Inspector has to refer to the memory of the Ravenmoor map in his journal to keep his bearings.
Then there's the change in foliage, the footprints - human and hoof, the gossamer webbing. The body in the porch. "Keep a lookout you two. Let me have a look...
Bacarov pulls on his gloves and draws his short sword. He moves with the expertise given him by 15 years in the field. The memories of countless faces in the dark who would never speak again on this side of the veil. But the book of blood they left behind still spoke.
The webs...the gossamer webs...the stagnation and rot in this place. The stirges...like giant mosquitoes... As he works, Bacarov thinks on something Dramin had mentioned at the mayor's house. An obscure deity of parasites...said to take the form of a huge mosquito...
"...You ever look up at the stars at night an' jus' feel like you can almos' see 'em? The ones that dwell beyond the stars, I mean? Some nights I can just about see his wings stretchin' out over the fields an' feel the wind blow off of 'em. Nights like tonight's gonna be. Festival nights. Did the whispers bring you here? Are you goin' to Ustalav with Markham?" He can almost feel Abner's breath on his neck.
"Maybe I'm looking at this all wrong?" he mutters as he works.
(clues on body)
(how he died)
(webbing | hoof prints)
(webs | plant blanching)
(Dramin's info)
Marsh moves up to see what's up with the body, but also keeps his attention on the door of the place. Seeing the strange webs he's ready to smash whatever has been making them.
Directing your spell toward the mound, you are able to detect very faint traces of some sort of magic there, likely coming from the troll stone, but you are unable to identify the school of magic- it seems distorted, as if shrouded by mist.
From your vantage point, you think you catch a sudden movement somewhere among the reeds, ahead of you and toward your right... but perhaps not, as there is clearly nothing there anymore. The wind, perhaps?
The webs and the blanched fields are a mystery. The plants are quite strange in comparison to what you've heard so far about the blightings in question; there, plant life is left utterly dead, blackened and hollow. These plants seem to be just barely clinging to life, but reduced to this brittle, parched, blanched state; perhaps the webs have something to do with that?
Reflecting on your talk with Dramin earlier and your own memory of religious figures, a name rolls off your tongue: Ghlaunder. An obscure deity, a god of parasites and stagnation. Although you know little of the religion and lore surrounding the faith of Ghlaunder, you're sure that's the deity you're thinking of.
The monk approaches the corpse as fearlessly as possible, nudging the elongated finger that lies sprawled on the ground. He speaks in strained whispers.
"Twisted and corrupted. Like Markham's boar, but even more vile. We've truly stumbled upon something dark here, my friends...in Manaket, legends tell of cults that participate in occult practices called flesh-shaping." the monk shudders a little, glancing around himself nervously. "This was placed here deliberately. We may be under observation this very moment."
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Bacarov shudders at the find, feeling his skin crawl at the sight of such an abomination. "This creature, it's dual nature, forced or accepted, may mean that the tracks we found are of a single being. A hybrid or mutant. And if these are the result of flesh-shaping as you say Dalton, just what is it that turns them so? Worship or torture or both?"
"Dramin made mention of another deity, one of rot and stagnation. Ghlaunder. The enemy of Desna... Where one is of nature, the other a twisted abomination. The paintings, the differences between the worship of the Dream Tender and something else..." Bacarov absently rubs at the gorget around his neck. Voices from the day skitter across is mind like insects.
"...Looks just like the Starsong herself, doesn't she? That's Iola Kriegler, my great-great-great-grandmother. Don't quote me on the exact number of 'greats' there, of course.."
"An' there's only one Kriegler in Ravenmoor- bank on that..."
He gestures to Marsh, trying to collect his thoughts, to match them up. But instead be says. "We should rejoin the others before checking the farmhouse. But let's check the perimeter here first."
Bacarov skulks around the outside of the cabin, keeping the farmhouse on the otherside of it to block their movements. Deep down though, the Inspector is curious as to whom dwells within the overgrown structure. Perhaps another hybrid creature. An evil where no amount of law would address the blasphemy of their existence.
