The arrival of Arnasse has the entire city of Kenabres abuzz. The festival grows grander every year it seems, and the weary city finds escape in the lavish spectacle. For weeks, downcast eyes look up for the first time in months as the worries about the Crusade fade away momentarily. Traditionally a more scholarly day built around lessons of wars past and history, it has in recent decades become a public spectacle with mock duels and, most lavishly, jousting competitions.
You all gather at Clydwell plaza to enjoy the festivities, eager to join the rest of the city in losing themselves for a day and forgetting the awful things just outside the city walls. You went early, but it was worth it to get the good seats; it's now almost midday, and you sit near the cathedral's facade, arguably the best place in the city, as the jousters will meet directly in front of you in combat.
Victrix settles into her seat with a grin. She leans forward to get a better view of the spectacle that is about to unfold.
She occasionally sneaks glances at the crowd around her, all eyes on the jousting ground. Everyone she sees appears to have the same look in their eyes... one of enjoyment masking fear. Of course, now that she's noticed it, she can't stop seeing it everywhere she looks.
She shakes her head, her long red hair flying wildly about her face. Work hard, party harder, right? She thinks to herself. She forces herself to focus on the joust coming up. She adopts the same look she sees in the crowd.
The tall man who entered the plaza was armed and armored to the teeth. The tabard of the Kenabres Guard covered his mail, and a banner drooped lazily from his longspear. The sight of another guard, here in the very shadow of Clydwell Keep excited absolutely nobody, and the guardsmen passed through the crowds, peppered with soldiers, mercenaries, and crusaders, completely unnoticed. This was not unwelcome.
Deep under the hood of his heavy cloak, eyes glowing like burning embers peered towards the dais. Quinn Prable, though his fellow soldiers had now dubbed him Quinn "Inktooth" exhaled heavily in the light breeze. Wisps of smoke passed through his lips as though he was drawing upon a pipes, though there was none to be seen. He reached up and scratched his chin, surprised as he always was, to find the still unfamiliar spiked horns that covered his face.
He winced as he remembered the first sight of his reflection. A tortured, cracked, and cragged grey pallor. Then the smile. Under the blackened lips lay a canyon of razor sharp obsidian teeth. It was a terrifying sight.
It was also the reason he had been all but run out of the barracks. He hitched the pack that held his meager belongings tighter, and looked for a likely spot to sit down. He would need to find lodging soon, and that would not be an easy task during Armasse... much less for one of his appearance...
A dwarf in food stained long coat and wide brimmed hat surveys the plazza. He absently bites into an apple he holds in his left hand as his right hand rests on a dirty backpack with an exceptionally large hammer tied to it. A standard sized warhammer is tacked in his belt next to a large belt pouch.
Hmm, I should have saved some money for a drink. But the food at the market looked so invitingly I just could not resist. And uncle Anvil always said, “Make sure you always have enough provisions”. Well, at least I have some water.
I will attend the festival and right after that I have to start looking for some archives about the last crusade. Too bad Uncle Anvil did not want to tell me more about my parents. One could say his silence on the subject could mean something bad. But I will never know if I do not find out.
So let’s have a look at the company here. It never stops to surprise me what kinds of people come to Mendev to fight against the bloody demons.
Hope the show will start soon, it is so crowded here, one could get robbed and never notice until it was too late. Good thing I grabbed such a good seat near the cathedral. Desna smiles!
"Our enemy does not rest, and neither shall you."
Prelate Huldrun's chiding was as unnecessary as it was seething. Though none of their teachers had made mention of what Armasse meant for their Fellowship, those on the cusp of graduating into their order's first full members had already accepted long ago what their duties would entail for the approaching festivities: vigilance. The most opportune strikes are those delivered against a relaxed opponent. Comfort breeds laziness and allows lapses in duty. That the Fifth Crusade's morale desperately needed an injection of hope and reprieve such as that afforded by Armasse could not be questioned. But not all who called Kenabres home would suspend their duties. The Fellowship of the Forsworn Blade would now serve as auxiliary to the guardsmen and soldiers granted leave; silent watchers in the throngs of people hoping to lose themselves in a tide of celebrations and frivolous jousts however brief such distractions might be. It was necessary. Hrodlan would not let down his benefactor. He would show Hulrun that he had not placed poorly his faith in the young Kellid.
