Ruins of Pathfinder: Reign of Winter (Inactive)

Game Master Robert Brookes

"I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust."

T.S. Eliot


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Sin Mage (Gluttony) 3
Stats:
HP 22/22; AC 11, Flat Footed 10, Touch 11; CMD 11; Fort +4, Ref +2, Will +4; Perception +4; Initiative +1

Marcellano finds his victim not resisting, but clearly fighting down what is no doubt a plethora of indignant protests. He recognizes the ultimate intent of the marine's actions, even if the man seems to be enjoying it a little too much. As they begin to file out of the yurt once again, Fenyx once more instructs Yvonne to walk alongside the necromancer as further buffer between he and any future ambushers. The comforts of Xin-Shalast loom heavily in Fenyx's mind.

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As they emerge back into the wintry world outside of the yurt, the weather has changed so drastically as to paint the landscape in a wholly different light. With the wind having stalled entirely, the snow falls straight down to the ground in steady pace, the huge snowflakes obfuscating the landscape like a thick, wintry fog. Trudging through the snow, they come round the yurt and back into view of the brilliant light of the winter portal, now made more ethereal and diffuse by being cast through the curtain of falling snow. Styvanus and Ordrud take the lead, marching through the frozen snow with crunching footfalls, their shadows cast long and ominous across the white ground.

Falling into a semblance of a formation, the group's ability to stay together is limited by their varying speed in the snow. Gwynn manages to keep pace with Styvanus and Ordrud, her reloaded revolver gripped in a hand that trembles from the cold. Her cheeks windblown and red, nose the same ruddy coloration. She scans the snowy land with quick, wary glances. Behind her, Ar'Zarrcal hustles to try and keep pace, practically jogging in the snow beyond waist deep for a man of his stature. He huffs ragged, tired breaths in gouts of steam.

Naasvit leaps through the snow off to Ar'Zarrcal's right. The mink pauses and rises up from the powdery snow with forepaws curled to his chest, nose twitching as his beady eyes reflecy the oceanic blue light of the watery portal drawing closer. Talavuc catches up to the mink, then nods ahead and urges him ever onward as Teladon moves to stand beside her, a trail of steam issuing from the mouth of his mask as he watches the shape of the portal begin to come into view.

Not far behind, Marcellano guides Fenyx through the snow, the marine sticking close to the Thassilonian wizard's side. Rasso, ever impeded by the snow, lags just behind them, he too huffing and puffing to try and keep pace.

Eventually, their destination finally becomes clear. An ancient stone structure rises up from the valley floor, surrounded on three sides by a palisade of icy spears that jut up from the ground near twenty feet high. The singular gap in this wintry wall reveals a menhir circle of standing stones set up within an ancient ruin of similar design to that found in the Gloomheart, some sort of ley-line touchstone.

The base of the tornado whirls at the center of the ruin, shedding brilliant light from within that ripples with watery quality. It is hypnotic, captivating, and the source of all Andoran's troubles. There is no sign of the winter fey, possibly having withdrawn through the portal.

"Captain," Gwynn breathily exhales the title, motioning to the ruin with a nod. "It's--" Gwynn's statement is cut off as something absolutely enormous comes crashing out of the snow like a gigantic phantom. Nearly white over its whole body, this creature is twice the size of Ordrud, broad shouldered and ropy muscled. Two tusks jut up from its lower jaw and a long, hooked nose looks like an icy beak. Frozen shingle mushrooms bristle off of its flesh, and it moves with a stunning speed.

Like a bolt of lightning, this massive creature leaps in and thrusts forward with an enormous spear, lancing through Ar'Zarrcal's shield and into the shoulder of his armor, spinning him around and nearly toppling him over. Blood paints the snow red, and the hulking figure of the troll leaps backwards with an amazing strength, disappearing into the snow as droplets of blood trail away from the head of its spear, rapidly being covered up by the falling precipitation.

Ar'Zarrcal clutches his profusely bleeding wound, exhaling a ragged nose as he looks around, wild-eyed. Where did he go?
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
       << Encounter: That Which is Legend | Round I | Environment: Heavy Snow (Concealment) | Encounter Map: The Winter Portal >>
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
With a booming roar, the moss troll re-appears from the snow in a bounding leap, spear in both hands as it lands down beside Ar'Zarrcal. The dwarf exhales a shaky breath and parries the spear away with his shield, the resounding clang of metal on metal dislodging a sheet of ice from the dwarf's bulwark. No longer fleeing back into the snow, Teb Knotten whirls his mighty spear around with a stunning speed for something his size. Blurs of motion accompany his movement and surging wintry light burns in his deep-set eyes.

"You die here," Teb proclaims in fluent common, his tongue sliding wetly between his tusks in a lewd gesture.

"You all die here."
 
 
____

GM Rolls:

Ar'Z: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (7) + 4 = 11
Teb: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (19) + 5 = 24
Gwynn: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (15) + 4 = 19
Talavuc: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (10) + 9 = 19
Naasvit: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (9) + 5 = 14
Fenyx: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16
Marc: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (12) + 1 = 13
Ordrud: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (9) + 6 = 15
Rasso: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (15) + 2 = 17
Styv: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (13) + 1 = 14
Teladon: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (2) + 4 = 6

SURPRISE ROUND

Teb Knotten: Spring Attack > Ar'Zarrcal: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (15) + 6 = 21 (hit; scent negates concealment on adjacent foe)
> Damage: Spear of Manhunting: 1d8 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6
Teb Knotten: Stealth: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (18) + 5 = 23
_____

Initiative Rolls:

Ar'Z, Initiative: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (4) + 0 = 4
Talavuc/Naasvit, Initiative: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 2 = 7
Fenyx, Initiative: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (9) - 1 = 8 (Deafened)
Ordrud, Initiative: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 2 = 14
Rasso, Initiative: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (10) + 3 = 13
Styvanus, Initiative: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (14) + 2 = 16
Teladon, Initiative: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 2 = 6
Marcellano, Initiative: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (7) + 2 = 9
Gwynn, Initiative: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (6) + 6 = 12
Teb Knotten: 1d20 + 24 ⇒ (1) + 24 = 25 <<Dual Initiative>>

INITIATIVE
Teb Knotten = 25 <<Dual Initiative>>
Styvanus, Initiative = 16
Ordrud, Initiative = 14
Rasso, Initiative = 13
Gwynn, Initiative = 12
Marcellano, Initiative = 9
Fenyx, Initiative = 8 (Deafened)
Talavuc/Naasvit = 7
Teladon, Initiative = 6
Teb Knotten = 5 <<Dual Initiative>>
Ar'Z = 4

Teb Knotten
Full-Round Action: Charge Ar'Zarrcal

Teb Knotten: Charge > Ar'Zarrcal: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (9) + 8 = 17 (miss)

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Everyone is up!
 
Please note at present all melee attacks suffer a 20% miss chance due to concealment from the heavily falling snow.
 
Also the snow in this encounter is considered deep snow and takes 2 squares of movement per square (or 1.5 squares if you are wearing snowshoes.) Teb appears to be unhindered by the snow.


Half-orc warrior | HP 72/72 | Bond 6/6 | LoH 5/5 | Smite 2/2 | 1st 2/2 | Ferocity 1/1 | AC 21 Touch 11 FF 20 CMD 20 | Fort +8 Ref +5 Will +7(+9) | Initiative +1 | Perception +6, Darkvision 60 ft.

Round 1

Here he is! The troll that almost ended me! Thoughts and memories of his first deadly encounter with this mythic creature race through Ordrud's mind. What anyone else might process as fear, Ordrud resolves as a challenging opponent. While others might flee after barely surviving a fight, Ordrud accepts as fate's opportunity for revenge. He searches for the battle rage deep inside himself and finds his well of energy exhausted. Lastwall trained him for this when the battle extends beyond his limits of rage.

