"It's a mighty big assumption that Nazhena's forces would come here ter spring our trap. What's a little doll in an old cabin ter them? The damage has already been done ter the child's soul, and we've got a bigger fish to fry. If we go handle the portal first we might maintain what little element of surprise we have. We have ter pass back this way anyway on our return. We can deal with the doll then," Rasso says in response to Ar'Zarrcal. He doesn't look at the dwarf as he speaks, instead he continues to scan the surrounding forest, crouching low to the snow. We're sittin' in this clearing like a flock o' geese when we should be haulin' arse to the portal and gettin' it closed before Nazhena brings a small army through. Damned sentimentality.
When they stopped, Ordrud was still contemplating the influence of his personal white witch on his life. And Oruk of Death’s Head, the Hold of Belkzen, civilized Lastwall, these freedom-loving Andorans, and Runelord followers. Had he just been manipulated by the wills and beliefs of others? Like this tiny faerie Shor? What does Ordrud truly believe? Why does Ordrud care? Well, there’s that permanent winter thing...
Now they found kids, dolls, and hauntings. Even the necromancer seemed concerned. And the dwarf manipulated the faerie, like he did with Ordrud to get his healing.
Ordrud pulls some frozen meat out of his pack from the village and starts tearing and chewing. He watches the group dynamics while keeping the hauntings and menhir in his peripheral vision. The Andorans will want to save the child’s damned soul. Now how do we blind the white witch before we do that?
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Styvanus felt his heart wrenching. His eyes were set coldly on the building in front of them, paying no mind to the fluttering of the haunt at the edges of his vision. That wrenching compelled the man to 'save' the innocent soul and to save it now, but the dead man's spear in his hand compelled the soldier, and furthermore the Leader in him not to lose sight of the objective. "Alright then.." He began to gather his team's attention. "We keep moving, we're too far in to fail now. If we don't close off this winter portal, it may never be closed. There will be much cleaning up to do, and allowing an innocent soul to rest is certainly high priority... but all in due time. We know the objective, let's get this finished."
He scratched the scruff on his chin." Shor, do you have anything in that bag of tricks of yours that might help obscure our advance from the prying eye?" He asks the fae, gesturing towards the haunt.
Until a few moments ago, Teladon had remained passive behind his mask. He had slowly allowed his eyes to keep scanning the edge of the groups approach. Time and time again the group had been attacked along their route towards the whirling portal of snow and ice, he knew the likely hood of being attacked again would have been likely if not certain. However when Fenyx began his description of the ritual required to create the doll that dwelled ahead, Teladon nodded. Should could be powerful. Too often humans did not consider that the bodies they inhabited where merely shells. It was the soul that gave a creature its personality and depth. It was the soul that allowed a body to fight long after the body had given up. There was immense power within each soul and the dark arts could allow for terrible magic's if properly harvested.
Shrugging the elf kept his bow ready, but as he continued to listen to the necromancers description, his respect for the human grew. This man was knowledgeable. That was to be respected. He had access to the same dark powers that the witches seemed to control, as did Teladon to a lesser degree, but he did not allow that power to consume him. He controlled it and directed it. He was its master, not the other way around. Gazing towards the stones in the distance, Teladon shrugged. Humans die every day in this world. The portal is what is important. If we do not stop it then thousands of children will die of famine or cold. The captain is right. The portal has to be our goal. If we attack then we risk alerting our foes. Better to avoid this place all together.
Ar'Zarrcal offered a grin to Shor. It wasn't exactly friendly, but it was more appealing then the sneer of his clenched teeth and wrinkled eyes. In fact for a moment the pale blue orbs set in his sunken sockets seemed to brighten and shine with emotion, a noticable difference from the usual milky aloofness they usually conveyed.
Setting his axe into the snow covered ground for a moment, he rubbed his covered hands together for a moment to keep them warm, his breath steaming out in the frigid air. After tugging on his beard to straighten it into a sharp point, he looked away from Shor and offered a faint, muttered croaking sound when those affiliated with Andorran began to offer their reasons for going around.
Reaching down he seized his ulfen battle-axe in hand once more and focused his eyes upward on Captain Rozier's face."I thought that you Andorran's were all about freedom and struggled ever against the evil's of slavery and regimented order? In that hut resides the soul of a child, chained and bound to a construct and enslaved to the will of a winter witch. Proud, honorable Andoran and its grand philosophy of the Common Rule." Derision and scorn flooded his words as servant of Karzoug the Claimer attempted to point signs to the hypocrisy of the Andoran ideal. The sneer appeared again and he gestured toward the hut with his axe.
"If Shor is possessed of poweful illusion magic perhaps we can deceive the winter witch. Show her something that is not true, dispatch the construct, and provide us cover all at once. The appearence of an armed force heading along a different course? It could perhaps draw away those we would otherwise have to face." Ar'Zarrcal did not truly understand why he wanted to destroy the soul-bound doll so much, nor where the building anger and resentment came from, but it was all too real. He convinced himself that he merely wished to leave no enemy at his back and that misleading information could be more valuable then the chance of surprise, which may or may not be possible.
"The winter portal is our goal, but we are given here a chance to learn more about our enemy and the sorceries they use. When we reach this rift, we will need to know how to close it." Ar'Zarrcal let his face return to a neutral mask of frost covered beard, pale rune-etched flesh and cold, apathetic indigo eyes.
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Styvanus faced Ar'Zarrcal as the minion of Shalast brought into question his commitment to the ideas of freedom. The captain's expression contorted as though his tongue had tasted sour grapes." I didn't ask for a second opinion dwarf." He states flatly, thrusting his pointer finger against the rune upon the servant of Shalast's brow." Within this thick skull of yours likely remains the soul of a proud dwarf, chained and bound to a shell of it's former self and enslaved to the will of ancient evil. A man such as yourself who lives on his knees has not yet earned the right to question the Common Rule. You haven't the slightest concept of it." The captain chose his words carefully to mirror those of the dwarf and they were spoken as sharply as the fragments of a broken mirror. Rozier's ideologies would not be deconstructed so easily. Styv, like Ordrud, had noticed how the dwarf used words to entrap Shor and he had no intentions of allowing himself to be led down that path.
He shook his head and continued."It is illogical to go out of our way to confront a forward scout when we know that the witches will be watching. The entire reason we took the path that we did and endured being covered in sap of those living firs was to avoid Nazhena's fae scouts. I'll not put us right back in her sights for naught. Furthermore we have no reason to believe that the witch would keep the secret of closing the portal contained within this doll. Stand down dwarf...We go around."
