"Sorry to hear it."
Muse flies back to the party, leaving his glowing orbs where they are, illuminating the archers' death by constriction and strangulation. He'd give them a faster way out with his terbutje, but is chary of getting too close to the writhing mass of tentacles.
Fyrtor moves to stay Kazador's hand, then stops. They deserve no better... His voice heavy with sorrow and guilt he says, "Kazador..." There is a long pause before he continues quietly, "we should keep in of the leaders alive for questioning." As he finishes his shoulders slump and he lowers his eyes.
Turion's tentacles had what remained of the orc reinforcments in their grasp. The battle was all but over. It had been exhilarating They had fought and defeated what was a force twice their size, no one had fallen and few had grevous wounds. He should be celebrating. Yet as he looks over the carnage and watches his friend dispatch those of their foes still breathing, the fervor of battle ebbs leaving him feeling hollow.
We had to do this, but when will the fighting end? Sarenrae, thanks be to thee for thy protection. May thy light shine in our souls and guide our hands. I pray we are doing the right thing.
Retriving the wand they had won in the previous battle Fyrtor touches it to his friend's shoulder and with a word some of Kazador's wounds vanish.
”If I do that Brolin will want to let it live. And Algric would never allow that. Better they die now than we fight each other over them. Besides, what position are we in to keep prisoners?” He didn’t speak of vengeance, or honor. His voice was flat, almost detached. He didn’t look at Fyrtor as he spoke, nor when his wounds were tended to. Rather, with mechanical precision he killed the orc who had held his hammer.
Fyrtor nods as his friend sees to his bloody work. He's right. Terrible as it is, he's right.
Mel looks at the dancing shadows of the flailing tentacles, and the orc women struggling in their clammy embrace.
She imagines herself in their position. Caught. Trapped. Worms in the dark ...
"Let's get this over with," she rasps out harshly, and sets about ending the horror as rapidly as possible.
Kelian raises his bow to imitate Mel; then lowers it again. He shakes his head and sets it down.
Making his way along the wall he retrieves the ladder from the back side and hauls it up and over, lowering it down the front side so that Fyrtor can rejoin them atop the wall when he is ready.
"It is done.", Túrion spoke to no one in particular, watching the otherworldly horror he called do it's work. He took no joy from this, and was glad to see Mel's arrows striking their targets.
In the echoes of the arcane force he forced into this plane, he heared a mental echo - You know...death is permanent in this world. It can only be undone with great effort. You cut their threads - was it necessary? - something familiar, yet long forgotten. He had planned to watch the Orcs, make sure none escaped - a matter of staying hidden - of nobody telling their enemies of their capabilities or number; but he closed his eyes, kneeling down, touching his forehead.
Am I hallucinating? Did I overexert myself?
Breathing in, breathing out, he attempted to center himself.
No. You just made the veil thin enough, Túrion.
So you are real, and not a memory of childish dreams.
No more real than you.
Túrion felt the arcane power ebb back, the border between worlds growing stronger again, and the connection he felt fainter. He did not try and force it to stay open. He was spent. But this changed...a lot.
Mel and Algric finish off one orc while leaving another seriously wounded. Turion's tentacles crush the orcs as well, worsening their condition.
None of the orcs manage to break free from the tentacles, leaving them surely close to death.
Fyrtor stands waiting, unsure of what to do now. The battle is at an end, but it seems unwise to begin the grizzly process of salvaging supplies from the bodies of their foes when some have yet to pass into the beyond. "Kazador? What now? I don't think the archers pose any threat now."
”I’ll finish off the orcs here. Leaving none of their leaders alive. Watch my back, and if the archers turn out to still be a threat, kill ‘em.”
Algric dropped his first arrow in his excitement upon seeing the last of the orcs trapped. Quickly recovering, he fired a shot directly into the chest of one of the orc archers.
"Let none escape. We have an advantage in that we are an unknown factor here. Retrieve the arrows you fired. Let them assume their orcish foes wiped out the reinforcements. If they learn about us, they may even join forces to repel us before resuming their conflict. If we want to achieve our objectives, we should take all steps necessary to make certain they don't learn about us." Túrion looks over at Mel, knowing she would not approve of this tactic: "Orcs believe to be granted access to their version of heaven, they need to die in glorious battle. Their deaths here should qualify - most of their race would aspire to go out like that, eventually..."
In response to Kazador's words Fyrtor nods and then takes up a position guarding his friend's back.