Instinctively, he quickly moves in the deep snow toward the creature keeping just outside the range of that huge spear. For the first time in weeks, Ordrud remembers his well-practiced Lastwall on-guard position putting Feyswatter between the troll and himself. He steels himself for the onslaught.
_____________________________________
move action to E47
standard action for total defense AC+4=23
Feyswatter in both hands

Dark Archive

Male Chelish Human Fighter 1/Gunslinger 2/Guardian 1
Stats:
HP 39/39; AC 19, Flat Footed 17, Touch 12; CMD 19; Fort +8, Ref +4, Will +2; Perception +7; Initiative +3

Just to clarify - Melee takes a 20% penalty due to concealment, does that mean ranged attacks are 50%? And if so, that would mean Tubby effectively has Total Concealment (From me).. meaning I need to make a perception check to locate him?


First levels: 2/4; THP:17/21; HP:43/43; MP:4/5
Stats:
HP:43 THP:21 / AC 17/21, T 11, FF 16 / Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5 / Perception +2 / Initiative +3

This is it. Time ter go for it. Rasso holds his claws up in front of him to deflect any incoming blows. "For Andoran!" he shouts, pushing through the snow to come right up next to the massive troll. He rears back on his tail, and manages to come nearly to its waist. "Rwaar!" he roars, hoping to draw its attention temporarily. Now's the time for the zombie bomb, necromancer!
______________________________
Assuming my mage armor is still up, if not I would have cast one before leaving the yurt.

I'm probably going to regret this, but can't let Ordrud get creamed alone.

Standard action, total defense = AC 25 this round

Move action, move to A49

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yeah Rassos Mage armor is still up. It was about 5 additional minutes from the Yurt to the portal.

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I had to re-read the rules on heavy snow in the weather section of the SRD given that question. Heavy snow affects visibility as rain and fog. So a -4 penalty to ranged attacks and perception checks, and attacks *beyond* 5 feet have a 20% miss chance. So melee is unaffected. I was mistakenly using the miss chance for obscuring mist as how fig works. So, no, you do not need to make perception checks to notice Teb (as he has broken stealth and did not attempt to reingage it).

Dark Archive

Male Chelish Human Fighter 1/Gunslinger 2/Guardian 1
Stats:
HP 39/39; AC 19, Flat Footed 17, Touch 12; CMD 19; Fort +8, Ref +4, Will +2; Perception +7; Initiative +3

Whew! Will work on my action, then. Gonna give Teb a taste of some Asmodian Love from Down Below.

By that, I mean fire. Not something kinky.


First levels: 2/4; THP:17/21; HP:43/43; MP:4/5
Stats:
HP:43 THP:21 / AC 17/21, T 11, FF 16 / Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5 / Perception +2 / Initiative +3

So melee doesn't have a miss chance? Excellent!

Dark Archive

Male Chelish Human Fighter 1/Gunslinger 2/Guardian 1
Stats:
HP 39/39; AC 19, Flat Footed 17, Touch 12; CMD 19; Fort +8, Ref +4, Will +2; Perception +7; Initiative +3

Marcellano grins at the newest arrival of their enemy's forces. As he plucks a flask filled with a viscous red liquid from his bandolier, Marcellano taunts the troll. "Been wondering when your fat-ass would show up! We had been hearing so much about you, I could not wait to meet you!" His grin widens to an almost maniacal level as he prepared to lob the splash weapon. "Your offer of our deaths is intriguing, but let me propose a counter offer! Consider this a gift from Asmodeus!" And with that, he throws the flask with as much might as he can muster, straight at the troll's hideous, tusked face.

_________________________________

Marcellano's Turn:
Starting Location: C51
Move Action: Draw Flask of Alchemist's Fire
Standard Action: Throw Flask
>Throw Flask: 1d20 + 4 - 4 - 2 ⇒ (17) + 4 - 4 - 2 = 15 (Included -2 from Range and -4 from Weather)
>>Concealment Check: 1d100 ⇒ 78
>>>Fire Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 3
>>>Fire Damage Next Round: 1d6 ⇒ 3 (Only if he doesn't put it out)
(I think that, since he's Large, I have to pick a square that he fills for splash damage, yes? If so, C48 would be that square)
Ending Location: C51


Male Grey Elf (Fey) Magus 3/Champion/Archmage 1 AC 16/12/14/ HP 30/30 / F +5 R +3 W +3 (+9 vs cold weather) / Init. +2 / Perc. +9 / Mythic 3/5)

"Snow falling slowly, Blanketing the trees and ground, Death looms silently." Murmurs Teladon as he draws forth his black curved blade that glistening with poison. The silence a moment before had been broken like a thousand shards of glass falling to a stone floor. Ahead the ancient ruins waited, silently streaming light. It was beautiful a detached section of the elf's mind though. "How many civilizations had risen and fallen while the stones watched wordlessly?" Sighing from behind his mask the elf focused. Idle thoughts had no purpose now but lead to a swift death. "Focus" A second more quiet voice whispered in the back of Teladon’s mind. Accompanying the voice was a heat that radiated outward from the grip of the ancient blade. Eyes widening in surprise Teladon glanced down at his sword, before his gaze snapped back up catching the aftermath of the hurled sphere of liquid fire.

Shaking his head Teladon started forward. His curved blade began to stream moonlight. Frowning again the elf grimace. He had not willed it so. Reaching the very edge of the trolls reach Teladon smiled and thrust his hand forward releasing a spray of azure blues, swirling yellows and glowing reds.
______________________________
Swift Action: Activate Arcane Pool to enchant my scimitar with +1.
Move Action: Move 20' to D50 w/ snowshoes.
Standard Action: Cast color spray DC14 to the Northwest, will catch Teb in the cone.

-Posted with Wayfinder


Sin Mage (Gluttony) 3
Stats:
HP 22/22; AC 11, Flat Footed 10, Touch 11; CMD 11; Fort +4, Ref +2, Will +4; Perception +4; Initiative +1

Taken aback by the sudden reappearance of the troll, Fenyx nearly throws himself prostrate into the mounds of snow as he scrambles to get away from the immense creature, tusks and all. Such an indignant display is certainly not the usual state of affairs for the sin mage, but the desperation of the moment is understandably amplified by the added complication of hearing loss. It is not until he passes Marcellano, stumbling and nearly loping on all fours as he does so, that he stops to wheel about and see what matter of carnage Teb is unleashing on the ranks of his companions. Fortunately, Ar'Zarrcal seems to weather the trolls assaults admirably, though the trails of the dwarf's blood on the powdery snows bears witness to how short lived such a struggle might last.

Hoping to provide some measure of buffer between the troll and his allies—most importantly, Fenyx himself, of course—he crooks a finger towards Yvonne and gasps out a command for the carcass to approach the moss troll. Fenyx begins looking for the vial of alchemist's fire the Chelaxian standing nearby had offered moments prior.

__________________________________________________
Starting Location: B50.
Withdraw: to B53

Free Action: Order Yvonne to move.
Ending Location: B53.

      Yvonne
> Move: to B50.

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Waiting on Styv and then I can update.

Liberty's Edge

Stats
Spoiler:
  • HP 25/25
  • AC 20( T: 12/ FF:16)
  • Fort + 4|Ref + 2|Will + 2
  • Init + 2
  • Perception +1

The troll didn't surprise the Captain. He had expected it to be around every turn since they first learned of the creature's existence. Styvanus' eyes were drawn to the crimson flecks on the pure white snow near their dwarven companion. This would be a defensive battle, and so with a roll of his shoulder he slid the shield down his arm and donned his eagle-emblazoned escutcheon.

He moved forward to form a line around Teb. Styv held his shield up high and banged his gauntlet against it, making a makeshift gong."You picked the wrong fight troll!" The captain practically spat the words out."You'll be nothing but ashes once we're done with you."
__________________________________________________________________________
Starting Location: G45
Ending Location: D46, Move action
Free Action: Don Quickdraw Shield
Standard Action: Intimidate

Intimidate: Demoralize: 1d20 + 6 - 4 ⇒ (20) + 6 - 4 = 22

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      ROUND 1 RECAP
 
 
 
 
 
 
The troll didn't surprise the Captain. He had expected it to be around every turn since they first learned of the creature's existence. Styvanus' eyes were drawn to the crimson flecks on the pure white snow near their dwarven companion. This would be a defensive battle, and so with a roll of his shoulder he slid the shield down his arm and donned his eagle-emblazoned escutcheon.

