Delkaneth conjures up some dancing lights as he reaches the doorway, sending them before him into the tower. A corridor runs for about thirty feet before him, ending in a closed oaken door. It’s flanked by an open doorway (the door is gone) to Del’s left and a spiral staircase (even narrower than the one running through the keep) to Del’s right. Another door stands midway down the right wall.
He cannot see his adversary.
Pyotr pauses by the entrance, wary of traps. His fears are somewhat rested as Delkaneth enters the tower without getting chopped, squashed or liquefied. By the looks of it, the entrance to the tower once had both a door and a small portcullis, but these have both been long since destroyed.
Their quarry can be heard making something of a racket as he hurries up the tower’s spiral staircase.
Pyotr edges through the door, his eyes and ears tracking towards the staircase. Whatever he is, he's fast...
"Beware more surprises. There's no use in fleeing up, unless he plans to fight."
Still reeling from the metal balls banging into his head, the magus quickens his step up the stairs.
Knowing their cover was blown, Pellius yells to his companions ahead, "Coming, I'm coming." As he goes up the stairs, the magus starts remembering his acid spell in case he needs to fling the corrosive greenish gob at his assailant.
As Delkaneth leads the pursuit up the uneven stairs, the horrid stench of death grows stronger and stronger. As the Chelaxian rounds the tight whorl of the staircase, his lead dancing light suddenly illuminates its source – for the creature he has been chasing flees him no more!
It’s well and truly hideous. A disgusting amalgamation of dead animal and humanoid body parts, it lurches down to attack. Its foul-smelling pieces of flesh have been stitched together with thick black thread in a shape approximate to a man, yet it is certainly not human. Cobbled together from bits of a dozen carcasses from half as many different species, the staggering shape lets forth a gurgling cry as it shambles down the stairs.
Its left leg ends in a boot, although the rest of the limb is furred and bends the wrong way, like that of a horse. Its right appears human, but stops just below the knee, replaced by a thick wooden peg. Its torso, clad in a tattered jerkin, shows the grey-green skin of an orc through the rents, but the right arm seems too large for the body and ends in a massive fist. It might have once belonged to an ogre. The skin of the right arm is covered in coarse black hair, but the flesh rots away to nothing past the elbow, the bare bone of the snapped radius sticking out like a stake. What resembles a ragged black cloak is in fact a single massive wing sewn into the middle of the creature's back, a wing that trails lifelessly on the stairs behind it.
Most horrid of all face, approximately half of which belongs to a handsome human, whilst the other half is full-blooded orc. The two halved skulls have been fastened together with thick iron staples, the seam zigzagging across the twisted visage.
Seeing the thing up close confirms what Delkaneth has begun to suspect. It’s a carrion golem; unfortunately rather more common than they should be in Cheliax. These monstrosities are about the crudest golem an aspiring wizard can create; rudimentary, lumbering constructs that occasionally retain a fragment of the sentience of the disparate entities that comprise their bodies.
Delkaneth recalls they’re immune to magic in most forms, although magical fire can slow them down, whilst lightning speeds them up. Weapons which stab and pierce do little harm to the dead flesh of their bodies.
Rolling initiatives:
A low rumbling escapes from deep in Pyotr's throat. "ABOMINATION!"
Delkaneth plunges to the ground at the golem's feet and retches, and the thing smashes down at him with its ogre fist, striking him between the shoulder blades with a hefty
Pyotr's blade swings over his companion's head to bury itself in the golem's ribs. The cramped surroundings prevent the blow benefiting from all the strength the half-orc could have put behind it, but nonetheless the golem bellows as his blade sinks in.
EDIT: Added in Pyotr's action as he's just posted. Delkaneth seemed fairly determined on moving forward rather than back, so their positions remain unchanged for now.
What a ruin of a face it is, but something there makes Pellius’ stomach turn even more fiercely than the carrion stench. The human part, slack and partially decomposed though it may be, is familiar to him. It’s the face of Adrotha Riekahn, once Pellius’ comrade in the Vigilant Scouts, last seen sorely wounded in the battle which resulted in the capture of Pellius’ brother.
The stench is overpowering but the magus manages to keep from retching. However, his face twists in horror and disgust as he recognizes his old comrade at arms, now used as part of the abomination. Feeling a little guilty for being thankful that it wasn’t his brothers face he sees, Pellius yells out a prayer, “Lady guide my sword hand!”