"To eschew the laws of my Abadar, mine enemy must be of such twisted evil he is unrecognizable and unfit for the Scales of His Justice." Bacarov recites the catechism, the old oath of the City Watch. Looking down at his hands he sheaths his short sword and hefts the spear he'd procured from the Dagwood place. For a moment, he misses the feel of a shield in his left hand, the balance of heavier armor on his bck.. It'd been nearly 20 years since he'd held the weapon, when spear and shield had been issued to each of the newly minted Watchmen of his class.
Such a strange thing, the twists and turns of fate. To go from one end to the other, to see a life before him as a youth where the priesthood and the Watch called with equal yearning. It'd been but a casting of lots to choose one over the other, Bacarov loved them equally so. But for a change in dice...Bacarov may have been part of the Inquisition. Or perhaps a priest in the field like Vandana's brother.
A wisp of shadow curls around his shoulder, reminding him that the here and should have all his attention. The strange shadow cloak over his shoulder shifted on the heavy breeze, it's own motions akin to the gossamer threads woven between the branches and moss.
If I'd chosen the priesthood, would I've faired any better against Markham's blade? Would that this new ability be an evil taint, would a stronger faith have given me protection from it? A glance down at his hand, memory of his dream and his healing of Calwen by a new form of magic. Or are these gifts of Abadar? A chance to balance the scales in this isolated hamlet?
Bacarov shakes away the dark thoughts and focuses on the task at hand. "Vinnie said those foot & hoof tracks are fresh. Be on your guard. Let's check the perimeter and then rejoin the others."
He slips along the wall and seeks out a window thru which to view the interior. Though my sight is shortened, I've been given a darker vision for the things of the night. Perhaps I can see inside...Great Abadar, if these gifts are from you, please guide my vision. Help me see...
He doesn't see it, but a soft glow of dark blue emits ever so subtly from his eyes.
.
What is worse is the smell; there is a truly wretched stench coming from the Chenowitz house, a stink of rotten meat and chemicals. You move down to the next window, near the corner of the house, and see what looks like an alchemical laboratory of some sort; the chemical smell is far stronger here, including a number of familiar scents. You can also make out batches of strange mushrooms and other fungi inside. The equipment inside seems better maintained than it should be for an "abandoned" residence.
Around the corner, you see that the backside of the Chenowitz house is home to a number of large wooden racks and barrels, and all sorts of strange plants are lined up; a rusting metal cage nearby holds a quartet of resting stirges, who shift uncomfortably as you round the corner. You realize two more stirges are flitting about nearby, but thankfully have not noticed you yet. Nearby, the barn house looms, yet another sinister rotten odour hanging about it. The large, wooden barn door hangs slightly open.
"That thing is just like Marleyna described."
"Let's just burn this place to the ground."
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Bacarov nods to the suggestion but holds up a hand and motions for the trio to retreat back to the corner and the side of the house. He brings them close and whispers, "Stirge cage around corner. Three of them. Two more loose but they've not seen us."
He looks to the boarded window. "This isn't overgrown by accident. I think we've found the town's real church. The moths in there..."
"...looks like Desna herself..."
"...it's like the painting in Kriegler's house...the woman Iola. Abner's paintings... I think this is a house dedicated to Ghlaunder. And they've got quite the alchemist's shop here too." He begins searching in his pack. "Our hybrid creature, hoof & footer, I think he headed for the barn. The door's ajar."
Bacarov withdraws a flask of oil from his pack. "For once I'm in total agreement with you, Vinnie." Bacarov spreads the contents along the base of the wall. Then he let's the others see another flask in his pouch. The telltale amber of alchemist fire obvious. "When the time's right."
(spread oil)
He points to the mound. "Let's get back to the others."
Dramin notices the elf's silence, and it is unsettling. The sounds of stirges and crops in the breeze are all he can hear and he doesn't want to sit in it anymore.
"Bacarov." The message spell is fairly faint and it seems as if there is a lot of disruption; possibly from all the field stalks and webbing. "What do you see out there? Anything worth reconvening for?" He secretly hopes for an answer that will break the anxiety in the air.
"Those troll-stones in the town... There are more here along the mound. Something tells me this is a place of worship; tread carefully and ensure to not touch any of that webbing." He doesn't know what the effect may be, but his gut tells him its not worth finding out yet. "I have a feeling it may be parasitic, or worse, necrotic. Whatever is spreading them everywhere may very well have a link, as a spider does when it feels a vibration."
He feels his side to ensure that the wand of burning hands is still there.
