Naali watched the blue haired elf jump in surprise after the server tapped her on the shoulder. After inspecting the note, she looked about the room, until the table and a foul look crossed her face.
The tiefling rolled her eyes - the look was one she was familiar with, but it was generally the most benevolent of the reactions she had encountered in her life.
What surprised her was when the mood at the table quite abruptly changed from jovial to simmering rage when the woman sat down.
Naali decided that her food was very interesting, and decided to study it until the awkward situation was over, but unfortunately was introduced by Gwyneth and summoned a weak wave in response.
|
"It's not me you'll want forgiveness from. Embodiments of the Inheritor though we are, the garrison suffers gossip like rust on a blade. Something you'd probably know if you'd bother to stick around for more than a standard blink."
"I'm not one to ever entertain gossip. It's poison. They can say what they want, makes no difference to me," she said, returning to her work of picking through her food. She skewers a bit of bacon and shoves it into her gob. "I feel closest to my God when I'm wreaking havoc amongst the legions of the Abyss, anyways. But to each their own, I suppose. Some people might feel better chanting hymns in a Cathedral."
"And are you a devotee of the Lady of Valor?" Abrielle asked the tiefling, contempt clear in her voice. Her tone would also suggest there is a correct answer to that question.
Therrik's enthusiasm returns the cheer back to their narrow stretch of bar. Perhaps not cheer, per se, but a nostalgic imitation that most travelers would not deign to prod at. In fact, Hendron finds himself swept up in the Half-Orc's tales of barges and rowing, trying to recall the scent of white-capped surf or the sandy sprawls where dead crabs washed up by the thousand.
He smiles amiably, more than content to allow Therrik to continue until his exploits are finished. After a brief pause to recheck Sir Oakpeak's posture and ensure that the mongoose's stupor has held as well as anticipated, he clears his throat. "Imagine all that, then. You really don't know somebody until you know their roads and shipping lanes, I suppose."
Hendron offers a calculated pause, thinking of how to phrase his words carefully. So carefully that they might bypass a nigh-inevitable glassy stare from his new friend. "This other Half-Orc you mentioned to me, the one beginning with a J - what's their tale? I'm sure it's worthwhile. Were they your captain, your cargo?"
|
|
There's another pause as Gwyn listens to Abrielle's words with keen ears, the arch of her brow giving a twitch as she wonders if the blue-haired woman had any idea quite how deep the barb dug into the Paladin's heart.
We don't all sing out of choice, Cerulean.
Thankfully for them both, Gwyn doesn't feel need to voice the issue. The rest of the Abrielle's thoughts strike enough of a chord for her to concede, and making a poor show of herself on such an auspicious occasion is so direct in its violation of the Inheritor's creed that Gwyn can already feel a divine fist gripping at her chest.
Still, the feeling doesn't stop her from eating, and in four sizable bites Gwyn's sandwich vanishes behind her teeth. She does not, however, take well to the aasimar's tone and, as soon as she swallows the last of her serving, the Paladin's fist cracks against the table like a gavel.
"We give contempt to our enemies, Abrielle. Be civil. It's Armasse for Aroden's sake." Gwyn picks up her water-and-wine with a sigh, bubbling into the tankard. If anyone should be scorning the tiefling, it should probably be her. Her scarred hand rubs at the sore on her head, bruised fingers running through auburn hair as she mutters, "I mean at least until she stabs someone with that damn glaive."
Therrik drains the last of his free booze and looks regretfully down into the bottom of the cup, before fumbling for his belt pouch. That's where they make their coin, he imagines his mother would observe on the subject-- get you in the door a free drink, then get you payin' for the rest... ah well. He doesn't begrudge them the business. He slides a few coppers next to his stein and waves for the busy bartender's attention.
"Aye, I wouldn't mind seeing the sea myself someday, though. Imagination only takes you so far."
He frowns a little at the next question, and shrugs his broad shoulders again. "Janayya, and it's a 'her.' She's--" his frown switches to a brief, rueful smile, "...captain and cargo both, maybe, sort of... it was her idea to come up here, see, so she's skipper in that sense."
Therrik scratches at his jaw. "And her story's a long one, but my taste would be she tell it herself. Not my place." And not that Janayya had told it all to him, either-- there were painful parts of her past, growing up half-elven in Kyonin, that Therrik himself could only guess at. He doesn't know whether she'd want him saying all that to this fellow, half-elf though he also is.
"D'you still have family here in the city, then?"
Naali, mid mouthful of ham, slows her chewing to a crawl as she tries to think of the proper diplomatic way to say "I don't really like you enough to share information about myself"
Naali chokes on her food as the thump of Gwyneth's fist startled her - which, admittedly, was not too hard of a feat to accomplish.
"As my instructor kept having to tell me, it's more of a slashing motion. But alas, I am not proficient with the sword of my goddess."
The words were not a lie, but neither did she actually answer the question the visitor had so rudely demanded.
Hopefully she would be appeased enough to not question further.
|
|
Abrielle gives the tiefling a long look, one that judged her and weighed her against an unknown measure. Whatever it was she was looking for, apparently she was satisfied enough because she gave a nod.
"We also don't make pokes about one's attendance to evening prayers when we know very well what the other is risking to keep the demonic tide at bay. We all have transgressions, learning from them is what makes us better," she said, sounding a bit like a lecturer in Sunday school. If the sudden fist slamming startled her, she didn't show it. She'd already jumped out of her skin once today and she was determined not to do it again. The first had already been... well, nothing short of horrifyingly embarrassing.
She turned her attention back to the tiefling. "I'll be quite honest, I'm garbage with a longsword. I'm rather dependent on the weighted momentum of a morningstar to make much impact in melee. But the divine magics are more my calling anyways."
Speaking of the divine, a magically amplified bell rings out across the city to signify the official start to Armasse. And with it, the start of the speeches that kick off each year's celebrations. Fortunately, this is merely the first of three; a warning bell, so to speak, that spoke of a simple request. Stop whatever it is one is doing and come to listen for however brief a time.
Though many of the mercenaries within the Defender's Heart glance up at the bell and then go back to their conversations, all of the crusaders move to stand. They do so as one, movements born of the ease of long practice and years of experience being called upon by just such a bell. All shuffle toward the door with quietly murmured apologies as they excuse themselves and pay for their meals or drinks. Many of the mercenaries stand as well, moving toward the door more out of respect than any real desire to hear the speeches. Those that stay put nod in clear understanding and offer their own apologies, congratulations, or goodbyes. After all, this happens just about every year.
Certainly, the speeches rarely change, but each new speaker always adds a bit of a twist or a message. Perhaps there is something to be learned for our protagonists at the proceedings. If you wish to make it in time, you will certainly have to hurry, though!
Naali shrugged, happy that she managed to deflect to conversation to something 'normal'. "I only learned how to use a glaive because, as people are quick to point out, I don't quite fit in anywhere. A Shelynite I met suggested that disguise could save my life if I ever find myself in the Worldwound, and that knowing how to use a glaive was common amongst some of the cultists there."
When the others stood at the sound of the bell, Naali followed the example only slightly delayed, for fear of rousing another round of questioning. She stood awkwardly between the two women, neither moving to signify that was inviting Abrielle to join, nor that she was not welcome.