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Shaking his head, Shor looks troubled by the spirits as Styvanus directs his attention to them. He pauses, listening to Styvanus and Ar'Zarrcal debate the matter, and seems tense when the Captain's voice raises some and he asserts his authority. When it appears as though they are going to go around, however, Shor is relieved.
"I can make myself unseen," the sprite waves his hands around in the air as if demonstrating the required gestures, "but it only lasts for a few seconds, and it only works on me. I can show you a safe path through the trees around the hut. Most of Nazhena's people avoid this place, the ruins scare them..."
Buzzing away from Styvanus, Shor suddenly blossoms with an icy light around his body, becoming a beacon for the others to follow through the dark of the forest. "I will find us a path through the trees and around this place, I know a way!" Shor promises as he flutters away a few more feet. "This way!" is barely audible as he zips over branches, under deadfall and through tight gaps between ancient darkwoods. With one brow quirked, Gwynn looks to Shor's direction and then back to Styvanus. The blonde gunslinger exhales a sigh and rests one hand on her holstered firearm, then nods to the Captain and waits for the team to depart, covering the rear.
As the group marches away from the menhirs, following Shor's guidance for a safe route through the trees, Gwynn gives one last look to the flickering motes of ethereal energy flitting between the standing stones. Her brows furrow, briefly making out a humanoid silhouette against the white of the snow, but its gone before she can make out any details. Exhaling a sigh as a cloud of steam, Gwynn turns towards the rear of the group and begins marching through the shallow snow at their rear.
Not too far off, between the standing stones, spectral figures watch Gwynn's departure with pained expressions. These translucent, ethereal beings reach out spindly fingers in grasping gesture towards the gunslinger's departure. No one can hear their voices, lost in the hazy mists of the ethereal plane as they are. The tall, high-browed figures in their tattered finery with embedded gemstones in their skin soon realize that help has passed them by. They turn to one another, each disfigured by rending claws and torn flesh in their post-mortem appearance.
"" one speaks in a haunting, echoing tone to another spirit. The robed azlanti look to one another, then part to reveal a tiny young girl in clothing centuries different than their own. The flesh on one side of her face is missing, the eye on that side little more than a hollow socket weeping blood in a steady stream.
She weeps not just for her lost family, but for those who have gone into the forest.
She can't warn them now.
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"This way! It's not far now!" Shor's buzzing wings and the glow of his azure light is all that the others can see of him now, his voice barely carrying over the much stronger wind they are now encountering as they close in on the winter portal. The forest beyond the standing stones has become dreafdully dark once more, with the overhead canopy completely blocking out the sky. The ground underfoot is a dry and brittle carpet of old, midnight blue, darkwood needles.
Shor is little more than a bobbing light by the time they enter this gloom. Those that can see without the aid of light percieve the forest as an expansive cave, tree trunks likened to columns of calcium seen far underground. The canopy is rough and distant, so far up that even darkvision cannot percieve it, little more than a curtain of night overhead. For those that see by the light of sunrods and orbiting ioun torches the forest seems to be alive. Shadows dance and flicker across the open ground, and space between the towering darkwoods is sometimes twenty to thirty feet with little to no undergrowth due to the lack of illumination.
Here the group comes upon a shattered arch of stone, ancient and weathered. The surface of the arch is covered in once living moss and crumbling black lichen. A statue, shattered at the waist, lies in two large pieces nearby and may have stood at least ten feet tall when it was whole. The face of the broken statue stares upwards towards the canopy beyond; its chiseled, angular features denoting an ancient ancestry.
A few more feet away lies one of the standing stones like was seen at the hut, though this one is far larger than the others. Thirty feet tall and carved as an eight-sided obelisk, the standing stone is inlaid with an ancient writing in the tongue of the azlanti people.
All in all the scattered bits of ruin, consumed by the snaking roots of darkwood trees, paint a haunting picture of this region of the forest. Colors seem duller here, light seems dimmer, only the sting of the cold feels stronger here.
"Come on! We're almost there!" Shor's tiny voice is so hard to hear at the distance he's gone out to, thankfully the glow of his body has become a beacon for the others to follow.
"Come on, just a little more!"
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These ruins could be Thassilonian, judging from the architecture. However there are no recorded Thassilonian settlements this far east.
These ruins date back to prior to the foundation of Thassilon and belong to the ancient Azlanti. The purpose of the ruin would likely be more of a matter for sages or scholars better versed in the arcane, however.
The large obelisk is a planar anchor, an ancient artifice designed by the Azlanti to "pin" a portion of the material plane to another transitive plane (such as the First World, Ethereal or Shadow) for the purposes of making transportation between the material plane and the "pinned" plane easier. Plane shifts in these locations do not require the tuning fork component. These pins require the creator tap into a ley-line in order to be completed. One unfortunate side-effect of these pins is that when they become old and deteriorate, they can cause slippage between the attached planes, allowing creatures to pass through from one plane to another without the aid of magic through unstable rifts.
A network of magical energy that is woven through Golarion is known as a ley-line. Druids and some arcane spellcasters can tap into ley-lines for varied effects related to planes and distances.
Some powerful ley-lines, like major arteries in a living being, channel magical energy vast distances. Structures built at the junction of ley-lines often carry spiritual, psychological and geographical influences along them. A city built "upstream" on a ley-line may find that another, nearly identical settlement, winds up forming further "downstream." The Azlanti were studying this phenomenon prior to the collapse of their empire and all research was believed to be lost.
A mocking half-sneer remained on Ar'Zarrcal's features when Styvanus finished his diatribe. Ar'Zarrcal had made no attempt to hide who he served. Atop his helmet was the snake bodied icon of Lissala, a Sihedron rune blazed upon his forehead and many other Thassilonian runes were burned, cut, or carved into his flesh. The government of Andoran had compromised their ideals to work with Shalast, he knew that much. They had accepted the offer of Karzoug because they needed the knowledge of Thassilon and it was in both their interest to work together, rather than sending out competing task forces.
From the beginning of the expedition Ar'Zarrcal had felt that he and his fellow ambassador were viewed seperately from the rest of the expedition, grudging accepted, but not truly wanted. The merman had made his opinions clear early on, but until now Styvanus had held his tongue and kept his reservations to himself. Now, with a few choice words and perhaps with the added weight of the mission's success weighing on him, Ar'Zarrcal had caused Styvanus to unveil his true feelings about Shalast and it's ambassador. It had been as he believed.
Silencing his reservations, Ar'Zarrcal stood down. Whatever had inspired him to the desire to free the soul bound and enslaved to that doll was quenched and with a clenched jaw he fell in line with the rest. Marching near the back of the formation, he stared sullenly forward as they followed Shor's guiding light.