Rising before the sun as he has done for many years, Hrodlan encountered no difficulty in securing himself a commanding vantage of Clydwell Plaza. Deep within what would become the center of the mob pressing every closer to gain a decent view of the spectacles to come, the young Gurnwold keeps out a watchful eye utilizing the same strategies that dictate the strategies of the Fellowship in general. It is from within that the forces of corruption seek to take hold, and so it is from within that their culling should be directed. A guard on the perimeter might spy a disturbance as it happens, but a watchful eye within might prevent the deed altogether. Cultists and demonic servants infested Kenabres like a plague—a sickness as profound and grotesque as the very Worldwound itself. Through his feigned interest in the festivities all around him, his eyes continually sweep the gatherings of citizen and crusader alike, occasionally noting the location of his brothers and sisters of The Fellowship should their help be necessary in subduing a threat emergent.
His garments and bearing do little to betray his true purpose, much as his superiors intended. Shrouded in drab shades of grays, browns, and blacks with no heraldric symbolism or badges of station to speak of, Hrodlan looks more like a brigand or woodsman than a staunch ally to the crusade. The weapons that hang from his belt—sturdy blades forged by Mendevian hands belying any allusions to a life of banditry—vouch plainly for his allegiance for any keen eyed enough to take note. Presently, a thick gray linen cloak conceals the majority of his features, long tufts of black, braided hair hanging loose from behind both ears.
Lady of Valor, cast your gaze over those gathered in the sight of your Cathedral—reveal to your faithful servants those who would do harm to our noble cause. Again, the young man's eyes begin surveying the ever expanding crowd of people around him. He is ready to prove his worth.
Brighton's steps clank on the flagstones near the cathedral, the sound coming from his iron-shod boots. Short, even for a dwarf, his off-step is punctuated from the haft of his warhammer as it is used as a walking stick. The crowd easily makes way for him even as most wouldn't see him so low to the ground.
Alright Brighton. Your nearing the cathedral and it looks like a joust will be happening here. There should be some smaller arenas to the sides for the melee games. That should be your destination...hello. This tall fellow looks like he's a part of the Crusaders.
Brighton clomps his way over to a tall and hooded man. The banner of the Kenabres Guard drooping lazily from his longspear. Brighton's gray eyes travel up to the top of the hood and back down. A muscled and calloused hand reaches up to give a tug on the hem of the man's cloak. "Excuse me sir...yes down here."
Glowing red eyes turn towards the dwarf, even as the face behind them sank deeper in the shadow of the cowl. There was no hiding from the dwarf's stature, though. His gaze stared straight up into a face that even a neophyte crusader would have to know was demonic. Quinn gritted his teeth, striking small sparks as they clenched together.
He was still a member of the Kenabres Guard, however imperiled his commission may be. "Can I be of service?" a voice like the billowing winds and cracking wood of a great conflagration poured out with another few sparks and a wisp of smoke. Quinn hated his new voice. "The games are only in the preliminaries. If you're having trouble seeing, there may still be room nearer the front."
"Yes I'm looking for one of the melee contests..." Brighton starts and shrinks backwards...directly into a man shrouded in drab shades of grays, browns, and blacks with no heraldric symbolism or badges of station to speak of. "What...are you..."
He subconsciously grips the iron hammer-and-anvil holy symbol as he looks up and into the cowl. "Father Torag, protect me from this creation of yours."
Those are the very last things you remember happening. Darkness comes, pure, silent, total darkness, and the only things you're aware of are the throbbing headaches that shake you back to conscious with their deep-rooted surges of pain. Next comes a ringing noise in your ears, shrill and dull, but overpowering any other sounds that may be around you. Then, you realize that breathing is difficult, and as you cough and gasp for breath, you suck in the dust all around the air, not helping matters very much at all.
After a few moments, your senses begin to return and the ringing fades, only to be replaced by the clattering of rubble around you. The darkness from lack of vision is replaced by the darkness from absence of light. Your bodies ache, but all you can do is feel around the rocks all around you, seeking something to help you determine where you are.
You don't know it yet, but you're all a short distance from each other, and will hear any sounds made by another.
Owww... what the f**kin' hell just happened?
Victrix scrambles to her feet, rubbing her head with one hand and drawing her greataxe with the other.
Victrix opens her eyes, her darkvision (hopefully) allowing her to see in the darkness. She calls out into the dark.
"'Ello? Anybody 'ere?"
Her ears appear to still be ringing from... whatever the hell just happened.
Gasping for air, choking on dust and debris, Hrodlan's mind races to a place of panic. Memories of his capture by Deskari cultists flood his thoughts and his lungs begin working frantically. A heavy weight presses down against his chest and arms, and he fears himself captured and restrained once more. They had come to finish their ritual after so many years.
No.