"That must be the speakers, then."
|
|
The change is immediate; with the toll of the bell, Gwyneth's back straightens outright, a rod of iron pressing flush against her spine as she rises to her feet, quickly throwing on her gauntlets with practiced ease.
"I do believe that's our call," she says, nodding to Abrielle with all the respect due of an experienced crusader, her earlier animosity lost. Her gear is thrown over a shoulder mid-step, stopping only to toss a solid gold piece to the table--payment for the meal and a sizable tip--and offer Naali a smile, this one a touch more reserved than her earlier shows of altruism. "You coming? I've a decent spot in the crowds if you can keep up."
With that said, the Paladin bolts, the noisy clatter of her armour far removed from the unnatural grace of her haste, praying all the while that Iomedae would let her return to her post before the rest of the cathedral guard rallied without her.
|
|
Abrielle stood in a much more casual manner than Gwyneth. Where the paladin had specific duties to attend to, Abrielle had a more causal employment. Of course, she was still going to attend all the speeches and show the proper respects, but at her own leisure and without a fuss.
"Perhaps at the front row," Abrielle commented at a look down to the child-sized tiefling. "And glaive point down."
Abrielle left her ticket for a free meal on the table, assuming that the gold piece left behind by the Paladin would cover any gratuity expectations of the server. With that settled, she sauntered after Gwyneth, heeled shoes clicking on the floor as she went.
Therrik looks up at the deep, tolling gong that he can feel in his bones, and at the sudden and immediate shift in the inn's taproom. He blinks, not being a veteran of past Armasses to know the significance.
"Uh..." he says, glancing around, to Hendron, and, if the half-elf does not offer any insight, to the next person over at the bar.
Therrik pushes off from the bar, slapping down a few more coppers as thanks to the bartender's service amid the rush. "Seems like it might be worth hearing," he says, pushing towards the door with the many crusaders.
And maybe, if Janayya's here, she'd be at a central crowd like that.
"You coming?" he asks Hendron, over his shoulder.
Hendron hops off his bar stool, leaving the empty mug behind without offering its remnants to Sir Oakpeak. He barely realizes how much he droned off during the sound of the bells, missing most of Therrik's tale in lieu of a rattle of memories. Marching columns of armor, men and women with hardened gazes, weapons polished to bright shards in the sunlight.
He follows Therrik at a slow pace, wondering if the gatherings still looked the same, or if they introduced new tricks and more approachable festivities for the newcomers.
"Sure. Let's be off, then."
As you hurry through the busy streets of Kenabras, you are buoyed along by the rest of the crowd surging to Clydwell Plaza. Fortunately, the cross-traffic is almost non-existent as everyone is working to get to the speeches that will kick off the holiday. Between Gwyneth and Abrielle, the three women quickly find themselves a position within the amassing audience that is nearly in the front row. By sheer virtue of having left at much the same moment, Hendron and Therrik are not far away.
It seems that fortune is with you as you all find outstanding views of the podium when Lord Hulrun, the ruler of Kenabras, takes the stage. To locals, he is a common enough sight that he is easily recognizable. Those who are not from the area see an older man, distance easing the wrinkles in his face but not the stark white hair and beard that wreath his expression. Remarkably, his shining, resplendent armor does nothing to diminish the severity of his gaze or the warmth of his smile. The man clears his throat, the sound ringing out across the square with the same magical quality to it as the bell, and gets set to begin his speech. Silence almost seems to reign over the entire city in respect for the aging patriarch, but he never gets the chance to begin.
A blindingly bright light erupts from the west as though the sun were rising from the wrong direction. Rather than the welcoming sense of acceptance and purity from any amount of holy light though, a foreboding falls over the square. Hulrun's shadow falls long and distorted across the facade of the cathedral as the previous silence slowly begins to break. Gasps of surprise and whispers pregnant with fear can be heard from all sides. The thunderous roar that seems to have come from the throat of some impossibly vast beast rolls across the city, but the source is immediately clear. Where once the Kite stood tall and imperious, now stands a massive cloud of scarlet flame and acrid smoke lit by sulfurous lightning. A violent tremor shakes the earth, throwing many of the crowd from their feet or into their neighbors.
A second roar follows the first, but this one sends the hearts of citizens soaring as the ancient protector of the city leaps into the skies. An enormous silver dragon, as large as the square itself, beats furiously at the air as it works to meet the charge of yet another behemoth. While the former is known to many as Terendelev, its foe is similarly iconic in appearance. Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the Worldwound, unfurls bat-like wings in a plume of fiery death as he hefts his burning sword and whip. He appears as the antithesis of everything the dragon stands for; where the protector is breathtaking, the Storm King's hide coated in carmine lightning and hungry flames is equally nightmarish.
The titans clash in the sky above as the earth tears itself asunder, rending great chasms into gaping depths below. Hell itself seems to have finally crossed the threshold of your fair city. Demons lunge up from the holes in the earth and surge forward, hungry to gorge themselves on the blood of the penitent. Men, women, and children are torn between the urge to shriek in terror and flee for their lives. Some can do neither when the cracks in the street swallow them up. Countless souls are lost to falling debris as the monolithic statues shatter to pieces, crushing mortal and demon alike beneath their weight.
The skies above roar their fury as behemoths trade blows, but the fight is over swiftly. The Storm King takes advantage of a momentary opening in the dragon's defenses to cleave through the chromatic hide. Wings falter and the victor presses his advantage, sending Terendelev crashing into the Cathedral of St. Clydwell, a sight those who live to tell of this day will never forget. At that very moment, a demon nearly as large as the building it charges through barrels into the square. The rift it creates shoots across the plaza, cracks slithering across the ground to pull the five of you down into the void.
As you fall, the dragon notices your plight. A great claw stretches out in your direction and you feel magical hands wrap around your limbs, slowing your fall. Not that it stops you completely; as you drift into the darkness, the last thing you each see of the world above is your savior's head. It falls, lifeless, to the ground as the Storm King cleaves through the silver neck. Thick blood pools on the Cathedral's steps and lifeless eyes trace your fall. Then the sky is swallowed by darkness and there is nothing left of your world but the fall.
------------------------------------------------
You awake in darkness and choking dust, the stone cool beneath your skin. Sensation drifts back to you slowly and, by some miracle, you have suffered only minor aches and bruises. The groans of agony and confusion hit your ears like a physical blow; some a touch more unfamiliar than others. Those of you that can see in the darkness can tell that you are in an underground cavern. The roof of the cave is high enough above you that you cannot see it.
What you can see are the forms of three humans, a tiefling, a half-orc, a pair of half-elves, and a full-blooded elf. Two of the humans are female (Gwyneth and another unknown woman) while the other is male. Beyond the whimpering, shocked survivors are thousands of pounds of stone rubble. Between the rock, frightfully still body parts protrude and stretch up at impossible angles.
It seems that not all of those who made it to the bottom are as fortunate as you are. You cannot see any of the walls but for the one behind you that seems to be littered with bodies. The cave around you is dark; dark enough that only those with darkvision can make out anything. Everyone else cannot even make out their own hand before their face. Perhaps a bit of light would rectify the issue?