When they came to the shattered arch of a once impressive stone construct Ar'Zarrcal halts in the silent march between the towering pillars that were the forest trees. Though he was drawn to the Obelisk, something about the urging of the tiny faerie and the feel of the place put him on edge. He hesitated, not yet stepping foot beyond the archway.
Though he detected little danger evident in the area, as his gaze searched the ruins it became clear to him that this Obelisk was situated on Ley-Lines and that the Obelisk itself was a form of planar anchor. He understood that the Rune-lord's had utilized such artifacts, but understood that the knowledge was older and codefied by the Azlanti. His axe came to his hand again. Such an artifact could explain how the Irrisen witches were able to channel such power and create the rifts they had. Though he would share his thoughts in time, with his fellow ambassador at least, for now he kept silent. Karzoug had not stripped him of simple dwarven spite.
Teladon held up his hand abruptly. This changes everything. The elf thought. Instantly he did a double take of the ruins and then cursed silently under his breath. Pointing quietly, Teladon motioned to Fenyx before thrusting his hand out and curling it slowly into a fist, drawing in streams of energy in order to empower his arcane sight. As the magic flowed into him, Teladon's eyes glowed blue and he took in a ragged breath. The power that radiated from the ruins was staggering. While not nearly as strong as the latent energy's the elf could detect from the winter portal, they were very, very strong.
What do you see?! Teladon questioned with an intensity at odds with his normally stoic attitude The ruins.. they are Azlanti, I would recognize them anywhere. This witch... Nazhena... she choose her guardian well. Motioning to Captain Rozier, Teladon pointed to the large, eight sided obelisk. Captain, these ruins are Azlanti in nature and they deal with opening portals to other planes of existence. You wished to know how the witch was opening winter portals? Its... possible she might have somehow tapped into these ancient relics to somehow empower her magic. I refuse to believe this is a coincidence. That a portal would be found as near as these relics? We should explore the area further, there could be answers found here. We might even be able to learn how to close the portal or limit its growth.
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Realizing that the group is beginning to leave his's area of expertise when they began to talk about magic and whatnot, Marcellano yawns, plainly showing both his ignorance and boredom with the topic. Instead, he looked at the massive trees displayed before him. Though never been one to be very fond of nature, he examines the trees' potential for shipbuilding - another skill he's less than able at, but at least has interest in.
Marcellano had been oddly quiet ever since leaving the lodge - he's barely spoken a word, and continues his silence still as he examines the trees and keeps watch. He'd always been one to let others handle matters of arcana, history, and whatnot. He was more interested in engineering and combat, not fancy words and gestures - even if their results were often satisfying and devastating. No, what Marcellano had an interest in was strictly mundane - the smell of gunpowder, the feel of a firearm discharging, the sound of the bullet striking its intended target - those are what mattered to Marcellano. Nice and simple, as he had always preferred.
He figured the half-orc had similar thoughts - the others were too wrapped up in their magic or their attemps at 'heroism'.
Bah.
Ordrud was genuinely surprised the Eagle Knight of Andoran did not save the soul of the child, a pure innocent. I guess those lofty ideals can be set aside when there are bigger kills to make. Lastwall would not have made the same choice. Then, the dwarf speaks up for the child, just to get slapped back by the Andoran. I guess their true colors are showing through the façades decorated with eagles and runes. He tosses the ravaged bone that he had completely gnawed into the snow as he began to march again.
The ruins were impressive. The mask seemed to think so. Ordrud took another hunk of frozen meat from his backpack to gnaw. Better to be well fed, he concludes while surveying the area.
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Rasso wanders over to Marcellano while the others begin discussing Azlanti arcana. Rasso has a wealth of knowledge dealing with the actual working of spells and magical items, but he knows next to nothing of the theory behind it. Since he's not in command and doesn't need to listen, he takes the chance to try to get to know the Chelaxian better. Maybe he aint as bad as I assumed. At least her knows his way around a ship.
"Amazing innit?" Rasso begins, "Reminds me of this place I found once back home in Outsea. I was just a little squirt, maybe twelve or thirteen. I swam down inter this chasm at the bottom of a lake. They're dangerous and we weren't supposed ter go there, but I didn't give a sh*t. I just kept going down and down. Not sure where I thought I might end up, maybe Tian Xia or something." Rasso shakes his head, remembering youthful ignorance. "Anyway, after a couple hours of goin' through tunnels I was completely lost. Came into this giant cavern." Rasso pauses, apparently lost for words. "Twas probably the most beautiful thing I ever seen. There was a petrified forest buried there in the cave. There were sulfur vents in the floor of the cavern and all the trunks were covered in algae. Some of it glowed pink, some of it green, other parts blue. It looked like some giant king's hall full of phosphorescent rainbow pillars."
"That was back before I ever killed anyone. The world was a happier place then. I stayed there for hours, just staring." Rasso gets quiet, his eyes half-closed, lost in his nostalgic memory. After a couple seconds he opens them, then he chuckles, "Took me two days to find me way back out. Me Pa beat me tail so hard I couldn't swim right fer a week, an' I was so hungry I ate an entire family of beavers," Rasso says laughing heartily and clapping Marcellano companionably across the shoulder with one claw.
"Never could find that cave again. You ever see somethin' like this before?" He asks the marine, motioning around them to the forest with her pincer.
His sullen silence was soon broken. Spite was a poor motivator, especially when the prospect of an eternal winter or worse, failing Karzoug the Claimer were possibilities more likely if he continued to hold his tongue for petty reasons such as hurt pride or insulting words.
"The Ambassador of the Mordent Spire is likely correct." Ar'Zarrcal had sucked in a deep breath of the frosty winter air before he spoke and when he exhaled the sihedron upon his brow shed a strange azure illumination. His eyes themselves took on no different cast, but he sensed the magic around him, perceiving through the third eye the Runelord had gifted him. "These are not Thassilonian, but the design bares similarities, though cruder, as if they were a base our people improved upon. The obelisk is the center piece of the ruins and it appears to be a planar anchor designed to link this area of our world to another realm of existance. I also suspect that this location is specifially choosen due to its placement upon the Ley-Lines. I would not be surprised to find the winter portal lays also upon the Ley-Lines..." Ar'Zarrcal let his words trail off as he began to scan the area with his magical sight.
He wondered whether it could perhaps be possible to follow the Ley-lines and if it was, whether those could prove to be a more reliable guide to the Winter Portal then Shor ever could. He turned then to Tavaluc. He had few if any words with the woman from the Crown of the World, but that did not mean he did not acknowledge her abilities.
