Maurie winces as the one two punch of the orcs attacks hit Crom.
"Cromwin! To your right, another is attempting to ambush you if you enter!"
Rather than wait for the man to reply or the orc to react to being caught, the halfling monk dashes forward to attack the lone ambusher.
Her footwork might not be its best, but the strike with the third section of her staff seems to connect with a satisfying thump.
Maurie's moved in, going to get surrounded if we don't follow her. I'll be surrounded if I try to guard her though, not in a position to form a solid wall. Thought we were staying by the door. After Maurie, we can't leave her alone. Grok calls, sidestepping Cromwin and replacing his shield at his left shoulder, he takes hold of his sword for a strike at the orc who threw the second tanglefoot bag, trying to take advantage of Maurie's blow and lunge in for the kill.
Think I connected solidly, better watch my flank.
If you surrender now, you could survive the night.
No bear traps today...Skald
Brin's own inner monologue repeats the words of the voice with no source. The self-defining word coming naturally.
Back to the pits that spawned you wretches!
Brin leaps through the door and closes the gap between the left most orc and Grok. He slashes straight forward into the orc's chest but his blade hits the edge of an armor layer. Brin's wrist rolls as the flat of the blade bumps futilely against the orcs thick armor.
"Urph!" Cromwin lets out a gasp of pain as he gets hit in the shoulder with a spear. More by luck than any skill, his flinch causes the tanglefoot bag to explode mostly against his shield, leaving his movements encumbered but his feet free to move. "What is this stuff! Argh!"
Seeing his companions rush forward, Cromwin pushes forward himself, nearly tripping as his leg tries to stick to the doorway.
Davian moves into the building quickly with Cromwin at his side as he creates a duplicate of himself while bracing his mace "Hopefully this is hardly as troublesome as before.... If my red mists are needed simply call for it! We must remain alive in order to accomplish the objective, Cromwin."
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A memory awakens in Zove's mind she calls to the party, "I left my components where we found Maurie. Don't worry, I'll return in a moment." She turns and re-enters the dead Sargent's house, though there was confusion and hesitation in her voice as she returned.
Zove enters the house, searching for the powders and leaves to use in her spells. Her attention is caught, as from the corner where Maurie had collapsed, a small piece of mirror starts to shine light into the room as if from no-where. Her eyes are transfixed as the darkness is split by the golden light that radiates to encompass the whole room. As she watches a beautiful man 6ft tall appears before her, his eyes burning as though from the very depths of hell. In a voice of command and authority the man asks Zove, "He should be here, where is he?" Zove stuck dumb by the awe-inspiring strength and beauty, yet frightened by the deep fires that burn in his eyes looks on, no words coming from her moving lips. The man's burning orbs looks deep into Zove's eyes and all her worse nightmares are brought to her at once: the flames of Axis, the consuming flames of war taking her foster mother, the all encompassing flames that now surround her and the handsome man. The mask of the man is peeled off in the flames revealing skin and flesh bubbling in the red hot flames, his inards boiling and twisting in excruciating pain. She tries to move but her fear roots her to the spot, is this the fate ordained for her. Is this why her magics would not let her feel the fire of the arcane. Her legs do not respond to the small frightened thoughts of escape. In her head a voice screams at her, "I will return, I will find him." Zove falls as the red hot flames boil her blood and burn her bones. As the last breath leaves her body, the room is dark once more, no evidence of what occurred except the dead body of Zove lying motionless on the floor.
Meanwhile the fight is being taken to the orcs in the watchtower. Maurie and Grok make short work of the orc, working as a team Grok's blow severs the head from the body, leaving the orc to collapse as Maurie's feet. The small halfling, covered in the hot orcish blood that spurts from its neck as it fell.
The others orcs close in on the party, especially as they see a lightly armoured combatant enter the fray. They whoop in joy at the blood they are about to spill.
As Brin's attack misses it's target and the orc sidesteps as the blade grazes its armour. It returns a blow, the falchion finding it's mark and drawing blood as Brin's chest feels a burning sensation across his chest.