Pellius curses as the abomination was clearly out of reach. Remembering from his studies that these things were immune to magic leaves the magus with little choice. He studies the creature and calls out when it's going to attack. "Look out for that fist, Pyotr!"
Perhaps the carrion golem understood Pyotr’s warning, or perhaps it simply determines Delkaneth to be the easier target. Its ogre fist crashes down at the already buckled over Chelaxian.
To Bonegrit’s sensitive nostrils, the horrid smell is even more nauseating, but he manages to swallow down the urge to spew out the contents of his guts.
Round 2 Initiatives
Pellius
Pyotr
Bonegrit & Delkaneth
Carrion Golem
This spiral staircase is an even tighter squeeze than the one in the tower; the larger PCs’ shoulders literally brush both walls. The confines are extremely cramped; and as result some special rules will be observed.
Delkaneth can attack normally, although his foe will get a +1 attack bonus from being on higher ground. Pyotr behind him can also attack, but only with a reach or missile weapon. There’s little room to swing his greatsword, only jab carefully whilst trying not to hit Delkaneth, and he’ll take a -2 circumstance penalty to such attack rolls (if the greatsword is used). Third in line is Pellius, who thanks to the sharp spiral of the staircase can barely see the creature (which will gain the benefit +4 AC bonus from cover). At the rear of the group (assuming he’s followed them on their chase) is Bonegrit, who cannot see the enemy at all from his position on the stairs. Though Bonegrit can’t attack directly, there are other actions he can take. He could attempt to ricochet an arrow off the wall and into the creature, though this would only succeed on a natural twenty. Or he could fire arrows up the stairwell as a simple distraction, effectively an Aid Another action for one of the other characters (specify who) at the cost of an arrow a round. You may have better ideas, feel free to be creative.
PCs can exchange positions if they’re both willing (even if nauseated). Doing so is a DC 6 Acrobatics check for both PCs. Failure by a large margin might involve the PC in question falling prone.
Due to the special conditions of this fight, I won’t draw a map, although here’s a picture link to get an idea of the dimensions of the spiral stair.
A bottleneck is about right. Pyotr and Delkaneth effectively block the two squares immediately in front of Pellius. Thus he can't move and attack, but other options are available. He could attack with a missile weapon or use a spell. Aid another is also an option.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Unable and unwilling to press forward into the frenzy of melee just out of sight, Bonegrit curses aloud "Calistria's nectar! What in the barkin' hells is that thing?" The half-orc turns on his heels and retreats back out onto the catapult and skeleton strewn roof. Turning to look over his shoulder, he calls out, "Gonna come up behind 'im!" Jaw set in determination and in spite of the occasional torrent of wind that streaks across the ruined keep, Bonegrit's hands begin seeking purchase in the rough and worn stone of the tower as he prepares to climb atop it. Calm yer bluster, Gozreh! We got enough on our plate, yeah?
_________________________
Bonegrit curses aloud "Calistria's nectar! What in the barkin' hells is that thing?" As he finds himself at the rear of the group and unable to participate in the frenzy of melee just out of sight, the half-orc growls low when the pained screams of Delkaneth accompany the sickening thuds that provoke them. Scrambling backwards down the stairwell, Bonegrit retrieves his bow and lets loose a humming bulb up the stairwell. Maybe I can frighten the blightin' bugger.
"Face me, foul creature!"
The bulk of the creature he’s facing down and the sharp curve of the spiral staircase prevent Pyotr from seeing how close an exit might be. He instead opts to swing his greatsword at the golem. The blade strikes the flagstones with a bright splash of sparks but fails to strike home.
Behind him, Delkaneth continues to groan, trying his to keep his gorge down. Pellius has more success at mastering himself, and draws the dagger he retrieved from the battlefield. Struggling as he is to see the golem, he knows its an unlikely shot, but with a quick whisper of Iomedae's name he hurls it anyway.
As expected, the dagger misses, wedging its tip in the crack between two stones of the wall. For a moment, Pellius eyes meet those of the carrion golem. One of its eyes belongs to an orcish visage, but the other once belonged to Adrotha. This eye is milky and dead looking, but some spark of recognition seems to flicker there momentarily. Its mangled mouth moves: “Peleliuurgrx . . .”