Hendron has barely been able to settle his feet in the plaza, his eyes trained on the back of Therrik's head, when the light tears across the sky and claims his vision. There's only whiteness and pain, and he staggers to the side, clinging onto an unfortunate crowd member's shoulder while the world returns in a kaleidoscope of whirling motion and roiling clouds. Although dizzy, he can make out the forms of a silver beast and a darker, more lethal-looking foe. He stares as they arc across the skies and tiles, leaving his ears ringing and his vision seared with moment-to-moment impressions of the clash, burned like some hideous engraving into his mind's eye.
This is my city, he thinks in the swell of chaos and the approaching end. This is the place they loved so much.
As he prepares to die, no longer able to spot Therrik or any other familiar faces in the crowd, he realizes that it was all for naught. It was all the journey of a foolish boy with a foolish goal, and all of the luck in the world, this was his draw. You can't win them all, but you can certainly lose most of them.
An unspeakably large mass of brickwork smashes down near him, extinguishing the movement and presumable lives of the poor sods beneath its weight.
Sometimes, you lose all of them.
_____________________________
In the dampness and darkness, Hendron is not sure if he's alive or dead. He's not sure he much cares, either. He remains in a cross-legged position on the ground, Sir Oakpeak clinging for dear life about his neck and digging his claws into tender skin. "Ease up," he whispers, perhaps to his hallucinations.
More than fear of death, he's always held a fear of boredom in the next life. That fear couldn't be any more relevant than now.
|
|
Ah. Iomedae...The Kite...
There's an odd feeling in Gwyneth's heart as she watches the burning remnants of the once regal bastion of Kenabres smoulder in the distance; light and airy, as if every thought and prayer were carried on gossamer wings, and then...gone.
She acts autonomously, years of training flaring to life in spite of a dangerously empty mind. Cold-iron steel rests heavy in her hands (though she doesn't remember drawing it). She roars creeds in answer to the rally of her comrades (though she doesn't remember what's said). Her body rushes to block the advance of monsters rising from newly torn wounds in the world (though she doesn't remember what they were).
A well-bloodied demon crawls up from some corner of the debris, sneering unholy vices as it sets upon the nightmarish task of sowing discord among the ranks, planting seeds of untruth and paralysis in the minds of the many; figments that Gwyn herself sees only for a moment before a foreign beat conquers her heart--her blood answering where Iomedae would not--tearing the spell asunder. The demon soon finds its end at the edge of the Paladin's sword, her blade searing its flesh with angry, jagged, burning light.
Shades of gold rack her sight between every other blink, the red-stained horror of the city streets replaced with unending sinews of black that claw at her eyes. Gwyn hears the great dragon, knows the sound, feels the crimson spark of the Storm King's namesake dance on her neck...but she can't bring herself to look.
Iomedae, what am I-- The thought drowns beneath cries of children being crushed to dust, and when Gwyneth turns her head, her reward is the sight of Terendelev--Protector of Kenabres, Silver Dragon of the Crusades, Champion of Light--crashing into the cathedral; both she, and the city, on the verge of being lost.
The void comes soon after, and with bitter tears Gwyneth at last recognizes the strange, unfamiliar feeling beating hollow in her chest.
Rage.
------------------------------------------
Of all her scuffs and scrapes, what hurts the most is her jaw. It takes a moment for the Paladin to realize she's clenching her teeth, and probably has done for the last...however long it's been. A low groan tumbles from her lungs as she rises from the rubble, the clatter of oil bottles at her back informing that the Paladin herself wasn't the only tool to have survived the fall. Her right hand grips her sword in a painful, memorable vice--one she hasn't held for years.
Again? Gwyneth almost wants to laugh. In fact, she does; else visions of blood teeming over the cathedral will drive her to tears. Iomedae, how the hell am I supposed to protect Kenabres from here?
She's not dead, that much she sees as certain; her left arm screams, she's blind, and the sound of her fellows groaning in pain does not at all match her fundamental understanding of the afterlife.
Unless this is the Abyss, of course. In which case, Gwyneth thinks she'd rather like to see what her eternal prison looks like and, with a blind hand rifling around her pack and person, pulls out a torch and set of flint.
A few seconds later, the stick blazes to life in a roar of flame. Finding only swathes of rock and no immediate dangers of which to speak of, the Paladin rises to her feet, sheathing her sword and turning to those who, similarly, appear to have survived the fall.
"Inheritor save us," she prays, though the words come with a tiresome edge. "Is everyone okay?"
The tone of her delivery suggests she at least recognizes just how inane the question is.
With the expertise of Abrielle and Gwyneth, Naali was grateful that she was able to get a good view of the stage. Normally at public events, excited townsfolk pushed and crowded until it was too claustrophobic to remain. Though she wasn't too sure of what was going to be going on, other than there would be some sort of speaker, her two companions were sure to get the trio a prime spot in front of the stage.
Confused as to the sudden interruption, and wondering what part of the scheduled events this was, Naali looked towards Gwyneth to try to piece together what was going on. Her eyes went wide when she saw the plume of fire and heard the dual roars of two giant creatures as the ground shook.
Scared townsfolk jostled the slight tiefling as they fled to places of perceived safety, as demons seemingly poured out of every crevice of the city.
Naali was knocked to the ground before it gave out beneath her, too distracted by the fear of falling to her death to notice she wasn't falling as quickly as she should be.
--------------------
For a person who didn't actually require sleep, Naali was a very deep sleeper. When she finally regained some semblance of consciousness, she spent the first several minutes lazily blinking herself awake. Somewhere to her left she heard a familiar voice speaking.
"Ughhh, what's going on?", she groaned before looking about the cavern around her.
Looking to her side she saw an unconscious man next to her, at the edge of the flickering torchlight, and lightly shook his arm to wake up him. After a second, her eyes adjusted to the darkness to see his neck bent at an unnatural angle, eyes staring blankly into the distance. She released a startled yelp as she scrambled away from the body, seeing countless others mixed with the rubble, deeper into the darkness.
Therrik stands during the speech, with the others, feeling the curious position of being one-of and outsider at the same point. There's something about being in a group of those who are inspired in purpose that... draws you in, to common cause, whether you will or no... but at the same time, this common cause isn't his common cause. Least, not as much as he feels it should be. Perhaps he--
Thoughts of belonging or not quickly became less than inconsequential. Whether or not he's as invested as the crusaders are is-- irrelevant. He's here with them, and they are all under attack.
The demons are like nothing he's seen. Hunting in the Tanglebriar had been a matter of ambushing a solitary dretch or quasit.... the toughest foe they'd ever taken, the two of them working together, had been a goat-headed beast-- and Janayya had rigged a trap for it, a modified bear trap of cold iron that had locked on one gaunt limb and let the two of them attack at safe distance while the thing struggled to free itself.
In short: it is one thing to be the hunter, and it is another to be a leaf before the storm.
More demons than he'd possibly imagined the pits of the Abyss could hold pour forth, from the skies, from below, swarming from nowhere and everywhere; for all he had thought himself prepared to fight demons, he stands a moment, frozen and horrified. The half-a-year in the swamp has not prepared him for this: the only thing that this hearkens to is his childish nightmares.