The other two orcs spy the two lightly armoured men approach, the first holds a double headed axe, whose shaft has hanging from it the scalps of the creatures slain by it's blade. Twice the blade whistles past Davian's body and double, as the cleric easily ducks under the blade.
Unfortunately the cleric is less fortunate as the third orc's greataxe carves a bloody line down Davian's back, crushing ribs and organs as it passes, drawing a copious amount of blood from the severely wounded cleric..
You hear the screams of torture from above
O1 falchion damage
O2 orc double axe damage miss chance damage miss chance
O3 great axe damage miss chance
Maurie spits as the blood hits her face. Noticing the other two orcs focusing on Davian, she quickly wipes enough of the blood off her face to see properly.
"Time to bring things down to my level... if only to control the direction of the blood splatter." So saying, she rushes behind the closest of the two and aims a quick strike at the weak point of the larger foe's left leg.
Bringing his shield back up to cover the deep gash in his chest, Brin becomes wild-eyed and gives a quick look around the room.
You had your chance! No you have none! Your story will become ash!
Brin's voice fills the room, nearly deafeningly so. The skald stands his ground, ready to defend against another hit and keep his comrades' souls bolstered.
Also, during your turn, roll for a slam attack from Brin's spirit totem against an adjacent foe. Spirits attack 1/round at +4 to hit, dealing 1d4+2 negative energy damage.
As the raging song fills Davian's body he gives a grinning smile at the nearest orc, bracing his mace well in his hand "I believe I am obligated to return the favor...."
He swings Ihys as the song replenishes his health, if only by 1, and he calls out "ASMODEOUS! SMITE THE ORC BEFORE ME!"
The spirit from the Bard joins in as well, slamming after the same target in unison with Davian's negative energy.
Cromwin feels Brin's song coursing through him, unleashing his inner fury at the ruin being dealt to his home. With a wordless scream of anger, he swings, driving his warhammer into the nearest orc with all his strength.
While fighting, Grok normally keeps distance, observing everything around him carefully and striking at openings or after opportune parries, focusing more of footwork than bladework. As he hears the booming voice of Brin, Grok initially keeps to this pattern, holding his sword out and looking for an opportunity to stab the orc attacking Davian as it neglects its flank. Then he notices, in the periphery of his vision, the wisps of spirits, come to destroy his foes, suddenly a huge torso shooting forward from Grok's right, large arms swinging in a great arc, they catch the orc off guard. What the hell? Grok wonders, for a moment, before the all consuming rage takes him.
It is a profound transformation. His blade, before held halfway extended, now rises up for a mighty swing, Grok's whole body contorting as he strikes with all his now magically enhanced force. The long sword reaching far, Grok staying out of reach of a counterattack until the last possible second, finding that his feet move slightly faster as well. From his mouth comes a stream of words, half in orcish, some not entirely intelligible.
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Maurie trips the Orc in front of her, which is easy meat for Grok and Davian to finish off, their blows raining down on it leaving it shattered and bleeding on the floor, its chest pulverised into a bloody mess.
Cromwin's warhammer beats into the orc's midriff, lifting him into the air and crushing his stomach, bowels and vital organs into a mass of foul smelling flesh. Under normal circumstances such a blow would kill a man, but these orcs have a tenacity that drives them on. But with such an injury the orc's strike is weak and merely bounces off Brin's armour.
The orc with the double headed axe still stands and wanting revenge and a lust for blood. The axe swings one way, a deadly blow that merely removes an image of Davian, the clerics main protection. With the image gone, the other blade sweeps around at the already weakened cleric, slashing across his neck, leaving him to fall bleeding on the ground. The orc moves backwards to protect the stairs that go upwards.
O1 12 falchion damage
O2 0 orc double axe damage miss chance attack damage miss chance
You see! Even the spirits agree! You are nothing more than ants in an epic!
Brin's fervor gets the best of him and next swing goes wild, missing the injured orc by wide margin. His attack is followed up by a burst of ethereal light that juts out from his torso. It whirls and then slams down into the orc.
The spirits lash out
Brin has -1 AC, now at 17.