Turion makes good sense, but that doesn't mean that Muse has to like it. Without Legacy's help, he doesn't have a good ranged option anyway. He holds his action.
Mel clicks her heels again, maintaining the speed boost that lets her fire so quickly. "I'm sorry," she mutters to her opponents, for all they can't hear her. She sends two more arrows after them, then reaches for a third and finds her quiver empty. She pulls one of her cold iron arrows instead.
Looking drawn, Mel says "Wasn't the idea that we would talk to Team Blue? So that we don't have to fight all of them. Hopefully."
She sighs. "But I can't argue with recovering our arrows. I just ran out -- I had fifty this morning, and now they're all gone. I'm having to use the ones with arrowheads made of exotic metals."
Hearing Mel, Kelian pulls out his six remaining arrows as a bundle, walks over, and slides them into Mel's quiver.
"I'm not much of an archer anyway," he says.
Mel smiles tiredly at him. "Thanks, Kelian," she says.
Kazador walked over to the second orc leader that was being dragged away. The orc was unconscious. Helpless.
A young Kazador stood in front of a tied up kobold. The creature struggled in vain against it's bindings. His father stood next to him, holding his runic hammer.
"Someday, boy, this will be yours." His father lifted up the hammer, which was easily the size of Kazador. "This hammer is part of your soul. It is part of mine. It holds within it all of our honor. Every deed that any of us has done is housed within it. It is the clan. And you SHALL wield it."
Kazador stared at the kobold. It made eye contact with him. It was terrified as it continued it's futile struggles. The young dwarf looked at his father, and then at his uncle and his grandfather. This was a coming of age ceremony, something to show that Kazador was a man. That he was ready to begin his training to become a Rune Warden.
"This filth was caught inside our halls." His father pointed at the kobold. "No doubt trying to steal it's way into our food stores. If that was not bad enough, it knows of where we are, and that is a secret that it must take to the grave. For we are Rune Wardens, charged with the defense of this hold. And it is time for you to join us."
The hammer was handed to Kazador. He reached out and took it, struggling under it's weight. He looked again at the kobold. It looked so pathetic, so harmless. Barely the size of him, and despite his young age, he couldn't really see it as being able to hurt him. How could such creatures hurt anyone? He didn't want to kill it. It felt wrong to do so. He turned around to tell his father and wilted under the gaze. He could no more voice his objection to him than he could move the mountains they lived in. This was his clan. This was what he was born into.
With great effort Kazador lifted the hammer up. The kobold stopped struggling. It just stared at him, wide eyed. The hammer came down, more momentum than anything else...
...the hammer hit the orc in the head, easily ending it's life. Kazador lifted the hammer up with practiced ease. It was just another corpse now. He felt nothing from the act. No pride. No joy. No guilt. No remorse. It had been done with mechanical ease. Immediately he began looking for any other survivors.
Mel knocks another pair of orcs out, weakened and unable to dodge in Turion's tentacles. Algric leaves another orc near death while Kazador finishes off the others. The two surviving orcs try to break free but are unable to do so, leaving them doomed.
Most of the orcs do not carry anything of particular value (I'm abstracting that as 5000 gp of miscellaneous goods) but the three spellcasters do.
Headband of int +2 x 2
Headband of wis +2
Belt of con +2
+1 scorpion whip
+2 mithral chain shirt
Fate's shears
As the battle draws to a close Fyrtor watches Kazador and Algric systematically put any living orcs to death. It went against the tennents of his faith, but Fyrtor had been raised in back country where sometimes unpleasant things were necessary. He wouldn't raise his hand to do it, but Turion was right, there could be no survivors left to escape and they had no means of holding a prisoner. That and as Kazasor has pointed out if they'd tried to keep some alive it would lead to division among themselves, and that couldn't be. If he had had to Fyrtor would have done the deed himself. He would have hated himself for it, but he would have. Realizing that shamed him.
These thoughts running through his mind Fyrtor moves among the dead recovering his arrows and taking what supplies and money he could. It had to appear as though another orc faction had done the killing.
After a few minutes of the distasteful work passing in silence he speaks up.
"We need to rest. I am nearly spent and Turion is as well I'm sure. But the question is where? Kazador, Algric, you know these halls. Is there a place we could hide ourselves that would allow us an escape route should we be discovered? I can make some natural stone soft as clay for a time if that will make a difference."
Mel laughs sourly. "We've been awake less than two hours. But I agree."