"I have heard that some circles of the green faith and practioneers of druidic magic have a deeper connection with Ley-Lines then most. Do you have any additional insight to provide?" There was a hint of challenge in his words, curious whether the ways of earth, air, and the cycle of life held knowledge beyond what Thassilonian research and ordered arcana could provide.
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Marcellano tosses a leery eye towards Rasso as the latter claps him on the shoulder. "Amazing would be if we could use it against our enemy. As it stands, it means nothing to me. I think these trees would make excellent lumber for ship construction. Andoran seems to be blessed with such a resource available to them, yet foolish enough not to use it to their advantage." Marcellano glances back towards the massive trees and looks upwards, looking as far as he can see.
"No, I haven't seen anything like this. I spent most of my younger days aboard a ship, learning how to be a Marine, not exploring. My days were filled with training and lessons. The world was never a 'happier place' for me."
"Sorry ter hear that bub," Rasso says. "Least you weren't dumb enough to give up a life o' luxury for one o' soldierin' like me. Joined up when I was eighteen. Special forces. Thought I would bring honor ter me name. Instead I just killed a bunch o' people I didn' know for bad pay and f*cked a bunch of whores. Everytime we came home, they thought we were heroes. Heh." Rasso's grimace makes it pretty clear what he thinks of himself. He hauks a wad of phlegm and spits it at his feet. "Yer a salty one. How many times ye seen battle Marc?"
Teladon's actions elicit an arched eyebrow from Fenyx and earn the obelisk an intense scrutiny from the Shalasti wizard. A Thassilonian ruin this far from Ancient Thassilon? Curious. Fenyx withdraws his hood to afford his shaded eyes more clarity as he continues observing the oddity before him. Just then, the Mordant elf assists in revealing the obvious conclusion: these ruins are of Azlant origin. The necromancer nods in agreement with the magus' assessment. There was a great well of power to be tapped here, and it was likely the witch they pursued was intimate with this truth. "Azlanti? Curious. I have heard tale of strange anomalies associated with ley-lines of sufficient magnitude; I believe they are commonly referred to as Echoes. One of my professors at Korvosa called it The Mirroring. Multiple points along a ley-line sharing likeness where stark contrast might otherwise exist. I know little of the phenomenon myself, though I do confess the urge to study it is appealing, if antithetical to our express purpose here."
Fenyx finds himself agreeing in totality with both elf and dwarf as they voice their musings to Styvanus "They're right. Old as this obelisk looks to be, I would be more than willing to guess that the boundaries between our world and the one to which it is keyed has grown weak... very weak. Perhaps this makes it easier to exploit? To change? Could the witches have tampered with it to enforce its connection to whatever force drives the chill winds that lend boundary to this forest? If they have tapped into its secrets, then surely we can also. Perhaps it is not so simple; perhaps this Nazhena is vastly formidable beyond our ken." At this point, it seems as if Fenyx is talking to himself as much as any of his companions. "And what did this monument anchor to? The ley-lines, of course; there can be no doubt of that. Perhaps this is responsible for the unusual amount of darkwood trees in the forest? The Shadow Plane, then? Could that be responsible for the wood? Does it anchor there yet, or has it indeed been reconfigured; yet another puppet in the witch's arsenal? Or is it Halak? Druids know well the capacities and workings of ley-lines. And here we have a druid whose propensity for ushering in the walking dead seems to defy the very laws of nature his kind embrace. The Negative Energy Plane? Ingenius. If this Halak knows the workings of the stone, he has now ascended to a place of much more prominent import than I would have afforded him previously. The realm of Shadow plays host to that of the dead, yes? The air about the place seems oppressive; the light dimmer. This explains much." His gaze falling to the ground, Fenyx presses his nose and mouth to a balled fist as he considers the implications and allows his imagination to flit between several possibilities. He turns to regard Ar'Zarrcal at the dwarf's mention of druids. "Indeed, the druids do know much on the subject. I believe the druid with the talking stag, whose guise I wore briefly—Halak—might have a hand in all of this. Perhaps this is the sole reason the witch tolerates the druid at all?" A moment of consideration, and Fenyx poses a question to the group as a whole: "Some of you hail from Andoran, yes? What of the druids that once homed in this region? Is it possible that Halak is the lone survivor of the local enclave—likely by way of betraying his brethren?"
His gaze rises to the full height of the monolith, wonder and dread gripping his visage plainly. He turns once more to Teladon, "This stone, T—" Fenyx catches himself before betraying what little trust the elf has invested in him so far, and manages to avoid giving voice to his name so publicly. "Esh'landrin. This stone; this obelisk. It is anchored upon terror itself. It is moored to Shadow and Death."
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"My people know of the ley lines, but it is not something I am terribly versed in," Teladon explains as she approaches the discussion of the ancient stones. "There are druids who know how to manipulate the ley lines to make their magic stronger, even travel through the ley lines from one place to another. They typically reside at menhir such as these..." Running her hand along the ancient obelisk, Talavuc shakes her head slowly in wonder.
Behind her, Gwynn approaches with brows furrowed and posture tense, regarding the obelisk with a more anxious presence. "Andoran's relations with the people of this wood are... bloody. Back when Andoran was a Taldan colony, there were constant conflicts between the druids and fey of this forest and the VErduran forest over Taldor's lumber needs."
Looking around at the towering trees, Gwynn narrows her eyes. "There's been some peace made, but the tensions are still strong. This particular forest, if... I'm remembering correctly, used to have a connection to a cabal of druids from Nidal known as the Shades of Uskwood, they venerated a profane god of torture and pain that... I forget the name of."
Gwynn breathes deep and looks around again, nervously, as she lets out a sigh. "That was before my grandfather's time, though, they were all driven out, back to Nidal."
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"How many times?" Marcellano snorts and shakes his head. "Never counted. Been in my fair share of it, though. I enjoyed every bit of it. I too, have killed a bunch of people that I didn't know, for relatively bad pay - but we did it to end the pirate menace in the Shackles so we could take back what was rightfully ours. The pirates stole, murdered, butchered, and pillaged - they deserved the deaths we gave them."
Marcellano smiles - his smile is more like a predator enjoying the memories of a past kill than of actual happiness - "Best day of my life was when we butchered their armada sent against Her Majesty's fleet. The battle was glorious - dozens of ships fighting it out in the Eye of Abendego, our diabolic allies ripping them to shreds as we assisted with ranged artillery. So many of those bastards were put to the sword or sea that day."
"I live for combat." Marcellano adds after he finishes, looking at Rasso.
