'Twas the night before Armasse, when all through the city,
All crusaders rejoiced! (Really quite a pity.)
Priests busy tending the wardstone with care,
In hopes that no demons would ever come near;
My cultists would soon be snug in their beds,
While visions of tea-leaves would dance in their heads;
I'd a nice pot of chamomile, the harvest was through,
And I'd just settled down for a nice cup or two,
When back in Kenabres there arose such a clatter,
I peeked from my demiplane to see what was the matter.
To my teacup of scrying I flew like a vrock,
Peered into its waters, and recieved quite a shock.
The wardstone'd been replaced with fire and smoke
Giving the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what might you think that I finally see,
But the Storm King Khorramzadeh, demon ruler of Iz!
With a swing of his sword and a crack of his whip,
He announc'ed his presence. (Geez what a prick!)
More rapid than eagles his cohorts they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, quasits! now, succubi! now, hezrous and omox!
On, dretches! on nabasus! on, mariliths and vrocks!
Into the city! past the watch wall!
Now dash away! crash away! smash away all!"
And then, because writing a poem is ever so hard,
(Although you really must admit, I could've been a bard!)
I decided I'd finish the writing a bit later,
And handed the reigns to The Humble Narrator!
And so our adventure begins! What was to be a most excellent Armasse festival (one of the few holidays celebrated so close to the Worldwound) has just been interrupted by a rather nasty demon invasion.
As the Kite (the fortress housing the Wardstone) vanished in a cloud of fire and lightning, a great roar could be heard and Terendelev (the ancient silver dragon guardian of Kenabres) could soon be seen taking to the sky to engage with Khorramzadeh.
As the ground began to shake and disgorge demons into the streets, the dragon and 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 crowd.
The sight of the dragon smashing into the facade of the famous Cathedral of St. Clydwell is one no witness would ever forget. At that moment, a titanic demon erupted at 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 fell, the dragon noticed your plight. Though she saw death standing over her, she seized this final chance to save a few more souls (although her choice of souls was, admittedly not the best). 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 the darkness as if you were feathers falling into a pit. Yet the fall remained as inexorable, and as you drifted downward into the depths the last thing you saw was the Storm King 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.
So down my cultists all fell, like lost little pups,
Through the fast closing rift, which swallowed them up.
But they heard me exclaim, 'fore they winked out of sight,
"HAPPY ARMASSE TO ALL, AND YOU'D BETTER MESS DESKARI'S PLANS UP REAL GOOD OR I'LL TORTURE ALL OF YOU FOREVER AND DON'T THINK THAT JUST BECAUSE I'M THE DEMON LORD OF TEA I WON'T BECAUSE I HAVE MY WAYS AND YOU WON'T LIKE IT IF I HAVE TO RESORT TO THEM!"
...and to all a good night!
Slowly you come to your senses, who knows how far underground, surrounded by darkness.
Blarghy-dot.
A harsh voice splits the darkness, "Lord Father did that suck!"
Iskarl pulls himself to his feet and looks around blindly, hoping to pick something...anything out of the darkness.
Ungorotol picks himself off the strangely cool ground they had fallen on. "Is anyone there?" He calls out quietly, though not truly afraid as he had been used to such blindness in his childhood.
"Ohsonofa...saint." Riven said, remembering at the last minute that he was supposed to be nice and s*+*.
Hells do I miss my wings. Debilis never told me being one of these big idiots was going to be this awful. All this size and muscle and can't even take a fifty or sixty foot fall. What the crap is up with that?
He chuckled to himself and he took inventory of his pain. He'd never experienced it from this perspective before. Something about it was really funny.
"Heheheh. Ow."
Patting himself down, he pulled a small lamp out of his pack and lit it with a tindertwig, then looked around.
Kaloo awoke in free fall. You wouldn't think that anyone could sleep through the titanic battle raging above, but she'd had quite the bender the night before.
"Five more minutes you bleeding scrags!" she mumbles in a half sleeping daze. " Wait... what?"
Thud While the dragon's spell certainly prevented any serious injury, slamming into the ground arse first at nearly seven miles an hour is hardly pleasant. She stands up and dusts herself off. Not seeing much in the gloom, she snaps her fingers, bathing the scene in a harsh orange light. "Nope, you're all alone fish sticks."
Light floods from both the gnome's fingers and the aasimar's torch cutting through the darkness of the large cavern you now find yourselves in. The ceiling and far walll of the cave stretch off into darkness, but the squeaks of bats can be heard, meaning this space is relatively open.
Brushing the grit and dust from yourselves, stock is taken of the surroundings, and a number of interesting features are immediately apparent.
The Rubble
Behind you lies a pile of little other than stones and the dismembered body parts of some unlucky crusaders. However, the presence of the light reveals a number of glittering silver scales laying among the stones as well (presumably belonging to the late Terendelev).
The Courier
Lying facedown between the four of you is the upper half of a Kenabrian courier. His lifeless hands still clutch a large and very flimsy looking box, miraculously undamaged by the fall.
