The city is ancient, older, even, than storied Absalom, the City at the Center of the World. The entryways to stately mansion of crumbling black and silver brick open, unseeingly to the cobbled street. Above, black stars sparkle in a viridian sky, and the whole city is bathed in the harsh light of a vermillion moon. Not a soul stirs on the streets in this nameless city, save for you. You know not how you have come to this fabled unnamed city, but this strange city is hauntingly familiar. At the fountain, long gone dry and dusty, in the plaza around the bend, you sat and listened to minstrels sing ancient tales of far-off Lomar and Oriab. Your feet slow, drawn by the haunting remembrance, not quite a memory, but far more than a vague feeling. You can still hear the lyres play, the bard’s songs. But, then, unease fills your heart, and you look back.
Behind you is a wall of sickly yellow fog, tumbling through the street’s canyon of crumbling, leaning manses like some jaundiced flash flood. Ahead, the oddly familiar avenue, curving to the left and right. Behind, from the silent swell of mist, emanates the sound of footsteps--slow and staggered, but somehow keeping pace with the careening, hungry wave. And always just behind. Ever out of reach, but close, and drawing closer. Within, you can discern faint shapes. The fog swirls and billows in opposite ways, as though stirred by the beats of wings and or animals deep within. And always, there are the footsteps.
Still you run, fleeing the plaza of your half-remembered songs, across a courtyard of pillars top by cerulean orbs that fold in on themselves in an alien geometry. Your flight takes you down another avenue, and the battered buildings appear almost ruinous, they slump over the path, nearly blotting out the bruised twilight sky. Again, the grimy cobblestone street splits. This time, one route curves uphill, while the other recklessly descends. Behind, the yellow fog and the relentless sound of pursuit grow closer…
What? Where? Why? Feliks cast about, taking in the city. How had he come here...before? Often. Yes, often. Many times. He sat by the dry fountain and names filled his mind: Lomar, Oriab, places he had never been, far away and long ago. Where had the people gone?
”Hullo? Is anyone there? Do you need help? I might...” It was a mad, stupid thing to do, but Feliks could not accept that the city was truly abandoned. Someone must remain. He looked up the still facades, and beheld the mad sky.
No...no that’s not possible. There’s no sky like that! Black stars! How?! The world seemed to spin around Feliks and he fell backwards, landing hard on the cold stone. The mist rolled down from above, through all the empty balconies. It rose inside open doors. And someone inside.
Feliks swallowed his fear. That person may need help.
”Can you hear me? Are you hurt?” he took a hesitant step toward the fog, but the way it moved and turned on itself broke his courage. He turned and ran, through the plaza, across the courtyard, the fog at his back. He could feel it staring like a thousand lidless eyes. Its jaundice breath touched his neck. Without an instant’s thought, Feliks chose the high path and raced toward the bedlam dome above.
As Feliks takes a step toward the fog, that unearthly bisque miasmia seems to pull towards the halfling. But, he turns and runs up the hill, towards the viridian sky. The hill stretches onward, ever higher, and Feliks runs for nearly an hour. Always, the fog is but a half-step behind him. He crests the hill into an open plaza. But, instead of those impossibly black lights twinkling, a great vault of stone sores above. A dank, wet, stench, like the rot of the sea, fills the air, and fog is ever closer.
The mist parts, now mere steps behind. A mask of gray rags emerges, strips of something fleshier than fabric worming and constricting across a body that’s almost humanlike—but too lean, and far too flexible. Gauzy gray ribbons reach out like tendrils, each grasping for less doubtful flesh to claim.
The old man ceased his running, his injudicious indecision costing him precious moments of his precarious lead as he pondered; up, or down? Faithless memory, that had moments ago distracted him with songs and stories, now adamantly refused to offer any clues. Another treacherous thought arose as he paused - stand his ground and face his foes - and was discarded as hopeless surrender poorly disguised as valor.
Finally, recognizing that vacillation was the worst of the paths before him, he gathered up his courage and resolved to head uphill. There was little hope that the fog that veiled his pursuers would be constrained to natural law, and a risk that he would become trapped on some hilltop, but better to die facing the sky - even this scarlet hellscape - then trapped in the deep dark.
His breath somewhat recovered from his inactivity he boldly set to conquering the slope with a will. His footsteps fairly flew, old joints oiled smooth by the alchemy of terror and desperation, and if he had no breath spare to curse those who followed, he had breath enough to carry him.
He runs up the hill, towards the viridian sky. The hill stretches onward, ever higher, and Feliks runs for nearly an hour. Always, the fog is but a half-step behind him. He crests the hill into an open plaza. But, instead of those impossibly black lights twinkling, a great vault of stone sores above. A dank, wet, stench, like the rot of the sea, fills the air, and fog is ever closer.
The mist parts, now mere steps behind. A mask of gray rags emerges, strips of something fleshier than fabric worming and constricting across a body that’s almost humanlike—but too lean, and far too flexible. Gauzy gray ribbons reach out like tendrils, each grasping for less doubtful flesh to claim.
He glances around him, wondering desperately where he was. Was this...HOME? No...this was somewhere...else? He thinks to himself, trying to keep a grip on himself here. The music takes him back...back to the time when he was chased...pursued by those who feared his differences...his intellect...his mind. He remembers falling down...their blows reigning down upon him...blacking out...waking up after...how long...HOW LONG? He could not remember...but now looking back he knows his tormentors have returned...and so he runs again...knowing he MUST escape this time, yet also knowing there is NO escape...they will catch him again and...Desperately he calls upon what last reservoirs of strength he has left and takes the descending route. His feet barely touch the cobblestones and for an instant he feels a sense of flight, a sense of hope...fleeting though it is. He feels the stone slip out from his foot and then the pavement rushing to meet his face...PAIN...such pain and then as he lays on the ground gasping for breath...his twisted leg lying under him he feels...THEM above him...and wishes he could feel no more.
Down, down, he fell. Tumbling end over end, ruined ankle sending bursts of pain through every motion as it collides with the cobblestones with every turn. Still, the fog follows, slowly, the footsteps come, echoing through the halls of the cavernous tunnel he descended.
He turns, staring his doom in the eyes.. and finds, not the cavernous vault of stone, but the great viridian expanse with black stars sparkling in the sky. Hearda turns away, unable to comprehend the twisted geometry he faced. And, once more brings his horror-filled eyes to that saffron fog haunting his thoughts. The mist parts, now mere steps behind. A mask of gray rags emerges, strips of something fleshier than fabric worming and constricting across a body that’s almost humanlike—but too lean, and far too flexible. Gauzy gray ribbons reach out like tendrils, each grasping for less doubtful flesh to claim.
"No...please, leave me alone!"
She fled blindly through the bizarre city, knowing only that she had to escape. As she reached a split in the grimy, abandoned street - one way leading around a hill and out of sight, the other sloping down into a darkness that even the light of the blood-red moon couldn't penetrate.
Which way? Which WAY!?
The footsteps grew louder. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, she paled - the mist approached, a roiling, sickly thing. She knew that she must not let it catch her - the mist was pain, the mist was remembrance.
"GO AWAY!" she screamed suddenly, her expression almost deranged in her fear. "I've done nothing wrong!"
Please...if anyone is listening...I didn't do anything! It wasn't me!
She turned and fled down the sloping streets, descending further and further into darkness. Or was it madness?
She didn't know.
Still, she runs and the fog follows. And, with it, slowly, the footsteps come, echoing through the halls of the cavernous tunnel she descends.
She turns a corner in the tunnel, and finds not the cavernous vault of stone, but the great viridian expanse with black stars sparkling in the sky of the plaza of pillars. Amber turns away, unable to comprehend the twisted geometry she faces. And, once more brings her horror-filled eyes to that saffron fog haunting her thoughts. The mist parts, now mere steps behind. A mask of gray rags emerges, strips of something fleshier than fabric worming and constricting across a body that’s almost humanlike—but too lean, and far too flexible. Gauzy gray ribbons reach out like tendrils, each grasping for less doubtful flesh to claim.
Dvarin was dreaming, he was sure of that, dreaming of someplace further from home than he had ever been--but where was it? And where, for that matter, was his home? He couldn’t remember that either, it seemed. Maybe this place was his home--but if it was, what had happened to it?