Therrik lunges into motion the next second all the same; he draws his blade, and stares wildly around-- there, and there, and there-- how do you even pick one to-- someone screams, high and piercing, and he twists that way to see a pinned child-- hell, he can lift a piece of rubble, right--? But though he starts to run that way, he never reaches it. The world falls apart beneath his feat.
The last thing he thinks, as he tumbles into the void, is a suddenly transformed prayer to no god in particular. A week of hoping Janayya is here, and now the only thing he can think is, Gods, please, let her be far away.
...He realizes, dully, that he's still alive. A pounding headache, and a dozen bruises; his lungs feel coated with rock dust, but-- still alive. Coughing, Therrik sits up, his eyes probing the darkness around him. A few seconds later, a small flare of light in the darkness makes him squint that way.
That's... the woman he saw in the inn, right? One of them? The Iomedan. Yeah. There's something-- not quite right about her, nagging at his senses, but-- his head's swimming. He shoves the observation to the back of his head and gets to his feet, wincing.
"Sore," he says hoarsely to the unknown female voice that asks as to people's welfare. "But breathing. Hendron?" because he thought he heard the half-elf's voice. He looks around-- sees the half-elf sitting up, at least, and that's more than can be said for the dozen or so bodies around them. Some of them must be dead.
He'd love to sit and just breathe for a bit, but... Janayya's training, and maybe a streak of pragmatism from his mother, take over. "If there's any-- demons down here-- that flame's gonna be a beacon," he rasps out. Not that he's objecting to it: the humans and such need to see, after all-- but they need to be on their guard.
Somehow, he didn't slice his own fingers off in the fall, for which he's thankful. Therrik finds the hilt of his falchion and pulls it free of the rubble, glancing around at the bodies nearest. "...If you can move, check whoever's next to you for a pulse," he says, with a painful swallow. "I can try and dig people out of the rubble, if someone else watches out for anything nasty."
|
|
Chaos. That's what happened. Abrielle wasn't sure of anything else but she knew that. Thunderous roars rang out above terrified screams and the religious cries of crusaders. The clang of metal on metal sang of the skirmishes being fought all around her.
Abrielle didn't move. She didn't know where to move even if she could. She grasped her morningstar in two hands and swung it at every beast of the Abyss who came in range. The blurs of dark and light that had been dancing above her suddenly came crashing down onto the Cathedral, sending mortar and chunks of stone flying everywhere. The silver dragon, defender of all that was good and pure, had fallen to an abyssal king.
The rumble of the earth was Abrielle's only warning before a chasm split beneath her feet. Slowly the earth swallowed her into its belly. Slowly? That was odd.
So this is how it ends...
~ ~ ~
Or not...?
Abrielle flexed her muscles slowly as her vision adjusted to the dark. Not dead. She could work with not dead. Not dead was a favorable state to the alternative.
She sat up and groaned as the blood rushed around her body, setting a headache from hell throbbing through her temples. She had a few bruises but the pain of those paled in comparison to that headache.
She got to her feet just as Gwyn got a torch going and Naali called for a status update. Devil's own luck...
"I am well enough," she called towards the tiefling. "No sense in not lighting the torch. Most things that lurk in the dark shy from the light," she added.
Are we under the city, or have we been taken... elsewhere?" She avoided saying the Abyss in fear of jinxing the outcome.
"Yeah, the daylight did a good job repelling the demons back in that city," Therrik grunts. "Fire'll keep wild beasts at bay. Not demons, if any of them rolled down here with us. Look, I get that we need it to see," well, some of them do, "I'm just saying, if there's a damn thing here with eyes, wherever 'here' is, then we're lit up like a river lantern now, so just... keep ready."
He's moving as he speaks, checking the nearest body he can see in the dark, and-- if he finds a pulse, or breathing-- struggling to heft rocks off it.
|
|
It takes little more than half a second into Therrik's justification before Gwyn turns heel in the dark, trading the light to her worst hand as she marches headlong up to the half-orc and, without warning, pulls firm at the man's collar, a fiery glow in her eyes as she scours his aura for evil and finds only lingering signs of combat with the abyss. He's foreign, she knows that, his Taldane doesn't carry the hearty twang of a Kenebrean soul, but that doesn't excuse him her newly rewarded wrath.
Of course the fact that he's right just adds fuel to the blaze.
"Not sure if you're aware of this but, sunlight or not, I just watched my city explode." Gwyneth's voice carries a shadow that shouldn't be there; thrumming with spite. "Our people are dying by the hundreds and my entire livelihood's all dust and blood under the corpse of..."
She swallows the image back; flayed scales and carmine scars all smoking with blood. Terendelev deserved better, she admits, and with a sigh she lets the half-orc loose. This isn't worth it.
"Look; if the demons were here, we'd already be in very different places, talking to very different people. And so far you're one hell of a poor substitute for my Goddess, so forgive me if I don't care that this light's a little inconvenient because your kind can see in the dark. I can't, and I'm worse than dead to you without it."
She finishes at that, leaving the orc to continue his excavation and giving Naali and the oddly tranquil half-elf a cursory glance in the light to ensure the tiefling hadn't shocked herself into a complete stupor (and that the latter wasn't some manner of ghost) before turning to check those survivors who'd yet to answer in and, more likely than not--being human and elf--were as blind in the dark as she was.
"Hey. You three holding up alright?" she asks, cringe affixed to her lips as the moans of less fortunate casualties catch against her ear.
...Obviously not.
Therrik's black brows arch above his eyes as the Iomedan grabs at him. Short of actual pitched battle, he's had few enough people who try and lay a hand on him in the fashion she's just done: standing a head over most everyone tends to discourage most of the river-rats from that sort of get-in-your-face bravado. Even the drunk and the bellicose usually seek targets a little closer to their own size. The exceptions would be those too far in their cups to have any judgment at all-- or those who think that challenging the biggest guy in the room earns them something in the nebulous coin of respect-among-scoundrels.
He lets her angry words wash over him like water past a dock, gazing down at her torch-lit face as he tries to put his finger on what struck him as off about her earlier. It's right there, at the tip of his senses, but--
If this were the river, if she were one of those seeking to notch their belt with perceived bravery, he'd bare his teeth and respond in kind.
But it's not, and she's not the second camp, but the first. No, she's not drunk: but still past judgment, he thinks, too much pain-turned-anger in her voice. No point in snarling back, he reckons dispassionately. No profit in it.
So Therrik says nothing, just stands there wordless and motionless, until she lets go and turns back to the others. He resumes working on stone-shifting, looking over to the three that the Iomedan addresses.
Naali had spent time in caverns and caves before, usually searching for a rare herb for one of her experiments, but had always avoided clearly dangerous areas where she found bones or signs of something inhabiting them.
The carnage of the attack on Kenabres and being forced to be near the lingering evidence of that attack was not something she had mentally prepared herself for. Despite the aura of yelling that seemingly followed the volatile paladin around, Naali joined the others in the flickering torchlight, clutching her glaive close in a white-knuckled grip. More accurately, in a pink-knuckled grip.