Maurie smiles as the prone orc explodes in a burst of gore before her. "Two down, two to go, and this time less blood on my.... wait...." the thought is cut off as she recognizes the screams of pain as coming from above her, not one of the orcs. "Oh no..."
"Brin, Grok, Cromwin... it seems they have guests upstairs that they are sharing proper orcish hospitality with. We need to finish this quickly and intervene." The grim look on her face, compounded by the remnants of orcish blood, speak to exactly what kinds of hospitality they can expect to find.
Putting two and two together, and finally feeling the spirit of the song Brin is chanting, Maurie charges the retreating orc with relentless abandon. "No no no, you don't get to leave the party now... I haven't had a chance to dance with you yet..."
Perhaps it is the sudden surge of emotion, but her strikes aren't quite as precise as they previously were. This is seemingly made up for by the sudden twin Halfling that pops out of her chest to kick the orc where no orc wishes to be kicked. The spirit laughs wickedly as it seemingly withdraws back into the monk's body.
"Who on earth was that?"
Davian...on the ground...kill...gotta help him...crush...he's bleeding out...Blood! Grok cries, rage still filling his body. He steps towards the orc trying to leave, standing opposite Maurie and growling at it, he steps forward. As Grok pauses before his next strike, a long arm reaches out, clubbing with fists hard as stone. A second after Grok thrusts his sword hard as he can straight at the face of the orc.
Maurie? Pain and death somewhere..save Davian...murder them all and burn their corpses for him Grok looks overcome with fury.
Cromwin feels the fury pounding in his ears, and he lets out a scream as he swings his hammer wildly in the direction of the nearby orc, a ghostly image of a sword held in a mailed fist arcing out of his arm with no better accuracy.
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Despite Brin's wild but ineffectual efforts, his ancestral spirits materialise in a burst of ethereal light that juts out from his torso, slamming down into the orc. The orc is sorely wounded and bleeding, yet still its thirst for blood and the fight keeps it on his feet. It raises it falchion to strike once more, but the sheer effort of lifting the bloodied weapon takes the orcs last remaining breath and it lurches and staggers into Brin. Its blood and guts spurting and splashing all over the brave Ulfen's body.
Meanwhile Maurie and Grok are able to engage the orc making it's escape. Desite Maurie's size she is able to distract the creature before Grok's sword takes the head off, sending it flying across the room. The way upstairs is clear, to the shut trap door leading to the next floor. The floor from where screams of anguish were heard.
Davian lies on the floor motionless, his chest falling and rising slowly.
Davian -5 at start of his round ... Dvain is under the effects of Brin's raging song ... +2HPs.
Davian fails to stabilise and is now at -6HPs
Maurie sighs as the orcs are finally dispatched. "Someone attend to Davian, I am going to see what awaits upstairs. Hopefully without them noticing me."
So saying, she cautiously creeps upstairs toward the trap door and raises it slightly to peer through.
Grok looks around, the ethereal spirits slowly vanishing around him, his eyes close and he shakes a little bit, hands now covered in gore. Sheathing his shield, Grok drops down to Davian, retrieving the wand from his pack and concentrating, Grok reaches once more out to the well of power, causing both the wand and Davian to glow faintly. That wasn't too bad, only a few of them and they don't seem to be terrifically tough. Not when Brin's singing, at any rate. Bastards are strong though.
Grok keeps glancing nervously at the trap door, please still be alive. And whole. He looks away as Maurie peeks through, not ready to look on the victim's suffering just yet.
Brin's energy and gallantry give way to his sense of self and with quick side-step lets the body of the orc drop to the ground, it's innards splattering on the floor. He looks towards his sword and shakes his head, and then begins to take the surroundings back in again. Grok's short work of the fleeing orc gives Brin time to reflect.
Those spirits...they were fighting alongside us. I...
Brin looks at Davian's body and moves to his side, kneeling close.
I think I can use that wand of his. Just like back at the temple.
Brin finds the wand in Davian's belt pouch and and holds it to the unconscious mans body.
Be well. Strength to you...