He moved forward to form a line around Teb. Styv held his shield up high and banged his gauntlet against it, making a makeshift gong."You picked the wrong fight troll!" The captain practically spat the words out."You'll be nothing but ashes once we're done with you."

With the snow whipping past, Styvanus can barely see the troll's expression, though as the flames are promised, it turns glossy, black eyes towards the Captain and flares its nostrils. Teb is well aware that Hommelstaub and the others were driven off by them, and it is that proof that makes him wary, and makes the promise of fire terrifying.

Here he is! The troll that almost ended me! Thoughts and memories of his first deadly encounter with this mythic creature race through Ordrud's mind. What anyone else might process as fear, Ordrud resolves as a challenging opponent. While others might flee after barely surviving a fight, Ordrud accepts as fate's opportunity for revenge. He searches for the battle rage deep inside himself and finds his well of energy exhausted. Lastwall trained him for this when the battle extends beyond his limits of rage.

Instinctively, he quickly moves in the deep snow toward the creature keeping just outside the range of that huge spear. For the first time in weeks, Ordrud remembers his well-practiced Lastwall on-guard position putting Feyswatter between the troll and himself. He steels himself for the onslaught.

This is it. Time ter go for it. Rasso holds his claws up in front of him to deflect any incoming blows. "For Andoran!" he shouts, pushing through the snow to come right up next to the massive troll. He rears back on his tail, and manages to come nearly to its waist. "Rwaar!" he roars, hoping to draw its attention temporarily.

Teb bellows out a breathy hoot when Rasso charges towards him. The spear that troll carries is hefted up and thrust forward, but the crustacean claws covering Rasso's arms deflect the wide-bladed spearhead aside, leaving a harmless gouge in his chitinous exterior. Teb stumbles back, then breathes in deeply and exhales a threatening roar to Rasso, hands shaking at the thought of fire brought to the fore by Styvanus.

Gwynn steps back with a few crunching footfalls through the snow, raising her revolver and training her sights on the hulking troll. She fires, a noisy report of the revolver and flash from the muzzle, but the blinding snow falling so heavily caused her to fire too wide. Teb jerks his head towards the sound of gunfire, spotting Gwynn with narrowed eyes. His tongue slides up the inside of one tusk, threatening her with the same beating he'd given her before.

Marcellano grins at the newest arrival of their enemy's forces. As he plucks a flask filled with a viscous red liquid from his bandolier, Marcellano taunts the troll. "Been wondering when your fat-ass would show up! We had been hearing so much about you, I could not wait to meet you!" His grin widens to an almost maniacal level as he prepared to lob the splash weapon. "Your offer of our deaths is intriguing, but let me propose a counter offer! Consider this a gift from Asmodeus!" And with that, he throws the flask with as much might as he can muster, straight at the troll's hideous, tusked face.

The flask shatters on Teb's face and the fluid inside ignites the moment it is exposed to air. Flames roar into existance, covering the troll's countenance and coming with a terrified, child-like wail of horror as Teb recoils, shaking his head around and flailing wildly. He screams, screams as loud as he possible can as the sticky flames and oil consume his face with sizzling, smoking efficiency.

Taken aback by the sudden reappearance of the troll, Fenyx nearly throws himself prostrate into the mounds of snow as he scrambles to get away from the immense creature, tusks and all. Such an indignant display is certainly not the usual state of affairs for the sin mage, but the desperation of the moment is understandably amplified by the added complication of hearing loss. It is not until he passes Marcellano, stumbling and nearly loping on all fours as he does so, that he stops to wheel about and see what matter of carnage Teb is unleashing on the ranks of his companions. Fortunately, Ar'Zarrcal seems to weather the trolls assaults admirably, though the trails of the dwarf's blood on the powdery snows bears witness to how short lived such a struggle might last.

Hoping to provide some measure of buffer between the troll and his allies—most importantly, Fenyx himself, of course—he crooks a finger towards Yvonne and gasps out a command for the carcass to approach the moss troll. Fenyx begins looking for the vial of alchemist's fire the Chelaxian standing nearby had offered moments prior.

Seeing the effectiveness of the flame, Talavuc raises one hand into the air and begins a low, droning chant. Holding her spear out to the side, the erutaki woman's voice rises and falls with a rhythmic call to the spirits of flame and heat, culminating in a swirling mass of fire that envelopes her raised hand. The roiling flame shines brightly, and curling her fingers close to her palm she grasps it like one would a weapon -- ready to strike.

"Snow falling slowly, Blanketing the trees and ground, Death looms silently." Murmurs Teladon as he draws forth his black curved blade that glistening with poison. The silence a moment before had been broken like a thousand shards of glass falling to a stone floor. Ahead the ancient ruins waited, silently streaming light. It was beautiful a detached section of the elf's mind though. "How many civilizations had risen and fallen while the stones watched wordlessly?" Sighing from behind his mask the elf focused. Idle thoughts had no purpose now but lead to a swift death. "Focus" A second more quiet voice whispered in the back of Teladon’s mind. Accompanying the voice was a heat that radiated outward from the grip of the ancient blade. Eyes widening in surprise Teladon glanced down at his sword, before his gaze snapped back up catching the aftermath of the hurled sphere of liquid fire.

Shaking his head Teladon started forward. His curved blade began to stream moonlight. Frowning again the elf grimace. He had not willed it so. Reaching the very edge of the trolls reach Teladon smiled and thrust his hand forward releasing a spray of azure blues, swirling yellows and glowing reds.

The corsucating wave of color washes over the already terrified and distracted Teb, eliciting a pained shriek from the troll that causes him to drop his gigantic spear. The moment it falls from his grip, the spear's size shrinks down to that of a weapon more suited for a human than a beast such as he. Ablaze in a wreath of fire, Teb paws at his face, stumbles around and groans in agony, unable to focus on anything other than the swimming vertigo in his mind and the searing pain on his face.

Seeing the troll stunned and injured, Ar'Zarrcal lets out a grunt of effort and, trailing blood behind him, pushes forward with shield aloft and hammer held high. Exhaling a roar of wrath, the dwarf brings his hammer down on Teb's ribs, shattering bone beneath flesh with a sound strike. The dwarf lets out a ferocious grunt as he brings the hammer back, staring down the towering beast as his ancestors had; with shield and hammer and fury.

The sudden surge of pride in the runescarred dwarf is inexplicable.
 
 
 
 
 
         
<< Encounter: That Which is Legend | Round II | Environment: Heavy Snow (Concealment) | Encounter Map: [url=https://docs.google.com/drawings/d/1JNRPW-sY9mtSn8ouLk8ltP5b7UQiKwSkpVOBZ3HpF_M/edit?usp=sharing]The Winter Portal[/ooc] >>

______________

INITIATIVE
Teb Knotten = 25 <<Dual Initiative>> (Stunned, 1 Round; Demoralized 2 Rounds)
Styvanus, Initiative = 16
Ordrud, Initiative = 14
Rasso, Initiative = 13
Gwynn, Initiative = 12
Marcellano, Initiative = 9
Fenyx, Initiative = 8 (Deafened)
Talavuc/Naasvit = 7
Teladon, Initiative = 6
Teb Knotten = 5 <<Dual Initiative>> (Stunned, 1 Round; Demoralized 2 Rounds)
Ar'Z = 4
 
Teb Knotten (Shaken) Attack of Opportunity > Rasso
Attack of Opportunity: Boar Spear: 1d20 + 6 - 2 ⇒ (3) + 6 - 2 = 7 (miss)
 
Gwynn
MA: 15' move
SA: Shoot Teb (20% miss chance)
> Gwynn: Revolver @ Teb: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (6) + 7 = 13 (hit)
>> Miss Chance: 1d100 ⇒ 4 (miss)
 
Talavuc
SA: Cast produce flame
FA: Order Naasvit to move
> Naasvit
> FRA: Move
 
> Teb Knotten: Will Save (DC 14) vs. Color Spray: 1d20 + 4 - 2 ⇒ (10) + 4 - 2 = 12 (FAIL; Stunned 1 Round)
 
Teb Knotten (Stunned; 1 Round) (Damage Taken: 3 fire)
 
Ar'Zarrcal
MA: Move 5'
SA: Attack Teb
Ar'Zarrcal: Hammer @ Teb: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (16) + 2 = 18 (hit)
> Damage: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (7) + 1 = 8
 
Teb Knotten (Stunned; 1 Round) (Damage Taken: 11)


Half-orc warrior | HP 72/72 | Bond 6/6 | LoH 5/5 | Smite 2/2 | 1st 2/2 | Ferocity 1/1 | AC 21 Touch 11 FF 20 CMD 20 | Fort +8 Ref +5 Will +7(+9) | Initiative +1 | Perception +6, Darkvision 60 ft.