She noticed an oddity in the orange torchlight as she stared towards the ground, but was far too tongue tied to say much of anything.
Unfortunately for Therrik, no matter how many he digs out from beneath the heaping piles of stone, no one moves. No pulse thrums through the veins of those who fell. It seems that the only survivors are their small group and, perhaps, three others. The first to call out in reply to the paladin's question is the human woman, by the looks of things.
"Fine. I'm fine," she replies swiftly, but despite the strength in her voice there is an edge to it. Perhaps she is simply as furious as Gwyneth. Studded leather armor covers her from neck to toes, matched by her short cropped brown hair and dark eyes. The leather quiver and bow strapped to her back easily mark her as an archer of some variety. Her reassuring answer is quickly overshadowed by the two men who cry out in varied forms of distress.
The tall, slim elf's groans gradually begin to grow louder as he claps both hands over his eyes, blood streaming between his fingers. The dark liquid marks his stark white hair and casts his features in the torch light in hard lines of agony. The wordless cries that tear themselves from his lips speak volumes of the severity of the wound.
A large human man dressed in what was once the finery of a very well-off noble shoves himself up from the stone floor. He is large more in the girth of his stomach than the breadth of his frame, but he is hardly a small man. His clothes are tailored to perfection and his face is clean-shaven, but his hands bear no callouses to speak of. While he looks to be completely unharmed even in his tattered and thoroughly dust coated attire, his cries are louder than the elf. "Oh, do hush, you blithering buffoon. Mind that your betters are taken care of first. Now, one of you lot, help me up before more of those things come for us!"
|
|
Gwyn feels no small measure of relief at the woman's reply, but the her will to respond is swiftly choked by sight of the elven man's abhorrent wound.
"Dammit, dammit, Iomedae, dammit--" The Paladin curses before a flash of inspiration grabs at her mind. Though she has no means to treat the damage, no way to call on the divine's favor...perhaps there's someone who can.
"Abrielle? The elf, his eyes--anything?" She hopes the aasimar catches her meaning as she turns back to the leather-clad archer, temporarily side-stepping the raving noble as a matter of priority.
"Crusader?" she assumes, at this point not caring either way. Her hand snaps out to assist, if it's warranted. "Can you stand?"
At the sound of screaming and the sight of the wounded elf, Naali hurriedly began rifling through her bags for something that could help. Of all the herbs she had to help upset stomachs, remove headaches, or clear skin, none were nearly strong enough to do anything to help.
She knew recipes to make powerful healing potions, but the last time she offered one to another person, they starting vomiting heavily. Apparently the concoction was only viable herself.
She watched on with a grimace, hopeful that Abrielle or someone else could do something to help.
|
|
Abrielle rubs at her own eyes in response to the gruesome sight of another with blood pouring from theirs. Once eyesight is lost, it's gone. Or at the very least she knows of no spells to regenerate the eye. That was a bit of a thorn in the side for her.
"But I can stop the bleeding. Maybe ease the pain if necessary."
As she speaks, she begins foraging around the corpses strewn about in the rubble around them. It was dirty, and Pharasma forgive her, but she ripped capes, cloaks, skirts, and shirts into strips of cloth from the corpses. With that done, she hurried back to the wounded elf. She doused the first cloth strip in water and began dabbing at the elf's eyes, trying to clean off the access and hopefully get any debris out. The rest of the strips she gently winds around his eyes as makeshift bandaging.
As she worked the simpering whines of the rotund noble finally get on her last nerve. Betters?
"Oh for the love of-- Would you do us all a favor you over stuffed, useless lump of flesh so that the competent people can work. Go sit in the corner, which is clearly what you do best, judging from your monstrous and highly unattractive girth!"
Therrik stops digging after finding only another still-warm body-- he'd had hopes of this one, but when he realizes it's a woman with her skull caved in..... his stomach turns a little, and he leaves the grisly work, turning instead to regard the little tableau.
Human woman, looks able to handle herself... alert, anyway.... an elf... Therrik's brows beetle together for a moment, a brief, reflexive frown flickering over his mouth as he remembers the cold reception he'd gotten at the Kyonin border. The words in Elven to Janayya, that he didn't need to understand to realize they were insults...
...but the elf's scream drives those thoughts away. Not like it's this elf's fault whatever some other elves hundreds of miles away did, or said-- and even if it were, nobody deserves whatever happened to the poor bastard's eyes. He grimaces in sympathy, but doubts he can do any more than the blue-haired healer is trying.
That leaves the last human; Therrik groans mentally as he hears the man demanding attention. Great. He knows the type: prosperous river merchants whose cargo mattered more, by far, than the lives of the river-rats who loaded and guarded it; rich men for whom gold makes the world run, and makes them better than anyone else. He grunts to himself, critically watching the man's melodramatic, selfish reaction to the crisis...
...only for his brows to shoot up again at the blue-haired woman's sharply snarled words. Therrik leans back against a large piece of rubble, crossing his arms, and watches first the blue-haired woman, and then the Iomedan who'd gotten in his face.
So. These are the crusaders and heroes of Kenabres.
The half-orc watches in silence another handful of seconds, then pushes off from the rubble again and draws his curved blade. "I'm going to walk the edge of the torchlight," he informs nobody in particular. "See if I see anything out past it."
Shocked by Abrielle's outburst just as Therrik is, the human man is cowed for however briefly it lasts. For the moment, he simply scoffs and grumbles quietly under his breath about impudent underlings. It does not take much to note that he is likely trying to assuage his hurt pride and rampant fear. He huffs quietly and pushes himself to his feet, doing his best to dust himself off.
From Abrielle's keen knowledge of anatomy, she can tell that there is very little left of the elf's eyes to mend. He will need a truly powerful amount of healing to recover from such an injury, but for the moment, her efforts are successful. The man's cries rapidly begin to die down and before long, he is quiet as he feels out around him in an effort to find, "M-my staff. It must be somewhere here. Thank you, but could you assist me in finding my staff?"
At Gwyneth's outstretched hand, the archer offers a pinched smile and she nods as she reaches out to pull herself up. "Anevia. Yes, I think I-- GAUGH!" Her speech breaks off into an pained yelp as she tries to pull herself up to her feet, only for one leg to crumple beneath her. She silences herself almost immediately after, clutching at her leg, but looks up to Gwyneth with pale features. "I think it's...broken. Nnh, can you find something to splint it?"
On the edge of the torchlight, Therrik's darkvision kicks back in and gives him a good view of the cavern itself. It looks to be fairly oval-shaped, but he cannot quite make out the wall opposite all of the rubble. What he can see is that there are a trio of rock formations in a small group off to the right. Twenty feet to the left of the rocks and twenty feet ahead of him, a larger pillar of stone stretches from floor to ceiling. Between the two looks to be a rather large spider the size of a human man, though it seems to be staying as still as the grave.
Presented with a few clear goals, Naali closed the clasp on her ingredients bag, realizing she might be able to help after all. Various trinkets came clattering out of her bag as she tore through its contents, undoing all of the hasty packing that she had done earlier. Inside, she found what she was looking for - a wooden game board about a foot and a half long, and just wide and thick enough to cut in two to craft a makeshift splint. She'd be sad to see it go, but there were more important issues to solve right now.