Mel clambers down the ladder that Kelian had previously moved to the front of the wall. She hesitates before moving out onto the battlefield. "Fyrtor, you did something to the ground here, didn't you? Is that still active? How do I avoid it?"
"Ah yes, the plants, or in this case probably fungi, have been magiced into spikes that will tear apart one's feet. To be honest I'm not sure how one can avoid them. They are very hard to see. The magic will hold them in that shape for several hours. Hmmmmm. Well, I can try to tell you where they are. Try to avoid these areas." Due to then points to the general areas where he cast the spikes. He can't see them either though so it's probably a bit of a guess. "Move slowly near those. If you do step in spikes just back up and we'll try to heal the wounds. I wish I could do something more, but as I said, I am spent"
Mel looks unhappy. "Can't you just ... I don't know, tell them to go away?" she asks plaintively.
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Flying far afield to gather friendly arrows on the behalf of his less mobile friends afore his spell of locomotion wears off and leaves him drifting to the ground, Muse is glad to have a moment alone with his thoughts. And other people's thoughts. And while most times he'd be glad for that too (having always had someone to speak with close at hand, Muse doesn't deal well with any measure of isolation), some rare times he'd rather be left entirely to his self.
A terrified kobold struggling against it's bonds. A reluctant executioner raising his hammer.
"What are you thinking about?" Asher's voice. Bored wasn't the right word. Stir crazy. Muse would be too, if he was a fragmented and fragmenting memory, spending most of his time barely able to perceive the world, and the rest of it seeing through someone else's eyes, looking where they looked and walking where they walked. Or glided, in this case. Asher would be annoyed that his turn with working eyes, albeit someone else's, was being used on the rote drudgery of retrieving arrows.
Muse's own prefrence, at this moment, was being left to his own thoughts, but. You can't make everyone happy at once. "Ruminating," the spirit dancer subvocalized, "about how hard it is to properly hate someone, when you can see where they're coming from."
"I never have any problem with that."
Unsure how to answer, Brolin instead channels the trickster. "Help me look for arrows."
Returning to his comrades in time to catch the tail end of Fyrtor's and Mel's conversation, Captain Muse offers his services. "I can fly anyone who needs it over the spike growth, there's a short while yet before my spell wears off."
"Hmmmm, maybe I can... Ah, yes.Klaar that should do it. I'm sorry I'm tired and my thoughts are... distracted. We may have only risen two hours ago, but that much fighting is exhausting."
"Thank you," Mel says gratefully, and sets about the grim task of retrieving arrows.
Once everyone has finished the scouring the battlefield for useful things, Kelian clears his throat. "Um, everyone gather round? I think I can soothe your hurts once more."
Once everyone is in range, he closes his eyes, looks upwards, and a faint, warm breeze washes over the battered group, softly wicking wounds away.
"I think .. I think I can too," Mel says. "Kazador, you're most wounded. Here ..."
Her hands glow -- somewhat more faintly than earlier in the day, but steadily. Wounded flesh knits up underneath her gentle touch.
She also takes a moment to retrieve her bow from the parapet where Brolin dropped it, unstringing and sheathing her backup bow.
"It's less that I am physically tired. I know it's only been a couple hours. It's more of a...mental drain. How to explain that...when you have an headache, sometimes it's all good once you lie down and rest. But if you have to get up and do something, the pain comes back with a vengeance.
It's like that, but for mental activity rather than physical. Either way, I will likely not be able to call any more magic, I crossed what I believed was my limit twice, today. I think the experience left me stronger, but if I tried to push any further today, I would probably die. Literally.", Túrion attempts to explain.
Still, not wanting to leave the grizzly task to his allies alone, he helps to retrieve arrows, straining himself to look for anything magical along the way.
Some, he found, especially with the Orcish leaders, and pointed it out to the others. Once they were safe, he would take some time to take a closer look.
Considering their options, not much comes to mind that felt safe:"Can't we go back to that watchtower? Chances are the reds won't risk getting cut off, reinforcing that entrance tunnel - if we meet any orcs there tomorrow, it's likely their enemies. And talking with them there would have the desirable aspect to consider of having a free escape path in our back when we start negotiations."
”A place to hole up? Hmm, let me think...”