Round 2

Ordrud was almost as stunned as the troll at its helplessness. This mighty foe confounded in front of him. A fleeting thought imagined the irony of butchering the troll with its own cleaver. But Urok brutally trained him to never underestimate a wounded opponent. Imminent death motivates killers, rang in his Belkzen memory.

Ordrud shifts his fighting position from on-guard to high guard and advances to stand next to his new dwarven ally flanking with the crab. While his orc battle fury was spent, he roars to the gods for revenge, "FOR GIRARDIN!" He puts his back into sweeping Feyswatter through the troll.
_____________________________________
move action to D48
Masterwork Cold Iron Greatsword power attack with flanking: 1d20 + 7 + 2 - 1 ⇒ (16) + 7 + 2 - 1 = 24
if hit, damage 19-20/x2: 2d6 + 6 + 3 ⇒ (4, 5) + 6 + 3 = 18
Feyswatter in both hands

Liberty's Edge

Stats
Spoiler:
  • HP 25/25
  • AC 20( T: 12/ FF:16)
  • Fort + 4|Ref + 2|Will + 2
  • Init + 2
  • Perception +1

Styvanus grins as the plan comes together, but quickly regains a stoic expression. He was ever wary of assumptions, and he would be a fool to believe Teb was done already. Stepping forward behind the stunned and screaming troll, Styvanus laid the shield into the small of the monster's back and delivered kick to the back of it's knobby knees.

He felt Teb's tendons strain under his bootheel."Timber." He thought to himself.

Styv's shield reverberated with the force of the maneuver as he sought to bring the troll to it's knees in it's weakened condition.

_________________________________________________________________________
Starting Location: D46
Ending Location: D47, Move action
Standard Action: Trip the troll!(Styv's CMB+stunned troll-size difference)

Trip Attempt: 1d20 + 5 + 4 - 4 ⇒ (17) + 5 + 4 - 4 = 22


First levels: 2/4; THP:17/21; HP:43/43; MP:4/5
Stats:
HP:43 THP:21 / AC 17/21, T 11, FF 16 / Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5 / Perception +2 / Initiative +3

Seeing Styvanus trip the troll, and then Ordrud slash into it with viscous effect, Rasso grins. Aint often that things hold still for me ter really work on them in this damned snow. This ought ter be fun.

The synthesized merman shoves his claws into the relatively helpless troll's chest, and grabs a hold of two of its ribs. He flexes his eidolon's powerful musculature, which is further augmented by the magical necklace. His claws shatter the ribs, whose splinters he tears from Teb Knotten's chest. Rearing back, he throws the bloody fistfulls of troll flesh into the snow, laughing maniacally. Rasso then lunges forward like a snake, propelled by flexing his powerful tail. His shark-like maw snaps down on the troll's throat. Rasso thrashes his head about, tearing great ribbons of flesh from the giant's jowls.

He can feel the troll's flesh twisting and fighting to regenerate itself in his mouth, so Rasso spits the gobbets of throat out into the snow as well. He says nothing, simply baring his teeth and crouching in preparation for another onslaught.
_________________________

Full attack:
Claw (flanking): 1d20 + 8 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 8 + 2 = 22
Claw (flanking): 1d20 + 8 + 2 ⇒ (17) + 8 + 2 = 27
Bite (flanking): 1d20 + 8 + 2 ⇒ (11) + 8 + 2 = 21

Claw 1 dmg: 1d4 + 6 ⇒ (3) + 6 = 9
Claw 2 dmg: 1d4 + 6 ⇒ (3) + 6 = 9
Bite 2 dmg: 1d6 + 6 ⇒ (1) + 6 = 7

25 damage if no DR.

No movement

Dark Archive

Male Chelish Human Fighter 1/Gunslinger 2/Guardian 1
Stats:
HP 39/39; AC 19, Flat Footed 17, Touch 12; CMD 19; Fort +8, Ref +4, Will +2; Perception +7; Initiative +3

ROUND 2

Seeing the troll lit on fire, demoralized, stunned, and tripped, Marcellano grins wickedly. "His regeneration's not working! Hit him with all you've got!" He drops his rifle in the snow, and although momentarily considering grabbing the troll's spear to impale him with it, Marcellano instead decides to stick with the weapon he's got, using the troll's moment of weakness against him. His cutlass drawn as he barrels past Teladon, nearly knocking the elf over in the snow, Marcellano grips the weapon with both hands and puts the entire weight of his body behind the weapon, intending to decapitate the troll where he lays.

________________________________
Marcellano:
Starting Location: C51
Free Action: Drop Rifle @ C51
Move action: Move to C49
Free Action while Moving: Draw Cutlass
Standard Action: Two-Handed Power Attack w/ Cutlass @ Teb
1d20 + 6 - 1 ⇒ (19) + 6 - 1 = 24
1d20 + 6 - 1 ⇒ (10) + 6 - 1 = 15 (Confirmation)
Damage: 1d6 + 9 ⇒ (4) + 9 = 13
Crit Damage if Crit: 1d6 + 9 ⇒ (1) + 9 = 10
Total Damage if crit: 23
Ending Locatino: C49

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Marcellano's sword comes down with a ferocious scream of effort from the marine and that reliable Chelish cutlass that had cleaved rope, bone and muscle on the open seas proves its worth once more. The blade hacks through Teb Knotten's neck like a bundle of branches, splitting bone and muscle in a shower of blood and spray of embers. Teb's burning head rolls from his shoulders, fire sizzling and popping as his eyes burst within their sockets and fail to blossom back.

Blood pumps out of Teb's neck stump as his arms and legs windmill helplessly in the snow, exposed ribcage torn wide open enough that his oversized heart can be seen beating. But then, in a few fitful spirts, the heart ceases its palpatations and the troll falls motionless as the last few spurts of blood gurgle out of the neck stump. For all his ferocity, for all his power, Teb Knotten could not face the fury of a coordinated attack from seasoned veterans.

[ENCOUNTER RESOLVED!] | XP Award: 150 per character ]

Still trembling, Captain Gwynn stares wide-eyed at the troll's unmoving corpse, her revolver pointed down at the remains. The shakes eventually subside, a sharp exhalation of breath wafting out as a gout of steam as relief replaces the surge of adrenaline she had been high on.

Nudging the corpse with the head of his hammer, Ar'Zarrcal furrows his brows, then spits squarely on the beast's chest. "I fail t'see the-- " Ar'Zarrcal's words are cut off by a sudden thunderclap that emanates from the winter portal. The snow blasts sideways across the valley as a gust of wind roars from the tornado, dismissing the snowstorm in its entirety.

But out of the storm an enormous, dark silhouette moves with awkward grace. Talavuc lowers her hand from where it shielded her eyes, watching as something emerges thorugh the watery swirls of the vortex. A rider, clad entirely in black plate armor and fur atop an inky steed half again as large as a normal horse. Its eyes burn like hot coals, and the rider's countenance is concealed behind a wedge-shaped helm with curling ram horns.

"No--" Talavuc whispers hoarsely, raising her hand and its contained flame upward in warding gesture as the rider appears. Gwynn levels her revolver at the figure, but pauses when she notices something out of place...

The rider is impaled by a four foot long shard of ice riddled with black veins, slouched in his seat and held in place only by the military saddle binding his legs and waist with buckled straps. The horse gallops a few awkward steps forward, neighs with a hollow, echoing cry, and then disappears in a cloud of black smoke that sends its mortally wounded rider collapsing into the snow in a bloodied heap.