Rasso just seems sad for Marcellano as he formulates a reply. "Well, as ye seen I'm good at it, but I don't like it." Rasso seems to think for a moment. "Includin' what we done in this group, I've seen battle 32 times. Most o' the guys I killed working for Andoran were Chelaxian I guess. Only thing I got against y'all is slavery. What the f*ck man?"
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"We are all slaves to something, someone, somewhere. Those of Cheliax know this and accept it. A true Cheliaxian either leads or serves, based on their station. That is the beauty of order. I've never been strictly adherent to Asmodeus' teachings, but with order comes peace.. that I agree with. That is why I enjoy the fight. That is why I would give my life if it was deemed necessary."
"Yar. I can understand sacrifice. Just not treatin' other people like they're property." Rasso scratches at his chin with one claw. "If this winter keeps up, it'll all have been fer sh*t anyway. Besmara's bosoms! I could use a damn drink. How long is it gonna take 'em ter figure this out over there?"
Ordrud continues to gnaw on his new hunk of frozen carcass while surveying the ruins. As much as he respects the necromancer, his ears start to tune out his ramblings. Too magical for him.
The conversation between the merman and marine was more interesting, although he did not share either of their experiences. He certainly never chose his way of life like the merman. And only 32 battles, he saw more before his tenth winter... before Lastwall.
And the marine lives for combat? Ordrud could relate to that. His childhood meant combat to survive... before Lastwall. To whom am I a slave? he asks himself and rejects possible answers: Oruk, Lastwall, Andoran, Gorum, Death's Head. A slave must obey the master even he does not want. Ordrud could not imagine that relationship even with Gorum. Maybe Oruk, but he would kill him too if he was pushed too far.
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Suddenly, all of the conversation is swallowed by a hellish sound.
It is a howl unlike anything they had ever heard before, a terrifying wail that echoes through the forest, shakes the ground and reverberated deep inside their chests. As the terrifying howl wails like a siren, Talavuc turns with wide eyes and shaking hands towards the sound of rocks scuttling long the ground. There, up upon a mound of rubble from the ruin towers an enormous hound, nearly four feet tall at the shoulder and barely visible in the dark of the forest, save for its glowing red eyes.
At the sheer sight of it, Rasso lets out a panicked scream of terror and scrambles away from Marcellano. Both he and the Marine scream as if their very souls were being torn from their bodies. So terrified by the howl is the marine, that he drops his musket on the ground in his haste to flee at all costs from the terrifying beast.
Gwynn covers her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes as horrifying fear wracks her body and fills her mind with unfathomable dread. Naasvit shrieks too and bounds away from Talavuc, who helplessly tries to rein the mink in. Even Fenyx, dour and scarred servant of Karzoug is laid low by the dreadful sound of this terrible beast, his mind racing and heart pounding in his chest, one singular thought dominating his mind:
RUN!
<< | | Dim Light | The Gloomheart >>
While some of the group are ready to flee at the sight and terrible sound of this shadow-draped hound, Styvanus feels resolute in his stance. While fear briefly gripped his mind, he finds no terror in this beast's presence, nor does Ordrud feel the quivering threads of terror in his heart, only rage building. Ar'Zarrcal stares the hound down, his heart racing in anticipation. So too does Teladon face a terror from the plane of shadow with unflinching resolve.
It's up to them now.
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Will Saves vs. Bay [Fear Effect]; DC 16
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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This creature is no hound, it is an outsider from the plane of shadow!
(This check reveals all Outsider traits)
This is a Shadow Mastiff, a terrible and ravenous predator of the shadow plane. Its terrifying bay strikes fear into the hearts of all creatures, though once exposed victims are immune to the bay for a full day.
The Mastiff's ability to blend into shadows is powerful, and no source of light save for the sun itself or a daylight spell will reveal the mastiff. It is a highly intelligent creature and can likely speak Shadowtongue as well as Taldan or Varisian with equal likelihood.
His mind recoils from its meanderings as the creature behind bays macabre to the dismay of all present. A glance over his shoulder to gain his bearings is all the necromancer affords himself before he sprints past Teladon to the nearest ruined wall in abject fear. The panic that strangles him does not allow the man to even chide himself for his cowardly behavior, nor does the fact that he knows what this creature is temper his actions in the slightest. There is only the realization that whatever grave danger the hound poses exceeds reason. Fleeing was is only recourse. To do otherwise would be to invite death or the loss of what sanity he still manages to cling to. Turning the corner of the ruined wall, Fenyx presses his back to the rough stonework and slumps down, pressing his head into his drawn up thighs as he wraps his hands around his head in an effort to drown out the terrible howl that still reverberates through his very being. Terrified whines, muffled through the skirt of his robes, can be heard coming from the sin mage's chosen refuge.
The rotting and frozen form of Yvonne remains steadfast and motionless behind the fleeing form of Fenyx, unimpressed and unmoved by both the shadow mastiff's wail and her new master's sudden propensity for nearly wetting himself.
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Ar'Zarrcal terror had long since been esclipsed for the rune-scarred dwarf. His dreams were constant walks down pathways of horror that had been all too real. The lack of genuine fear was perhaps part of the problem, it was another part of who he had once been that had been ripped from him. As many of his companions turned and fled, the dwarf instead stood his ground and cooly appraised the monstrous creature of shadow. A shadow mastiff. He had read about it in the libraries of Xin-Shalast. Creatures of shadow were well studied, likely in preparation for the day when Karzoug the Claimer would march on Nidal.
Unslinging his crossbow, Ar'Zarrcal planted his shield into the snow littered ground and tried to gain a target on the hound of living shadow. With his darkvision he hoped to piece the veil the beast shrouded itself within. Bracing his weapon on his shield, he sucked in a breath and then fired.
Once again that over-sized mink jostled past him and spoiled his attack. With the sudden retreat of many of his companions, Ar'Zarrcal looked in the direction of the one he suspected would not turn and flee. The Orc-blooded Ordrud.
"Ordrud, Lissala is with us, together we can slay this creature of shadow."
Round 1
Ordrud's blood surges with the baying. The creature took the high and difficult ground preventing him from charging. The dwarf suggests a ranged attack, but the musket would find the troll quick. Back to the old ways then.
He takes out his sling and tries firing into the shadows.
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They baying of the shadow made flesh sent a shiver running down Teladon’s spine but from outward appearance the elf showed no sign it had affected him. He let the fear roll through him, sampling and tasting it like a fine vintage of wine. Eyes flickering he watched as the humans broke formation fleeing into the woods. To his left he saw a shield clatter to the ground. Stoically he remained in place. The world was failing around them and like his people Teladon remained strong. He was like a willow tree atop a seaward bluff, bending but never breaking, flexible and strong. Where the humans had lived twenty or thirty years, he had lived for centuries. The howl of a predator, no matter how fierce would not cause him to flee, not after the horrors he had witnessed.