"Gwyneth, would you be able to cut this in half with your sword without shattering it? I don't really know how to apply splints well, but I think this would be strong enough for it."
Naali is about to hand the wounded elven man her glaive to use as a walking staff, but soon decided that handing a blind man a sharp weapon probably wasn't the best idea. Instead, she peers into the darkness to try to find the missing walking staff.
He notes the man's demeanor as he strides off to the edge of the light, then puts it out of his head for now as his eyes stare out into the gloom.
His eyes scan between the rocks and rubble, noting two curving walls but that the third is too far away for his vision to reach it. Rock formations, check, and-- Therrik freezes momentarily at registering a shape in the blackness, but seconds tick by and as there's no sign of motion from it, he relaxes fractionally. Therrik lets his eyes slide into the unfocused general watching that Janayya had taught him how to do, where you don't stare at any one thing but rather at everything, and then you can notice if anything moves... but he sees no signs of motion other than the flicker of torchlight behind him.
Backing up all the same, so as not to turn his back on the arachnid shape, Therrik sidles back to the others. Keeping his voice even so as to try not to add to the frayed nerves, he says, "Big cave, couple of rock shapes jutting up here and there. Can't see the far wall. Also, there's a big spider, but I think it might be dead-- it's not moving, and it's on the ground, rather than up in a web or on a wall. I'll go check it out, if anyone wants to join me. Or not."
|
|
"Gwyn," she answers in kind--teeth biting as she forgoes her usual nuances of rank and post, knowing full-well that she'll probably never know them again. Thankfully Anevia's grasp is strong enough to draw a pained smirk from her lips, for however small an instant, before the archer's cry splits Gwyneth's ears like broken glass.
Inheritor...
The angered voice in her head is some few years removed from the brightly shined specimen of Goodness Gwyn had long hoped to become. Of course back then, her actions were fodder; her life meaninglessly thrown at the Worldwound in some foolish fit of frustration. Heaven had saved her then--one juvenile brat for a dozen brave souls--and not for the first time. The traitors whose name she wore, whose blood ran through her veins, whose smile she wore to church; their deaths redeemed her long before demons would ever have a hand in her history.
Somewhere, at some point, Gwyneth began to carry suspicions that the Heavens couldn't count; that the scales of justice were forever weighed too far in her favor, like she was cheating the Gods themselves. Two traitors. A sword circle of heroes. And now...
Well, if Iomedae would permit the understatement: now it was just f~%&ing ridiculous.
For a moment the newly errant steward looks skyward--hoping to find some brief sliver of light, some glimmer of hope--but only the endless ceiling and a corridor of darkness calls back.
...What do you want from me?
It's Naali's voice that breaks her brooding, a long board of wood settling stiff in her grip.
"Hnn?" It takes a second to rerun the tiefling's words in her head, but once she does the paladin returns again to the present day in a burst of motion. Setting the torch down upright against a rock, Gwyn draws her sword and cleaves a perpendicular line through the gameboard, splitting it in twain.
"Anevia?" she says, at last the anger in her voice falling to something that could almost, almost, be considered jovial--though that might be the self-loathing kicking in. "If The Abyss left me anything in this world--it'd be my good arm and a pretty face. Neither of which are going to set your leg straight." She flips the rough cut planks in her hands, brow furrowed as she glances away from the broken limb.
"Cerulean?" The Paladin falls into the nickname without thinking. "Assuming you're done verbally flaying our learned--" "--companion, think you could spare another hand?"
Far from the nature of her words, Gwyneth doesn't chide the healer. Though the majority of Abrielle's unwanted fanbase might've already left this world, for as long as Gwyn breathes--having seen the fine work done to settle the blind elf's wounds--the aasimar's certainly still got one.
As for the orc...whatever pang of guilt flutters in her chest is still too weak to work against the storm bubbling in her veins. She does, at least, take note of his report, knowing the information's worth more than her scorn.
"A spider? Dead?" she repeats, scowl deepening. It's not the fact it exists that worries her. "What's killed it? No, wait, don't answer that, hang on."
At the mention of spiders the tiefling turns her gaze towards where Therrik is looking. Creatures lurking in caverns weren't unfamiliar to her, many contained valuable alchemical reagents, or were simply so dangerous that most spelunkers warned of them. "Wait, there's a spider? There's probably a way out of here then - there must be, or else it wouldn't have anything to prey on." She frowned when she realized that could include all of them. "Err, anyway, it might have a web, too. We could use some of the webbing to secure Anevia's splint, or make a cast. And hopefully we can find a walking stick for, uhm... hmm..."
She turns to the blinded elf. "I never caught your name?" She shrugs apologetically before realizing the motion is meaningless to a blind man, and stammering an equally meaningless apology.
"Dunno," Therrik responds phlegmatically to the question of what killed it (never mind the Iomedan's rider to not answer it). "Figured I'd better tell someone before I went poking. In case it is faking."
He nods a little at the-- is that a tiefling? He's seen pit-bred a few times on the rivers, but usually... taller. ... anyway, he nods to show he's heard regarding the need to look for webbing, and then he turns and walks back towards where he saw the spider, keeping in the circle of Gwyn's torchlight.
When they're about thirty feet from the spider Therrik scoops up a fist-sized rock from the cavern floor, and chucks it at the arachnid, as he'd prefer to ascertain whether or not it really is dead before he gets within reach of venomous mandibles.
|
|
With Naali off to find the staff, Abrielle moves on to her next patient. This wasn't actually what she was good at, but people in a bad situation didn't need to know that. Better to keep morale high and feign confidence.
She took the splints and the remaining bandages and straightened out the human's leg. "Not to bad, all things considered," she murmured as she inspected it. "Gwyn, you hold these along here while I get it wrapped," she instructed to the Paladin since she seemed so willing to lend a hand.
"H-hey, you!" she calls out to the half-orc as he starts wandering out of her vision. "Stay together, yeah? Last thing we need is to get picked off like in those horror stories."
Naali's keen knowledge of all that is natural quickly identifies the spider as a giant black widow. Fortunately, the staff that the blind elf man seems to be searching for is not far away. It rests to the group's left, at the edge of the circle of torchlight, as ornate and mystical as one would expect a wizard's staff to be.
"Riftwarden Aravashnial," the elf replies more steadily now, as he seems to be gradually gaining his composure back.
The rock thrown by Therrik lands with a dull thud several feet away from the spider, but it does give a slight shudder. At closer inspection, the creature seems to be laying on its back with its legs curled up beneath it. The only portion that is moving now appears to be its bulbous abdomen, but as soon as either observer comes to that realization, it bursts open.
From within the desiccated corpse erupt a pair of enormous maggots, each as long as the half-orc is tall. Though they have no eyes you can see, they quickly begin to writhe and slither their way toward the group.
Naali studies the markings on the spider carefully, and it was indeed one of the dangerous spiders that travelers had warned her about, but luckily she knew exactly what they were afraid of, and how to deal with them. "Oh, it's a black widow spid-ER!" Naali squeaks at the maggots escape from the spider with a crunch, destroying any plan she could have hoped to make.