"And if we need to scorch it, we have both magical and mundane means."
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Bacarov holds up a hand, looking at Dalton and Marsh. "Dramin..." He taps his ear. "..magiking his voice to me."
"Dramin, I hear you. You're not too far off on the worship bit. We've found a church of sorts. Dedicated to a lady we know all too well. Moths and webs and stirges. Ghlaunder." The smell of oil mixes with memory and he grinds his teeth. "Sorry I didn't listen to you more carefully on the topic before, mate. But I think tthat's what we've got here. And that painting in the mayor's house. His precious Iola...and then his clerical abilities. I think when Dagwood said there's only one Kriegler in town, we can guess which one he meant. I've oiled up the house here. Ready to fire it. But there's something loose out here. Either in the field or in the barn over here."
He considers for a moment. "We found a dead creature here. Human maybe, but twisted with tentacles and such. There might be another out here. My opinion, we burn the lot of it. See who or what comes worming out."
He listens for Dramin and the looks at the others for their opinion.
- - - -
A sudden creaking sound from within the house ends the conversation there. The aging, rotted floorboards strain underneath the weight of something moving within the house, likely on the opposite side. After a moment, the sound of footsteps within moves toward the back end of the house, near where Bacarov saw the racks with the strange plants and the stirges.
And then, a voice comes from inside:
"Let's just burn this place to the ground."
It sounds like Marsh. It sounds exactly like Marsh. As in a perfect replay of his earlier sentence.
"Let's just burn this place to the ground." the voice says again. It's not merely saying the same thing again; it's the exact same vocalization. After this, you hear whatever was moving around inside the house fumbling with what sounds like a door handle, and then a door lurches open on the backside of the house.
- - - -
As Dramin speaks with Bacarov via the message spell, Warshawski continues to examine the area, seeming more and more unnerved as she does so. Suddenly, she stops and stands up straight, staring into the sickly field with wide eyes.
"Dramin," she says calmly and quietly, "there's a spirit..." She stares intently for a moment, and that same look comes over her that you have observed whenever she communes with the spirits. Realizing that Dramin and Calwen are not privy to the conversation, she attempts to translate: "It's a woman... blurry, but I think it might be Miranda Kriegler." She pauses to listen to the spirit again. "Tonight there is to be a ritual at that altar up there on the hill. No... two rituals. Two separate but related rituals...?" Warshawski shakes her head, confused. "What do you mean, 'look out?'"
Something bursts out of the reeds behind Warshawski. It happens in the blink of an eye, so quickly that no one has any time to react. From what little you are able to see of it in the moment before it reaches the spirit-seer, one might assume it to be a humanoid with ink-black skin and covered in strange growths, but it moves with such speed and purpose that a glance is all one gets. Warshawski only manages to turn halfway around before it slams into her, tackling her into the reeds. From behind, you hear Dio shriek and flap his wings as another creature leaps out of the field, its flesh changing from the same pale color as the plants to its seemingly-natural black as it pounces.
Between Calwen and Dramin, a third creature lurches out of the wheat fields, seemingly confused as to whom to go after; seeing it more clearly, it looks for all intents and purposes like a teenage boy... on his left half, at least. His right half is a grotesque mockery, with an overlong arm with long, black fingers that scrape against the ground and a long, ivory tusk jutting from the right side of the boy's mouth. His eyes are multifaceted, like those of a fly, and what appear to be quills protrude from his back. Its aggressive posture might imply that it is about to roar angrily and leap at Calwen, but instead it calmly says, in a perfect imitation of Warshawski's voice: "What do you mean, 'look out?'"
INITIATIVE!
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..
Bacarov wants to glare at Marsh for him not having kept his voice lower, but he instead holds up a hand and looks back to Dalton and Marsh. A flat hand to the ground and he mouths the words, "Stay hidden..."
Then he turns back to the corner and places a hand upon his own chest and mutters a silent prayer to Abadar. "Shelter me and provide light for my eyes to see your justice..." A nearly imperceptible nimbus of pale gold light swirl within the unnatural shadows clinging to him like a cloak. Bacarov takes a breath, spear clutched in his right hand, and steps around the corner, giving it a wide berth in case whatever is speaking is "right there".