Flailing at the sword wielding half-orc in front of it, the thing turns and stumbles wildly up the stairs, moving with surprising speed considering the steepness of the steps and its unconvincing, stitched together legs. Pyotr can't fend off a whack from the ogre's fist, the golem's parting gesture.
Bonegrit returns to the roof at a run, leaps at the tower wall and begins to climb. Thankfully, the weathering of centuries has left plenty of handholds for the half-orc to take advantage of and he makes steady progress up the wall. The bulk of the tower blocks the worst of the wind.
Bonegrit looks up. The crenellations rise above him, and closer some narrow arrow slits open onto a room he’d judge to be on the level above where his companions are now battling.
Undeterred and pressed for time, Bonegrit eyes the arrow slit looming above him with skepticism. Though lean by half-orc standards, his bulk still exceeds that of the usual human, and he questions whether the opening could accommodate his girth. As his left hand secures a steady hold on far side of the arrow slit, Bonegrit takes the opportunity to toss his bow and greataxe into the room ahead of him, fearing they will only serve as snags as he begins wedging himself into the room feet-first. An array of subdued grunts, groans, and pants are lost with the howling winds about the tower as Bonegrit begins wiggling and sliding frantically in his choice of egress.
As the creature flees further up the stairs, Pyotr turns to Delkaneth. "A vicious attack. Are you well enough to fight on?"
"I have no gift for the healing arts. But, Kelya will be able to fix you up, no doubt." In spite of his words, as Pyotr grabs the Chelaxian's arm to pull him to his feet, there is a sudden rush of power through his hand. Pyotr's eyes snap wide, "Inheritor's Blade! What was that?"
Surprisingly, some of the worst of Delkaneth's wounds begin to close. Pyotr stares incomprehensibly at his hand for a moment. "The Lady's blessings..." He shakes himself free of his reverie and begins climbing the stairs. I have never studied ritual or ceremony. I am not one of the Lady's priests. What power have I been given?
Almost as an afterthought, Pyotr calls back, "Pellius... Did the creature call your name?"
Almost as an afterthought, Pyotr calls back, "Pellius... Did the creature call your name?"
The magus shakes his head to clear away the fogginess from the catapult rounds, "I ... think so. I'm not sure but I think I knew part of that creature..."
Pellius cautiously follows the golem up the stairs, mumbling a spell as he goes along. Knowing that magical cold slowed these creatures down, the magus prepared his frostbite spell. Waiting a few feet away to finish his spell, the magus transferred the energy to his sword as he strikes...
Pyotr swings at the carrion golem as it flees, but the creature gets out of his reach before he can bring his weapon down. The adventurers take a moment to gather themselves before continuing more cautiously up the stairs, Pyotr and Pellius in the lead with Delkaneth taking a more prudent position as rearguard.
The spiral staircase rises into the centre of a large room. Arrow slits pierce the walls at regular intervals, the wind passing through them with a mournful howl. Beneath one window lies a greataxe and a longbow, and outside it they can see Bonegrit struggling to force his lean frame through the tiny opening. A bulwark in the southern wall features steps cut into its face leading to the roof of the tower through a broken trapdoor.
The stench of death assails them again as they enter the room. In its centre, the carrion golem waits for them.
Clinging to the side of the wall outside, Bonegrit struggles and squirms but fails to get his frame through the slender arrow slit. His efforts are momentarily arrested as he sees the hideous foe his allies have been fighting lurch up the spiral staircase and emerge into the room beyond. It doesn't seem to notice him.
Pyotr eyes the creature as he steps onto the landing. He takes measured steps to the left of the creature, swinging his greatsword in a slow arc to draw the golems attention.
As he moves up the stairs, the magus wills his arcane power over his blade. The runes in the sword now glow with power and it virtually hums in the magus' hand.
The adventurers advance into the room and surround the carrion golem. Ice shines on Pellius’ blade as it strikes home, shearing off a slice of dead flesh from its arm.
cries the thing, Adrotha’s eye registering surprise and confusion. The orcish half of the face though is twisted with ugly aggression.
The golem lashes back at its attacker, but its movements are suddenly sluggish as the rime from Pellius’ blade now glitters on its body. Nevertheless, Pellius fails to avoid the ponderous swing of its ogre fist, which crashes into the side of his already bruised head.