The minute he lands in the snow, the rider's helmet cracks like melting ice and falls away from his face, his armor loses its otherworldly tar-like sheen, and his facial feature shift from a terrifyingly fey countenance to that of a feeble, broken old man with patchy strings of gray hair and a deeply wrinkled face. Blood trails out of one corner of his mouth, and he grasps at the spear of ice lodged in his chest with a gurgling breath.

Talavuc looks back to the others, eyes wide in confusion.

Knowledge (Nature) DC 25:

Many fey creatures aided Baba Yaga’s invasion of the eastern Linnorm Kingdoms, doing so for the sheer love of carnage and chaos. Others, however, possessed more inscrutable motives. Every century, in the year that precedes the return of the Queen of Witches to Irrisen, three fey beings astride sorcerous beasts descend on the land. They herald the coming of Baba Yaga, and gallop across the wintry countryside, coldly judging peasant and princess alike by criteria known only to the Riders and their otherworldly patron. Incorruptible and relentless, they strike fear into all who live in the snow-covered realm.

The Three Riders change with each century—Baba Yaga chooses beings every 100 years to serve as her heralds, and she imbues them with potent magic, transforming them into fey creatures with many magical powers. She selects the Riders seemingly at random, from among dozens of different worlds. Some past Riders found themselves granted this position without ever seeking it, and Baba Yaga rarely presents the opportunity to those who too eagerly reach for it. Others became Baba Yaga’s heralds as part of deals they made with her—deals that would give them something they truly desire in return for serving the Queen of Witches for a century.

Upon choosing her Riders, Baba Yaga gives each of them a special magical weapon, robes that protect it and allow it to mask its forms, and the ability to call special supernatural mounts. Though every centennial anniversary is greeted by the arrival of new Riders, their titles remain unchanged. The White Rider, called “My Bright Morning” by Baba Yaga, is seen only in the hours after sunrise, riding a sleek, white destrier. The Red Rider, or “My Red Sun,” sits upon a reddish-gold stallion; the citizens of Irrisen encounter this creature in the daylight hours after noon. The third is the Black Rider, mounted upon a fierce black warhorse. She calls this Rider, seen only in the hours between sunset and sunrise, “My Dark Midnight."


Sin Mage (Gluttony) 3
Stats:
HP 22/22; AC 11, Flat Footed 10, Touch 11; CMD 11; Fort +4, Ref +2, Will +4; Perception +4; Initiative +1

Staring at the now-headless form of Teb Knotten as it spasms uncontrollably where it fell, Fenyx finds himself somewhere between surprise and relief. Given Ordrud's recounting of his grim tale back in the relative comfort of The Goose and Gander, the necromancer had expected a more substantial enemy. Perhaps the heroics of Andoran's finest have been greatly exaggerated. Fenyx turns briefly to regard Styvanus and Gwynn with cold eyes. Or perhaps the full weight of Thassilon at their back provides enough boon and inspiration to elicit actual results. Would that such pairings were capable of happening freely, perhaps such threats as this eternal winter and the return of tyrants or headless gods would not be such an obstacle. The Shalasti man turns his gaze to the winter portal after his own unvoiced musings just in time to see something appear within its confines.

Knowledge (Nature): 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 25

"My dark m..." A forceful gale and resounding thunderclap swallow wholly what words the sin mage attends to muster, the lengths of his garments flailing and flapping wildly behind him as his cowl is torn back from his face. There is recognition in his eyes, though it is soon replaced by bewilderment as he notes The Black Rider's state of well being. Striding forward steadily with the assistance of snowshoe and scythe, Fenyx attempts to speak something as he moves, but it is lost utterly to the wind. What could lay low such an entity? He severs the length of rope that connect he to Marcellano, gesturing towards the Black Rider as he does so before continuing his advance unabated.

Vocal Shenanigans: 1d100 ⇒ 3

Dark Archive

Male Chelish Human Fighter 1/Gunslinger 2/Guardian 1
Stats:
HP 39/39; AC 19, Flat Footed 17, Touch 12; CMD 19; Fort +8, Ref +4, Will +2; Perception +7; Initiative +3

Letting go of his blade with one hand, Marcellano reaches down and picks up what remains of Teb's decapitated head, holding it by whatever he can get a hold of that isn't melting due to his alchemist's fire. He grins, before spitting on Teb's face and hurling the object away from the group. He's had enough Troll for one day.

As he goes to pick up his rifle, he hears Fenyx say something before being drowned out by the thunderclap. Sensing worry in the group, he quickly shuffles over and grabs his rifle, before spinning around and readying it at whatever just exited the portal. Though his instincts nearly make him pull the trigger on his firearm, he halts himself upon seeing the rider is injured. Looking confused as to what to do next, he leans over to Teladon, standing next to him, and mutters to the elf, "Should I shoot it?"


Half-orc warrior | HP 72/72 | Bond 6/6 | LoH 5/5 | Smite 2/2 | 1st 2/2 | Ferocity 1/1 | AC 21 Touch 11 FF 20 CMD 20 | Fort +8 Ref +5 Will +7(+9) | Initiative +1 | Perception +6, Darkvision 60 ft.

Ordrud's attention follows everyone from the death of the troll to the thunderclap heralding a potential foe to the collapse of dying old man, who doesn't appear to be a threat to the orc. Ordrud cleans the blade of Feyswatter on the fur of the troll and returns it to his waist scabbard.

While the others focus on the new arrival, Ordrud unslings his musket and removes two items from his backpack. He wraps a necklace with a silver holy symbol of Iomedae and a unique red/black Varisian Kapenia scarf of the unique pattern of the Falentini family around his left hand. He then grabs the musket barrel with his left hand uniting the three memories of his fallen companions. Ordrud reaches into the guts of the troll through the slice that he created covering his right hand in gore. Kneeling in the blood-stained trampled snow, he brings together his two hands covering his souvenirs in troll blood. "By death, combat, and blood, you are avenged: Girardin Shalewind, Tycora Sandein, and Cerasan Falentini. Rest eternally easier, my friends." He bows his head in silence.


Male Grey Elf (Fey) Magus 3/Champion/Archmage 1 AC 16/12/14/ HP 30/30 / F +5 R +3 W +3 (+9 vs cold weather) / Init. +2 / Perc. +9 / Mythic 3/5)

Taking a ragged breath Teladon, whirls at the new arrival. His hand was shaking ever so slightly from the radiant cone of ethereal colors that had flooded out from his hand. The elf glanced down and flexed his fingers into a fist. I knew it was too easy. The magus thought before realizing that something was out of place. Keen eyes studied the black rider before widening behind the mask. The man was wounded, likely mortally so. No one could survive such damage, except for perhaps one of the ancients of legend.

Not letting his eyes break from the elderly man who had been atop the horse seconds before, the Magus pursed his lips ever so slightly before letting his vision be drawn to the body of the troll that lay dead before him. Pushing his way forward on his captured snowshoes, the elf kneeled at the body. The blood as leaking out and the liquid flame crackled and hissed in the snow. Quickly before the moment was lost the elf harvested a bit of blood before glancing at Marcellano who picked up the troll and threw the head away into the snow. Sighing, the elf shook his head, uneducated savage, the elf thought again at the brutish human. Perhaps not, he seems... near to the boundary of this life and the next. The elf finally whispered back to the marine, before turning in the general direction that the trolls head was thrown in.

Stomping off towards the head that lay in the snow, the trolls eyes still twitched. Was it the regeneration still at work? Teladon thought. Perhaps... regardless blood and bone I have harvested from dragon, fey and now troll. All carry great strength within them, from the fey would be a cunning intelligence, from the dragon raw power and the troll would lend vitality. As the snow fell upon the elf's mask, he glanced towards the winter portal. And the one common thread that bound all three creatures together was the icy power of winter as well. Kneeling at the trolls head, Teladon hacked away one of the trolls massive tusks. Wiping the gore covered stump in the snow, the elf nodded before placing it and the blood in his bag. As he did so he felt the inherent warmness of his sword in his hand. It beckoned him towards the ruins, it sang to him and made him want to battle in moonlight.