He thought perhaps he would linger at the fountain, try to guess at what had emptied this city--the thought of the minstrels who played here, who he remembered playing here filled him with melancholy and with a strange kind of hunger too--when he saw the fog, pulsing with the yellow of sickness, something stalking within it and before he can react he found himself running, his feet compelled to run through
“Hello?” he called out in the darkness as he raced between the streets. This had to be a dream, his feet running of their own accord, his body acting as the dream logic compelled him but everything seemed so real, the sound of footsteps trailing behind him, the crumbling city beneath his feet, the gray of his skin--why was his skin gray, he wondered? Had he died in this dream? Was he dead already? He yearned to stop, if only for a moment, with each wonder and monument he passed--this was a city built on secrets, wherever it was, whatever it was, but each time he slowed his steps the fog drew closer, hungering after him, heightening the strange pangs of hunger he felt in his stomach, and he quickened his pace again.
At last he reached a split in the street--one path leading up and another down. He could still escape. There was still time. He just had to run. But he didn’t.
Either I am dreaming or I am trapped here. Whichever it is, I will run no more, he thought, turning back to face the fog and let it overtake him.
The mist parts, now mere steps behind. A mask of gray rags emerges, strips of something fleshier than fabric worming and constricting across a body that’s almost humanlike—but too lean, and far too flexible. Gauzy gray ribbons reach out like tendrils, each grasping for less doubtful flesh to claim.
Kalas sighs wearily as the path splits before him, he runs a battered hand through tangled hair.
Whatever path I take the footsteps of death and their perverse fog will follow.
He looks from one path to the other, neither gives any hint of true salvation. Not a scent of memory dredges itself from his cloudy mind to help. With a sharp nod to himself he turns his back on both paths to confront what comes behind. "You take my memories and leave me only this perception of endless tragedy. I will not let you take my diginity as well!" His voice echoes through the streets as the fog propels towards him. Even if you win in the end, I will not let that end be here!
He draws his worn blade in steady hands and defies the fiendish fog with a final wordless bellow.
The mist parts, now mere steps behind. A mask of gray rags emerges, strips of something fleshier than fabric worming and constricting across a body that’s almost humanlike—but too lean, and far too flexible. Gauzy gray ribbons reach out like tendrils, each grasping for less doubtful flesh to claim.
Nathaniel stops, taking a moment to stare at the two paths in front of him before turning to look at the sickly fog behind him. He seems to have managed to evade it so far, leaving it ever so slightly behind, but there it is, inexorable, drawing ever closer. He sighs as he turns his gaze upwards.
'Such a strange sky,' he ponders with a sigh as he takes in the alien colors of it, of the moon and the stars. 'Such a... familiar sky?' The thought is as much a statement as it is a question.
He then turns entirely, no longer facing the two paths but the roiling mist. "This is futile, yes? The upward path will slow you, perhaps, but it will do the same to me. And the descending one will certainly feel quicker to me, but to you as well," he says softly, almost as if he is addressing both the fog and himself, as a faint click and then another are heard. The first is followed by the bottom part of the cane held in his right hand falling to the ground and revealing a cold iron blade underneath it, while the second is accompanied by the sudden appearance of a gleaming silver dagger in his left hand. And then comes the magic as both his black cloak and the clasp that secures it in place come alive for but a moment, as enchantments of protection shield him. "Enough running, I believe."
He looks down at the weapons in his hands. "I... I know how to use them," he mutters to himself, feeling as if the fog is not only out here, but in his mind as well. "I have been... taught?" He looks back up again. The mist is close enough now to make out shapes within it. Not all look human. "Well, at least he is not here to see me make an utter fool of myself," he quips, a crooked smile appearing on his lips. Then a thought, a rational one. 'Cold iron in one hand, silver in the other. One of them is bound to work.' And then another thought, a fleeting one. 'He? Who is he?'
"We have such sights to show you." The whispering voices, inviting and threatening at the same time, come from all around him. They are everywhere.
"Yes, I trust that you do." He brandishes his weapons and looks at the yellow cloud about to envelop him calmly, stoically. "But I very much doubt I will survive the experience.
The mist parts, now mere steps behind. A mask of gray rags emerges, strips of something fleshier than fabric worming and constricting across a body that’s almost humanlike—but too lean, and far too flexible. Gauzy gray ribbons reach out like tendrils, each grasping for less doubtful flesh to claim.
"S-stay away from me! Let me be!" he said. Feliks meant for it to be a warning, but it came out as a desperate plea that died high and shrill in the cold air. "I can defend myself!" he reached for his sword, but stayed his hand and fixed his eyes on the tattered horror.
I am not here. I don't exist. You can't keep track of me, he thought with all his might as he inched away.
Dvarin stands firm. The creature, whatever it was, had pursued him this far; escape was not an option. Trying to escape might not even matter; this place, wherever it was, was clearly not bound by the rules of the waking world. But by the creature's appearance, he had a hunch that he might be able to stop it from getting any closer, regardless of whether it was a threat to him or not. Once it was stopped, he could return to trying to guess the nature of the place he had found himself in.
"Stop," he says, holding out his hand, his voice tinged with magic power as he stared directly at the creature.
The mist parts, now mere steps behind. A mask of gray rags emerges, strips of something fleshier than fabric worming and constricting across a body that’s almost humanlike—but too lean, and far too flexible. Gauzy gray ribbons reach out like tendrils, each grasping for less doubtful flesh to claim.
Horror-struck the old man steps backwards. A wizened arm raises between his face and the rag-man, more to blot out the sight than in any real hope of defence.
He turns, still panting from the run, scanning for an exit - but his survey is fruitless. All around the buildings crowd together and rise up, and up, lost to the stony heavens."Damn you!" snarls the old man as he turns back to the grey, humanoid figure of the rag-man. In an instant he decides; if this is to be his end, he will go down fighting.
Curling his hands into claws he throws himself at tattered enemy, ripping at it in animal fury.
Why struggle...why run...let me embrace you, take away your pain...your suffering...
Hearda struggles to his feet again, his body swaying as he desperate fights to stay upright. His mind, the part that refuses to surrender, points out you can still fight on... along with a picture of a rock flying into the mist, propelled by his mind.
Backing away slowly from the terror, he casts about for a weapon, an implement, anything he can use here to strike back against his fears...but finding nothing....His eyes gazing back at the doom reflected from the body...
Kalas watches the creature come and his disquiet vanishes, "You were more intimidating as an unknown, as a malicious fog and a sound of footsteps. You have given yourself form, and with form you can be destroyed!" He advances quickly toward the creature and swings his long blade with every ounce of strength his battered arms possess.
x2 from crit = 32
It is more of a reaction to the sight of the strange creature -if it can even be called that- rather than a question, as Nathaniel searches his memories for any knowledge of such a being, anything that could provide him with some insight into both the foe and the situation.
But it is not only thinking that he resorts to. There is also action. With magic bolstering and protecting him he quickly decides that there is no flight from whatever this is, no escape from the ever pursuing fog. But there is fight.
That was not a person. It was a...a... Something! Feliks shrank back, shaking.
"S-stay away from me! Let me be!" he said. Feliks meant for it to be a warning, but it came out as a desperate plea that died high and shrill in the cold air. "I can defend myself!" he reached for his sword, but stayed his hand and fixed his eyes on the tattered horror.
I am not here. I don't exist. You can't keep track of me, he thought with all his might as he inched away.
Impossibly, the blind head of the figure turns to stare at Feliks. Its face is obscured, covered by the not-quite cloth wrappings. The mesmerist can't see its face, but he gets the definite impression that the creature is.. grinning. Several rags unravel from the figure's body, and flail about like the flattened tentacles of an octopus. They reach out and grab the halfling about his legs and arms, pulling him taught in all four directions. Slowly, a fifth rag enters his mouth, and the five rags pick Feliks up in the air and pull. A sickening tearing sound fills Feliks' ears as he feels himself coming apart in five directions at once! And, pain filling his mind.. He dies amidst a shower of blood and viscera!
