Khardir opens with his usual beneficence, gently tapping his old statue relic as he calls down a blessing upon the team.
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Focusing on that red line that has continously helped keep her people alive. Are they mine? Staring at the Patchwork Knight and watching that red line only see can see tether the two of them. Then repeating the process with her Hellknight and her pretty smile. Knowing she will share both of their injuries does quite a bit to ease the pit in her stomach.
Syksy maintains a postured march as they depart, her shoulders finally giving in once they were far enough away and she resumes her normal saunter.
Once in the chapel she moves to the side and readies a spear, hopefully one of the Griot would try to fly towards her rather than swarm Bernard.
Khardir's benediction echoes mightily in the hall, well suited to receive the word of Torag in its sheer cavernousness. Bernard and Syksy move in, bolstered by the Forge-Father's blessing and Nisany's healing magic. Vibenia's bolt veers past Bernard's expanding form, the pillars and the rafters, deep into the watch-grioth's midsection, eliciting another soundless cry from the creature. It takes to its wings, leaping up to hover at the ceiling. Bernard feels a familiar stab in his consciousness, as the hateful foe invades his thoughts—the serene forms of the monks in the alcoves suddenly loom threateningly, and their shadows dance with deadly intent.
The other grioths hastily detangle their wings, draw their voidglass blades, and then flap their way up to the ceiling before approaching. The foremost one manages to dodge Zaijka's magical webs, but the manoeuvre leaves it open to Syksy's attack: its thigh is grazed by her tossed spear, spilling ink-blue blood on the floor.
Vibenia takes her time, slow deep breaths as she tracks her previous targe's movements, zeroing in on one of the grioth's wings before firing.
Bernard breaks out of his lumbering approach at the last moment into a full charge, storming down the hall to fall upon the closest grioth, his huge blade swinging upon it like a scythe from hell.
That done, he staggers, turns to crane his head up at the now out of reach enemies - only to cry out as dark visions assail his mind. Raising a gauntlet to his helm, he flinches away.
Dusk rushes forward alongside Syksy, barking at the enemies above.
Zaijka begins an incantation; as her hands swoop through the air, ethereal lines rise from her arms and coalesce into a pair of winged figures flanking her.
Stepping up Syksy pulls out another spear and hurls it at the visible Grioth .
Moving along the wall and squeezing around the corner to be standing behind Skysy. Looking up at the Grioth. Looking down at her hands. Her fingers moving of their own volition, one in the pouch at her side and the other gesturing. A large ball of fire appears below the furthest and bounces straight up at it.
Bernard's furious charge and Syksy's spear-throw result in one of the grioths dropping to the floor, impaled and nearly cleaved in two. The other sleeper only just manages to clear the rafters before Bernard starts to lash out at the shadows, but takes a spear to side from Syksy. The movement appears to agitate Bernard, however, and soon the former guardsman barrels back down the hall with just as much fervour as he did charging in. Sir Pelle's fiery blade, grown to gigantic proportions by Zaijka's magic, falls on Syksy like the roof of a flaming building. Dusk barks demandingly, trying to stop the sudden infighting in the pack.
The offending grioth does not have much time to gloat, however, as Vibenia's second bolt tears a hole through one of its batlike wings. Though it does not appear to impact the creature's eerily graceful flight patterns, the pain from the wound makes it lose concentration on its insidious psychic bond to Bernard. This distraction is soon followed by Nisany's spell, a bouncing orb of fire the grioth only partially avoids. Bleeding and badly singed, it flaps out of sight into the southern transept.
Now well aware of the enormous danger posed by Bernard—both to his enemies and allies—the other grioth flies behind a pillar and focuses its malignant thoughts on further scrambling his already unsettled psyche.
Zaijka's heavenly raptors materialise where she wills them, their majestic calls echoing in the hall.
As the eagles finish coalescing into being, Zaijka sends them forward with a shout, and they charge toward the nearest grioth, their warlike screeches shot through with a strange, bell-like timbre.
As Bernard lashes out at Sysky, Zaijka steps back out of his reach and hurls forth another knot of ethereal lines from her palm. It wouldn't hold him long, as strong as he was...but maybe it would be long enough.