Brin repeats this mantra three times, which seems to be enough to get Davian to open his eyes.
There you are. Back to the ballad with you.
Brin reaches his hand out to pull the cleric back to his feet...
Cromwin feels the rage flow out of him as the last orc hits the floor. He gives one of the bodies a light kick in its lightly armored, smashed chest in response to Grok's words. "I'm just glad they don't have decent armor. This would have been a much harder fight if they were wearing good steel." Cromwin bends down stiffly, picking up the orc's battle axe and using it to scrape against the black goo gumming up the joints in his armor. "Although, I wish they didn't have the resources to get their hands on whatever gods forsaken mess this is. It's like when I got my hands in ma's molasses when I was a child, but somehow even stickier."
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Maurie makes her way up the stairs and opens the hatch quietly, hoping not to attract attention. She hears no reaction, as she peers into the pitch black room, with faint flickers of orange and green light illuminating the defensive arrow slits, but not enough to brighten the room. The light from below which escapes from the opened trapdoor, provides just enough luminescence to see the outline of something hanging by the wall.
There is a loud crack, a banging noise the sound of wood on metal, Maurie ducks down closing the hatch, but nothing happens....
Meanwhile Grok is able to use the magic stick of health which revitalises Davian as his wounds begin to heal. He inhales a deep breath and Davian looks up into Grok's face, his eyes recognising the warrior half-orc and a smile comes across his lips. As Grok helps him, to his feet, he stands unsteadily and starts to pick up his mace, "I knew the Prince would ..."
But before he can finish the sentence, his eyes glaze over and he slumps to the floor unconscious, his wounds that were healed opened again and his body convulses with pain.
Brin takes the wand from the floor, where Grok had dropped it to help Davian up, and uses his spirits to guide him and use the healing magic from the stick several times to bring the cleric back to life with only minor bumps and bruises to show for the fight.
You think you heard footsteps going upwards, before the loud sound and the sounds of a deep sigh and breathing.
Maurie quietly returns to her companions.
"Well, whomever is being tortured up there is still breathing at least, probably chained up on the wall if the shadowy outlines are to be believed. Also it sounded like their tormentor was headed further up the stairs. Something made somewhat of a racket before I withdrew. How is our devil-in-training?"
As Davian falls, Grok reaches out, setting him on the floor and looking about, Maurie now moving cautiously, better not make any noise just now. Grok stands back and watches as Brin takes the wand, cleaning his sword of orc blood and sheathing it.
Right then, we'd better hurry up and try to save them, might be close to dying. Grok says the words impassively, now looking out at the trapdoor with an unflinching gaze, he seems to have steeled himself for whatever lies on the other side. Davian's doing alright now, better hurry up and secure the prisoner.
As they prepare to move forward, Grok looks around. We should try to keep a tighter formation next time, try to draw them out and fight them as they pass through the doorway, which we can surround. That way they can't keep hitting Davian.
Davian nods with a smile "I can throw my mace from a distance and it be just as effective... These orcs are much stronger than I anticipated. Perhaps a different formation is better indeed... And thank you, whoever healed me. I had thought my journey on this plane was done when the final hit fell."
Cromwin touches the hole in his arm at the chink in his armor where the orc's javelin struck true with a grimace of pain. "Be careful Davian. These orcs are strong enough to cut through metal on a solid strike, I would hate to see us lose you. We'll try to form a line to protect you. Brin, if you or Davian could heal me, I will take the lead and see who has been captured."
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Cromwin marches his clinking armour up the stairs, opens the trapdoor fully to allow the party access to the next floor. The light shines from his shield illuminating the dark room. He stops momentarily in a defensive pose, expecting some resistance, but there is none. He lowers his shield and continues into the chamber, looking around.
There are four sets of manacles attached to the wall at various points, chairs and a desk are smashed up, lying wrecked on the floor. Papers from the desk lie on the floor, some trampled, torn or destroyed. In one of the sets of manacles, a half-orc hangs badly beaten, with lines of raw flesh showing across his whipped bare chest. The half-orc would have been well a very civilised and cultured member of his race, with grey-green skin, yellowish eyes, a thin neatly-trimmed beard, and long black hair. But the torture to which he has been submitted, has taken him close to death. His yellowish eyes look up at you through the matted black hair, sweat and blood on his brow. His tongue lips at his dry cracked lips, as he croaks a welcome at you.