Eyes flickering in thought he called upon his foresight, trained through years of battle and memories. He felt the weight of his sword at its side and the grip of his bow in his hand. The hound seemed to flicker in and out existence like pooling forms of shadow. Would his blade or arrow find purchase in the form or would the shadows diffuse the beast? Teladon was unsure. He knew little of the beasts. Still, as in all situations it came down to a simple question. Attack, retreat or wait? Many of the others had fled and if he did as well he ran the chance of being picked off. Waiting seemed unlikely, attack was the best option.
Raising up his bow he peered into the shadows waiting for the flicking form to solidify. Timing his draw he released only to watch as the beast dissolved into shadow again. Nodding slowly, Teladon prepared himself to attack again. He would account for the timing better next time.
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Rasso pisses himself as the terrible howl pierces the deepest fear centers of his brain. "Euuuuweiwhohuuuuuu!" he screams, turning tail and sprinting back the way they came into the woods. His crabby legs move so fast they seem to blur, he holds his head low, peering straight ahead. His lobster-like tail waves in the air behind him, like a flag signaling the retreat for a broken army.
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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Terror grips Gwynn the moment that howl hits her. All she can imagine is that eviscerated body fed upon by some beast that they had found back in the woods. Gwynn knew now, or believed she knew, what was the end of that hunter. Panic sets in before rational thought can take hold and Gwynn finds herself scrambling away from the hound. Her boots slip in the bed of midnight blue pine needles, she falls to one knee, rolls onto her back and claws on hands and feet away from those terrible, glowing eyes in the darkness. She screams as it turns its gaze on her, a terrified scream of absolute horror and disbelief.
It's unclear whether Shor was affected by the howl or not, his tiny blue glow in the depths of the woods is barely visible now and there is a far greater threat represented by the shadow mastiff.
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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Seeing the shadow-swathed terror perched upon the rocks, heart racing in her chest, Talavuc knows that limiting herself to fighting the creature on its terms is a fool's errand. Tucking her spear under one arm, she clenches her hands in the air as if grabbing at something inseen, like a curtain or a veil. "Spirits of the mists and the rain" the erutaki chants, "cloying gods of ethereal fog" she pulls, and where her fingers drag across the air rips seem to form in air behind her fingertips, as if she were clawing into some other place. Out of those rips a thick, vaporous fog begins to boil out and pool down at ankle height. "Bring upon this place the evanescense of morning fog!"
Yanking her hands back like a magician trying to pull a tablecloth out from under a place set, Talavuc shreds a hold into some otherworldly realm of mist and fog. The swirling convection of fog spills out like another dimension's entrails and soon unfurls upwards like a great cloud. Within the shadows, this thick mess of soupy fog obscures Talavuc and Naasvit from vision as it expands into a swirling sphere of cloudy nothingness.
"Hide in the fog!' Talavuc shouts, "Make it come to us!"
With a click of her tongue and a stomp of her foot, Talavuc instructs Naasvit to wait to strike until the beast comes within range, but Naasvit is terrified by the otherworldly hound's howl and against his master's orders, Naasvit bounds away into the woods as fast as his tiny legs can carry him.
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Talavuc - Standard Action: Cast obscuring mist
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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After its dreadful howl has scattered the team, the shadow mastiff hops down through the pile of rubble that was once an azlanti structure. It lands on the ground, growling in deep and rumbling quality, gleaming red eyes staring through the darkness even when its whole body isn't entirely visible. Then, with a sudden alacrity, the hound lets loose with a snapping series of deep barks and leaps through the air at Marcellano.
The panicked marine drops to his knees the moment the hound leaps, covering the back of his head with his hands. The hound springs over Marcellano entirely, jaws snapping shut like a bear-trap in the air before it lands and skids through the darkwood needles. The hound looks back, growling again, a line of inky black saliva drooling out of the corner of its mouth.
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Normally on most days, Marcellano is a prime example of steadfast courage - of audacity - of manliness. Today is not that day. Marcellano lets out a whimper of fear akin to a hurt dog after the Mastiff's bay, completely cowed by the otherworldly creature's presence - he is, thankfully, able to avoid screaming similar to a few others in the party, but he is none-the-less reduced to a whimpering coward.
Dropping his rifle in fear, Marcellano withdraws as fast as his armored form will allow him, running into the fog and behind Talavuc as a child would run behind its mother.
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Styvanus feels the creature's powerful bays reverberate through the shield on his back like a tuning fork. It felt not unlike a gunshot, and he imagined that it carried just as far as the boom of blackpowder. His eyes darted from member to member of the expedition as they were overcome with fear. He acknowledged that those who couldn't stand against this fear on their own needed someone to stand against it for them, and he gladly assumed the responsibility.
"Rally around Talavuc!" The captain commands to all who have not scattered. Clinching his teeth he kept his eyes locked on the red glow of the mastiff's eyes and moved into the newly summoned fog. He stepped in front of the winter druid, his eyes still locked with the creature's radiant gaze. He leveled the point of Andis' spear in front of him, readied for the inevitable advance of the mastiff. He kept the butt of the spear near the ground in-case he needed to brace the pole-arm. "Stay behind me.." He advised Talavuc, his tone showing clearly his calm resolve.
_________________________________________________________________________
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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Terror grips Gwynn the moment that howl hits her. All she can imagine is that eviscerated body fed upon by some beast that they had found back in the woods. Gwynn knew now, or believed she knew, what was the end of that hunter. Panic sets in before rational thought can take hold and Gwynn finds herself scrambling away from the hound. Her boots slip in the bed of midnight blue pine needles, she falls to one knee, rolls onto her back and claws on hands and feet away from those terrible, glowing eyes in the darkness. She screams as it turns its gaze on her, a terrified scream of absolute horror and disbelief.
It's unclear whether Shor was affected by the howl or not, his tiny blue glow in the depths of the woods is barely visible now and there is a far greater threat represented by the shadow mastiff.
Seeing the shadow-swathed terror perched upon the rocks, heart racing in her chest, Talavuc knows that limiting herself to fighting the creature on its terms is a fool's errand. Tucking her spear under one arm, she clenches her hands in the air as if grabbing at something inseen, like a curtain or a veil. "Spirits of the mists and the rain," the erutaki chants, "cloying gods of ethereal fog" she pulls, and where her fingers drag across the air rips seem to form in air behind her fingertips, as if she were clawing into some other place. Out of those rips a thick, vaporous fog begins to boil out and pool down at ankle height. "Bring upon this place the evanescense of morning fog!"