Bernard stands there, hunched over and breathing heavily, like a colossus at a loss as to what to destroy next.
Then, with a furious cry, he hacks his burning blade into his leg as if wishing the shear off his own thigh.
"Everyone back around the pillar!" Syksy calls out after being whacked by Bernard and taking a step back, she couldn't get a good aim at the Grioth with him in the way anyway.
Still holding his charge, Khardir moves as directed near the pillar.
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Gasping in pain from the shared pain when Bernard slices into his leg. Looking up and willing the ball of fire to leap at the Grioth she can see. Flinching when the fire starts to move along the webbing around the Patchwork Knight. Holding out her hands and water rains down on Bernard.
Moving into the room, Vibenia goes wide to get an angle on the heavily wounded grioth, firing as soon as she sights her target, and reloading as she watches the bolt streak unerringly at her target.
Dusk takes up a protective position in front of Nisany and Syksy, growling as she stands guard.
Zaijka's spell wraps Bernard in thick layers of sticky filaments. Nisany thoroughly douses both the former guardsman and the webs, which does little to help his precarious mental state, but does stop him from scorching himself in his confusion. Sir Pelle's sword sputters for a second, but soon flame roars once more.
The grioth in the front dodges Zaijka's eagles as they strike, but it, too, is taken by surprise as Nisany's bouncing sphere of fire. Lashing out at the avian threat, it breaks its mental connection to Bernard: one eagle is slashed with its crystalline blade, and plummets to the floor where it explodes into shimmering motes of energy—the other meets its end at the creature's jaws, as it bites down and shakes its head like a dog to break the eagle's neck. Grievously burned, the grioth flaps its fire-scarred wings and alights on the nearest rafter, which completely shields it from the sphere and gives it some cover from projectiles.
Vibenia’s bolt nearly drops the other grioth, who spins in the air and bumps into the wall before correcting itself. Perhaps realising the futility of trying to avoid the ranger’s unerring shots, it grimaces and dashes towards her, trying to muddle her mind instead.
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Khardir mumbles something about needing to buy a crossbow and touches his idol to Vibenia.
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Vibenia focuses, grinding her teeth as she fights to resist the mental onslaught of the oncoming grioth. Her fierce will burning through the fog that tries to settle on her mind, she grins as she looks into the eyes of the creature swooping down at her, some part of her awareness taking note of the touch on her shoulder, and the warm flow of positivity that Khardir imparts as she fires, her hand a blur as she reloads with incredible speed, already following the flight of the other, even as her target plummets to the ground.
Hustling around the pillar Syksy will hurl another spear at whatever closet Griot remains.
Zaijka winces as her celestial allies poof out of existence almost as fast as they had come into existence...but at least they had drawn a few moments' attention away from her allies. It was something. And now, for a stranger tactic...they aren't the only ones that can overwhelm the mind. She conjures the image of a warrior from her skin, and draws it upward into reality - but as the image coalesces together, the warrior's sword suddenly slips from her grasp, and the hilt strikes its wielder on the head before weapon and warrior both fall to the ground. If they're likely to find anything funny, it's a foe's failure...
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Despite Khardir's bolstering benediction, the grioth diving towards Vibenia is just barely able to dodge her shot by going into a mad-dash barrel roll. The bolt veers into a similar spiral, as the enchantments guiding it attempt to keep up with the sudden change in direction—only to embed itself into one of the pillars. There is a flash of triumph in the wounded grioth's eyes as it nears the ranger. Syksy's throw finds its mark, however, and the creature comes crashing down with a spear in between its ribs. The body keeps its momentum, sliding into a bloody heap at Vibenia's feet.
With no available targets, Nisany calls her fiery sphere to a more central position in anticipation.
The remaining grioth, apparently not predisposed to Golarian humour, claws at its face and grimaces at Zaijka. It launches itself from its rafter, flying over the second, and dives towards the sorcerer—only to fly past her out of the still-opened double doors. She barely has time to raise her weapon before the alien creature is already past. It hesitates at the threshold, hissing as its gleaming blue eyes are assailed by the last rays of the setting sun.
Ermacora's whistle can still be heard screeching in the distance, but for how much longer it will last, you do not know.