Dvarin stands firm. The creature, whatever it was, had pursued him this far; escape was not an option. Trying to escape might not even matter; this place, wherever it was, was clearly not bound by the rules of the waking world. But by the creature's appearance, he had a hunch that he might be able to stop it from getting any closer, regardless of whether it was a threat to him or not. Once it was stopped, he could return to trying to guess the nature of the place he had found himself in. He searches his memory for any mention of a creature such as this. But, never in all of his scholarly work in all the tomes he as studied, has ever mentioned such a creature.
"Stop," he says, holding out his hand, his voice tinged with magic power as he stared directly at the creature.
The creature stops and the blind head of the figure turns to stare at Dvarin. Its face is hidden, covered by the not-quite cloth wrappings. The necromancer can't see its face, but he gets the definite impression that the creature is.. grinning. Several rags unravel from the figure's body, and flail about like the flattened tentacles of an octopus... Assss youuuu wisssssh. Its voice, if it can be called that, slithers through Dvarin's mind, like a leech in placed in his ear. The tentacles thrash through the air, and Dvarin's face is splattered by blood! A halfling's head rolls out from the fog.
The head comes to a stop at Dvarin's boot, mouth open impossibly wide. Meeeeeeeee, it seems to whisper.
The body of an old man slumps through the fog, suspended by invisible wires. The head bends up, shattered neck bones snapping as the corpse looks straight into the necromancer's eyes. Pleeeeeeeeeeeease. Its voice is hollow and cold, as though Dvarin was hearing it from the end of a very long tunnel.
The blood splattering his face dribbles onto the ground. As the drops fall, the splatters form a single word: Gods!
The face of a Varisian woman, sad and scared, appears in the fog. She turns towards Hearda, mouth opening impossibly wide: Saaaave!
The fog retreats, revealing a skeleton flayed of all flesh. The bones are contorted to form the word: UP!
Horror-struck the old man steps backwards. A wizened arm raises between his face and the rag-man, more to blot out the sight than in any real hope of defense.
He turns, still panting from the run, scanning for an exit - but his survey is fruitless. All around the buildings crowd together and rise up, and up, lost to the stony heavens.
"Damn you!" snarls the old man as he turns back to the grey, humanoid figure of the rag-man. In an instant he decides; if this is to be his end, he will go down fighting.
Curling his hands into claws he throws himself at tattered enemy, ripping at it in animal fury.
The Oldest One's fists land wet and sticky against the the creature's wrapped body. It feels spongy, like sodden bandages, or the cap of a mushroom. Several rags unravel from the figure's body, and flail about like the flattened tentacles of an octopus. The tentacles thrash through the air, and wrap about the Oldest One's neck. Slowly they choke him, he feels his neck snap, his windpipe crush. He pulled close to the creature in the fog, and sees his breath.. his soul.. pull out from his mouth and nose and sink deep into the creature's head wrappings.
The Oldest One falls to the ground, dead
For an instant he is frozen in terror, a part of his mind simply refusing to accept the reality...was it reality?...around him. But a part of his mind, upon reflection the insane part that insists on action here, instead of accepting the inevitable here.
Why struggle...why run...let me embrace you, take away your pain...your suffering...
NOOOOO!!
Hearda struggles to his feet again, his body swaying as he desperately fights to stay upright. His mind, the part that refuses to surrender, points out you can still fight on... along with a picture of a rock flying into the mist, propelled by his mind.
Backing away slowly from the terror, he casts about for a weapon, an implement, anything he can use here to strike back against his fears...but finding nothing....His eyes gazing back at the doom reflected from the body...
The creature stops, and the blind head of the figure turns to stare at Hearda. Its face is hidden, covered by the not-quite cloth wrappings. The necromancer can't see its face, but he gets the definite impression that the creature is.. grinning. Several rags unravel from the figure's body, and flail about like the flattened tentacles of an octopus. The tentacles thrash through the air, and Hearda's face is splattered by blood! A halfling's head rolls out from the fog.
The head comes to a stop at Hearda's foot, mouth open impossibly wide. Meeeeeeeee, it seems to whisper.
Shortly after, the body of an old man slumps through the fog, suspended by invisible wires. The head bends up, shattered neck bones snapping as the corpse looks straight into the mystic's eyes. Pleeeeeeeeeeeease. Its voice is hollow and cold, as though Hearda was hearing it from the end of a very long tunnel.
The blood splattering his face dribbles onto the ground. As the drops fall, the splatters form a single word: Gods!
The face of a Varisian woman, sad and scared, appears in the fog. She turns towards Hearda, mouth opening impossibly wide: Saaaave!
The fog retreats, revealing a skeleton flayed of all flesh. The bones are contorted to form the word: UP!
Kalas watches the creature come and his disquiet vanishes, "You were more intimidating as an unknown, as a malicious fog and a sound of footsteps. You have given yourself form, and with form you can be destroyed!" He advances quickly toward the creature and swings his long blade with every ounce of strength his battered arms possess.
The paladin's blade swings in a brilliant overhanded-chop, cleanly slicing through the creature. Its flesh gives like a rotten sponge or the cap of a mushroom. Twin haves stand, shredded rags flailing in the air like the tentacles of some flattened octopus. The tentacles thrash through the air, and wrap about the paladin's head. They pull up, and Kalas can feel his head ripping free from his body, skin stretching and splitting, blood pouring from the wound. His last sight, before death claims him, is of the shredded rags pulling the two halves of the creature together until it's whole once more.
Amber feels her throat constrict in terror as the shape lurches toward her. What was it? She'd never seen or heard of such a thing in all her years, in all the half-remembered folk tales and whispers she'd collected. Unfortunately, she cannot recall a single tale about a creature such as this!
But it didn't really matter. She knew there was nowhere to run.
Just give up, let it take you...
"I WON'T!"
The force of the scream that came from her own throat surprised her but not as much as the quickness with which she strikes with the weapon that, in her fear and panic, she hadn't even been aware of holding - a small, bladed weapon stylized like a compass rose.
The blade sinks uselessly into its spongy flesh. Several rags unravel from the figure's body, and flail about like the flattened tentacles of an octopus. The tentacles thrash through the air, and fly out towards Amber. The tips of the rags glisten like blades. It drives them into her chest. She gasps, choking on her own blood as she collapses to the ground
What... are you?"
It is more of a reaction to the sight of the strange creature -if it can even be called that- rather than a question, as Nathaniel searches his memories for any knowledge of such a being, anything that could provide him with some insight into both the foe and the situation.
But it is not only thinking that he resorts to. There is also action. With magic bolstering and protecting him he quickly decides that there is no flight from whatever this is, no escape from the ever pursuing fog. But there is fight.
He reaches for his blade, but finds it missing! His sword should be at his side, he knows this! But, the blade is gone! Where could his sword be?! He looks around, for a moment, distracted by the impossibility of his missing weapon. In that moment the creature strikes. Fleshy tendrils wrap about him, each tipped with a single mouth. He felt the mouths grind and eat each part of his flesh. It was slow agony, and impossibly long!
The fog parts and two men stand beside each other on a grassy plain beneath black stars in a veridian sky. Before them, five corpses rot. The head of a halfling moans Me. An old man dances on mummer's strings, whispering Please. Blood from a fallen warrior spells out Gods. A ghostly woman sighs: Save. And, finally, a skeleton spells out Up with its bones.
The creature stares at the corpses, thrashes its rags in the air. It appears... annoyed.
NOOOO....Whyyyyyy!!
The sight of the corpses nearly causes him to collapse in terror again, but the iron core of his orcish half refuses to submit. He again starts to back away looking for anything he could use as a weapon...the sight of someone...ALIVE causes him to stare in horror, wondering whether he was part of his torment. The savage part of his mind glares at the man before his rational side reasserted himself.
"...Who are you?" He croaks out.
"I'm nobody, that's who," he says to the man who has appeared next to him.
Dvarin did not know who he was--a trick of the creature or another talking corpse, but it did not matter. He had a monster to speak with, and this strange city he found himself in was as good a place as any for him to meet his end.
"What are you?" says Dvarin, looking at the monster's face, right where it's eyes would be--should be.
Kalas enjoys the sudden lack of freedom that comes with not having a body.