Many of the pieces of wood that lie splintered on the floor near the half-orc have blood on them.
Throw down against the wall is a sack, through the opening you see the corner of what looks like a well made leather bound book.
You recognize the half-orc as one of Agrit's apprentices, the son of a half-orc member of the guard and a human woman. You know him as Norrick.
You recognize the half-orc as one of Agrit's apprentices, the son of a half-orc member of the guard and a human woman, though you don't quite remember his name.
Under a heap of bloodied broken wood you see a bunch of keys that fit the manacles.
Maurie cautiously approaches the captive. "I take it that you aren't with the your full-blooded kin or those of your heritage that threw their lot in with them. If we loose you could you get to safety?" she whispers to him.
Safety? He'll be lucky to make to his afterlife...Davian can you tend to his wounds? His death takes his untold story as well.
Brin kneels, trying to get the light on Cromwin's shield to line up with the half orc's face.
This man's from town. He worked under Agrit...And where's Zove?
Grok turns in a full circle, missing Zove as well. What the hell? Going to have to go look for her once we free this fellow. Grok says, kneeling down in front of the man and examining his manacles. here's the keys Grok says, unlocking the man.
Know anything about how many they are, what weapons they've got, what other defences lie in wait for us? Grok says, still keeping his voice impassive in the face of the evidence of torture.
Davian readily heals Cromwin before they move in formation up the stairs. He has his mace hanging low at his side, still in his right hand. The wand of cure light wounds is neatly pointed at the one in front of him, preparing to heal at any moment.
He grins at Maurie's questioning "I nearly finished the first step a few seconds a go- dying." He gives a rather comfortable and convincing grin as they continue to move forward.
Seeing the half-orc, Davian sighs as he begins to observe him and look over the damages.
Maurie nods, "By all means, give him a bit of first aid if you think he needs it. I was more meaning if he could get to the aid station unassisted or if he would need an escort," she explains in a low tone.
"As for Zove, didn't she go back to the Sergeant's house to grab something she forgot? I would have thought she would have caught back up with us by now, but we should deal with our friend's torturer upstairs first. Wouldn't want him to get away." For emphasis, the Halfling points upward to where she thought the steps had withdrawn.
"I'm worried about Zove. She's been gone too long, and who knows what she might have run into." Cromwin nods at the brutalized captive. "This might actually be the safest place for him, at least for now. We've cleared the orcs out from below and around this area, but the fact that Zove isn't back yet...its not safe out there right now."
Cromwin walks over to the sack and takes out the book, briefly skimming it to get an idea of what it might be.
The half-orc rubs his wrists and ankles as he looks at Grok and says, "Thank you."
He stands up and reaches the pouch that had been hanging over his head. Some of you might recognize it as a spell component pouch.
As the others talk about Zove, his head whips around. He turns to Cromwin. "Was she with you? Why did she head back? We need to lok for her, to make sure she's safe!"
After a pause, he says, "But be careful. There are more orcs upstairs. Three warriors went up. There was another one with drums, and the warrior seemed to be deferring to him."
Nodding to the book Cromwin is holding, he says, "That's my spellbook. You will probably find it fairly challenging to read. My name is Norrik by the way."
He looks around at the other faces, trying to recognize any locals. Although he's talking, he's still bent over in pain and bruised from the treatment he'd received.
Maurie looks at the freed half-orc with surprise. "You know Zove? I mean, I guess that shouldn't be too surprising, given you both lived here. Still, I never thought of her as being social." Maurie frowns a bit and shrugs. "My name is Maurie, by the way. You probably saw me along with most of these fellows at the Hopeknife Ceremony..." Maurie trails off, her face clouding with melancolic emotions. "I guess that was only a few days ago, wasn't it? Strange, feels a lot longer." "I guess nearly dying twice and suddenly finding yourself in a town under siege will do that." Maurie shakes away the thoughts.