Muscles thick from years of brutal training, Hrodlan manages to shift the thick mounds of rubble and rock that pin him. The scrape of rock against rock resounds around him as the debris is discarded to either side. Surging forward, coughing heavily, his hands scramble across his person to verify for himself what his eyes cannot in total darkness. He appears to be intact and relatively unharmed. The dull ache within his skull wanes, but yet clouds his senses. He finds himself desperately wanting to understand where he is and what brought him here. A dwarf had bumped into him—that much he remembers. That same dwarf had shared a brief exchange with the tiefling who stood nearby. Hrodlan had thought the demon-tainted man of no threat or importance. Had he been mistaken?
No point bemoaning mistakes now. Gather your wits and bearings and figure out where to go from there.
Pressing himself with some difficulty onto all fours, and then to a kneeling position, Hrodlan fishes through his backpack for one of the near-dozen torches secured in a tight bundle within its depths. Securing his flint and steel, he begins setting to the task of lighting it. With any luck, his situation was not as bleak as it seemed so far. The shifting of rubble and squirming of persons other than himself lend a need for haste to his task. It is comforting to hear a woman's voice calling out in the common tongue. He had nearly expected to be greeted by the chattering of Abyssal speech.
"Aye! Hold fast, friend. I'll see about illuminating our predicament."
"Yes I'm looking for one of the melee contests..." Brighton starts and shrinks backwards...directly into a man shrouded in drab shades of grays, browns, and blacks with no heraldric symbolism or badges of station to speak of. "What...are you..."
...something vile, was Quinn's first thought. Then the darkness took him... again.
Quinn felt no fear. He had been consumed by the haze once, and had found his way back out. The dark held no terrors, now. Then he opened his eyes and realized it was merely dark, not the dark.
After a moment of staring into the depths, Quinn shifted. A cascade of dirt and rubble poured off of him as he pushed himself to his feet. His pack was still cinched tightly to his back and his spear lay only a few feet from him. The banner caught as he tried to free it from the debris.
He stretched his considerable limbs, imagining the bruises that would blossom soon. A woman's voice, heavily accented. A man's voice, from Mendev. "What is this place?"
As you look around more than just your location, you see several others lying in various amounts of awake around you. You total, all in all, four humans, two tieflings, an aasimar, and two dwarves. Two of the humans sit blind, one sifts clumsily through his back for a torch, and one woman clings to her leg, hissing and winching lowly as she tries to deal through the pain.
Victrix's eyes widen at the sight of the rubble. Bloody hell... that's not a pretty sight.
She moves to the woman with the injured leg. "Need some 'elp with that?" She says.
Not really waiting for an answer, she starts rummaging around in her pack for anything that will help.
She looks over at the remaining people, her gaze lingering on the tiefling with the guardsman tabard. Huh. Guess the Kenabres guard takes all sorts.
The smallish woman with the heavy accent moved to help the injured lady. Quinn began as well, the anonymity of darkness making things easier at the start. Then the woman locked eyes with him. She can see as well as I.
A crawling sensation creeped through his skin, similar to what he felt every time he entered the Cathedral. Something about his new nature rebelled against people and places with heavenly ties. Angel's blood... Cripes, she gives me the 'Holy's'...!
With anonymity shattered, Quinn turned his attention to the mountain of rubble. Many other things lay shattered within... lives and livelihoods, buildings and trees, even a horse. Quinn knelt down and picked up a fragment of broken glass. Even in the dark there was no mistaking the stained glass of the Iomedaean Cathedral. A sharp pang of dread raced through him. Then a new sensation... black and oily and sinister... elation... pure, dark elation. Quinn fought a quiet internal battle as the haze reared within him again.
Hoping his disquiet went unnoticed, Quinn turned again to the living within the cavern, when a torch flared to life near him. He reached up to pull his hood lower, when he realized the fall had un-hooded him completely. Standing in the ring of torchlight... No hiding things now, I suppose. "Ho, there friend. I am Quinn Inktooth, bannerman of the Kenabres Guard. I greet you in peace."
Victrix shrugs. "Name's Victrix. An' if ya got somethin' that'll fix a lady's leg, yeh might want ta use it. 'Cause I've got nothin'." She says, motioning to the woman's injured leg. She stops digging around in her pack.
She looks around some more at the others. Another redheaded tiefling lying in rubble; a couple of dwarves, one with the look of a priest of Torag about him, and the other wearing a stained duster; and the human with the torch.
Fiend spawn... eh, they're stuck down here same as me. Got no reason not to trust 'em... hell, Inktooth here's got both a good & evil aura on him. Is he a paladin?