For a moment...what seems an eternity...Hearda closes his eyes as he is paralyzed with terror, sensing his doom rushing towards him...then stops. Risking a peek at the face of his fears he trembles violently as the voices of...do I know them? Not possible... strangers from Beyond cry out in agony.
NOOOO....Whyyyyyy!!
The sight of the corpses nearly causes him to collapse in terror again, but the iron core of his orcish half refuses to submit. He again starts to back away looking for anything he could use as a weapon...the sight of someone...ALIVE causes him to stare in horror, wondering whether he was part of his torment. The savage part of his mind glares at the man before his rational side reasserted himself.
"...Who are you?" He croaks out.
Dvarin licks the blood from his face, a familiar hunger panging in his stomach as the scene plays out before him. He had never seen a creature like the one facing him before, and he could not tell if his magic had worked or if the monster was mocking him. Regardless, judging by the living corpses confronting him he doubted that he was capable of fighting this creature, whatever it was.
"I'm nobody, that's who," he says to the man who has appeared next to him.
Dvarin does not know who he is--a trick of the creature or another talking corpse, but it does not matter. He has a monster to speak with, and this strange city he finds himself in is as good a place as any for him to meet his end.
"What are you?" says Dvarin, looking at the monster's face, right where it's eyes would be--should be.
The creature slouches forward, its rags flapping in a nonexistent breeze. It bends, somehow arching its head so it faces both Dvarin and Hearda. That was is eternal cannot lie, and with strange aeons even death may die. The creature's voice is a maggot slithering across their minds. The rags lash out, once more, ripping Dvarin's skin from his still standing body. The corpse, muscles and bone naked to the world, stands for a moment before collapsing to the ground in a wet puddle.
The skin flaps in the air, and the snaps of the flesh on the unfelt breeze seem to sound the word 'WAKE over and over.
The halfling's head moans MEEEEEEEE The Old Man's body whispers PLEEEEEEEASE. The Pleeeeeeeeeeeease. Its voice is hollow and cold, as though Hearda was hearing it from the end of a very long tunnel. Splatters of blood on the flagstone floor form a single word: GODS!. The Varisian woman made of fog calls out into the sky SAAAAAAAVE A flayed skeleton spells the word: UP
All of this, Hearda sees as the creature turns to him. Rags stretching out, ready to strike.
Hearda had barely enough time to register the appearance of the...vision...figment...hope... puppet before it soon joins the other corpses around him.
While a part of his mind... the savage part of his mind rages at the being wishing to tear its limbs apart savagely, or use the powers of his mind to rip it apart...the human part of him knows that would only lead to his doom...death....oblivion...
Must...think...here...
The logical part of his mind concentrates on the words echoing in his mind...
WAKE ...
MEEEEEEEE...
PLEEEEEEEASE....
GODS!....
SAAAAAAAVE....
UP....
Perhaps they were the Key...the Key to this puzzle. He had always enjoyed puzzles...
This is but a dream! A DREAM! A DREAM?
Hearda sees his time has run out...the rags already moving to reduce him to oblivion...He raises his arms high up in the air and screams as loud as he has ever before, all the passions and rages he feels,
Realization dawns in the Mystic's mind. This is but a dream, a falsehood! Wet blood runs red and rich down his nose and drips freely upon his chest. His head pounds, and he sees the creature rear back, rags raised to strike. The dead about him scream a cacophony WAKE UP!. He screams the words as well as the creatures strikes. The nameless city shatters. All is painful white, and blissful black. Beautiful unseeing sight fills his mind. And the Hearda hears a howl of frustration rip through his mind as he comes to wakefulness.
Pain. There is pain. Bone creak in memory of being shattered. Skin heats at being flayed. Breath is short, every pull of those internal bellows is a struggle. Movement is a burden, as though bodies have forgotten movement and their natural purpose in this world. They are naked, save for ragged ill-fitting patient's gowns, without weapon or implement of skill. The phantom weight of absent steel and wood sets fingers flexing. Armor, like a second skin to some, stripped away, like flayed skin. The dreamers are faced with a terrifying prospect: they are truly helpless.
Yet, despite the effort and nakedness, the dreamers stand. Such a small triumph is but a cruel mercy. For, having left that nameless city of terror, they find themselves amid a waking horror: Iron bars, red with rust and slick with grime stand before them, separating them into three filthy cells. Molding straw covered with waste and vermin serves as sleeping mounds. Excrement covers the walls in bizarre patterns that hurt the eye to follow. From the ceilings, dangle a partially eaten corpse. Yet, the true horror is what lies beyond the behind the bars. Caged, though they are, mercifully, they are separate from... that.
The three cells the dreamers find themselves in ring a central room, lit only by a few flickering torches belching sputtering black smoke into the air. A half-naked man lays bound to a stout examination table in the center of the room. His chest is criss-crossed with deep red lines and brands, some pinked over, and others still glow hotly, as though fresh from the irons. A gaunt woman in nought but a bloody doctor's smock circles about the man, occasionally running a too-long finger down his cheek, or leg. Where ever she touches, the man screams as though burned and flinches away, pulling himself as far as he can in his bindings. Blood wells beneath his shackles, congealing about the rough-hammered iron bindings. The woman chuckles. Hush, now, my duckling. We'll set you to right. Her voice is off... stilted and lilting, like a child's voice, but with the timbre of maturity. She twists and walks on spindly, stilt-like legs. Everything about her is over-long and thin. She smiles down at her patient, and her beautiful face pulls back tight into a rictus grin, eyes wide and full of glee.
Dear gods above! Please! I beg of you! Serrenrae, Mother of Mercy! Hear my pleas! Give me release! The man turns, hearing the dreamers' stirrings. His eyes are filled with terror, and the desperate hope of the doomed. Starsong! Wake them up! Help! Someone! Anyone! HELP!
The nurse, her mouth still pulled in that too-wide smile, laughs merrily. Oh, duckling, Doctor Scaen is here to help you. Don't you want to be helped? She turns, running her hands over rusting and pitted chirugen's tools laying in wait at a steel table to her side. As she turns, the unmistakable clink of keys chimes a sweet psalm in the air..
Everyone is SPOOKED. You have a -2 to fear effects and Perception checks. BUT! you get a +1 to initiative!
And, also, a bit of clarity.
1) If you have memorized spells, you know those, and have your full compliment prepared, despite the dream.
2) You also know all of your skills.
3) You know how to use whatever weapons your character is proficient in
4) You don't know WHY you know these things. But, you know what you know (or, however you want to play that out).
5) You do NOT have your weapons, implements, spell books, familiars, armor, or any other gear. You, literally, are in hospital patient gowns (complete with open back).
6) You recognize the people in the 3 cells as the people in your dream
7) the bars are locked. and the "good" Dr Scaen has a set of keys on her belt.
8) Dr Scaen is otherwise preoccupied, so you've got a bit of time to figure out what your next steps are. So long as you don't attack her, you don't need to make an initiative check. You can plan, discuss, talk, sit and wait for the inevitable doom that comes to us all, whatever without any fear of not having weapons. But! If you try to attack her via spell, power, ability, or grapple, then we go to initiative.
Feliks awake, blinking and casting about the cell with furtive glances. Woman. Man on table screaming. Body above. Bars. Draft across his nethers. Man on the table screaming.
He could let the man die. The woman would open the door eventually and it would be child's play for Feliks to slip off. He would just have to watch a man be tortured, and possibly these others too. One woman was no problem for him. Feliks weighed his options and decided he could not afford to wait. Not if he wanted to live with himself. Time to act then.
Feliks conjured up a long-ago memory. Bright summer afternoon out under the sky, stealing berries from...somewhere? With...someone? He mastered his emotions, put the woman into the memory, and poured all his fond feeling into her.
The oldest one of the prisoners, over in the corner of the middle cell, regains awareness. He shivers convulsively, as if from cold. Hands stained black with muck best not studied too carefully hold his face as the noise around him intrudes. When he removes them clean streaks track from his eyes into the tattered white ruin of a beard below.
He took a deep breath, tried to get a hold of himself, and made the mistake of looking skyward, into the shattered remnant of a man hanging from the ceiling.