Meanwhile, Bernard has been leaning against the nearest pillar and mumbling incoherently. Finally, he comes to his senses, only to see that the fight is almost over.
Vibenia spins, snapping her crossbow up and taking a few steps before sending another bolt sailing after the fleeing grioth.
As the grioth screeches overhead, Zaijka moves clear of the entryway to distance herself further from it. Drawing green lines from her skin, she conjures them together into a glob of acid to hurl at the creature as it retreats.
Twisting around and trying to throw the ball of fire at the fleeing giroth.
Spinning from the momentum of her latest throw and spurred on by the sound of Ermacora's whistle Syksy rushes towards the remaining Griot and flings another spear.
In a span of few seconds, the fleeing grioth is pierced by both spear and bolt, doused in acid, and finally rolled over by an enormous ball of flame. Suffice it to say, its escape is cut very short. The shrill shrieking of the bone whistle lingers for a dozen more seconds before trailing off. Suddenly, all is quiet.
"You'd better close the doors," echoes a gruff voice from the other end of the hall. "The other grioths will soon be out in numbers."
From the opposite double doors enters a bearded man, rough in physical appearance but gentle in aspect. He is Taldan, but with more than a drop of Kellid blood, clad in a sturdy, fur-lined overcoat worn over simple peasant clothes. There is sickle tucked under his belt, worn more like the tool it is, rather than a weapon. Quite incongruously, on his ruffled, sandy brown hair sits a dandyish red hat with a blue feather—the same one worn by "Clausyre" at the auction.
The man closes the doors behind him and takes a few steps closer, looking over the dead grioths and every one in the group in turn. He does stay at a distance, though, his bearing tense with... worry? "Wyrd bið ful aræd. I had a feeling you'd be the ones coming here. I hesitate to do so, seeing as you're barging in the back door, but I must ask: did the baroness manage it? Please, tell me you've come to deliver the ransom. My wife's life depends on it."
Finally, his gaze settles on Vibenia, lingering on Dusk before meeting her eye. He looks anxious, tired, and—most of all—desperate.
While Bernard is likely to have had mostly business-like interactions with the druid, Vibenia knows him far better: it is Azmur that taught her and the other children the ways of the Green Faith when they were young, and guided her anger and grief towards constructive ends when she had just lost her parents.
Zaijka waves her hand as she examines the newcomer. With the motion, lines of force dart out of the tattoos on her arm to tether doors to frames and pull them closed, each in turn. He was right, whoever he was; closed doors would be safer.
At the sudden deluge of new information and possibilities Syksy simply cuts to the part that stands out in her mind the most. "Dragon or not, the spellcaster behind the Grioth and the fake dragon, it has you wife?"
The man's face twitches as he glances at Syksy. His hands curl into fists as his gaze drops to the floor.
"My wife," he hisses through gritted teeth, "and my unborn child."
”What can you tell us about what has them?”
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Vibenia’s eyes go wide as the speaker’s identity dawns on her. Instinctively she rushes over to Azmur, giving the druid a quick hug before stepping back to look him over. ”Azmur! By the Will of the World, you’re alive!” she says happily. "After this long we all feared the worst..wait…they have Rima??”
As Syksy poses the question her expression darkens, to the deadly stone-faced one usually staring down the stock of her crossbow.
"And what can we expect when we go to get her back?" she growls, her emotions matched by the low rumble the comes from Dusk as she pads to her side.
A brief smile touches Azmur's lips as Vibenia approaches and embraces him, but it is soon washed away by a flood of traumatic memories.
"There is a dragon," he says dejectedly. "He calls himself Aeteperax, but he's not the black wyrm of legend. I was out in the Dragonfen, foraging with Rima. He appeared out of nowhere and snatched her up, taunting me. He allowed me to follow him back to the monastery, where his minions captured me. He told me that if I serve him for a year, my family will be returned to me unharmed. I had no choice but to agree."