Yanking her hands back like a magician trying to pull a tablecloth out from under a place set, Talavuc shreds a hold into some otherworldly realm of mist and fog. The swirling convection of fog spills out like another dimension's entrails and soon unfurls upwards like a great cloud. Within the shadows, this thick mess of soupy fog obscures Talavuc and Naasvit from vision as it expands into a swirling sphere of cloudy nothingness.
"Hide in the fog!" Talavuc shouts, "Make it come to us!"
With a click of her tongue and a stomp of her foot, Talavuc instructs Naasvit to wait to strike until the beast comes within range, but Naasvit is terrified by the otherworldly hound's howl and against his master's orders, Naasvit bounds away into the woods as fast as his tiny legs can carry him.
Fenyx's mind recoils from its meanderings as the creature behind bays macabre to the dismay of all present. A glance over his shoulder to gain his bearings is all the necromancer affords himself before he sprints past Teladon to the nearest ruined wall in abject fear. The panic that strangles him does not allow the man to even chide himself for his cowardly behavior, nor does the fact that he knows what this creature is temper his actions in the slightest. There is only the realization that whatever grave danger the hound poses exceeds reason. Fleeing was is only recourse. To do otherwise would be to invite death or the loss of what sanity he still manages to cling to. Turning the corner of the ruined wall, Fenyx presses his back to the rough stonework and slumps down, pressing his head into his drawn up thighs as he wraps his hands around his head in an effort to drown out the terrible howl that still reverberates through his very being. Terrified whines, muffled through the skirt of his robes, can be heard coming from the sin mage's chosen refuge.
The rotting and frozen form of Yvonne remains steadfast and motionless behind the fleeing form of Fenyx, unimpressed and unmoved by both the shadow mastiff's wail and her new master's sudden propensity for nearly wetting himself.
The baying of the shadow made flesh sent a shiver running down Teladon’s spine but from outward appearance the elf showed no sign it had affected him. He let the fear roll through him, sampling and tasting it like a fine vintage of wine. Eyes flickering he watched as the humans broke formation fleeing into the woods. To his left he saw a shield clatter to the ground. Stoically he remained in place. The world was failing around them and like his people Teladon remained strong. He was like a willow tree atop a seaward bluff, bending but never breaking, flexible and strong. Where the humans had lived twenty or thirty years, he had lived for centuries. The howl of a predator, no matter how fierce would not cause him to flee, not after the horrors he had witnessed.
Eyes flickering in thought he called upon his foresight, trained through years of battle and memories. He felt the weight of his sword at its side and the grip of his bow in his hand. The hound seemed to flicker in and out existence like pooling forms of shadow. Would his blade or arrow find purchase in the form or would the shadows diffuse the beast? Teladon was unsure. He knew little of the beasts. Still, as in all situations it came down to a simple question. Attack, retreat or wait? Many of the others had fled and if he did as well he ran the chance of being picked off. Waiting seemed unlikely, attack was the best option.
Raising up his bow he peered into the shadows waiting for the flicking form to solidify. Timing his draw he released only to watch as the beast dissolved into shadow again. Nodding slowly, Teladon prepared himself to attack again. He would account for the timing better next time.
Ar'Zarrcal terror had long since been esclipsed for the rune-scarred dwarf. His dreams were constant walks down pathways of horror that had been all too real. The lack of genuine fear was perhaps part of the problem, it was another part of who he had once been that had been ripped from him. As many of his companions turned and fled, the dwarf instead stood his ground and cooly appraised the monstrous creature of shadow. A shadow mastiff. He had read about it in the libraries of Xin-Shalast. Creatures of shadow were well studied, likely in preparation for the day when Karzoug the Claimer would march on Nidal.
Unslinging his crossbow, Ar'Zarrcal planted his shield into the snow littered ground and tried to gain a target on the hound of living shadow. With his darkvision he hoped to piece the veil the beast shrouded itself within. Bracing his weapon on his shield, he sucked in a breath and then fired.
Once again that over-sized mink jostled past him and spoiled his attack. With the sudden retreat of many of his companions, Ar'Zarrcal looked in the direction of the one he suspected would not turn and flee. The Orc-blooded Ordrud.
"Ordrud," he rumbled, "Lissala is with us, together we can slay this creature of shadow."
Ordrud's blood surges with the baying. The creature took the high and difficult ground preventing him from charging. The dwarf suggests a ranged attack, but the musket would find the troll quick. Back to the old ways then.
He takes out his sling and tries firing into the shadows, but the sling stone passes through where he thought the hound was, only to see it reappear from the darkness a few feet down from where it was a moment ago, stalking across the loose rubble.
Rasso pisses himself as the terrible howl pierces the deepest fear centers of his brain. "Euuuuweiwhohuuuuuu!" he screams, turning tail and sprinting back the way they came into the woods. His crabby legs move so fast they seem to blur, he holds his head low, peering straight ahead. His lobster-like tail waves in the air behind him, like a flag signaling the retreat for a broken army.
After its dreadful howl has scattered the team, the shadow mastiff hops down through the pile of rubble that was once an azlanti structure. It lands on the ground, growling in deep and rumbling quality, gleaming red eyes staring through the darkness even when its whole body isn't entirely visible. Then, with a sudden alacrity, the hound lets loose with a snapping series of deep barks and leaps through the air at Marcellano.
The panicked marine drops to his knees the moment the hound leaps, covering the back of his head with his hands. The hound springs over Marcellano entirely, jaws snapping shut like a bear-trap in the air before it lands and skids through the darkwood needles. The hound looks back, growling again, a line of inky black saliva drooling out of the corner of its mouth.
Normally on most days, Marcellano is a prime example of steadfast courage - of audacity - of manliness. Today is not that day. Marcellano lets out a whimper of fear akin to a hurt dog after the Mastiff's bay, completely cowed by the otherworldly creature's presence - he is, thankfully, able to avoid screaming similar to a few others in the party, but he is none-the-less reduced to a whimpering coward.
Dropping his rifle in fear, Marcellano withdraws as fast as his armored form will allow him, running into the fog and behind Talavuc as a child would run behind its mother.
Styvanus feels the creature's powerful bays reverberate through the shield on his back like a tuning fork. It felt not unlike a gunshot, and he imagined that it carried just as far as the boom of blackpowder. His eyes darted from member to member of the expedition as they were overcome with fear. He acknowledged that those who couldn't stand against this fear on their own needed someone to stand against it for them, and he gladly assumed the responsibility.