Shaking again, he cast his eyes to the ground, desperately searching through the filthy straw for anything that might make even a basic weapon.
"Where am I?" he asks, quietly, desperately, of his cellmates. "What is this place?"
As he...wakes...Am I awake? I...I do not know... from his dream...Nightmare...REALITY he struggles to his feet trying to separate...the dream from the reality...and finds his grasp on both slipping.
Who am I?
I am...
Hearda...the Mystic...yes that is my name but WHO am I?
He stares at the others dully through the bars...Are they real...am I real...? Already he could feel the terror of the memory returning.
Desperately he focuses on the scene outside him...the keys jangling as his human side realizes they represented a release...from this dream into this nightmare...
But how to grab them? The bars prevented him from reaching them, as surely as the widest chasm...
or DID they?
He senses a memory...words fleeting, spoken in his mind and a rock floating up from the ground...a memory of him controlling its movements as surely as if he was holding it in his hand.
The words flow into his mind and he utters them softly, knowing the woman was a danger...and he sends his mind out towards the keys hanging so tantalizing close...
"Well, that was...," Nathaniel -that... that is his name, is it not?- manages to utter as blessed consciousness returns to him, his tone of voice at least showing that he is in control of himself, if only barely. His voice trembling slightly betrays that latter fact. "...disturbing," he concludes as he pats himself down, feeling flesh where he half expects to find but brittle bone.
Regaining as much of his composure as the time and the place and the attire and the circumstances and more allow him, he looks around, finding the faces of those in the same cell as he strangely familiar. 'As if from a dream,' he ponders as understanding dawns on him. "A dream indeed," he mutters to himself. "A nightmare..."
He registers the man being tortured -for only torture could bring out such screams- and an expression of sympathy appears on his face. Indeed, he almost springs to action, but quickly he stops himself. He has nothing but a patient's gown on him, and a dirty one at that. This does not seem to stop some of the others though, that much he can tell, as his eyes very briefly glow with a silvery blue light and he once again looks around, this time seeing things under a different light, both literally and figuratively speaking.
Kalas's first thought as he opens his weary eyes is of irony. And so I awaken from one nightmare into another, if only I was in a warm bed. At least my head is attached this time. He slowly brings himself to his feet, stretching tired muscle and shaking out the vestigial remnants of sleep. No clothing, no tools, no weapons and locked in a cell. Not the best of places to be.
It is only then that screams of the man on the examination table register in his mind. He peeks out through the bars and witnesses the horror the oddly inhuman woman reaps upon the screaming man. He looks about him and sees strangely familiar faces within his own cell and the other cells. They all appear inclined to help the screaming man. That's a strong sign that they are allies to that which is good. He knows that there is not much he can do stuck in the cell unarmed, but he also knows he has to try his best to help the man. So escape it is then. He focuses his thoughts and attempts to discern anything useful about his surroundings.
He walks up to the rusted door of his cell, intent on testing its strength without alerting the evil woman. He grasps the bars in shaky hands that become suddenly steady with a task to accomplish.
Dvarin is silent upon awakening. It was a dream after all, though this is a cold comfort, given the state of where in the waking world he finds himself, unable to remember his name, locked in a cage with a man he does not know, watching as a strange woman tortures a man to death. He backs away from the bars of the cell, standing in the corner, his hands flat agains the walls, and closes his eyes in concentration.
Hearda and Dvarin are adjacent to:
Amber, Feliks, Kalas
Nathaniel and the Oldest One. Are in the southern room
The map SHOULD be available and updated.
The old man's shaking subsides as the man trapped in here with him speaks cogent sentences. Long-learned instincts propel him towards this new involuntary ally, hand outstretched in greeting - then snatched back as his cellmate's eyes flash a cerulean blue.
Facial expressions are hard to read on a face covered in filth and matter hair - but disgust is evident from the way the old man wipes his filthy hand on his already filthy hospital gown.
Noticing his older cellmate's offered and then withdrawn hand, Nathaniel seems puzzled for a moment as he turns to regard the other man with his now normal -albeit still a little disconcerting perhaps- golden eyes.
"Are you well?" Even as he speaks the words the pale raven-haired man realizes the absurdity of his question given their circumstances and manages a crooked little smile, even if it is not entirely heart-felt.
"The question stands regardless," he adds with a shrug, offering his own hand.
The old man does his best to control his features.
"Perhaps not." replies the old man quietly "Your eyes, for a second there... they seemed to glow, like that of something outside the natural order." He shakes his head "Some remnant of that damnable dream, perhaps."
He continues, softly "I thought we might see if there was something to pick the lock, or defend ourselves. I've no desire to end up like that poor fellow out there."
The oldest one of the prisoners, over in the corner of the middle cell, regains awareness. He shivers convulsively, as if from cold. Hands stained black with muck best not studied too carefully hold his face as the noise around him intrudes. When he removes them clean streaks track from his eyes into the tattered white ruin of a beard below.
He took a deep breath, tried to get a hold of himself, and made the mistake of looking skyward, into the shattered remnant of a man hanging from the ceiling. Shaking again, he cast his eyes to the ground, desperately searching through the filthy straw for anything that might make even a basic weapon.
"Where am I?" he asks, quietly, desperately, of his cellmates. "What is this place?"
Beside him, his pale cellmate stands on shaky legs, he nearly stumbles thrice, but still, he manages to regain control of himself. He ignores the elder beside him for a moment, more focused on the problem at hand. "Well, that was...," Nathaniel -that... that is his name, is it not?- manages to utter as blessed consciousness returns to him, his tone of voice at least showing that he is in control of himself, if only barely. His voice trembling slightly betrays that latter fact. "...disturbing," he concludes as he pats himself down, feeling flesh where he half expects to find but brittle bone.
Regaining as much of his composure as the time and the place and the attire and the circumstances and more allow him, he looks around, finding the faces of those in the same cell as he strangely familiar. 'As if from a dream,' he ponders as understanding dawns on him. "A dream indeed," he mutters to himself. "A nightmare..."
He registers the man being tortured -for only torture could bring out such screams- and an expression of sympathy appears on his face. Indeed, he almost springs to action, but quickly he stops himself. He has nothing but a patient's gown on him, and a dirty one at that. This does not seem to stop some of the others though, that much he can tell, as his eyes very briefly glow with a silvery blue light and he once again looks around, this time seeing things under a different light, both literally and figuratively speaking.
To Nathaniel's eyes, the dingy ill-lit dungeon takes on the silver-blue pallor of a world beneath the cold light of the full moon. Colors are muted in stark contrasts of light and dark. He sees a faint glow--a brighter blue in the patina that covers the world--from the halfling in the cell across from him, beside a screaming woman, and a strong-looking man--a warrior no doubt, given his response to his situation. The halfling conjures a bewitchment of the mind in a fashion not unlike Nathaniel's own occult studies, although he does not know how he is so sure of this knowledge. The Chelaxian sees the casting well--a soothing spell to calm minds and fill them with pleasant thoughts. His target is the woman beset by such horrendous derangement that she perceives torture as medicine. Perhaps here, in this place, it is. Softly, the mock physic's head glows that same cold cerulean, but it soon melts, and Nathaniel knows it held no effect. She is still under her delirium.
In the cell adjacent to the halfling's, Nathaniel's eldritch sight glows bright again as another spot of light flares to life. This time, a human stands, fixedly staring at the woman, and the keys dangling at her belt. His words flow from his mouth in whispering hiss. Eldritch words of a language not heard on mortal tongues since before the Fall once more are given voice. The man's hands take an azure tint and he slowly reaches out towards the woman. A cesious aura surrounds the keys joined by a single thread of blue light to the man's outstretched hand. Slowly, a single bit of metal rises, and then collapses back against her thigh, and the spell fades.
The old man's shaking subsides as the man trapped in here with him speaks cogent sentences. Long-learned instincts propel him towards this new involuntary ally, hand outstretched in greeting - then snatched back as his cellmate's eyes flash a cerulean blue.
Facial expressions are hard to read on a face covered in filth and matter hair - but disgust is evident from the way the old man wipes his filthy hand on his already filthy hospital gown.