Nodding to himself, the elf turned and rejoined the group before crossing his arms and looking towards the figure that lay dying on the ground. Silently the elf looked to the left and right before pushing his way through the snow drifts towards the portal beyond and the dying man who had crossed its threshold.


First levels: 2/4; THP:17/21; HP:43/43; MP:4/5
Stats:
HP:43 THP:21 / AC 17/21, T 11, FF 16 / Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5 / Perception +2 / Initiative +3

Rasso shudders as the battle lust leaves him. All that worry over nothing, this troll was a chump b~$+$. He begins to stretch and shake out his muscles while Marcellano and Teladon start mutilating the troll's corpse. His observation is broken when the clap of thunder explodes from the portal and dispels the storm. Rasso whirls crouching into a battle stance by instinct. He watches the miniature drama of the rider's collapse unfold warily, but he doesn't know what the man is, and he doesn't seem to be a threat.

Ordrud wrote:

Ordrud's attention follows everyone from the death of the troll to the thunderclap heralding a potential foe to the collapse of dying old man, who doesn't appear to be a threat to the orc. Ordrud cleans the blade of Feyswatter on the fur of the troll and returns it to his waist scabbard.

While the others focus on the new arrival, Ordrud unslings his musket and removes two items from his backpack. He wraps a necklace with a silver holy symbol of Iomedae and a unique red/black Varisian Kapenia scarf of the unique pattern of the Falentini family around his left hand. He then grabs the musket barrel with his left hand uniting the three memories of his fallen companions. Ordrud reaches into the guts of the troll through the slice that he created covering his right hand in gore. Kneeling in the blood-stained trampled snow, he brings together his two hands covering his souvenirs in troll blood. "By death, combat, and blood, you are avenged: Girardin Shalewind, Tycora Sandein, and Cerasan Falentini. Rest eternally easier, my friends." He bows his head in silence.

Leaving the others to deal with the portal's excretion, Rasso stands silently behind Ordrud as he performs his ceremony. As the half orc bows his head, Rasso approaches him, retracting his claws out of the way, and places his hand on the young half orc's shoulder. He says nothing, simply offering his younger brother in battle a point of contact with a friend. How many times have I buried people in the field and later avenged them? How many more times before he falls into a bottle like me? Or maybe he turns into a golem like Kain. Damn this. Damn it all.

The synthesist watches as the troll's blood congeals in the snow, forming a red slurry. He lets the stench of the troll's bodily fluids wash over him, mingling with the crisp cool winter air and the scent of burning flesh. He forms a solid mental picture of the sensations, the bittersweet miasma of war. Ah, victory....

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Crunching through the snow towards the winter portal and the fallen rider, Fenyx can feel the pulse of energy and wind coming from the ancient structure. With the snow having stopped its relentless descent, the pillars of this milennia-old Azlanti ruin are now clearly visible, and each sigil carved in them throbs with a sapphire hued light. Just outside of the ruin's dais, the rider lays helpless in a dark red patch of ever-growing bloodied snow.

On arrival, Fenyx hears the rider whispering to himself, one gauntleted hand clutching the shard of ice protruding from his left lung, then other twitching at his side. When he draws near, Fenyx sees the rider turn his glassy eyes towards the Shalasti wizard, and his expression shifts in several subtle ways. In the end, it is relief that shows on the rider's face instead of any of the other more ephemeral ones. The rider reaches out with his free hand, grasping in Fenyx's direction as a piece of his sleeve armor falls away like melting ice off of his body. Up close, Fenyx can see a spider's web of black veins coursing through the old man's flesh.

"You will do," the rider rasps wetly, urging Fenyx closer. "Please. There-- is not-- there is not much time." His words reach Fenyx's ears as Thassilonian, yet the rider's lips do not match the movements he expects to see for the words spoken.

___________
When the rider speaks, you will percieve his words as your native tongue, prioritized by Race, then Nationality.

Furthermore, anyone moving up to the rider may make the following Knowledge check with regard to the ruins/portal:

Knowledge (Arcana) DC 20:
Observing the power of the winter portal on display and this Azlanti ruin, it is clear that ley lines are being manipulated to generate a portal that crosses vast distances. The winter weather emerging from the portal must come from another location, and the source of the portal lies not on this side of the portal, but wherever lies beyond it. The ruins are merely a way marker created by the Azlanti to denote a point of powerful ley magic, and the glowing runes indicate that this ley line is being tapped.

If you succeed at the above check, you may make the following secondary check:

Knowledge (Arcana) DC 23:
Ley lines have a peculiar effect on the world around them, often termed "parallel design." In regions at end points of ley lines, man-made design will parallel one-another. Artists will find similar inspiration, architects and city planners will use similar ideas to one another. It is unknown what causes this phenomenon, but there have been instances of villages built near the ends of ley lines looking nearly identical (or identically mirrored) to settlements on the other end of the line.


Sin Mage (Gluttony) 3
Stats:
HP 22/22; AC 11, Flat Footed 10, Touch 11; CMD 11; Fort +4, Ref +2, Will +4; Perception +4; Initiative +1

Fenyx stands several paces away from the old man's farm, watching with no small amount of confusion as his words are utterly lost on the Shalasti necromancer. Looking down at the rider, now cutting a more feeble figure by the moment, Fenyx shakes his head and says forcefully enough to ensure his words are heard, "My hearing is lost to me. One of the winter fey's doing; I cannot understand you. But I know what you are—whom you serve. The others with me are not similarly afflicted. Speak to them if you would." The icicle is unexpected. Fenyx remains wary but inquisitive. Given his deafness, he figures he will remain in such a state for the immediate future.

__________________________________________________

Knowledge (Arcana): 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (9) + 10 = 19


Male Grey Elf (Fey) Magus 3/Champion/Archmage 1 AC 16/12/14/ HP 30/30 / F +5 R +3 W +3 (+9 vs cold weather) / Init. +2 / Perc. +9 / Mythic 3/5)

Having finished collecting the bone and blood, Teleadon stands up and carefully stowed the components in his bag. As he does so he stretches, feeling aching muscles straining along his back and shoulders. The trek and been long and hard, but now they stood in front of the portal that had caused such destruction in Andor. Pushing his way through the high high snow dunes that seemed to shift with each halting step. The elf braced himself. The snow had fallen onto his white fox furs encrusting them like so much of this land. His mask felt cold next to his skin, but he knew that it also protected him, both externally and internally.

As he stepped, the wind gusted again and snow began to collect around his leg rising nearly to his knee. It gusted again and was gone, scattered into some new place of the icy expanse. It was beautiful and fitting. Frowning behind his mask, the elf listened as the deft mage spoke. "I know what you are - whom you serve." Peering at the aged rider, the elf frowned behind his mask. What was the rider and who did it serve?" Teladon would dearly like to know.

There was only one solution. The man did not appear to be a threat, though the mere fact that he remained alive yet also impaled, spoke of a massive amount of vitality. But the elf had seen such things before. Those whose willpower had allowed them to push themselves unto death. Teladon had stood on battlefields before. He knew what would happen next. Breathing slowly, white air streamed through his slit.

Reaching the point where the elf stood beside the mage of Thassalon, Teladon nodded to the man, in this case words were not needed. Silently the stoic warrior regarded the fallen man. If Fenyx knew of him by reputation, Teladon would not approach further. Even on deaths door, the man could still be dangerous. This one is correct and cannot hear. But I will serve as his ears. Speak and I will listen.

Knowledge (arcana) 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (11) + 8 = 19


First levels: 2/4; THP:17/21; HP:43/43; MP:4/5
Stats:
HP:43 THP:21 / AC 17/21, T 11, FF 16 / Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5 / Perception +2 / Initiative +3

After a few moments of silent support, Rasso leaves Ordrud on his own and trundles over to where Fenyx and Teladon are talking to the fallen black rider. Feeling somewhat invincible after the troll fight, the merman walks right up to the dying man. He crouches down in the snow a foot or so away from him and studies the man closely, face to face. Rasso mutters a spell in Aquan and his eyes begin glowing sea green. What the f~%~? His blood's all black 'n stuff.