"Este, haver. Minden elsorvad, mielőtt Ghlaunder és a stagnant vizeken." Bacarov says softly in the twisted tongue of his past, his posture non-threatening.
Translated from Aklo: "Evening, mate. All wither before Ghlaunder and the stagnant waters."
Bacarov casts Sanctuary upon himself. He's got that active and then his Cloak of Darkness active for the hour. The latter giving him +4 to AC from a total of 21.
His movement is to hopefully draw off the newcomer to give both Dalton and Marsh a back and track if it proves hostile.
Sanctuary - Will DC 13
Any opponent attempting to directly attack the warded creature, even with a targeted spell, must attempt a Will save. If the save succeeds, the opponent can attack normally and is unaffected by that casting of the spell. If the save fails, the opponent can't follow through with the attack, that part of its action is lost, and it can't directly attack the warded creature for the duration of the spell. Those not attempting to attack the subject remain unaffected. This spell does not prevent the warded creature from being attacked or affected by area of effect spells. The subject cannot attack without breaking the spell but may use nonattack spells or otherwise act.
Fields:
Dramin's heart pulses as soon as the creatures come out and without even a second thought his mind races.
While he struggles to put some pieces of these monsters together his spells come out almost preemptively.
Forewarned
"No time for whispers Bacarov, I need help here and fast! Got three of these... tumored, tentacled humanoids with Warshawski in the bush"
Back to the Field:
Round 1
Dramin hears the whispers and realizes it comes from the scythe heavy on his back. A weapon is a weapon. He draws the scythe and laughs at how fitting it is being in a field.
He steps nimbly away from the nearest target and the words for his Shield come out; his ring pulsing with power.
Here they come Dramin.
The strangely deformed humanoids bear telltale signs of abberation; from what you can see, the boyish creature between you and Calwen has completely different mutations than the one attacking Dio; it bears what looks like, for all intents and purposes, an enormous lobster claw on one hand, albeit grossly deformed and blackened. While it is impossible to tell exactly what they are just yet, you get the impression that they are probably born from humans, each mutated in unique ways. But what could spawn such seemingly random mutations? That's the question...
...A question that you are unable to dwell on, as the moment the scythe unfolds to its full length in your hands, you feel power flow through your body. A chill runs through you, but the weapon feels comfortably heavy and powerful in your grip.
As Dramin wields the scythe in his hands, the strange mutant cocks its head to the side. In a heavy, throaty voice that is strangely familiar, it growls: "You've lost your way, Dagwood! So focused on the prophetess you've forgotten your own God!"
Meanwhile, the startled immature drake hops back from its attacker. Dio's throat swells up for a moment and, after a hocking sound, spits a ball of greenish goo at the mutant that bursts upon impact. The sticky substance clings to the mutant and the ground at its feet, and a hissing sound fills the air. From the mutant's squeal of pain that follows, it is obvious that Dio is far from helpless in spite of its youth.
- - - -
It makes no aggressive moves toward Bacarov, seemingly waiting for a response.
It hasn't done anything yet, but I'd better hit it when it's flat footed . . . F%*$ it. Its go time.
Marsh leaps into action pressing the advantage while he has it and pressing the attack while the thing was flatfooted. Masher's learing face swung towards the abomination's many leering eyes.
The impact sends ripples across the things midsection like a rock hitting a still pond.
"In case you ain't figured it out yet I'm an enemy mutant!"
"Dalton get over here and flank this thing!'
Flanking the creature proves to be unnecessary, as Marsh's crushing blow shatters the creature's spine and sents it hurtling to the ground. It stares up at him and Bacarov with wide, fearful eyes and sputters before finally going still.
Unfortunately, the nearby stirges are startled into the air by the sound of the impact and Marsh's yelling. The two that had previously been crawling around on the wooden racks buzz into the air, while the three contained within the rusty cage begin to stir.
Roll Initiative!
- - - -
Round One: Enemy Phase
The stirges, riled up by the sudden violence and the smell of fresh blood, fly toward Marsh and attempt to plunge their razor-sharp proboscises into his flesh.
One of the stirges manages to strike through a weak point in Marsh's armor, sucking his warm blood out through its proboscis. The other, however, is unable to make it past the big man's swatting arms. The other three stirges make their way out of the cage and begin buzzing around hungrily, cautiously making their way toward the party.