Noticing his older cellmate's offered and then withdrawn hand, Nathaniel seems puzzled for a moment as he turns to regard the other man with his now normal -albeit still a little disconcerting perhaps- golden eyes.
"Are you well?" Even as he speaks the words the pale raven-haired man realizes the absurdity of his question given their circumstances and manages a crooked little smile, even if it is not entirely heart-felt.
"The question stands regardless," he adds with a shrug, offering his own hand.
The old man does his best to control his features.
"Perhaps not." replies the old man quietly "Your eyes, for a second there... they seemed to glow, like that of something outside the natural order." He shakes his head "Some remnant of that damnable dream, perhaps."
He continues, softly "I thought we might see if there was something to pick the lock, or defend ourselves. I've no desire to end up like that poor fellow out there."
In the center of the room, woman turns and looks at Nathaniel and the Oldest One. Her eyes are bright and round her smile tight as ever. She places a too-long finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. Her smile grows even wider, and her eyes take on a knowing look before she returns back to her patient. The meaning is clear: they will have have their turn under care soon enough.
Dvarin is silent upon awakening. It was a dream after all, though this is a cold comfort, given the state of where in the waking world he finds himself, unable to remember his name, locked in a cage with a man he does not know, watching as a strange woman tortures a man to death. He backs away from the bars of the cell, standing in the corner, his hands flat against the walls, and closes his eyes in concentration.
Images of pain and torment flash through his mind in a cacophony of sight and sound, an incomprehensible kaleidoscope of senses. For a moment, his mind strains under the assault, but Dvarin's will and training come to bear and the sensations form a single picture. He sees an old building bearing the name Briarstone Asylum on its wrought-iron gates, once stately with high gables, nearly three floors high and elegant gardens and walks upon an island, now brought to horrific ruin. A miasma of decay and corruption has fallen upon this once proud bastion of medical science and mercy. Now, the asylum is surrounded on all sides by a yellow fog, and a place of horror and torment.
In the cell with Dvarin, another man stirs.
As he...wakes...Am I awake? I...I do not know... from his dream...Nightmare...REALITY he struggles to his feet trying to separate...the dream from the reality...and finds his grasp on both slipping.
Who am I?
I am...
Hearda...the Mystic...yes that is my name but WHO am I?
He stares at the others dully through the bars...Are they real...am I real...? Already he could feel the terror of the memory returning.
Desperately he focuses on the scene outside him...the keys jangling as his human side realizes they represented a release...from this dream into this nightmare...
But how to grab them? The bars prevented him from reaching them, as surely as the widest chasm...
or DID they?
He senses a memory...words fleeting, spoken in his mind and a rock floating up from the ground...a memory of him controlling its movements as surely as if he was holding it in his hand.
The words flow into his mind and he utters them softly, knowing the woman was a danger...and he sends his mind out towards the keys hanging so tantalizing close...
His words flow from his mouth in whispering hiss. Eldritch words of a language not heard on mortal tongues since before the Fall once more are given voice. He slowly reaches his hand out towards the woman, as he feels a thread of will, an intangible string of force connecting his hand to the key. He can feel them in his hand. Their smooth metal cold against his flesh. Slowly, a single bit of metal freedom rises, and then collapses back against her thigh, and the spell fades.
Feliks awakes, blinking and casting about the cell with furtive glances. Woman. Man on table screaming. Body above. Bars. Draft across his nethers. Man on the table screaming.
He could let the man die. The woman would open the door eventually and it would be child's play for Feliks to slip off. He would just have to watch a man be tortured, and possibly these others too. One woman is no problem for him. Feliks weighs his options and decides he can not afford to wait. Not if he wants to live with himself. Time to act, then.
Feliks conjures up a long-ago memory. Bright summer afternoon out under the sky, stealing berries from...somewhere? With...someone? He masters his emotions, puts the woman into the memory, and pours all his fond feeling into her. The memory floats through the air on an eldritch breeze conjured by his mind's will and his focused perception. It settles about the woman's head, and she gives pause in her practice, the scalpel in her hand momentarily falling to her side. She shakes her head, the light of madness burns bright in her eyes once more. Ah, my little duckling, such sweet berries. Your berries will be sweet, too. Yes they will. She places the scalpel against the man's toe and cuts, slicing the tip clean before devouring it with a twisted sigh of relish.
The man screams again.
Unaware of his companion's mesmirisms, the strong-looking man stirs. Kalas's first thought as he opens his weary eyes is of irony. And so I awaken from one nightmare into another, if only I was in a warm bed. At least my head is attached this time. He slowly brings himself to his feet, stretching tired muscle and shaking out the vestigial remnants of sleep. No clothing, no tools, no weapons and locked in a cell. Not the best of places to be.
It is only then that screams of the man on the examination table register in his mind. He peeks out through the bars and witnesses the horror the oddly inhuman woman reaps upon the screaming man. He looks about him and sees strangely familiar faces within his own cell and the other cells. They all appear inclined to help the screaming man. That's a strong sign that they are allies to that which is good. He knows that there is not much he can do stuck in the cell unarmed, but he also knows he has to try his best to help the man. So escape it is then. He focuses his thoughts and attempts to discern anything useful about his surroundings.
A man of action, Kalas' eyes cast about the room quickly, cataloging potential weapons, searching for threats, evaluating exits. Battle is not unknown to him, indeed, he and conflict have been friends for quite some time. He knows this as surely as he knows his name. That friendship serves him well, now. The woman is the only threat, of that he is certain; else, her victim's screams would have at least aroused interest from her comrades. The scalpels and saws upon the table could prove useful as makeshift weapons. They're certainly sharp.
He quietly tests the bars of his cell, but finds them quite sturdy despite their pitted appearance. The madwoman startles for a moment, pausing in her work, and Kalas thinks, perhaps, he's been found out, but she shrugs and goes back to ministrations. His care is lost, however, as the woman beside him starts screaming.
Amber bolts upright, looking about wildly. She'd thought the screaming was her own...but no. Someone else. She shivers as she becomes aware of the draft and of her predicament. There were others with her, but they looked to be in no better straights.
Wait...I remember them...in that dream...?[i/]
She shakes her head, suddenly feeling dizzy as she attempts to stand. Her eyes turn once more to the scene playing out on the other side of the bars, her mind finally beginning to register what's actually occurring.
[i]Oh gods! What is she doing to that man!?
"H-hey! You leave him alone!" she cries. "You're hurting him!"
The deranged doctor slams her hands upon the table and turns, madness consumed by blind rage. Her face a mask of fury, she charges towards the Amber and her fellow prisoners, heedless of the others. Her eyes see only Amber. I told you... The mad doctor's flesh melts. Eyes, skin, hair, nose, lips, everything that distinguishes her as a person slips and melts like wax upon the candle, falling, rippling across her form, and falling wetly to the ground in a pile of quickly dissolving slime. In place, is a gaunt and misshapen form, sexless and without features, a lump of gray flesh affixed to two over-long spindly arms atop two spider-like stilts of legs. The twisted, blank face stares Amber in the eyes, a formless slit appears in the blank space where a mouth should be.
DC 10 success means no damage. Failure means 1 point.
threshold 3
threshold 4
threshold 5
threshold 3
threshold 3
threshold 3
threshold 4
Everyone's OK, except the Oldest One. He takes 1 point of sanity damage. It's still below his threshold, so he doesn't suffer any madness. Yet.
The deranged doctor slams her hands upon the table and turns, madness consumed by blind rage. Her face a mask of fury, she charges towards the locked female and her fellow prisoners, heedless of the others. Her eyes see only the woman rattling her cage and disrupting her fun. I told you... The mad doctor's flesh melts. Eyes, skin, hair, nose, lips, everything that distinguishes her as a person slips and melts like wax upon the candle, falling, rippling, across her form, and landing wetly to the ground in a pile of quickly dissolving slime. Even the doctor's smock is in loose tatters of dissolving protoplasm. In its place, stands a gaunt and misshapen form, sexless and without features, it is but a lump of gray flesh affixed to two over-long spindly arms atop two spider-like stilts of legs. The twisted, blank face stares the female dreamer in the eyes, a formless slit appears in the blank space where a mouth should be. . Its voice is wet and unnatural, is ill-formed and misbegotten as its body.