She tightens her grip on her glaive as the massive maggots approach the two. Okay, remember the battle lessons, you can do this. Swing, swing, step, swing, step, step. Swing, swing, step, step, swing - er, wait. Swing step, step, swing. Oh no...
"Uh! Giant maggots!" She calls out to the others.
|
|
Abrielle's head whips up from her task of tending to the human only to hear the disgusting slurping, cracking, and crunching of the parasites emerging from the spider's corpse.
"Oh Light, what the hell is that?" she asks, jumping up and drawing her morningstar. Movement dances just beyond the edge of her vision, but at this distance she might as well be blind to the gory scene.
"Giant maggots?" she spits out in disgust at Naali's announcement of the creatures.
Corrupt cultists? Fine. Demons? Whatever. Maggots? Utterly vile and disgusting.
Anevia grimaces in pain as her leg is snapped back into place loudly and splinted, but quickly nods her thanks. It does take her a moment or two before she can unclench her jaw to say so, but her tone is more than grateful. Gwyneth and Abrielle's efforts are successful. The woman hauls herself up to her feet with a bit of effort and manages to stand, though she is still a bit wobbly.
The maggots advance as maggots do, with all manner of vile wriggling across the stone floor. Fortunately, the tiefling is more than prepared for the beast as it closes on her. The first hit gouges out a great swath of sickly white flesh, spraying blood onto the rock beside her. The second swing drives straight into the midsection of the beast, driving the creature into its twitching death throes as it shuffles off its mortal coil.
The other is far too busy trying to get to know Therrik better. It flops its way closer until it finally manages to get within enough range to convulse. While it looks odd, the reason quickly becomes apparent as the maggot belches vile stomach fluids all over the half-orc. Gross...
|
|
"You have got to be kidding me--"
Gwyneth's remark is quickly silenced by the vile undulations of the maggot's vomit, and it is with no small measure of disgust that she tightens the grip on her sword and surges forwards. Demons she has time for, has the fear to spare--but enlarged scraps of vermin? Hahaha-No.
"Yeah, that's why 'm not going alone," Therrik says back over his shoulder to the blue-haired woman, before striding off.
When the spider's corpse erupts with maggots, Therrik's eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to shout a warning... in time to get a belched-up gobbet of foul ichor right in his own mouth.
"Gawwahhrr--ptauugh--"
Ptui-- ptui-- ick-- Therrik spits on the stones, trying to look around for more of those maggots if there are any, but mostly preoccupied with trying to get rid of that taste.
Gwyneth leaps into action and slashes straight through the vile hide of the maggot, unleashing yet another arterial spray across the wall of the cavern. The creature shudders briefly, just as its brother had, before falling still again. And despite the grand victory, Therrik is still coated in bile that smells absolutely rancid.
No other threats make themselves readily apparent, but Anevia keeps her bow at the ready just in case. Aravashnial is still fumbling about for his staff, for the moment, but calls out, "Is it finished? I may have some knowledge of how to best the beasts, if necessary."
The human nobleman, on the other hand, is staring aghast at the carnage much the same way the group had been upon realizing that they are to fight giant maggots. He edges a step or two away from Therrik, purely on principle. "Vile creatures," he mutters mostly to himself before piping up to the others, "if you can escort me safely back to the surface, I will see you rewarded handsomely. You have my word."
|
|
That your answer, Inheritor? Pulling back her sword-arm from the swing, Gwyneth settles her stance with a heavy sigh, not bothering to check if the oversized grub is truly slain from the blow. Call it confidence, perhaps, but the bored hue to her eyes, laid bare by the flickering torchlight, suggests a touch less romanticism. Hints are fine, but work on the delivery, would you?
"At ease folks. Looks like we're good," she says, drawing the edge of her sword against her tabard, further ruining the already stained raiment with streaks of blood and grime, before sheathing the weapon back into its scabbard. "Y'see Anevia? Good arm and a pretty face. Though our green-skinned friend might want for a bath." She shrugs, pulling out a block of lightly scented soap--yeah, you'd be surprised what a Mendevian clergyman carries on their person--to toss at Therrik. Can't hurt, right?
Evidently Gwyn seems all the better for her act of violence--certainly her left arm has stopped its incessant aching--which is probably the only reason to explain how she has the spine to answer the nobleman's offer with a look that is somehow less dismissive than it is understanding.
"Sir--" she addresses, for though he is rather spherical and gaudy as an Abadaran vault, she is a Paladin--and whom else but the nobility do knights serve after the Queens of Heaven and Mendev themselves? "--you could bribe me with a toothpick and nine-month's torture and I'd still drag your ass home. Though now's not the time to get picky about your company, y'know? Because we're getting out of this. All of us. And though I can't say I know you beyond a mouth and an interesting sense of dignity, you've my word on that."
...Aa.
No sooner does the last syllable leave her lips when Gwyneth's veins combust, a slow hand rising to her heart as the divine vice there tightens like a noose. Her face paints a picture, but not necessarily one of pain, or anguish, or even discomfort. It's just...uthghegh...
F&$~.
Blech. Blargh. Therrik stands there, blinking, and... dripping, with guts and spray and things. Not exactly his proudest moment.
The tossed soap catches him off-guard but he manages to catch it without dropping his blade in the process. Therrik gazes down on the little block, and then at the liberal coating of maggot goop he's now wearing...
Yeah, Therrik's rather distracted by the logistics of getting this crap off him. He sets his sword down, digs his waterskin out of his pack, and has just moistened a small corner of his traveling cloak when he hesitates.
Most of his life, access to water has been a given. In fact.... this may be the first time in his life, he realizes, in which he has no idea of which direction the nearest river is. Even on the long journey up to Kenabres, he followed the river.
....well... there's got to be water underground, right? He... doesn't have a lot of experience in caves. But there's... supposed to be underground rivers and springs, right? Hmn. Frowning, Therrik starts trying to wipe up the worst of the gunk from his person while not using any more water than he has to.
Therrik comes back into the circle of torchlight, still somewhat messy but trying to clean himself up. He clears his throat and hands the sliver of soap back to the Iomedan, with a muttered, "Thanks," then looks to the short tiefling.
"Nice work with that glaive," he offers.
"Oh, uh, thanks. I was -" very lucky and didn't have a great idea of what I was doing " - uh. It went pretty well. Does that gunk hurt or anything?" She takes a step forward to investigate the goo, and quickly makes a face as she gets a whiff of it. It wasn't the worst thing she'd ever smell - that honor was reserved for some of her own failed projects, including one that forced both her and her mother out of their house for a week until it aired out. But it was up there.
"Hoh, that's something! Here, I might have something for that... smell."
She digs through her bag and notices the vial that had been spouting orange smoke earlier in the day.
'... it will explode...'
She shakes her head and mumbles to herself. "Stupid, stupid, I could have thrown that, and I bet they would have gone away." Finally she found what she was looking for, a few small sprigs of pleasant smelling herbs, and offers them to the goo-coated half-orc - trying to stop herself from making a face as she got close enough to hand the herbs to Therrik.