"Rally around Talavuc!" The captain commands to all who have not scattered. Clinching his teeth he kept his eyes locked on the red glow of the mastiff's eyes and moved into the newly summoned fog. He stepped in front of the winter druid, his eyes still locked with the creature's radiant gaze. He leveled the point of Andis' spear in front of him, readied for the inevitable advance of the mastiff. He kept the butt of the spear near the ground in-case he needed to brace the pole-arm. "Stay behind me," he advised Talavuc, his tone showing clearly his calm resolve.
<< | | Dim Light | : The Gloomheart >>
Heart racing and eyes wrenched shut, Gwynn cannot see the way the battle is going, she doesn't want to. Instead, the ones resolute Andoran captain now finds herself huddled on her knees behind a partial rock wall, sobbing and covering the back of her head with interlaced fingers as the echo of that horrible creature's dreadful howl keeps repeating. Irrational fear consumes her, and all Gwynn can do is shake and tremble in place like a frightened child.
"No." The rebuke comes steadfast from Styvanus' side, not his back, and while the fog obscures her some, he knows that it is Talavuc standing shoulder to shoulder with him, her spear held out and braced at the bottom against the side of her foot. She crouches, ready to lunge forward if the dread beast dares enter the shroud of mist.
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Rasso continues to run back through the forest, dodging between the massive darkwood trunks. Pretty soon he's out of sight of the battle completely, intervening trunks having blocked line of sight. Rasso doesn't even hesitate to leave his friends behind. The magical attack terrified him so badly that his only thought is fleeing.
Round 2
Ordrud glares at the dwarf at the futility of ranged attacks against this shadow beast and drops his sling. He finds and releases his anger within. A huge roar in volume matching the beast's baying tears through the forest. He charges unsheathing his greatsword at his waist and using its momentum to arc toward the beast.
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Senses return. Fleeting panic fades. The dampness of tears on his robe's skirt and the wet that still clings to the corners of his eyes is an unacceptable embarrassment. Fenyx was a representative of Karzoug; of Xin-Shalast; of Thassilon Resurgent. And yet there he sat, crumpled and crying like a child fearful of a parent's backhand. Unacceptable. Fenyx disperses the remainder of the tears from his face with the draw of a thickly sleeved arm. Absolutely, unequivocally, . The necromancer finds his feet wearing a severe look of hostility—both at himself and the Shadow spawned terror that so easily shattered his otherwise impeccable countenance. Years upon months establishing a guise; evaporated in an instant. Barely stifling a growl at his lapse in vigilance and courage, Fenyx peers over the stone wall where dwarf and half-orc engage the vaguely canine mass of shadow and hate that constitutes the shadow mastiff's position. He does not know what to make of the roiling mass of fog and mist where his allies had sat previously, having missed the Erutaki woman's exclamations whilst whimpering behind the wall for mercy from the powers that be. I must rectify this.
"" A long finger is jerked in the direction of the shadow mastiff, and the undead villager lurches forward obediently, a dry rasp of a groan briefly exhaling from its expired lungs as it seeks to ruin its opponent with a rain of powerful blows. Fenyx begins scrambling up the ruined wall he had previously hidden behind, hoping to gain a commanding vantage point of the unfolding melee before him. The towering form of the obelisk in his peripheral looms in dominance in his mind as surely as it does their current battlefield. It would seem I was correct. Could the obelisk be anchoring the beast's presence? Mind racing as quickly as hands and feet up the crumbling stone of the wall, Fenyx begins wondering to himself at the possibility of striking at their opponent by other means.
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Ar'Zarrcal did not return the glare from Ordrud. He knew that ranged attacks would have small chance of success against the beast, but he also tried to explain that so too would melee attacks. The creature was not fully tied to this realm and it used shadows to obscure and shroud its actual position. What they needed to do was stay together, retreat toward the growing bank of fog, and lure the creature to them by peppering it with sling and crossbow fire.
Of course Ordrud would do the exact opposite. How typically Orcish. Who needed reasoned tactics when one could swing a big sword and roar real loud? Ar'Zarrcal shook his head and spat the curse word for Orc in the dwarven language. Despite his muttered curse, he advanced with the Orc and the corpse. Sheathing his crossbow, he pulled free his warhammer and clenched his teeth. He did not relish entering combat with the beast, but leaving Ordrud to stand alone was not an alternative he wished to entertain.
With the cold air rushing in his lungs, Ar'Zarrcal did not try to focus on the shadow mastiff. He knew he could not trust his eyes and so he swung with a fury and recklessness he tried to imitate from his half-orc ally. His hammer swung through the patch of shadow and darkness, swiping through the air, rising up and then falling in an ordered chaos.
Shadows and gloom was how the beast moved among the fog shrouded warriors and magi. The thunderous, ominous roar had scattered much of the group, still Teladon was able to rally and throw himself into the fray. His first attack had missed, his second as well. Silently the elf grew frustrated. This foe was more worthy then what they had expected. Teladon needed some way to strike the beast regardless of its flickering form. Shaking his head, he concentrated and waited for an opening.
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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Running out of the fog, Yvonne's rotting carcass looks like something out of a nightmare; a pallid, decaying corpse stumbling as it sprints with hands outstretched and jaws open. As it charges the shadow mastiff, the commanded dead lunges for the hound's muscular flesh, but finds itself grasping at nothing but shadows.
The hound crouches low, letting out a sharp bark that echoes as if it were in a cave. With its focus redirected, the hound fails to notice the barbarian advancing from near the fog bank. Ordrud's berserker charge concludes with a cleaving swing through the shadows and into flesh. As ephemeral as the hound appears, it is all an illusion, and the Belkzen tenet all things can die remains true.
Ar'Zarrcal's hammer blow passes through where the hound was mere moments before Ordrud struck it, and pulls back only wispy shadowstuff in billowing clouds like smoke, as if the hound were not entirely a solid creature.
The oily black blood slicking Ordrud's greatsword runs in rivulets down the rough cold iron blade, and now the hound cries out in pain instead of hunger. The glowing red eyes pierce the darkness, turning towards Ordrud only to snap to the side as Teladon's lanky form comes charging out of the mist. The hound ducks, subsuming itself into darkness and shadow, reappearing not at the front of the berserker that injured it but the masked elf.
The mastiff leaps at Teladon, jaws open and saliva flinging from its jowels. Huge teetn sink into the blademaster's forearm, rending flesh and jerking the elf from side to side. The hound growls, a deep and terrible sound, and tries to either rip the elf's arm clear out of the socket or drag him to the ground. With a rebuking pommel smash of his scimitar against the hound's brow, Teladon manages to break its grasp on his now blood-soaked arm, and the beast recoils back into the shadows, red eyes gleaming.
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(hit)
>
> (fail; not tripped)