"At any rate, do you remember anything else about your captors upstairs? Were they trying to learn something from all of this," she gestures to the torture remnants, "extra currucular activity, or were they just bored?" Maurie draws her temple sword again, replacing the three sectioned staff to her belt. "Finally, what do you want to do now that you are free? The town can use all the help it can get it seems."
Norrik nods. "Yes, I remember you at the hopeknife ceremony. That was something. A happy day. Alas, the last one we seem to have seen recently."
"Zova...."
He pauses. "I know her. She... knows who I am. My dad is in the watch, and my mom is a blacksmith, and I was always interested in books. I've studied with Agrit Staginsdar for a number of years, so that's where I ran into Zova."
Looking towards the stairway. "They didn't even ask any questions. They just tortured me. I suspect it was just extracurricular activity; they probably got bored guarding the tower."
"As for now... if I could stay with you, I would be grateful. With what's going on right now, it's probably not terribly safe for a lone barely-journeyman wizard wandering about by himself. I do want to go and see if we can find Zove, and see if Agrit is OK... and my parents....."
You're welcome Grok says, looking at Norrik's eyes and handing him a full waterskin.
I think something bad must have hapenned to her...shouldn't've let her go alone. Dammit. Grok looks at his feet for a moment, silent, then steps back as Maurie questions Norrik, keeping his eyes and ears around the room and turning frequently to see in all directions. I'd like to kill the orcs using a doorway, have they got any bows or ranged weapons? Javelins you might not have noticed, but they do seem to be carrying them. If it's only four and we are now six...then we should manage well no matter what. Grok gestures towards Cromwin, now mostly cleaned of the tanglefoot bag, one of them had a bag of tar, some alchemical substances, stuck and made it hard to jump about. Grok looks back at Norrik as he finishes the sentence, waiting for him to respond.
Lookings back down the stairs at the way they came, Grok listens intently for footsteps. Well, we can't just leave Zove. Maybe if Brin casts a light and we set the wood and paper about Grok gestures to the smashed desk and chairs, on fire, they'll think twice before coming down. They certainly don't seem to be breaking the walls down as it is. Grok looks to the others, taking a step back so he can see all of them. Then we can go see what hapenned without getting hit from behind. Unless the papers and things are important.
Maurie nods as Norrik responds to her questions. "Grok, as much as these ... savages ... deserve to be burned alive, it would be a bad idea. In part because the fire could spread if the winds send sparks the wrong way, in part because it would rob us of the opportunity to directly question someone higher up their command chain, such as it is." Maurie sighs.
"It will take a few moments I am sure for Davian to heal Norrik. Keep them from leaving and I will quickly head back to see what is keeping Zove. If I don't return in a timely manner, finish off these fiends first then come find us. Besides," the halfling smiles wanely, "if they notice me up there and start shooting with bows then we will have the answer to your question, eh Grok?"
Very well, Grok nods, no hint of irritation in his voice, I'm more used to open country where the surroundings don't matter. Grok draws his sword and takes a few steps towards the door, ready to step forward and attack anyone who comes through.
Questioning an orc might not be the best idea, though, Grok says, after a moment. Pain's not quite the same for them, they fight even to the brink of death, and are determined...still, they value their lives above all, and we might learn something key to the defence. Grok nods once, then turns to watch the door closely.
Cromwin opens the book, briefly looking at the largely incomprehensible magical text before closing it and handing it back to Norrik. "Don't worry, Norrik. We'll get through this and get all of us out of here alive. Once we've dealt with the orcs in this tower, we're going to need to get to the signal fires and light them. Um..." Cromwin hesitates for a second, before continuing. "...you said you can cast spells, right? Can you fight with them? What do they do?"
Brin stands to the side of the group, apprehensively eyeing the hatch leading to the level above.
"Drums. Another bard..."
Brin fidgets with his tunic below his armor and then reaches out with his voice.
Sources of magic, be revealed.
Brin casts detect magic towards the ceiling, looking for an aura.