Leaning his elbows on his "knees" while still crouching, Rasso crosses his arms in front of his chest and says, "Don't look like ye've got much time left...Spit it out bub, who stabbed ye, and what do ye want?"

_________________________

Examining him with detect magic active.

Take 10 on Spellcraft for a 16. Does the icicle look like the result of any spell I know of? Or magic in general, or is it a natural icicle someone just shoved through him somehow?


Half-orc warrior | HP 72/72 | Bond 6/6 | LoH 5/5 | Smite 2/2 | 1st 2/2 | Ferocity 1/1 | AC 21 Touch 11 FF 20 CMD 20 | Fort +8 Ref +5 Will +7(+9) | Initiative +1 | Perception +6, Darkvision 60 ft.

Almost a minute after Rasso leaves Ordrud, the half-orc stands and returns the bloodied memories to their stations. Then, he silently follows the crab and stands behind the group with line of sight to he black rider with his arms crossed. After a few moments, the only two thoughts running through his head are about how nice the effect of Endure Elements is in this cursed blizzard and whether or not he should eat.

Back in a week or so. Cheers!

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As others come and circle the fallen rider, Talavuc hustles over through the snow and takes a knee -- hesitantly -- beside the fallen man. She waits, spear held in one hand and wand in the other, watching his movements tenaciously. Behind her, Naasvit crouches in the snow, growling lowly.

"The servants of Queen Elvanna did this to me," runs counter to what those who know his identity could surmise. "Once, I was Illarion Matveius. Now, I am Black Midnight, rider for Baba Yaga and harbinger of the WItch Queen's return..." The sentiment draws a look of shock from Gwynn, who casually levels her revolver at him and clicks back the hammer.

The rider's milky eyes shift towards the sound, but there is no fear or apprehension in his face, only grave acceptance. "I need your help," is an unusual plea for the rider to make, given those who surround him. "I can only hope you oppose the tragedy that is happening here, hope that-- that you oppose what is being done to this world."

Talavuc's brows furrow and she motions with the tip of her spear towards the rider's neck. "Your witch queen did this!" The rider licks his lips, then wetly breathes a sigh and looks at Talavuc slowly.

"No," he rasps, "Queen Elvanna did this. All of this." The rider struggles to breathe, his hand gripping the icicle in his chest trembling as more of his armor sloughs off like melting ice, cracking into wet heaps of oily black snow around him.

"S-something has happened to Baba Yaga. Every hundred years, she returns to Irrisen to place a new daughter on the throne. Elvanna-- she had other designs. Baba Yaga has not appeared as foretold, and her traitorous daughter intends to slay all those loyal to her mother." The rider's brows raise, and a look of overwhelmed grief spreads across his ancient face. "She hunted down and murdered my brothers in arms, I am the last of the Three Riders and-- and the last to carry the power of the Mantle of the Witch Queen."

Having heard enough to ease her concerns some, and not fearing the rider, Talavuc leans in to lay the wand on the rider and heal his injuries. As she does, there is a violent crackle of energy and an electric snap that sends coruscating veins of black lightning up her arm holding the wand, knocking her backwards and into the snow with a strangled yelp.

Gwynn thrusts her revolver down towards the rider, "What did you do to her!?" The rider only coughs and wheezes, shaking his head worriedly and offering out a trembling, bare hand towards Gwynn to try and get her to stay her hand.

"I am cursed," the rider rasps, "Elvanna has-- cursed my wounds and my flesh. I am dying, and those who aid me will find their magic turned against them." Exhaling a shuddering breath, the rider struggles to maintain consciousness.

"Will you..." the Rider swallows noisily, "will you please-- help me. I can ride no more, I can search no further... you are my last hope to stop Elvanna from accomplishing her goals and-- " the rider hacks out a wheezing cough. "I will tell you whatever it is you need to know, but-- but please...."

The rider's blind eyes stare vacantly to the sky, "tell me you will end the reign of winter."

__________

Talavuc: Attempts to use cure light wounds wand on the Rider
Talavuc: Will Save DC 30: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (18) + 7 = 25 (fail)
> Negative Energy: 1d8 + 5 ⇒ (2) + 5 = 7

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@Rasso: The rider has a Strong aura of Necromancy (with the curse subschool) around him resulting from a single, persistent spell effect. The icicle appears to be a piece of a ice spears spell that he was likely subjected to. There are lingering auras of illusion (glamer) and conjuration (summoning) on the rider as well, possibly linked to his armor and formerly conjured mount.


First levels: 2/4; THP:17/21; HP:43/43; MP:4/5
Stats:
HP:43 THP:21 / AC 17/21, T 11, FF 16 / Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5 / Perception +2 / Initiative +3

"That's the plan. How do we do that exactly, Mr Midnight?" Rasso asks, looking like he trusts the man. "You said this world...it aint your world?"

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The black rider closes his eyes and shakes his head, "It is not. I come from a world your sages likely have never heard of. One of but many that Baba Yaga has touched." Trying to gather his will to speak, the rider swallows a mouthful of blood and opens his glassy eyes in Rasso's direction.

"Only Baba Yaga can stop what Elvanna has started. Elvanna is using powerful magic etched into the every fabric of the world, magic beyond mortal comprehension, to sow the seeds of this unending winter. This portal," he weakly motions to the swirling cyclone of snow and ice, "is but one of many. Each one attuned to a powerful, heavily-guarded tower that in turn is somehow linked to--" the rider begins coughing loudly, "to-- the towers in Whitehthrone..."

Sliding a bloody tongue over his lips, the rider takes a moment to try and catch his breath. "Elvanna would take Baba Yaga's place, claim all of Golarion as her personal kingdom. Irrisen is a land of eternal winter created by Baba Yaga's magic, where the Jadwiga are immortal within its boundaries and possess great power. By expanding Irrisen, she expands the realm in which her power is magnified."

Once more, the rider motions to the portal. "Beyond this portal are one of Elvanna's pale towers. If you destroy its connection to the portal within the tower, it-- it will close on this end. It will spare your land, but only for a time. It will keep the armies from marching on this country, but Elvanna will be able to reopen it in time."

Urgency in his voice, the rider demands, "You must find Baba Yaya. Wherver she is."

Gwynn splutters in disbelief at the stakes riding on the success of such a mission. "How? Where-- where is she? How could we possibly find the Queen of Witches if even her harbingers cannot? Why would she even help us?"

The rider strains, still clutching the ice. "Old Grandmother is not what you might imagine, she has reasons for everything. Mortal magic cannot find her, but her dancing hut can."

Gwynn's expression becomes flat with confusion.

Her what?


Male Grey Elf (Fey) Magus 3/Champion/Archmage 1 AC 16/12/14/ HP 30/30 / F +5 R +3 W +3 (+9 vs cold weather) / Init. +2 / Perc. +9 / Mythic 3/5)

Her dancing hut? Teladon whispers from behind the mask. Somehow the elf can sense that this mortally wounded man could hear the elf even above the howling wind and gusting snow. The elf shivered and not from the sudden arctic chill that raced through his spine. Stepping forward, the elf kneeled next to the man. Tell us, what is this dancing hut? How can we use it to find her and where is it located? Frowning pensively behind the man, the elf frowned. Anyone who had studied even the outlying principles of curses or witchcraft had heard the name "Baba Yaya" and of her snowy realm that she returned to every eight hundred years to seat a new queen upon the throne. The fact that something had stopped the cycle that had been in existence for as long back as the elf had read was deeply troubling... and it explained much. Baba Yaya must have been a check on the Irrisen's drive for expansion. With her taken out of play, it would have created options for this Queen Elvanna. As to what happened to the crone remained a mystery. The Council of Elders needed to know what the team had learned as would Knight-Commander Reinn.

Waiting for the dying rider to speak, Teladon thought back to a mention of sending scrolls that had been sent with the first scouting group. This information was of dire importance and word had to be spread. So much was beginning to make sense now. The witchwards that hung from the trees, the expanding weather and the surge in Unseele from the Winter Court... and why the Council of Elders had dispatched Teladon... one of the few among them that had studied Hexcrafting in earnest. Turning his head towards Gwynn, Teladon gazed at her questioning. Before we left Almas, we were told that your team carried with it scrolls of sending. Knight-Captain what happened to the scrolls? We must report our findings.