Clearly ashamed for his actions, the druid takes a step back from Vibenia a turns his back to the group. He is quiet for a moment, as if to collect his thoughts. When he turns back around, his expression is more resolute. "To go against him is folly. Black dragons are intelligent, but they are driven by viciousness and a lust for violence. This new Aeteperax is a green—a scholar, cunning and patient. He's delved into forbidden lore, and he's got unnatural forces at his beck and call. You've neither the skill nor the numbers to face him. All you'll accomplish is an agonising death, and then Aeteperax will raze Belhaim to the ground!"
"You're a much better showman now then when you were at the auction," Syksy can't help but quip. "How big is he? We have acquired Lady Tula's dragonslaying arms so we're a bit better equipped than when we were at the auction."
She then stops and tilts her heads. "Why does he want the books anyway? Just because he's a scholar, or do they do some strong magic stuff?"
"Probably for more powerful magic" Vibenia mutters. "There's no way that the baroness can come up with the amount he's asking for, and he knows it. We're hoping to do the unexpected.. as Syksy said, with the help of the most famous weapons in Belhaim."
Shrugging, mostly to herself, "Scholar dragon. And dragons have hoards. So a hoard of books. But a swamp is a horrible place for that."
"Will you be able to help us fight him? And how far along is your wife?"
"You're a much better showman now then when you were at the auction," Syksy can't help but quip.
Azmur huffs and crosses his arms. "Well, there's real emotion behind it now. I'm no actor, which is precisely what I tried to tell Aeteperax."
"How big is he?"
"Big," says the druid, with added emphasis. His reaction to Syksy's good cheer seems to be somewhere between irritation and—despite himself—amusement.
She then stops and tilts her heads. "Why does he want the books anyway? Just because he's a scholar, or do they do some strong magic stuff?"
"Probably for more powerful magic" Vibenia mutters.
Azmur shrugs with a deeply uneasy look on his face. "The answer lies somewhere in the middle. I honestly think he cares more about knowledge than the power it brings him—unless it leads to greater knowledge. However, I'm not sure even he really knows what he's delving into now..."
"We have acquired Lady Tula's dragonslaying arms so we're a bit better equipped than when we were at the auction."
"There's no way that the baroness can come up with the amount he's asking for, and he knows it. We're hoping to do the unexpected.. as Syksy said, with the help of the most famous weapons in Belhaim."
The druid stares blankly at Wyrmsmite, and the other recently unearthed arms and armour. As realisation dawns on his face, you see a flash of hope in his eyes.
"You went to the crypt," he says incredulously, "and you're still alive. That's... that's amazing! Perhaps there's a—"
He suddenly shakes his head, like a hound drying its fur, and turns around to pace the hall. "No, this is hopeless! The weak flee before the strong. Such is the way of all life. We are not predators—we are prey. Unless we can find a way to appease the dragon, we're all doomed!"
"Will you be able to help us fight him? And how far along is your wife?"
"She's due any day now," Azmur sighs. "Aeteperax promised me I can be there for the delivery. You have to understand: I can't raise my hand against him unless I know she'll be safe, and that's not something you can promise me. Don't even try. If he catches any wind of me aiding you, she's going to die."
There is something dark in his gaze, now, as he looks at the group—like he is contemplating a course of action he would rather avoid.
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"So we need to rescue her from the dragon, remove the leverage," says Khardir. He strokes his stubble-laden chin again in his usual expression of thoughtfulness.
"Look, you obviously never expected anyone to visit the crypt and come out alive with the arms of the wyrmslayer, so let's put a pin in 'impossible' for now, eh? Let's focus on what we need to do, then get it done." He gestures widely at the group. "We may look like a motley assemblage of strangers and oddities but so far we've managed to survive what Belhaim has thrown at us. Let's not give up hope yet. You said that it's the natural cycle for the strong to prey on the weak, but it's also the natural cycle for things to develop new ways to survive when they face challenges to their homes."
"Aeteperax," says Bernard, more to himself than anyone else. "So that's what we're up against. A black dragon."
He sinks down into a crouch, both gauntleted hands resting on the crossguards of his blade. "By Abadar's inviolable vault, that really raises the stakes.
[b]"So what now, Azmur?" Bernard's voice is kind, almost gentle. "You won't aid us. Will you get in our way? We don't mean to lay down our arms. We can't, seeing as there isn't that much gold within a hundred miles of Belhaim. We mean to learn what we can here in this monastery, and then take the fight to the dragon. Will you step aside?"