Davian would quickly and steadily heal Norrick as he looked him over and, if there was time, he would cast Ice Armor over the caster as well "It will serve you as my images serve me. We cannot risk your wounds being injured so severely so close to healing.
As for Zove... I am conflicted and biased on what to do. When one goes out on their own way they accept the consequences. To insist worrying over them is to insist on their failure.
However to not search for them after a certain amount of time has passed is unreasonable.... More unreasonable is not dealing with the threat just ahead of us."
Davian ponders this over as he finishes healing Norrick and mending his wounds "Cromwin. You seem to be fair minded. I owe this group my life, and several in this group owe theirs to me. I would look to you, being the first to do so, for guidance on this puzzle of wisdom."
Upon hearing Cromwin's directions to go through the tower Davian would nod with a smile "Now I'll get to try my mace from a distance. I will stand with Norrick- I can shroud us in mist if things become to overwhelming."
Maurie rolls her eyes at Davian's logic. "Just try not use yourself as an orcish sheath again... I doubt that your Lord of Lies has many demonic contracts for the dead." There is a small smile on her lips as she says this. "In all seriousness, you staying toward the back might not be a bad idea. After all, getting crushed by forces beyond one's scope is supposed to be my specialty." She gives her temple sword a few test swings, the coins and keys along its back jangling pleasantly with the motion. Satisfied, she crouches down and takes position near the door. "I gather it is a safe assumption that they are waiting for us. Shall we oblige them?"
There's faint traces of magic above us. Summoning, death, and enchantment. It's faint, but be ready for a fight that's got more than steel flying at you.
Brin readies the grip on his sword and rolls his shield arm to stretch.
Let's erase the mistake of their existence.
Norrik takes his spellbook from Cromwin. "Yes, I cast spells. Agrit has been teaching me arcane magic. I'm still fairly new at it, so I don't have a very huge collection in my own spellbook. But, I can collect them as I find them, or, even, given time, research and study and derive arcane formulae myself. Which spells I can use in a given day depend on what spells I prepare in the morning. So that one can cast spells quickly, you prime your mind with them, storing some of the magic in there. One's mind can only handle so much of this, although with practice, one can improve one's capacity. Right now, I only am able to prepare a few spells. What I've memorized is a spell that shots a bolt of force, a spell that renders a surface very slick and slippery, a spell that can stop somebody from falling and hitting the ground too hard, and a spell that summons a barrier of force around me. There are a few minor cantrips I can use as well, including a weak one I can fight with as necessary that shoots a freezing ray."
Norrik reaches into his pack and pulls out a potion bottle. Drinking it, his wounds visibly knit themselves together. "Ah, that feels better."
He makes sure that he has all of his gear-- including a nicely-made falchion. "Oh, yes, and while I'm not very well armored, and I'm not all that good at it, my father-- a half-orc like myself-- thought it was important that I learn how to handle a falchion. I could fight with that if it really comes to it."
He closes his eyes and appears to concentrate for a minute. A brief smile passes his face. He opens his eyes. A few moments later, a raven flies in and lands on Norrik's shoulder. "I'm glad to see you are OK, my friend," the half-orc says.
Cure Moderate Wounds:
Right then. Grok says, looking around at the rest of them. Ready to kill. He says softly, to himself. He looks blankly on as Norrik speaks about his spellbook, not paying attention until he enumerates the effects he can produce. Might want to save those for when things get desperate, if it comes to that. Not now, when we outnumber them and have terrain on our side.
Brin's words cut like a knife through the air, and Grok looks up, his sword coming out of its sheath as he does. He glares at the trapdoor before them, shouting in orcish.
I will spit on your corpses! You don't deserve to exist for another second, you foul eyed sons of dogs! Come on then, come on. I swear by every tree in the forest,
He shakes slightly at first, surprising even himself with the ferocity of his words, but his confidence increases with every word, and by the end Grok is a terrible sight to behold. Hie sheathes his sword, hands curled into fists, teeth bared, and growling quietly at the door, still waiting for foes to burst through. It looks like he plans to beat the orcs to death with his bare hands.