Thinking to himself Fyrtor steps over to the body of the orc who seemed to be the leader of this group. Drawing his sword he cuts the head off in a smooth stroke. Pulling out a sack from his bag he places the head inside. "We may need to show proof of our victory when we speak with the orcs. Gruesome as it is this is likely the best testimate of what we've done," he explains. Slinging his recently recovered now Fyrtor continues, "if it's to be the watch tower let's move. We don't want to be here when another group of orcs comes along."
There are plenty of dwarven homes nearby that would be fairly suitable places to spend the night. The number of them makes them inconspicuous while they are still quite secure. Carved into the rock and generally only having one entrance, it wouldn't be hard to watch or hold such a residence.
You hear something approaching from north of the wall. Massive feet seem to be pounding the earth as well as normal, human-sized feet.
"We have company, some of it large, on the north side of the wall," she hurriedly informs the others. "If we're not going to talk, we need to get out of sight now. I'll take a position and see what I can see."
So saying, Mel throws her cloak across her front, draws up its hood, and presses herself close against the wall where it begins to curve away, just peeking out to see what passes over the wall.
”I can teleport still. I’ll talk with them. That’s the entire reason we did this, right? It’s the entire reason I lost my honor. To fooking talk to them! So everyone, go into that house there. It’s good and defensible. If talking doesn’t work I’ll join ye in a moment.”
"You're as honorable a person as I've ever met, Kazador. Though maybe my view doesn't count for much - I do try holding people to their own standards, but I'm hardly perfect at it. I'll stay within arms reach, and if things go poorly you can teleport the both of us out."
Fyrtor tosses the sack with the orc head to Kazador, "Here you might need this. I can stay with the others or go with you. Up to you."
"Oh. Well, if we're talking, then ..." Mel comes forward, pulling the hood clear of her head once more.
Knowing he won't be of much help, Túrion remains downstairs from the battlement - one less person clogging up the ladder if they needed to retreat.
Nelly is joyful to be reunited with her companion, and even more so that she can walk normally again. She had no idea why the ground betrayed her, but she would not forgive it so easily.
You see a huge bear round the corner running toward your position. When it sees you standing on the battlements, it slows down and approaches slowly, cautiously. When it gets within 30 ft, the bear stands on its hind legs regarding you for a moment. Then it shift form down into the only orc Mel has ever known well, Halak.
"Woman Mel, I see you here. What happens? I not wish more enemies."
"We do not want more enemies either," Mel says. "But we have found plenty here." She describes the clan markings of the warriors they fought.
"None of them talked to us," she says. "They just attacked. And so we fought and destroyed three groups of them."
Kazador stood by, his hand on his hammer and one of the orc leaders dead at his feet. He was glad that Mel was taking the lead on this. As far as he was concerned, any orc in his home deserved to be dead. What was worrisome though was that Mel seemed to know this orc. How was that? They'd need to have a conversation about this should they both survive.
A dozen more orcs pound around the corner, axes drawn. Halak waves them down and shouts
"Stay back! They seem to be friendly! I'll talk to them."
He then turns back to Mel and raises an eyebrow. "Three groups destroyed? You help much. This clan fight mine. All want control this place. Very secure. Some treasures still left here. Take long time find all." He looks warily at Kazador and Algric but doesn't speak to them directly.
Mel notes his glance at the dwarves. "One moment," she tells him.