A string of obscenities the likes of which have yet to be uttered parade through Bonegrit's clenched teeth as he is forced to admit defeat to the not-quite-window he chose as a point of entry. With some difficulty, the half-orc twists and pries himself back out onto the exterior wall to begin scrambling up to the tower roof.
Pellius is confused and hurt as the thing slams its fist into his side. The magus, knowing he could not take much more of this, puts his sword up to block any forthcoming attacks while still looking for a place to strike without giving up his defensive posture.
He strikes willing more of his arcane energy into his sword.
Pyotr closes with the creature as Pellius' empowered spellstrike hits home. Pyotr swings his sword in a long arc, when suddenly the creature screams out for Pellius. The orcish hand flies out, striking the magus. Pyotr hesitates with his swing, until Pellius lashes back.
"Which part of this creature are we fighting?"
Pyotr once again swings his might greatsword at the golem which twists away only to fall directly on Pellius’ frost white blade. The ensorcelled longsword drives into the golem’s ribcage; what would be a mortal blow for a normal man. But the golem does not fall.
Moaning piteously, it staggers away from them, its arms raised above its head in anticipation of more blows raining down.
The brittle ice on its skin and fur and the damage it has sustained prevent it from travelling far. Moisture forms in Adrotha’s eye and dribbles down his cheek; is it a tear or simply the liquid of decomposition?
The carrion golem speaks again; “No more my friend, no more please.”
Meanwhile, Delkaneth still cannot master himself, retching and splutteringly helpless whilst his comrades battle for their lives, mucus running from his nose and tears streaming from his eyes.
Bonegrit scrambles over the parapet and onto the highest point of the keep. The wind whips his hair, and he briefly looks out over the Hold of Belkzen. The view would no doubt be grand in daytime, but at this witching hour it is just a black void. Distant pinpricks of light mark fires many many miles away; the camps of orcs, no doubt.
There seems to be little of interest on the roof of the tower barring the remains of what once might have been a ballista. Now it is now more than a pile of rotten wood and rusted iron.
Below him he can hear the sounds of battle. Through the open trapdoor he can see his companions in deadly combat with the carrion golem. Rungs carved into the wall make climbing down to the room below an easy task.
Bonegrit descends the metal rungs hastily, skipping over several at a time until he comes to rest with a soft thud on the stone floor beneath. Grimacing as the creature's fetid odor assaults his nostrils, he brings a forearm up to his face to help dull out the smell. A quick scan yields the spot where he discarded his weaponry earlier, and he dashes over to the obstinate arrow slit that denied him access before crouching to retrieve his longbow. Though his hands instinctively begin wandering towards his quiver to retrieve an arrow, the creature's cries for reprieve give him unexpected pause. It speaks? What this barker?
"What's our play, fellas?" Bonegrit remains paused at a half-crouch, but makes no further move to nock an arrow for the time being.
Pellius blade catches the creature across the midriff. Crying out, the stitched-together abomination stumbles away from its attackers. As it moves, Pyotr steps in, bringing his greatsword in an upward slash, slicing through skin and suture and bone.
"Foul undead thing. Your mercy shall be release from this existence." Pyotr stalks in to level a final blow.
The carrion golem speaks again; “No more my friend, no more please.”
The magus is not fooled, this thing is not his friend. His friend never would have hit him, never would have thrown metal balls.
Pellius strikes again with renewed energy into the blade.
Pellius’ swing misses but Pyotr’s hits home with massive force. Gobs of rotten meat fly in all directions, stitches tear through skin and the carrion golem wobbles on its misshapen feet. Pyotr’s greatsword has split its trunk almost in twain.
Foul fluids gush from the carrion golem as it turns its horrid visage towards Pellius. It tries to get its mangled mouth to say something.
“I . . . I . . . I’ve word of your . . .”
Before it can finish, it disintegrates into reeking offal on the stone flagstones of the room.
Pyotr grabs a bight of moldy cloth and scrapes the gore from his blade. "Finality is the most noble end such an ignoble creature such as you may hope for." He looks to Pellius, "Are you well enough to carry on?"
Pyotr reaches out, "I'm not certain why, but the Inheritor has granted me some measure of power. Perhaps she will continue to aid us." Pyotr grasps Pellius' hand, bracing for the rush of power to come... But, nothing happens. A look of disappointment and confusion crosses the half-orcs face. "Then again, perhaps not. I am sorry, my friend. It seems I overestimate my abilities."