"Aeteperax," says Bernard, more to himself than anyone else. "So that's what we're up against. A black dragon."
He sinks down into a crouch, both gauntleted hands resting on the crossguards of his blade. "By Abadar's inviolable vault, that really raises the stakes.
"Not the black dragon of legend - a green dragon, didn't you say, Azmur? Simply using the name to strike fear. He may be knowledgeable, as you say, but if he feels the need to use the name of another to hide behind, he is not so powerful as the Aeteperax of legend, I would think. We simply need to find a way to separate him from whatever forces he's called upon, whatever knowledge he's gained, and then we come on more even footing. There are spells that can accomplish that sort of thing, but they draw more from the psychic spellcasting traditions...I think I could sort out the basic principles, though, enough to make it work..."
"So we need to rescue her from the dragon, remove the leverage," says Khardir. He strokes his stubble-laden chin again in his usual expression of thoughtfulness.
"Look, you obviously never expected anyone to visit the crypt and come out alive with the arms of the wyrmslayer, so let's put a pin in 'impossible' for now, eh? Let's focus on what we need to do, then get it done." He gestures widely at the group. "We may look like a motley assemblage of strangers and oddities but so far we've managed to survive what Belhaim has thrown at us. Let's not give up hope yet. You said that it's the natural cycle for the strong to prey on the weak, but it's also the natural cycle for things to develop new ways to survive when they face challenges to their homes."
Azmur sighs heavily, and his shoulders sag for a moment before he abruptly straightens himself. While he remains a bit high-strung, there is something about Khardir's down-to-earth practicality which appears to resonate with him. He swiftly follows this lifeline away from whatever contemptible deeds he was contemplating.
"Adaptation," he mutters, eyes gleaming. "You're right, Master Dwarf. Even if I can't accompany you, there's got to be something else I can do..."
He nods firmly. "Fine, I'll help you. However, a rescue is out of the question. Aeteperax keeps Rima in his den with all his gathered treasures: you'd need to sneak into a dragon's lair, get to his hoard undetected, and then retrace your steps with a pregnant woman in tow. Not impossible, perhaps, but just about as likely as snow in Erastus. Please, don't attempt it—if she's harmed due to your actions, a dragon's wrath will be nothing compared to mine!"
"Do we have an agreement?" he asks. "As long as you don't needlessly endanger my family, I'll share with you whatever gifts I'm able to draw from the spirits—heal you, bolster you for a fight. On top of that, I'll tell you everything I know about Aeteperax, his minions, and this monastery.
"Not the black dragon of legend - a green dragon, didn't you say, Azmur? Simply using the name to strike fear. He may be knowledgeable, as you say, but if he feels the need to use the name of another to hide behind, he is not so powerful as the Aeteperax of legend, I would think."
"As green as a gooseberry," Azmur confirms. "Fairly young for his kind, which isn't saying much. He's still as big as an elephant."
The druid strokes his beard thoughtfully, squinting at Zaijka. "You might be onto something, with the whole name thing. One of his 'lieutenants,' a half-orc named Hapscot, knew his real name. I only learned of this because the dragon killed him for it, just for mentioning it once. It's very unlike him to act so rashly, or to waste resources. Maybe you could use this to provoke him—force him into a rage, so he'll forgo all his carefully planned tactics."
"We simply need to find a way to separate him from whatever forces he's called upon, whatever knowledge he's gained, and then we come on more even footing. There are spells that can accomplish that sort of thing, but they draw more from the psychic spellcasting traditions...I think I could sort out the basic principles, though, enough to make it work..."
Azmur nods. "You're a wizard, then? I might know a way to weaken him, but we shouldn't discuss it here..."
The druid motions to your handiwork: the dead grioths, and the inky blood staining the tiled floor. Sunlight is almost gone now, and those of you unable to see in the dark have to strain your eyes to make out anything. Moreover, you realise that a light inside the great hall would be visible outside through the stained glass windows.
"Do you know his real name?" Syksy asks as he motions for him to head to wherever he would prefer to be.