She turns back to Quinn. "How'd ya get a name like 'Inktooth'? I'll tell ya my last name if you'll say why." She asks with a grin. It's a transparent attempt to keep people from panicking.
"How'd ya get a name like 'Inktooth'? I'll tell ya my last name if you'll say why."
The lady flashed a grin both angelic and bordering on cocky. Quinn glanced around the group gathered there. Very well, if it's to be all smiles... he thought as he stepped towards the torch light. He flashed a grin back....
Blackened lips over a vaguely canine protuberance spread wide. Instead of a perfect row of pearly whites, Quinn Inktooth showed jagged rows of razor-sharp daggers, several times the size of normal teeth, and all as black as onyx.
"'Inktooth' was one of the kinder things they called me in the barracks."
The fallen woman looks up at Victrix, giving her a faint smile through the continued wincing. Dressed in leather armor and lots of dark colours, she carries the appearance of someone who does things she'd rather not be seen during. Her black hair is cut short and unevenly, the left side shaved down close to the scalp. "I'm Anevia," she says through a hiss, pulling her sword from her hip and some rope from her pack. "Look for some pieces of wood nearby. There's no fixing it down here, but we can at least make a splint." She sizes up some of the fifty feet of rope and begins unsteadily cutting off a length of it in the dim light around her.
One of the humans finally pulls himself up, and between his long silver hair and the cloak that had been flipped over his head, you weren't able to tell until he straightens himself out that he is in fact an elf. His long, fur-trimmed cloak overa pair of robes, as well as the artistically carved staff lying beside him, indicate he is a spellcaster of some kind. His most grave wound seems to be on his forehead, where a deep scrape has left brood dripping down his face. "Am I to assume by the racket you're all making that I'm the only one unable to see right now?"
The final person to stir is a rotund, very colourful older human male, wearing expensive clothes that have only now seen dirt for the first time. He sits up with a groan, clutching at the various aches all through his body, but he seems to have gotten off lightly. "In what world does a man of means receive care second to a thieving scoundreal?"
Hrodlan calmly reshoulders his backpack with his torch held before him. He raises the light source higher and casts illumination out over the massive mounds of rubble before turning it to get a better look at the pair of planetouched offering assistance to the woman with an injured leg. The tiefling is the same he had encountered in Clydwell Plaza—the same that the dwarf had been talking with before bumping into Hrodlan. Despite his initial assessment, he finds himself questioning the tiefling's strength of character. What if he's not a guardsman at all? Why would he be isolated in here with the rest of us, then? Inheritor's blade! What is going on here?
Torch extended before him, the Kellid silently affords himself a moment to appraise Quinn as they begin to discuss the demon-spawned guardsman's moniker. Despite his ferocious appearance, Hrodlan gleans a measure of immutable moral fiber—a noble bearing that belies the true personage beneath the Abyssal countenance that mars his appearance. Resolving to give the tiefling the benefit of the doubt for now, Hrodlan turns his gaze back to the debris-wall behind. He offers it a more thorough scrutiny for any that might yet live pinned beneath stone and wreckage. He retrieves a handful of sizable broken glass shards from what remains of the Cathedral's formerly breathtaking windows.
"Apologies, Lady, but I might find better use for these than contributors to a mound." Laying the shards on the ground, he grabs a fist sized rock off of the pile and begins crushing the glass into smaller shards before scooping them up into his beltpouch and cinching the strap tight.
When others in the room begin to stir awake, he places the torch his left hand, then secures the familiar grip of his longsword with his right. By way of assistance, Hrodlan at least approaches those within the chamber with his torchlight, that all in the room might be able to see one another clearly. His overcurious eyes seize the form of the tiefling once again, though the glare of condemnation is thankfully absent from his gaze.
"Quinn Inktooth, was it? I am Hrodlan Gurnwold. I remember seeing you and the dwarf at Clydwell Plaza. Then... nothing. Do any recall what brought us here?"
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"Hey, what have they put into the apple. Must have been enchanted or something... Or something is very wrong here."
Konny looks around the cave a bit bewildered.
"I guess this is quite unusual for Arnasse, right?" he stands up slowly.
"Does anyone know how we ended up here?"
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"Eh, mah last name's Bloodmane." Victrix says to Quinn. She points at her long red hair after giving his teeth a look. "Picked it meself."
Bloody hell, you could make knives outta those...
She turns to the wealthy-looking gentleman as he makes his quip. She rolls her eyes.
"Oh, my apologies, m'lord, but did yeh fall & get yer leg crushed by a f**kton of rocks? Since yer standin', obviously not." She says. She doesn't even bother hiding the contempt in her voice.