The Other Survivors
Also lying by you are three clearly living beings, although none seem to have been so lucky as to recieve the dragon's aid during the fall.
The Spider
The black form of a large, horse-sized spider looms ahead! Luckily, the thing has clearly been dead for some time now, based upon the god awful scent and poor condition of its corpse.
Scales? Dragon scales! Those might be worth something. Riven thinks to himself. A wide grin forms on his face.
Ignoring the wounded people, he moves to collect the shining scales.
As soon as Sir Riven grabs the first scale, a strange look comes over his eyes and he begins to stare off into space, transfixed by some imaginary entity.
The shock of the initial vision has left you sickened for one minute as well. You may continue picking up the scales if you wish.
After a few brief moments he snaps out of it.
Riven grins even wider and starts snatching up more scales.
Digging through the rubble, Riven manages to find three more scales, all of them causing a similar reaction to the first as he picks them up.
As you pick up each scale you begin to feel worse and worse, almost to the point of fainting, although you just barely manage to hold yourself together.
Sir Riven is currently looking quite ill. I do hope he's learned a lesson from his excessive greed. Sadly, he probably hasn't.
Riven shaked his head and nearly vomits but manages to breathe deep and hold in his breakfast.
"Being mortal is f&%$ing terrible." he mutters to himself.
Pocketing one of the scales he waves the other cultists over.
"Here. We might need these."
Kaloo walks over and snatches up a scale. She turns it over in her hand a couple times, then shoves it in her pocket. She taps the side of her nose before continuing over to the fallen elf. She puts on a cheery smile and tilts her head slightly as she looks down upon him. "Oh deary me, we seem to have taken quite the tumble. Except that jolly fellow over there that is. Let me see how serious your little boo boo is."
Iskarl looks around as light finally fills the chamber, the tiefling mutters, "Well at least right ones made it..."
He grabs a scale from Sir Riven, shuddering visibly as he picks it up, "Eww, bloody pansy ass metallic dragons..."
Iskarl's long scaled tail slides up his leg and unhooks a flask from his belt before bringing it to his mouth. He pops the cork with his teeth and deftly flicks it's dark contents into his mouth. Swishing it around, an ugly grin spreads across his face before he swallows, "Much better, little of the good stuff to set the world to rights."
At Kaloo's excellent suggestion, Iskarl collects his scythe and moves over to the bloodied elf, "Made it huh? And who would you be?"
The elf turns his head toward Iskarl, revealing a number of ugly lacerations across his eyes. While unclear what could have caused such wounds, there is no doubt that they have left him blind.
Who's there? Survivors? State your names! Are any of you experienced warriors? Step up, on the double!
Despite the elven man's near debilitating injuries, he seems to be wasting no time in trying to straighten himself out in a position somehow more authoritative.
Iskarl grins as the elf struggles to rise, he waves a hand in front of his eyes in a mocking fashion, his voice becoming more uncertain, "Private Winters sir. I'm afraid I'm not familiar with all the officers stationed in Kenabres yet...we seem to have fallen into some sort of caves underneath the city. What do you make of it sir?"
Riven rolls his eyes, waiting to see how all this panned out.
Can't un-kill them. Might as well wait to see if the elf says anything useful.
Private Winters?
For a moment the atmosphere is tense; due to his lack of eyes, it is unclear whether the elf is staring at Iskarl suspiciously or just thinking deeply.
The Private Winters? Thank the gods! You're just what I need right now, lot's of decorations and whatnot - and the other officers speak quite highly of you don't they? Yes yes, exactly the kind of man I'm looking for!
Of course a simple soldier like you probably wouldn't concern himself with the affairs of scholars, so I must introduce myself. Although patronizing, he seems to genuinely like 'Private Winters.' I am Aravashnial, wizard and Riftwarden. I'll be counting on you to be my new set of eyes, private. First off we should organize two parties, one of which will stay here with the wounded and the other of which will explore the caves. What are your thoughts Winters? Without waiting for a reply, Aravashnial continues.
Please give me an extremely detailed description and assessment of each survivor and their current physical state so that I may decide the two parties.
Kaloo rolls here eyes at the elf's story. She wiggles her fingers, considering just barbecuing him on the spot, but decides to have some fun first. Pretending not to hear his request, she presses questions upon the elf in an infectiously bubbly manner.
"A wizard you say? Do you know many spells? I'll bet you know all kinds of awesome spells, will you show me one? Or better yet, you should just magic us out of here! I've heard all manner of stories about wizards conjuring castles from thin air and flying across the world in the blink of any eye. You'll give us a demonstration, won't you? Please?" The last request is so saccharine you could open a candy shop on the spot.
"Blarghety!" Ungorotol utters quietly as he gropes through the darkness towards the sounds of other voices.
"Here. I'm here. If you want to help an old wise man."