All in the room recoil in horror at the unnatural twisting of its body, the bizarre, misshapen thing that it becomes. No god, no sane mind, no grand purpose could have given thought and form to this creature. No, this is but a thing of madness, the half-formed dreams of some other power, deranged and unsound and imcomprehensible to mortal ken. Most of the dreamers come to grips with this shake upon the foundation of their realtiy, the natural state of being that forms and bodies are Just So, that only magic, or some other great working of the mind can bend the natural flow of the world and allow a being to warp their forms this way. But, the Oldest One, his mind already reeling from the death of his hellish nightmare, and his staunch views about the order of the world, cannot accept that such a being as this ... thing... can exist in the waking world of gods and men. It shakes the foundations of his being, and he shivers.
The gray figure slams her fists against the bars, threateningly. You'll get your turn, my little dove! Now, it's voice is soft, and childlike, again. It runs its fingers on the bars, giggling in that childlike voice.
Swift: Spell Recollection, In combat, target = Break = Nup.
5ft: move to cover behind Nathaniel
std+move: conceal spell, Telekinetic Projectile. DC is 18+cover+range. Hopefully everyone is looking at the doppelganger, including mr Detect Magic here ;P
Target at 'vermin' in cell. Does to saw and (if it hits) vermin. Guessing the saw hardness will soak it and some poor mouse gets exploded. Would just pick an empty square, but not sure it is allowed.
If vermin is problematic, then the old man himself, but then get cover and in combat and drop prone and choose to take any other penalty I can ;P
The old man shrieked as the nurse dissolved into a shapeless nightmare creature. Reflexively he cowered behind the golden eyed one in his cell. "I'm still asleep!" he demanded "I have to be!"
Hearda stretches his mind outwards to grab the beckoning keys with his mind...the words to long-forgotten magicks flowing past his lips...
The keys move...ever so slightly...
I GOT THEM!
He feels the excitement...and then he sees the look of madness in the woman's eyes...He HAS seen that look before...in a dream... then the spell fades as the voice of a forlorn woman cries out...
a crashing wave of terror engulfing him as he sees his dreams and this reality become one and the same...the woman who wears the guise of a nurse, ripping the veil from itself...his mind staggering from the onslaught...
NOOOO...
The sight of her nearly causes his mind to shatter...yet by the grace of...the Gods?? Himself?? he does not break. Bend yes...but not break.
He sees Dr Scaen...Thing?...move out of his sight, craning his neck barely brings it into his preipheral vision. A part of him rages impotently...yet a reflection of light from the tools on the surgical table...her implements of torture draws his eyes back to them. He sees...grabs the tool...like before, with the keys. But how to...a vision of the saw slicing through the air, and into its back with a wet *thwack*...His mouth uttering strange eldritch words, laden with power and the saw quivering in response...
Despite the horrendous sight in front of him Nathaniel still manages to keep his composure, albeit barely. And especially when the waxen creature almost slams against the other cell's door. Still, there is little he can do to help either himself or the others from where he is, that much he realizes as he looks around for anything he could use to try and pick the cell door's lock.
"A piece of wire, a broken off fork, a syringe needle," he mutters softly to himself, his voice barely a whisper. "Anything..."
Indeed his quick search and subsequent examination of the lock at the very least serve as a welcome distraction from the thing that used to somewhat resemble a nurse only moments ago.
Feliks stomach turned and he fought the urge to leap back. That thing's skin just...peeled. Small wonder his trick didn't work; it only worked on people, not things.
Making the best of it, Feliks fixed his gaze on Doctor Scaen and waited for her -it- to be distracted and then reached for keys.
Kalas is startled by the sudden change in the nurse from somewhat humanoid to a hideous shifting beast. There are times when evil takes innocent forms. This is not one of those times. Monstrous thing! He reaches through the rusted bars and attempts to grab the creature and smash it against them violently.
He shouts, "Someone grab the keys!"
He shouts, "Vile creature! Come in here and face me without bars between us!"
Amber: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (17) + 2 = 19
Dvarin: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (10) + 2 = 12
Feliks: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (4) + 12 = 16
Hearda: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3
Kalas: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (2) + 7 = 9
Nathaniel: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20
Oldest One: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 2 = 14
Nurse: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4
Despite horrendous sight in front of him, Nathaniel still manages to keep his composure, albeit barely. And especially when the waxen creature almost slams against the other cell's door. Still, there is little he can do to help either himself or the others from where he is, that much he realizes as he looks around for anything he could use to try and pick the cell door's lock.
"A piece of wire, a broken off fork, a syringe needle," he mutters softly to himself, his voice barely a whisper. "Anything..."
Indeed his quick search and subsequent examination of the lock at the very least serve as a welcome distraction from the thing that used to somewhat resemble a nurse only moments ago.
Across the way, in the other cell, Amber shrieks and stumbles backward as the 'doctor' suddenly turns and rushes at the cage, her form shifting and melting into something that almost defied description.
"No! Stay back!" she cries as she throws her hands up in a defensive gesture. For a brief moment she feels pressure in her skull as if something within her was fighting to be released...but then it fades as quickly as it arrived.
The gray mouth slit appears once again, and the creature laughs a girly singsong laugh and runs its fingers slowly across the place where its throat would be.
Feliks stomach turned and he fought the urge to leap back. That thing's skin just...peeled. Small wonder his trick didn't work; it only worked on people, not things.
Making the best of it, Feliks fixed his gaze on Doctor Scaen and waited for her -it- to be distracted and then reached for the keys. His distraction comes as the man beside him grabs it in his strong arms.
The man shouts, "Vile creature! Come in here and face me without bars between us!" The creature turns to face the warrior and laughs, this time in a strong, masculine voice... the same voice as Kalas himself! Once more, its face melts. It stretches and twists, reaching out like twin tentacles and folding in on itself. Lumps become shapes, shapes become nose, eyes, ears. A slit forms then fills out to form a mouth with lips and a bare hint of stubble. Other tendrils stretch out forming hair, and the warrior finds himself staring at himself! The creature laughs, with his voice, spouting vile obscenities about the gods of man. Horrible vile lies, truly, but still.. with Kalas' voice and form... they are unbearable to hear! He feels the foundation of his being, that very thing that defines him, quake.
Still, the warrior steels himself to his task despite the sudden change in the nurse. There are times when evil takes innocent forms. This is not one of those times. Monstrous thing! He reaches through the rusted bars and attempts to grab the creature and smash it against them violently. Kalas pulls it in close to the bars. The diminutive Feliks, already slipping from the creature's sight, easily ducks under the warrior's clenched arm and pockets the keys from the creature, even as it melts out from the warrior's grasp.
As Nathaniel works at the lock, the old man shrieks in horror. His mind is overcome with terror as he witnesses the nurse dissolve into a shapeless nightmare creature. Reflexively he cowers behind the golden eyed one in his cell. "I'm still asleep!" he demands "I have to be!" It is an unfortunate position for him, for, just at the moment, the weird nature assaulting this room shift. And, somehow, a syringe filled with some nauseatingly orange compound flies through air and impales a rat to the ground in front of the Oldest One's cowering face. The metal is quite sharp and could easily be inserted into a lock.
The creature that called itself Doctor Scaen roars, its Kalas-face melts as its body erupts into fangs, horns, and scales. Its body thickens with strength. And, it glares at Kalas with fury. You die next!
Hearda feels a crashing wave of terror engulfing him as he sees his dreams and this reality become one and the same...the woman who wears the guise of a nurse, ripping the veil from itself...his mind staggering from the onslaught...
NOOOO...
The sight of her nearly causes his mind to shatter...yet by the grace of...the Gods?? Himself?? he does not break. Bend yes...but not break.
He sees Dr Scaen...Thing?...move out of his sight, craning his neck barely brings it into his peripheral vision. A part of him rages impotently...yet a reflection of light from the tools on the surgical table...her implements of torture draws his eyes back to them. He sees...grabs the tool...like before, with the keys. But how to...a vision of the saw slicing through the air, and into its back with a wet *thwack*...His mouth uttering strange eldritch words, laden with power and the saw quivering in response.