Turning to Kazador and Algric, she says "ᚦᛁᛋ ᛁᛋ ᚦᛖ ᛟᚱᚲ ᛋᚺᚨᛗᚨᚾ ᚺᚨᛚᚨᚲ ᛁ ᛏᛟᛚᛞ ᛃᛟᚢ ᚨᛒᛟᚢᛏ ᛠᚱᛚᛠᚱ᛬ᚦᛖ ᛟᚾᛖ ᚹᚺᛟ ᛋᚺᛟᚹᛖᛞ ᚢᛈ ᚨᛏ ᛒᚱᛟᛟᚲᛋᛁᛞᛖ᛬ᚺᛖ ᚹᛁᛚᛚ ᛈᚱᛟᛒᚨᛒᛚᛃ ᚹᚨᚾᛏ ᛏᛟ ᚲᚾᛟᚹ ᚹᚺᚨᛏ ᚹᛖ ᚹᚨᚾᛏ ᚺᛖᚱᛖ᛬ ᛗᛃ ᚦᛟᚢᚷᚺᛏ ᛁᛋ ᛏᛟ ᛏᛖᛚᛚ ᚺᛁᛗ ᚦᚨᛏ ᛃᛟᚢ ᚨᚱᛖ ᚦᛖ ᛚᚨᛋᛏ ᛟᚠ ᚦᛖ ᚲᛚᚨᚾ ᚦᚨᛏ ᛒᚢᛁᛚᛏ ᚦᛁᛋ ᛈᛚᚨᚲᛖ᛬ᚨᚾᛞ ᚦᚨᛏ ᛃᛟᚢ ᚺᚨᚡᛖ ᚲᛟᛗᛖ ᛏᛟ ᚲᛚᚨᛁᛗ ᛋᛟᛗᛖ ᚦᛜᛋ ᚦᚨᛏ ᚨᚱᛖ ᛃᛟᚢᚱᛋ᛬ᚨᚾᛞ ᚦᛖᚾ ᛚᛠᚡᛖ᛬ ᛁ ᛈᚱᛟᛈᛟᛋᛖ ᚦᚨᛏ ᚺᛖ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚺᛁᛋ ᛚᛠᚡᛖ ᚢᛋ ᚨᛚᛟᚾᛖ᛬ᚨᚾᛞ ᛁᚾ ᛖᛪᚷᚨᛜᛖ ᚹᛖ ᛚᛠᚡᛖ ᚦᛖᛗ ᚨᛚᛟᚾᛖ᛬ ᛞᛟ ᛃᛟᚢ ᚦᛁᛜᚲ ᚦᚨᛏ ᚨᚲᛋᛖᛈᛏᚨᛒᛚᛖ᛭ ᛁ ᛞᛟ ᚾᛟᛏ ᚹᚨᚾᛏ ᛏᛟ ᚱᛖᚡᛠᛚ ᚨᚾᛃ ᛟᚠ ᛃᛟᚢᚱ ᛋᛖᚲᚱᛖᛏᛋ ᛟᚱ ᚲᛟᛗᛗᛁᛏ ᛃᛟᚢ ᛏᛟ ᚢᚾᚨᚲᛋᛖᛈᛏᚨᛒᛚᛖ ᛞᛠᛚᛋ᛬"
Túrion stood on the other side of the wall from the Orcs, listening. This entourage continued to surprise him.
Still, there was no deal just yet. And no reason to reveal his presence, so Túrion simply tended to Nelly and kept his silence.
Kazador listened in stony silence. For the first time he was glad that a non-dwarf could speak his tongue, even if an elven throat couldn’t make the proper grinding sounds. He kept his gaze fixed on the orc. At long last he nodded his head, indicating that he trusted Mel to see this through.
Mel nods, and turns back to Halak, then a thought occurs to her. She turns once again to Kazador and adds, "ᚨᚲᛏᚢᚨᛚᛚᛃ᛬ᛁ ᚹᛟᚾᛏ ᛗᛖᚾᛏᛁᛟᚾ ᛃᛟᚢᚱ ᛒᛖᛚᛟᛜᛜᛋ᛬ᛁᛚᛚ ᛏᛖᛚᛚ ᚺᛁᛗ ᚹᛖ ᚨᚱᛖ ᚺᛖᚱᛖ ᛏᛟ ᚠᛁᚾᛞ ᛟᚢᛏ ᚹᚺᚨᛏ ᚦᛖ ᚲᛟᛜᚲᛟᚱᛞᚨᛏ ᚹᚨᚾᛏᛖᛞ᛬"
To Halak she says. "These two are the last of the dwarven clan that built this place. The rest perished. You remember Elrin, the elf who tricked your clan into assaulting Brookside? His masters, the Concordat Council, set other orcs against this place, in the same way that they tricked yours. Perhaps the clan you are fighting, perhaps another. We are not sure. We are here to discover what they wanted. What can you tell us of what is going on here?"
Kazador walked forward and stood between his group and the shaman. He could feel the situation slipping away, and as much as he would have liked to kill more orcs, losing a comrade or dying before vengeance could be achieved was no acceptable. ”I am Kazador! Last of the Rune Wardens. Know this. My people are dead, murdered. Ye walk in their tomb. These elves are the masterminds behind this. They engineered this...genocide. I would die a thousand deaths, suffer any dishonor, I would be damned, to get vengeance against them. At this point there are only two people in this world. Those against those bastards, and those who stand in my way. Know ye any information on them?”
"Pleasure to meet you, Halak." The captain dips his head in deference. He tries to project his usual confidence, but it's been a long morning. "Captain Brolin Muse, of the Sonder. I'm against those bastards. Anything you can do to help us dispense justice, helps."