- - - -
Calwen urges Windmane forward, raising her longsword and attempting to strike at the misbegotten mutant between her and Dramin, but a sudden gut-wrenching scream from Warshawski in the reeds nearby shatters her concentration, and she nearly falls from her saddle. Windmane, however, also tries to attack using his powerful bite.
The warhorse manages to take a chunk out of the mutated youth's shoulder, and it shrieks in anger.
Calwen regains her balance just in time to duck out of the way as the creature she attacked opens its mouth and spits a line of acidic bile from its mouth. The few droplets that land upon her armor hiss and steam.
The other mutant strikes back at Dio, striking a heavy blow upon the young drake's head with its heavy, mutated limbs; Dio squeals in pain and reels backward.
Somewhere in the reeds nearby, Warshawski lets out another scream of her own, but this one is surprisingly more distant than the last; it seems the creature is carrying her away through the fields.
"Damn thing stuck me Sebastian. Eh, I suddenly have an urge for a glazed donut an orange juice or somethin."
"I ain't tryin to donate my life's blood to yer cause ya damn flyin leech!"
Marsh quickly uses his skills totransition out of rage and draw his hatchet and short sword.
Marsh can't swat the one in the air, but cuts at the one on him.
"Dalton, if'n your done gawkin back there it's time to do some quiverin backhand pimp slaps ova here."
"Ah shoot Sebastian, I guess you ain't gonna get a chance to interrogate that guy either."
"Was that Warshawski?!"
Dramin hears the aberrations talk and his spine is shocked, as if a jolt of energy passed through and got caught halfway. He debates opening up a dialogue but once it attacks his compatriots and his river drake friend, he throws the thought away.
I'm not much of a talker anyway.
Despite the combat high running through him he hears about the prophetess and the god; it gets filed away for later.
Its enough to trigger his senses, and he opens himself to the stream of time.
Then he hears the drake scream...
"Dio back up my friend! Keep your nose on the human women's scent for me!" The Draconic comes out. He knows he doesn't have the skill that the others have with the drakeling, but he knows the language and he hopes its worth more.
He takes a deep breath and assesses the situation... Warshawski needs help but he can't see her... She is effectively a lost cause right now. Calwen needs help but she is more capable. Dio is still young. He knows going to help Warshawski is the right thing to do, but he can't seem to do it.
We have friends dying here right now that you can save. Warshawski may be a pipe dream, or worse, a trap.
Markham's scythe guides him to the nearest monster and the blade almost makes a snicker snack sound as it flies through the air as if the mutant was fated to die here in a fountain of bile. The magic on the blade almost feels like its making his hand move by itself
♤
♤
♤
Bacarov stares at the downed mutant, their eyes locked as it dies. Who did this to you? Did you welcome it? "What did Miranda see?"
It's Marsh's call to arms that brings him out of it. A stirge lands upon the big man and sinks its probiscus into him. Bacarov grips his spear in both hands, sky-blue eyes set a grim cast as he ingested forward to pluck the creature from Marsh.
(hitting the attached one)
(2 hands)
- - - -
Dalton, not one to be outshone, moves into the melee with all the speed one would expect from a monk, temple sword flashing from its scabbard and whipping toward the other stirge that threatens to attach itself to Marsh.
Unfortunately, the tiny creature's agility is great enough for it to dodge out of the way.
The stirges swarm the investigators, blurring through the air with surprising speed. One hangs back, perching atop one of the wooden racks, as its three remaining brethren each choose a target.
As if driven into a rage at the sight of one of their own being slain, all three stirges find their mark, plunging their needle-sharp proboscises into flesh.
- - - -
As if guided by some higher power, Dramin charges and spins the scythe about his body in a tight arc, its blade passing cleanly through the body of the mutated youth and splitting him along his middle. In a pile of gore and viscera, the misbegotten creature collapses, dead before it hits the ground.
Nearby, Dio seems to hear Dramin's orders and flaps away from the creature it was dueling with, spreading its wings and flying awkwardly away from the battle. It flies further toward the field, attempting to follow the sound of Warshawski's fleeting cries.
That leaves only one Misbegotten left, the one already singed by Dio's acid and stuck to the ground from the mucus. As it struggles, Calwen turns Windmane around and charges at it, her eyes glancing back and forth between her target and the fields, searching for some sign of Warshawski.