"I was going to try to figure out if I could make a paste or spray of some sort that smelled good, so people won't smell as much after exercise. But I don't think that'll catch on, so you can have it. It might help a little bit. Excuse me, I -" am going to somewhere a little less smelly "- I'm going to check on the others. I'm Naali by the way, hi."
Naali grabbed the staff she found earlier and handed it to Aravashnial. "Yeah it's okay. They weren't too bad. Do you know a lot about creatures?"
She hears the complaining nobleman's offer of reward as fact without a second thought.
|
|
Abrielle helps Anevia to her feet, acting as a crutch for the woman for the time being. "That's it, not too much pressure on it now. How's it feel?"
Abrielle wasn't really listening, and only asking the questions on reflex. She looks about at the collected (and exceptionally lucky folk) and took inventory. The magical, the strong, and the quick. And the useless, she thought with a glance over to the nobleman who was making promises of fortunes.
"We should get moving," she announced. "We may not know where we are, or where we are going, but it's clear staying here won't do much good. Someone else help guide Aravashnial."
Aravashnial gladly takes his staff back from Naali, though she has to physically put it in his hand before he is able to find it. Once he has it, the elf stands a tad straighter and manages to regain a bit of poise. As much poise as a suddenly blind man can have, at least. Regardless, he reaches out his free hand to try to grasp some portion of the tiefling but underestimates how small she is. Instead of grabbing onto her belt or elbow, he gets a horn in his grip and holds tight, as though using her as a seeing-eye-dog. "Thank you. I do make it my business to know as much as I can about nearly everything, in case it should be necessary for some reason. Now, then. You will be my eyes, friend, while the others should go and explore this cavern. What are all of your names? And have you experience battling demons?"
"Like I fell and broke my leg, mostly," Anevia replies with just a touch of sass, but she is fairly justified. Splinted or not, her leg is still very much broken and she can do little more than hobble about on it. Between the archer and the elf, the group will certainly not be getting anywhere swiftly. "And I think I'll take over being your eyes. That way at least this lot can all look after us a bit better."
Abrielle, if no one else, is easily able to tell that while the nobleman is self-righteous, arrogant, and full of himself, he is not a liar. His words ring with the conviction of truth; he does mean to reward anyone who gets him out of here. At Gwyneth's speech, he gives a brief chuckle and claps his hands together once in glee. "Outstanding. I quite agree, let's be off. I'm Horgus, elf, we both know that you know who I am." His tone again turns derisive and rude when he introduces himself. Clearly there is some bad blood remaining between the two.
Now that there is no one else in immediate danger of bleeding out or being eaten by maggots, all of you notice something peculiar on the ground. Between the mess of bodies and boulders lay a quartet of silver dragon scales shimmering in the torchlight. Those who touch the scales get a brief emotional rush of deep sadness tinged with resolute determination.
Upon touching the scale, you know that with this scale gives you the ability to cast resist elements three times a day as a standard action, but only against electricity or cold.
Upon touching the scale, you know that with this scale gives you the ability to cast align weapon three times per day as a standard action, but only to make a weapon lawful or good.
Upon touching the scale, you know that with this scale gives you the ability to cast levitate as a standard action three times per day. A pillar of rolling clouds rises below you when you levitate, growing and shrinking with your altitude. It is five feet in diameter and provides concealment to anyone standing inside it.
Upon touching the scale, you know that with this scale gives you the ability to cast levitate as a standard action three times per day. A pillar of rolling clouds rises below you when you levitate, growing and shrinking with your altitude. It is five feet in diameter and provides concealment to anyone standing inside it.
Upon touching the scale, you know that with this scale gives you the ability to cast alter self three times a day as a standard action. While disguised, you gain a +4 to Bluff checks made against evil creatures.
For the moment, it appears that the only way out is through. Forward it is.
"Therrik," the half-orc responds to Naali, before she scampers out of olfactory range. Under normal circumstances, someone backing off from him like that might make him wonder if he stinks, or something. Under right-now circumstances, well.... he knows he does!
"Hang on, what's that bright thing..." Therik comes over to the gleam of silver, his heavy brow furrowed, and touches what looks to be silver plates-- though as he does so, he remembers the incredible, terrible sight of the dragon overhead. He blinks at the strong emotion that washes over him, gazing down at the scales.
"Uh.... I... think these are magical." (No, really?) Awkwardly, Therrik continues, "I... don't know much about that dragon that died. But I gather it was-- important to you people who are from the city. Or he. Or she. I'm... sorry. Should we divide these... among ourselves? Hendron, you know anything about these?"
***
Once the matter of the scales has been resolved, Therrik gives a last, unhappy look at the dead bodies buried under a mountain of rubble. "River guide you to your rest," he mumbles, a phrase that drops easily from his lips, though there's no river likely to do that for these poor sods. "Sorry," he adds on in a mutter, still wishing he might have been able to pull even one living soul from the rocks. Well... no such luck.
He hikes up his pack. "Only place I haven't looked for an exit yet is that far wall. Everyone ready?"
|
|
"Terendelev," Gwyn answers to Therrik, and somehow the name is enough to send air back into her lungs. "I--we knew her as Terendelev."
She can't help but finish with a snort; for though they both served under Hulrun's command, the metallic paragon and her clutch of Paladins had always seemed another world away to Gwyneth. Figments spoken of as heroes and martyrs, always smiling, ever proud--too dazzling for the likes of some runt of the church to imagine, save for in dreams and notebooks. Years earlier, there was an acolyte of the temple who saw the dragon as her exemplar; something to strive for, as if it were so easy to beg the heavens for wings and fly.
Now all she sees is the Cathedral, all red lightning and alabaster dust.
The soap in her hand cracks from the pressure, and Gwyn realizes the hurt won't help anyone, least of all herself. So she sniffs back her tears, tucks the now sour-scented brick into an empty pocket of her backpack, and gives a first and final prayer to the graves about their heads.
"Justice and honor are a burden for the righteous," she recites; a chant learned in service to a thousand fallen crusaders. "And yet still you carried this weight, so that the weak may grow strong, and the meek grow brave..."
Her voice trails off, not really knowing how to finish. Peace. You're supposed to pray for peace, for sanctum in the arms of the Inheritor--but Gwyneth no longer has any intentions to that. She doesn't want peace at all. What she really, truly wants...is to jam her sword into something evil until it cries, until it feels even an inch of the pain carried in every Mendevian soul--but that doesn't sound very sane, so she keeps quiet, nodding to Therrik with a weighted fist on her weapon.
"Ready when you are." She raises the torch high over her head, peering out into the dim terrain--scoffing a little as her lack of shadow presents itself as a boon. "Gonna be a long trek."
|
|
Abrielle helped Anevia get over to Aravashnial, making sure they weren't going to topple over the moment she let go.
A glitter of silver caught her eye, as it seemed to for the others as well, and she bent down to pick up a small silver scale from the ground. She turned it over in her hands a few times. The whole world would mourn the death of something so pure. She pursed her lips and tucked the scale into her belt pouch. She'd be holding on to that.
She listened to Gwyneth's words in silence before giving herself a firm nod. She was ready to get out of here.
"Lets go," she said gently, giving the Paladin's shoulder a pat as she passed. "Therrik, do you see anything ahead? Is there an opening anywhere for us to press onward?"