She turns to the elf, wincing at the sight of his head wound. "Ow. Wait, yeh can't see?"
She lets out a breath, then addresses the duster-wearing dwarf. "Yer guess would be as good as mine. Just watchin' a bit o' joustin', and then I'm 'ere with yeh."
You likely wouldn't recognize Victrix. She looks like she's a recent arrival to town.
"Oleh Green!" The tall, slender woman exclaims as she stares about her in shock, a faint glow illumining her eyes but little else. Turning to the complaining, heavyset man, she mutters to herself before staring at him intently.
"Bagaimanakah anda akan diberikan penjagaan?" Shaking her head, she continues. "I apologize, few Mendevs speak language. What 'care' are you requiring? You seem fit, do you have some pain of which we are unaware?"
"Setahu saya, Elves tidak dapat melihat dalam kegelapan, tetapi matanya tidak kelihatan baik, tidak." She pipes up at Victrix's observation of the wounded Elf.
"How would you be given care?"
"To my knowledge, Elves can't see in total darkness, but his eyes don't look good, no."
Quinn fished through the mound of rubble, turning up innumerable pieces of refuse, searching for wood suitable for a splint. He looked at the elf floundering around in the circle of light, as he worked. He placed his staff in his hand as he passed. "If you still can't see, staring straight into the torchlight, then that wound must run deeper than you think. Settle yourself for a moment, and we'll see if we can't find you a guide."
"In what world does a man of means receive care second to a thieving scoundreal?"
"You seem to have survived your ordeal. Don't discount such blessings. Try to be a little patient while we triage the injuries. We need to get back to the city quickly, and all will be coming... lord and villain."
"Quinn Inktooth, was it? I am Hrodlan Gurnwold. I remember seeing you and the dwarf at Clydwell Plaza. Then... nothing. Do any recall what brought us here?"
"Does anyone know how we ended up here?"
Quinn spun until he located the dwarf who had tugged on his cloak, only now beginning to stir. "Yes, we were near one another. Not far from the jousts, too. I bet if we reconstructed the scene, we were all pretty close to one another. Whatever calamity befell us... well, I have experienced such an awakening once before... it was... painful."
"Eh, mah last name's Bloodmane." Victrix says to Quinn. She points at her long red hair after giving his teeth a look. "Picked it meself."
Quinn's eyes follow the length of Victrix' fiery cascade. "It suits you. 'Inktooth' would not have been the name I would have chosen. Hopefully, I am more than I appear."
"Setahu saya, Elves tidak dapat melihat dalam kegelapan, tetapi matanya tidak kelihatan baik, tidak."
Victrix's ears perk up at the sound of her native language being spoken. She looks around, her eyes resting on the other tiefling. Robes, red hair... a mage of sorts, no doubt.
"Ae ra, engari e kore e matou i roto i te pouri katoa." She says, looking between the other redhead & the elf.
"It suits you. 'Inktooth' would not have been the name I would have chosen. Hopefully, I am more than I appear."
Victrix smirks. "Oh, I'm certain yeh are."
Victrix starts looking all around the area they're stuck in.
"Roight. Now ta just find a way out..."
While she looks around, she addresses the dwarven priest. "Oi, yeh got somethin' fer fixin' a lady's leg an' an elf's eyes, sir?"
"I cannot," the elf says plainly. "How wonderful. I take it we're underground and lost, then?" He reaches to his belt and begins taking inventory of the bottles hanging from them, a mental inventory confirming that they and their strangely coloured contents are intact.
Quinn fails to find anything through the rubble that he could use, but may continue looking. They don't appear to be in too much of a hurry.
"You're triaging a thief and a man whose delusions threaten the reputation of others with unfounded lies. Perhaps you could leave them to simply die and we could move on. I don't want to be here. None of you want to be here either. And if you can lead me to safety I promise you fifteen hundred gold pieces."
Konny helps look for some wood to make splints.
"It looks like we are stuck her for the time being so I might as well introduce myself. My name's Konny, Konny Hammerhead"
He looks at the loud human "You know, uncle Anvil always said, never underestimate the strength of human stupidity. But fifteen hundred is quite a lot, so you can tag along..."
Brighton opens his eyes. Collapse? But Father said the mine was already repaired. His eyes flick around and the squeals of an injured woman bring his focus to her. He tries to lift his head, and finding that he's not paralyzed gives a quick thanks to Torag.
He rolls over to his knees and looks for his backpack and sack around his waist. Everything seems in order, his prayer-armor having protected him from much of the falling debris. His prayer-hammer lay broken-hafted. He sighs and grabs the head along with the larger pieces of the haft.