True to his vision, the saw flies through the air towards the creature. But, it has none of the force of his vision, and it does no harm. The creature turns with hate and hisses at the prisoner.YOU?! HOW!? It stomps over to the bound man, claws raised to strike.
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Ha! Feliks let the keys slip back into his gown before Doctor Scaen could see, being sure she'd entirely lost sight of him before he drew the keys back out and opened the cell.
"I'll get the doors, friends. It'll not see me," he whispered. He slipped out into the room, on his way to the next cell over.
Move action: use the keys and open the door.
Move action again: 20 feet toward the cell next door.
Hearda stands in the cell paralyzed as the...nightmare...terror moves to strike at the helpless prisoner.
no...NO......I did not mean for this to happen! A wave of guilt and remorse strikes him as he sees the blood upon his hands.
Movement catches his eyes as one of the prisoners managed to escape his cell. How...how did he escape? Still knowing it would take but a glance behind it to send it into a murderous fury, he sends out a tendril of eldritch energy, this time seeking the jagged saw laying next to the cell...
"Well," Nathaniel says simply as he takes the syringe in his hand very very carefully. He almost begins to ask where it came from but decides otherwise. Instead he inserts it into the lock, moving it this way and that and listening for that much desired little click.
"At least one seems to have gotten out, eh old man?" The remark is spoken in a soft voice. Just because the creature appears to be preoccupied does not mean they have to make it notice them again. Not if they can help it.
"Tsk..."
Kalas steps out of the cell and feels the relief of claustrophobe being released. Any longer and I would have tried tearing that door off its hinges. He tries to be quiet as he enters the room, but he knows his goal: Grab a weapon, kill the monster. He goes for the table, hoping to pick up a saw or something similar while the creature is distracted.
Behind Nathaniel, the old man fossicks through filthy straw for a weapon.
"Good work, young man. Get the door open - we might still be able to save that poor fellow." he calls out in encouragement.
Amber: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (17) + 2 = 19
Dvarin: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (10) + 2 = 12
Feliks: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (4) + 12 = 16
Hearda: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3
Kalas: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (2) + 7 = 9
Nathaniel: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20
Oldest One: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 2 = 14
Nurse: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4
"Well," Nathaniel says simply as he takes the syringe in his hand very very carefully. He almost begins to ask where it came from but decides otherwise. Instead he inserts it into the lock, moving it this way and that and listening for that much desired little click.
"At least one seems to have gotten out, eh old man?" The remark is spoken in a soft voice. Just because the creature appears to be preoccupied does not mean they have to make it notice them again. Not if they can help it.
"Tsk..."
Carefully, Nathaniel inserts the syringe needle into the lock, twisting the metal this way and that until...click. He feels the tumblers fall into place, and the metal needle twist. The catch unfastens, and he quickly holds the door slightly ajar, enough to give the appearance that it is locked, but not tight enough that the hasp engages again.
He breathes easy, the creature pays him no mind! Although the poor fellow on the table may wish otherwise. It lifts a saw up to its face catching itself in its reflection and running a long clawed finger over the blade.
Across the room, beyond the hulking monstrosity that once wore the guise of a thin blonde doctor, Amber gasps softly as the halfling in her cell somehow produces the keys that had only been hanging on the thing's belt just a moment ago and quickly opens the cell door.
How...? she wonders, but then shakes her head. She wasn't sure what sort of thing was out there but maybe if all the cells were opened they could overpower it, somehow. She quickly turns to the other occupant of the cell, grabbing him by the arm.
"Come on! Before it sees!" she whispers as she wills for the fates to be kind and let them escape with their lives. The man straightens, a resolve and steel fills his spine and muscles that was not there before. She is sure the fates have heard her pleas and they smile upon him in this moment.
Beside her Feliks feels his own moment of good fortune! Ha! Feliks lets the keys slip back into his gown before Doctor Scaen could see, being sure she's entirely lost sight of him before he draws the keys back out and opens the cell.
His caution serves him well, and the creatures takes no notice of his passing. He's as silent as a shadow. "I'll get the doors, friends. It'll not see me," he whispers. He slips out into the room, on his way to the next cell over. He sees the odd-colored human unlock the door his own cell. That leaves the cell adjacent to his. Carefully, with almost painstaking slowness, the diminutive halfling inches his way over to the remaining cell. He cannot quite reach it without rushing, and risking alerting the ... creature.. to his presence. But he's there. Almost.
Behind Nathaniel, the old man fossicks through filthy straw for a weapon. "Good work, young man. Get the door open - we might still be able to save that poor fellow." he calls out in encouragement. The bound prisoner gives a resolved shrug before pulling and struggling at his bonds, keeping the creature's attention on him while the old man searches the straw of his cell for a weapon. He finds none, but an odd weight, as though he's wearing a very heavy coat, settles about his shoulders and arms.
Kalas feels fortune smile on his as the prisoner moans loudly, drawing the creature to smack it on the mouth. It leaves a bloody streak and the prisoner spits out a tooth. The warrior is not the most silent of people, but the prisoner makes enough noise to mask his steps. Kalas steps out of the cell and feels the relief of claustrophobia being released. Any longer and I would have tried tearing that door off its hinges. He tries to be quiet as he enters the room, but he knows his goal: Grab a weapon, kill the monster. He goes for the table, hoping to pick up a saw or something similar while the creature is distracted.
Once more, Kalas feels fortune smile on him as he slips inches forward, quietly, cautiously. His foot crunches on a bit of gravel. And, for a moment, the world freezes. Time stops, as the creature pauses and cocks its head as though listening to something. Then, in Kalas' own voice, the creature begins to hum a children's rhyme, somehow taking on new and horrible meaning in this room. Kalas breathes a sigh of relief and steps forward again. His fingers reach out and grasp the handle of a saw. It's larger than the scalpels. It should do more damage. Its weight is a comfort in the warrior's trained hand, like a long lost friend, reacquainted once more.
Suddenly, the creature grabs its head and cowers down. Stop! Stop! No no no no no no no no! They sing! They sing! Make the singing stop! Make the voices silent! The creature moans and bangs its head to the table before leaning over the bound prisoner. To any who have the sight to see such things, an eldritch light surrounds the creature's head, even as it clutches its cranium and dashes it on the table.
Beside Dvarin, Hearda stands in the cell paralyzed as the...nightmare...terror moves to strike at the helpless prisoner.
no...NO...NOOOO...I did not mean for this to happen! A wave of guilt and remorse strikes him as he sees the blood upon his hands.
Movement catches his eyes as one of the prisoners, the warrior from his dream, managed to escape his cell. How...how did he escape? Still knowing it would take but a glance behind it to send it into a murderous fury, he sends out a tendril of eldritch energy, this time seeking the jagged saw laying next to the cell. Fortunately, the creature is so distracted by the singing in its head, it doesn't see one of its saws lift into the air and float to Hearda's outstretched hand.
So, the creature popped a spell-like ability (anyone who has detect magic active can learn what it is, but times of the essence, here). in 2 more rounds, regardless of precautions, the creature will know what you're planning, and do something about it.
The doors to Both Amber's cell and Nathaniel's cell are open, leaving only the cell to Hearda and Dvarin to be opened. (spoiler) this will probably happen on Feliks' turn, unless he decides to dance a jig or something. After that, you are more than welcome to kick the crap out of this thing and then start to solve some mysteries, Gang.
The old man suddenly straightens "Help the others, while this lasts." he commands of the younger man. A moment later he straightens and walks through the door, and to the table.
Separated now from the protean form of the 'doctor' only by the surgical bench between them, he does his best to talk calmly. "I can help" he assures the monster "I can stop them singing."
Even as he speaks his hand, resting casually on the edge of the table, plucks something up.
swift action to activate mutation - don't think it is particularly perceivable, if it is I won't use it.
Move action to walk 5 squares up, and 1 to the left.
Standard action to grab something.
Kalas feels a disgusted sort of pity for the monster. It is obviously insane. The evils it brings into the world will not be ended without its life being ended as well. He feels divine might flow through him as he makes his decision. His muscle tense as he pulls back the jagged saw and brings it down upon the creature's head with all of his strength, a complicated sadness in his eyes.