Isakrl gives Kaloo an annoyed look, "Forgive me sir, one of the survivors appears to be a particularly petulant child. Also we have an elderly man with some sort of skin condition. Private Sanderson is another from my division, a stauncher defender of purity you won't find. As to wounded we have a severe woman and something of an aristocrat who is currently insensate. Both appear to have been injured in the fall, sir"
From the other side of the cave the mysterious woman, silent and observant this whole time, chimes in, here voice deeper than her lithe figure suggests and unfaltering despite her injuries. A Riftwarden, eh? You still trying to spread that rumor, Aravashnial? You may be a passable wizard, but pretending to be with the Wardens just so you can overcharge your spell-casting services is hardly 'crusader-like' is it now? Besides, is faking your secret society membership really worth drawing the attention of the Blackfire adepts? Once she has said her peace, the woman lies back against the wall again, wincing as she moves her leg a bit.
Aravashnial merely ignores the woman's words to resume his desperate attempt at appearing authoritative, despite the fact that he still lies on his back. More voices I hear? You there, he says, mistakenly pointing at Sir Riven, you sound quite quite petite, and girly, are you even old enough to be taking part in the crusades? Regardless, you'll be staying here tending the wounded. As for you, this time pointing to Kaloo, stop that blarghety-babbling! By the sound of that monstrous voice of yours, you're a real brute, so you'll be on the exploration team. Any questions, no, good! Who else is in the vicinity Private Winters?
The fat man lets out a loud snore.
Ungorotol creeps towards the courier's body and grabs the box before anyone else can see what he's doing (hopefully).
He hides it away in his robes, then turns to the woman giving commands. "I'm not much of an explorer, half blind you know...blarghety."
Iskarl looks over at the woman who clearly knows the blind wizard, "Excuse me ma'am, you would be?"
Kaloo gives Iskarl a dark look. Turning back to the elf, she walks a few feet to the side and does her best to sound lower pitched "Not a real Riftwarden huh? What else are you lying about elf? I don't think you're even a wizard, just another self important, useless, arm-chair general."
Completely ignoring Kaloo, Aravashnial addresses Iskarl, What's that I hear! Dissent! Winters, see to it that that one receives proper discipline and will somebody get me a healer before I bleed to death!
The woman let's out a short chuckle at Aravashnial's complaining and then introduces herself, Name's Anevia. The elf's a wizard alright, he's not one to lie. Of course when it comes to embellishment, especially for the sake of profit, then he's the one your looking for.
Before anyone has time to respond, the rather fat man awakes with a loud grunt. His tone of voice is both annoying and acerbic, the kind of kind voice that could only be described 'easily murderable,' Well this bloody well isn't the room I payed for! And the underground freak show, that wasn't on the agenda either! What in the blazes is going on?
Iskarl grins back at Kaloo, "I'll see to it, sir. Think we're a little short on medics though sir, you'll just have to tough it out."
The tiefling swings around as the fat man wakes, "Seems you've taken a bit of a tumble, mate. And just what room did you pay for may I ask?
It was a joke - not one I expected to make it through your thick demon-skulled head mind you. In any event, can somebody less... you know... tell me what's going on? Brushing himself off, the fat man stands up effortlessly, virtually unharmed by the fall, and sneers at the sight of Aravashnial, Ugh, trapped in a cave with that idiotic conspiracy theorist, must be my lucky day! In any event, someone get me a bite to eat, I'm starved!
"What's going on is that we're all down in a hole." Riven says with a shrug. "Demons attacked the city, and the ground opened up and swallowed us. Now we're down here, and if anything else is too, they're probably pissed off from the earthquake, and know we're here on account of all the noise we're making." He speaks plainly, like none of this is of any real concern to him.
Iskarl stares at the fat man, "less...what? As for a bite to eat there's plenty of spider if that's your thing but otherwise you're on your own, sir."
He looks around, "Alright, some order here, you three seem to know each other. We have mage Aravashnail, who in the nine hells are you two?"
Kaloo sniggers at the elf a little, but quickly becomes bored with him. Seeing what fun can be had with the courier, she skips in his direction. "Don't be foolish, spider's all chitin and ichor, none too appetizing for our jolly friend here. Although I thought I saw some lizard when we arrived, maybe we could make you a kebab."
Ungorotol attempts to hold his body so that the box is on the side not facing the others.
"Whatever is going on, I think we should at least try and move. Maybe under that spider or whatever it is, down the tunnel."
Iskarl looks at the gillman, "Well we can send out a party to check, but the wounded aren't so easy. Unless you want to carry someone, fishbait?"
Ungorotol shrugs.
"I'll help the wounded if I can, what do you suggest?"
He silently seethes in anger.
Iskarl looks at the gillman with a bored expression, "Depends who we have with us, don't it?"
The smiling warrior leans against the wall, watching it all unfold.
Not the way I expected things to happen, but not bad. The big question is if we should kill these three or keep them around to throw in front of whatever we run into down here.