"Thank Torag I'm alive. All I remember is a demon I...was...talking to...sorry." He blushes (not that anyone could see it from the dark OR the beard)
"Inktooth. I'm Brighton. Sorry for...my reactions to your person."
He looks around at the others, "Victrix, Konny, Hrodlan...and what's your name lady?" he finishes looking at Belladonna.
Not waiting for the answer he thuds over to the injured woman.
"Careful. The leg's broken...let's see if I can at least splint and set it. We'll need some proper healing ministrations before too long if you don't want to limp for the rest of your life."
"You, sir that can't see. Please stay calm...The Father of Creation will guide us and I will seek to apply his teachings to your sight in a moment."
He ignores the voice of the man who's of means.
He looks around the cave after wiping some sweat from his forehead.
"Don't worry, Anevia. If we can fashion you a splint and a crutch..." Quinn sighed in frustration as he cast aside the useless rubbish he had turned up. "Even if I have to carry you, I promise you will see the sun again."
Quinn laughs as the portly man makes his sales pitch. "Your life has far greater value than mere gold. So, I'll make sure you make it home... But, your attitude will cost you." Quinn shrugs, "Fifteen hundred sounds about right. If you want to get moving, you might lend a hand."
Victrix rolls her eyes again. The wealthy man evidently didn't understand that gold wouldn't matter if your life was on the line.
She turns to Anevia. "Quinn's roight. We'll get yeh outta 'ere safe and sound. All o' yeh."
"Whatever our means or state of being, we don't have time to dawdle about. To remain here is to delay a means of effecting a return home. Judging from the nature of this mound of stone and ruined windows behind us, things do not fare well. Those too injured or infirm to contribute should remain at the rear while those capable of yet lifting their weapons to competent effect position themselves at the fore. The deeps beneath Kenabres are dangerous, and we should regard it as such lest we fall to our own ignorance."
Hrodlan turns to directly regard the motley crew of survivors he is now stranded with. "Do any among us possess the means to conjure illumination? I've only enough torches to last a day, if that."
"Torag answers prayers of creators. Father of Creation, grant your servant light to guide our steps."
The dwarf intones this prayer as he makes his way to the elf complaining of blindness. Light shines from his armor, illuminating the room.
"That should last for ten minutes or so, in which case I'll have to pray again to father Torag."
He tries to calm the blind elf.
Through your combined efforts of looking around, you manage to find some tattered clothes and pieces of wood large enough to form a splint out of, as well as a broken piece of pole the woman could use as a walking stick. Her demeanour improves a little, and she gains some faith that she's in good hands. "I can't do much for you, but if you need traps handled, I can do that without my leg, and if we can find some arrows, I'm one of the best eyes in Kenabres."
When Brighton tends to the elf, he finds that his eyes have been permanently damaged, and that he will need powerful magic to return his sight. "My name is Aravashnial," he says as the dwarf examines him. "And while I know it is the tendency of dwarves, I will not accept any needless shortenings of my name for your convenience."
"Does the name Horgus Gwerm mean anything to you? Because that is I, and perhaps it would encourage some speed in this endeavour." He faces Quinn indignantly. "I will not give aid to those who seek to bring harm to my fortune or my reputation."
As you tend to the those who didn't get off in the fall quite as well, your headaches begin to fade, and slowly the memories of those last moments before the fall return to you through the passing delirium.
Arnasse officially began at noon, with the blessing of the festival by Lord Hulrun himself, ruler of Kenabres. The crowd gathered at Clydwell Plaza quieted as the aged inquisitor took the stage, clad in shiding, resplendent armor. He cleared his throat, but just as he was about to speak, a bright light shone from the west, as if the sun were rising from the wrong direction. Hulrun's shadow fell huge and distorted across the cathedral's facade. A moment later, the sound of a thunderous explosion ripped through the air and and earth, along with a violent tremor.
To the west, the fortress known as the Kite--the location of Kenabre's wardstone--had vanished. In its place, a brilliant plume of red fire, lughtning, and smoke erupted into the heavens.
A moment later, a powerful roar accompanied a welcome sight rising from the dword--Kenabre's greates guardian, the ancient silver dragon Terendelev, who had until that moment been attending the opening ceremony disguised as a human. Above, another form appeared, as nightmarish as the dragon was breathtaking. A humanoid shape three times the size of any man, with skin coated in fire and lightning, gripping a flamingsword and whip. The creature's identity was immediately obvious: Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the Worldwound, had come to Kenabres!