Pyotr watches as Pellius attempts to crudely dress his wounds. "If there are any other denizens of this tower, they have surely heard the sounds of battle. We should not tarry overlong in this place, for the sake of our health." He give Pellius a reassuring clap on the shoulder... and a burst of energy pours through the momentary connection.
"Merciful Lady!" Pyotr shouts in surprise. "It seems the Inheritor's gifts come in their own time..."
Bonegrit replaces his weapons and wanders over to give a brief glance at the injuries his companions have sustained. Seeing that there is little to be done for the moment, and that none are seemingly life threatening, he simply grunts in approval as he attempts and fails—as usual—to find a perch for his greataxe that doesn't chaff.
"I'm as eager to bolt as the rest of ya, but I'll wager there's somethin' that bears mentionin', yeah? Somethin' stitched together that thing what damn near beat two of ya into the flagstone. Maybe it's here an' maybe it ain't. Not sure I want to meet whatever made this either, but I damn sure don't want to let 'em stitch together any more of these barkers." Bonegrit makes an absentminded gesture to the pile of rotten meat spilled across the floor before Pyotr.
"There is more going on here, than rats and deathless guardians. Of that I am certain. I am not yet ready to quit this place. At least not without hearing what transpired down in the chapel. Pellius?"
Pellius who was unmoved as he hacked down the golem becomes worried that the creature may have had something to tell him. He looks at the creature in disgust as he cleans and sheathes his sword. "I know my brother is out there..."
The magus nods his thanks to the paladin, awed by his power. "Although it seems I'm the one most hurt, I want to stay here a bit longer and continue exploring."
He turns to his companions, "Listen to this. Pyotr may enjoy it most but I'll want your opinion on it as well." He then relates the epiphany he had when he was below waiting to see if anyone made any sense of it.
The room is bare of even furniture. The numerous arrow slits indicate it once must have served as a chamber to station bowmen; they would have had excellent fields of fire on any foes attacking this section of Harchrist’s Blockade.
Delkaneth’s more than arm’s length investigation of the golem’s reeking remains find nothing; the creature had no possessions, nor any hints to its provenance.
Pellius glances back at the defaced symbol of his goddess, and suddenly the windows behind the icon blaze with light, temporarily blinding him. He blinks rapidly to clear his sight, and on regaining his vision, the scene in the chapel is very different.
It’s daylight, with sun streaming rainbow hued light through the five stained glass panels of the window. The icon is restored to its full glory, gleaming with gold and silver. Flanking it are two flags, each bearing the image of Iomedae’s sunburst rising above the crenellations of a fortified wall. The pews are whole, standing in ordered rows, and what’s more, the room is full of people.
Many of them appear to be knights, although the style of their full plate appears somewhat archaic, but there are a large number of men-at-arms in mail hauberks as well. These lesser infantry are lining up for some sort of ceremony, each presenting his or her weapon hand to a white and gold robed priestess standing before the icon.
“Your valour today is equal to the courage we all must show on the field," she says "Iomedae recognises your pledge to defend Lastwill until your last breath has fled your lungs, until your last drop of blood has spilled into this border’s soil. Hold the wall, and accept this mark that binds us to it.”
“I accept the mark of the Allure,” responds the man-at-arms as the priestess sinks a sharp-tipped quill into his hand and mutters a prayer tinged with magic.
“Hold the wall,” chorus the rest of the people in the room.
Pellius feels a hand on his shoulder and turns. It should be Delkaneth, but in fact he sees a young, sallow faced man with a thin, brown moustache looking at him.“Bah, to the hells with valour,” he whispers “It’s a mark of death, that. Can hardly refuse though, can we, not with every other fool in this keep signing their entire lives away. And even if we did, guess who’d get selected for the next suicidal sally out against the orc hordes eh . . .”
The delusion abruptly dissolves as Pyotr’s voice brings Pellius back to the real world. His vision has lasted a mere second; it’s unlikely that Delkaneth even noticed fellow Chelaxian’s briefly unfocused stare.
Level 1:
Level 2:
Level 3:
Pyotr listens to Pellius' recounting. He shakes his head sadly. "If only there were no such faithless cowards, Harchrist's mighty wall might still stand. I wonder why Iomedae granted you such a vision. Surely, the apostates and cowards are long dead."