Her sword strikes true, separating the creature's head from its shoulders. The Misbegotten's skull rolls into the nearby reeds as its body folds to the ground.
For the moment, the threat appears to have subsided, but the motion of the nearby reeds and the ever-more-distant cries of Warshawski are quick to remind both Dramin and Calwen that they are far from victorious here. Dio continues to soar over the fields overhead, though a sudden spurt of some terrible liquid from below sends him flapping desperately back in the direction he came.
♤
♤
♤
Bacarov recoil from the attack, blood trailing between the stirge and himself by lines of ruby-crimson. The investigator spins the spear and thrusts forward at his attacker, waves if nausea rolling over him and turning his stomach.
(2 hands)
His grip upon the spear tightens, wispy threads of cold beneath his gloved hands.
...previews of the Interstellar Void surfacing there at the end. Muwahahaha!
"Damn little shits are suckin the life outta me."
Marsh misses with his hatchet, but skewers with his off-hand blade.
"Sounds like trouble for the others too."
Dramin's breathing would normally be laboured, but the combat high still flows through his veins. He continues using the message line and asks Bacarov something. He worries as he knows that one must be listening intently to notice it and if they are in danger the sounds of battle might very well drown it out.
"Status? Status? We took out 2 of those abominations but one has Warshawski, Calwen Dio and I are moving out."
He plows through the field following Dio and the moving reeds, he hopes he didn't make the wrong choice before and that it wasn't too late. He glances quickly at Calwen to see aif she noticed nything else from her vantage point.
"Eh? Did he say they got Warshawski?! Did your ears get messed up too?! You gotta start relayin that shit Sebastian. I ain't no big fan of that b+@*@, but I'm not gonna let her be ass raped by a bunch of mutants and leaf head cultists."
"This ain't no vacation Dalton. Let's finish these buggers off."
"Bacarov! I'm talkin to you man! Snap out of your haze. Send the message to have Calwen pursue, she's got a damn horse!"
"We ain't loosin this fight."
♤
♤
♤
"Go your way, Dramin. Send Calwen to trample Warshawski's abductor. We're keeping a flock of stirges occupied. One mutant down here."
Bacarov steps back from his strike as he searches for the next opportunity. His teeth grind at Marsh's words. "I'm in the fight, Vincent. But I'd rather not bring the rest of the town. Kindly keep your shouting to a minimum, mate."
- - - -
Marsh strikes down a second stirge, cutting it cleanly in half despite his blood loss. Bacarov, too, strikes true- his spear cleaves a chunk out of the winged creature's swollen abdomen and sending it sputtering to the ground. Dalton, meanwhile, focuses and hacks several legs from the stirge upon him, and it, too, commits to its death throes upon the ground. The last surviving stirge, though lacking in intelligence, is at least capable enough to understand that the odds are against it, and flies away, toward the fields.
- - - -
After a moment, Dramin loses sight of Calwen completely, though he can still hear the tramping of Windmane's heavy hooves and the cracking of the reeds.
♤
♤
♤
Bacarov wipes the blood from his face and stands staring at the overgrown structure that for all intents and purposes appears to be a chapel. A chapel and a house of experimental horrors. One way or another, this ends tonight... His hand fills with the tapered neck of another flask of oil. This he sends spraying over the store cages and the side of the structure adjoining them.
He pulls another coming back to the back of the structure already doused with oil and says along the connection, "Dramin, we need a direction, mate. East, South, what? We'll follow along directly."
To Marsh and Dalton, "This place burns," Bacarov withdraws a jar of alchemicist's fire, his last jar of oil and nods in the direction Dramin indicates. He hands both the jars to Marsh. "Fire the mound as we pass it. Oil first, then the Fire. Like we did for Rodemy's smokehouse back home." He pulls his last jar of alchemist fire and motions for the others to move on. His shadow-magicked cloak swirls about him as he stares at the house. "In the name of Abadar, I purge you thru the refinement of fire. Let the dross of your existence burn away."
He tosses it against the house wall and stands back as the fires bloom. For a moment he studies the fire and looks for other moment.
Satisfied he moves off after Dalton and Marsh, hobbling along with his new found spear as a walking aid.