As the ground continued to shake and disgorge demons into the streets, the dragon and the balor lord clashed above. The fight was over in a few harrowing moments, as the balor cut deep into Terendelev's body, swooping down to strike the dragon and arresting her charge. A few more blows, and the titanic duo spiraled downward toward the croud.
The sight of the dragon smashing into the facade of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell is one no witness would ever forget. At that moment, a titanic demon erupted from the far end of the plaza, reducing several buildings to ruins as it smashed into this world. The rift it created shot across the plaza, and this time there was no escape--it opened below your feet, angling away into darkness.
Even as you feel, the dragon noticed your plight. Though she saw death standing above her, she seized this final chance to save a few more souls. After she uttered a few arcane words and stretched out a bleeding talon, you felt her magic take hold of you, slowing your plummet into darkness as if you were feathers falling into the pit.Yet the fall remained as inexorable, and as you drifted downward into the depths, the last thing you saw was the Storm Lord standing before the ancient silver dragon, his sword lashing out and cleaving full through her neck. As her severed head fell, the rift above you slammed shut, and the light of the world above was gone.
Victrix takes a few breaths, her memories coming back to her.
"Bloody 'ell... demons, dragons, and Kenabres bein' destroyed..."
Her eyes widen. Her mouth hangs open. She promptly shakes her head.
Oh, no. No no no no. I didn't mean it!
"Oi, are we under the cathedral?" She asks to no one in particular.
She turns to Horgus, not at all impressed by his posturing.
"Look, roight now yer reputation & fortune aren't going to help yeh get outta this mess alive. If yeh really want ta have a chance of escape, then we'll need yer help, just as yeh need ours. Do yeh see a way outta 'ere?"
"I understand Aravashnial. Many of my kin do indeed take to less than courteous shortenings of proper names. I will endeavor to properly give respect to the name the Creation Father gifted you with. I cannot do anything for your eyes at the moment. Perhaps when I get to a holy place I can find the prayers that Torag will grant healing to."
He takes some cloth out of his bag and gently tells the elf his plans: to wrap the wounds where his eyes are.
As he tightens the knot behind the elf's head, he gasps in remembrance. "Father Tor...ag. No. The demons...they...your creation...it...no."
Quinn continued to dig through the mound. After a moment, the dwarven cleric stirred and managed to tend to Anevia's wound more successfully. Despite the fortunate turn, Quinn was overcome with an immense anger and sadness. He steeled himself for another mental bout with the haze, but instead his memories of the battle for Kenabres flooded his thoughts.
"Terendelev..." he whispered, nearly overwhelmed with emotion.
"Does the name Horgus Gwerm mean anything to you? Because that is I, and perhaps it would encourage some speed in this endeavour." He faces Quinn indignantly. "I will not give aid to those who seek to bring harm to my fortune or my reputation."
"Nothing," he answered the rotund man. Quinn eyed the human woman and the elf. "If they have wronged you, then that will be settled at another time. Our priority now must be to reach the surface and coordinate with the other crusaders. Somehow the demon horde has breached the wardstones and invaded Kenabres. All other disputes must wait."
Quinn's words are authoritative enough for him to calm down and drop the issue for the moment. "Very well. I will try not to press the issue any longer." He reaches for the waterskin at his hip and takes a long swill of it.
"I appreciate your willingness to be more respectful than your kin, and shall in kind address you by your own name, rather than 'dwarf'. Hopefully you are right, and can guide me to healing once we have found a way out of here."
Memories come flooding back to fill what had previously been vacant. Hrodlan suddenly finds himself wishing very hard that their current predicament had been as simple as an abduction by a cultist cell. The reality is far harder to stomach. With Terendelev laid low so easily, his heart and mind reel as one as they turn to thoughts of Hulrun. Had he survived? Against a foe so overwhelming with no warning. . .
Eyes wide and the sweat of panic beginning to form along his brow, Hrodlan begins foolishly attempting to claw his way to the top of the mountain of rubble. Reason and discipline abandon him, and there is only the abject fear for his surrogate uncle's well being. What of his Fellowship? All of their number had been accounted for at the Plaza. Were they decimated in the attack as well? Inheritor preserve them. Please let them be well! Cascades of rock and dirt slough and slide beneath Hrodlan as his futile climb continues, his torch lying discarded at the bottom where his ascent began.
Quinn watched impassively as Hrodlan made his sudden and frantic climb. He sympathized with the desire, though he realized they would never be able to help Anevia or Aravashniel up the dangerous slope.
Quinn began moving around the walls of the cavern, keeping his eyes open for any means of egress.
"And I'll thank you as well Aravashnial. Tell me, what did you do on the surface before...*sniffle*...this terrible incident? You as well Anevia...who were you all before being pushed together with all of us down here?"
"Saved by the dragon. I wonder what uncle Anvil would say to that.
And obviously Kenebres has fallen, we are deep in this. Desna weeps"
Seeing as the broken leg has been taken care of and the other survivors are as all right as they can be, at least in body if not in mind, Konny starts searching for a way out of the cave.
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Wherever you are, 'up' is certainly not the way out. The cavern wall reaches forty feet up, but whatever hole you fell through has resealed itself. The mountain of debris blocks one way, leaving only one path toward what is hopefully the outside world and not a dead end.
Anevia slowly pulls herself up, using the makeshift cane for support. She groans, but bites through the pain and gives it a few steps. "My wife is a member of the Eagles' Eye Watch, and 'wife' tends to be the title I'm given most, but Ivolunteer regularly at the Teample of Iomedae. It gives me something to do during the day."
The elf slowly rises, but does so a little less clumsily. "Enchanter," he says with the sort of swift brevity of someone with a secret. "And if we are all ready, then perhaps we should move swiftly."
Victrix nods, then moves to support Anevia as she starts to walk.
"Alroight, then. Let's get a move on." She says, holding her greataxe with one hand. She begins moving toward the open path.
"Unless anyone prefers, I will take the vanguard." Quinn turned to Aravashniel, "You need eyes to guide you, and Anevia needs legs to support her. Can you bear her along if she guides you forward?"
"If you are not armed," Quinn looked towards Horgus, "stay close behind."
Hrodlan spends a moment in silent anguish atop the mound, but quickly admits to himself the pointlessness of defying what is a blatant dead end. After shuffling his way back down to the ground with the rest, he gives his gear a quick once over before retrieving his torch and unsheathing his longsword.
"The sooner we are afforded the surface, the sooner we will know the extent of this... carnage. Let us away, then."
"If you don't mind, I will scout ahead. I do not need light and to be frank, it seems to me you people are quite loud. So it might be best to have someone ahead of the main group."
"And uncle Anvil always said a good scout is better than heavy cavalry - and I find it especially true in underground enviroment..." Konny winks at the rest of the group.
The dwarf fishes in his bulging belt pouch, pulls out an apple and takes a bite. With the apple in one hand and his little hammer in the other he sets out toward the only exit.
Than he stops and turns back to the group, still chewing the apple "Oh, and one more thing, if you here me screamin', you better prepare for a tough fight. I usually do not do much screamin' unless totaly terrified. So you might wish me luck now, I am goin'."
Victrix nods at Konny. "On yer way, then. Good luck."
On his way down the rubble pile, Hrodlan finds a strange shimmer. Should he investigate it further, he will find six scales of a silver dragon, presumably of Terendelev. Upon picking one up, he receives a rush of sadness as the dying memories of the dragon linger in its power, but he also finds a strange insight into the abilities it can provide. Upon reaching for another, he doesn't gain anything new, save for the innate knowledge that he can only benefit from one of the scales.
Each scale provides a benefit, and only one may be held by a party member at any time. Holding two will negate their abilities entirely. Amongst yourselves, figure out who will take each.
Disguise: Three times per day as a standard action, a scale can be used to cast alter self. While disguised, the target gains a +4 bonus on all Bluff checks made against evil creatures.
Resistance: Three times per day as a standard action, a scale can be used to cast resist elements-but only against electricity or cold.
Sacred Weaponry: Three times per day as a standard action, a scale can be used to cast align weapon, but only to make a weapon lawful or good. Unlike a normal align weapon spell, this effect can be cast on an unarmed strike or natural weapon.
Burden Sharing: Three times per day as a standard action, a scale can be used to cast Shield Other.
Consecration: Three times per day as a standard action, a scale can be used to cast consecrate. If used by a lawful good character, the sacred bonus on positive channeled energy DC's granted by the scale increases by +1.
A short distance forward, Konny finds a large, horse-shaped object in the darkness ahead. Focusing his eyes a little more, he sees it to be a massive spider sitting still, though the unsettling sound of muffled chewing reaches his eyes, and he notices that there is a wriggling in the large incest's belly.
Konny searches for a way around without alerting the vermin.
Wether or not he succeeds, he returns to report his find.
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Konny's report had Quinn gripping his spear more tightly. "It sounds as though this vermin has found a meal. It might not abandon it to prey upon us. Let's try to circle around, if we can."
Quinn moved ahead with his spear drawn and leveled.