Cold, logical eyes turning back to the dying man, Teladon nodded in silent acceptance. We must tell them we mean to push forward to the Paletower and then onto Whitethrone so we might end this... Reign of Winter.

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Gwynn shakes her head and looks apologetic at Teladon's question. "They were taken when we were captured, if they weren't at the lodge than Halak must have taken them. If I'd wager, they're at the pale tower," and she nods at the portal, indicating its direction.

The Black Rider considers Teladon's query with pained expression, gradually shifting from agony to disorientation and back again. "The dancing hut is Baba Yaga's chariot with which she traverses the universe. It is her constant companion and sanctum and only those bearing the mantle of her power may control it. The dancing hut has a mind of its own, one that Elvanna cannot control..."

Wheezing and letting out a bloody cough, the rider looks more fragile than before. Now draped in the tattered remains of an old military uniform of grays and browns, he looks little more than a corpse hanging on to the vestiges of life. "The hut will know where Baba Yaga is, how to find her. It will track her down and bring you to places of import to her, helping you determine why she has not returned." Swallowing once more, the rider reaches into a pocket in his jacket as he talks.

"Elvanna stole the hut at some point, she placed it on display in Irrisen's capitol, shackled to the city plaza... but the power of the hut cannot be so readily contained. I have not seen it myself, but I would not be surprised if it found a way to fight back against its bindings." The rider retrieves two small tokens from his pocket, a braided lock of blonde hair and a golden-irised glass eye. He holds them up in a trembling hand.

"These items are keys to Baba Yaga's dancing hut," the rider murmurs, "if placed within the cauldron at the hut's heart, it will take it to a location keyed to these items. It is the last known location of Baba Yaga... though I know not where the keys go." Coughing fitfully, the rider looks worried. "The keys power has been stolen by Elvanna, she feared their use after I stole them from her minions." Licking his lips, the rider hands the trinkets over to Gwynn, who then offers them up to someone with a better mind for the arcane.

"There is only one way to restore their power," the Black Rider intones, "and only one way to imbue you with the mantle of Baba Yaga, the mantle which will prevent the hut from destroying you and allowing you entrance to... places only Baba Yaga and her harbingers could go."

The rider swallows noisily, and looks up blindly to the gray skies.

"Kill me," he whispers, "and my blood will pass the mantle of the Black Rider... and all the power it entails... on to you all."

Dark Archive

Male Chelish Human Fighter 1/Gunslinger 2/Guardian 1
Stats:
HP 39/39; AC 19, Flat Footed 17, Touch 12; CMD 19; Fort +8, Ref +4, Will +2; Perception +7; Initiative +3

Marcellano stands in the circle that crowds the Dark Rider, listening intently but ultimately failing to understand most of what is going on. One thing for certain he understands, however.

Destroy the pale tower, destroy the portal.

Sounds simple enough. Might need more gunpowder, though. Hm.. then to find this 'Dancing Hut' in the capital of.. Irrisen? Where in the Hells is that? 'Land of Eternal Winter', eh? Sounds like a whole different sort of Hell right there. Marcellano grimaces at the news.. only understanding bits and pieces, but knowing that this is only the first step of their mission. He had hoped for a quick success.. but this job is sounding more and more annoying as it goes. As the Dark Rider finishes, Marcellano speaks up, having been quiet since he started talking.

"Well then. Destroy the Pale Tower, close the portal. Find the Dancing Hut, place those two 'keys' in the cauldron, and find this 'Baba Yaga', end this frozen hell and get back to warmer weather."

Marcellano pauses, thinking a moment, before speaking again. "Right then. Rest easy, Rider - your duty is done. We'll take it from here." Without waiting for orders or as much as a confirmation of what he is about to do, Marcellano hefts his rifle, aims it squarely at the Dark Rider's head, and, without further adieu, pulls the trigger.

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"Thank you," is the last thing the dark rider says before the deafening peal of gunfire erupts, echoing through the forest. The sound reverberates through the air over the howl of the winter portal, but soon all those concerned realize that the noise is not just the echo of gunfire. Where blood, shattered skull, and gore covers the snow around the Black Rider's head there is also a hazy fog of inky smoke.

Talavuc lets out a gasp of fright, her arm still bruised from the powerful shock of negative energy. The black smoke rises up like a serpent in the air, and the druid quickly scrambles backwards away from it as it lunges outward at her. The wave of black smoke splits, suddenly erupting into a burst of inky smoke that strikes the hearts of everyone around the rider's body.

Gwynn lets out a shrill cry as she clutches her chest and drops to her knees, Talavuc lets out a strangled cry as she writhes on the ground as the smoke seemingly attacks her. Marcellano finds the smoke punches through his chest with relative ease, making no hole but feeling like a hand has gripped his heart. Fenyx and Teladon are struck as well, shadowy hands of smoke reaching inside of their chests to grasp their still-beating hearts, and even mighty Ordrud and Rasso find themselves assailed by this living hex.

Ar'Zarrcal recoils, one hand raising his shield only to see a hand of smoke and shadow pass ethereally through the metal and plunge into his chest. His eyes wrench shut, a scream erupts from his lips, and then a deafening thunderclap rumbles in the heavens, followed by a flickering flash of lightning in reverse-order of the natural world.

That noise of a gunshot that they had all heard is something else, something otherwise, it is laughter. An ancient crone's cackling laughter reverberating through their minds, followed by a sibilant whisper.

      Come to her banner.
      Breathe the sun and sky
      Kneel, take a vow
      To die, if she commands it.

As the old woman's voice fades in their minds, those gathered around the corpse of the Black Rider witness his body age thousands of years in a single moment. His drab gray uniform rots into threads of ancient fabric, his flesh withers on the bone and crumbles away like scraps of parchment, every bit of him dissipates under ages of wear in but a heartbeat, and the keys to the dancing hut of Baba Yaga throb with the beat of a heart.

In each, they can feel a tremendous change and a surge of supernatural power. Whatever Marcellano had initiated by killing the Black Rider has in turn bestowed not only his power but his responsibility on them all.

His tie to the Queen of Witches.

A power unfathomable.

__________
 

You are now Mythic characters.


First levels: 2/4; THP:17/21; HP:43/43; MP:4/5
Stats:
HP:43 THP:21 / AC 17/21, T 11, FF 16 / Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5 / Perception +2 / Initiative +3

Rasso flips onto his back, thrashing violently as the black smoke grips his heart. He screams, his spine arching up into a bridge until it cracks loudly as the old crone’s laughter fills his mind. The valiant merman seizes. His body slams back down onto the ground, and he begins frothing at the mouth and rolling about, twitching in the snow uncontrollably. The blue translucent chitin of his eidolon shell begins to warp and crack. He spasms into an overly tight fetal position, bringing his fish-like tail up to his chest. The movement is accompanied by another painful sounding crackle of vertebrae. His two crabby legs thrash feebly in the air as his whipping head slams back again and again into the snow. His arms whip about like a giddy child trying to make a snow angel. His screams grow deeper and more bestial as the shell along his hips ruptures. Another pair of vestigial crabby limbs erupt forth, twitching, into the air. The merman’s face is rapidly subsumed in more exoskeleton material until he’s no longer recognizable as anything humanoid. Many of the spines along his back and shoulders fall out, to be replaced by the dark brown fur of a grizzly bear. Others thicken and harden, taking on an orange hue. Several more horny protrusions grow from his arms. More chitin grows to cover his tail, fusing it to his chest. Great shaggy mats of hair begin sprouting from his hips and lower back, as two bipedal, ursine legs with splayed insectoid feet grow and develop in a matter of seconds. Finally two antennae and a set of crustacean eyes pop out of Rasso’s face as he twitches a few more times and then lies still.

At first he appears to be dead. Then the thing that is Rasso grunts, moans, and rolls over onto its stomach, before pushing itself slowly to its feet in an upright position. The alien creature wheels its head about inspecting itself. It flexes its claws and opens its forearms to reveal humanoid hands inside. ”Woah,” he says, his raspy voice the same as before. ”Been imaginin’ this new suit fer a while now, just didn’t expect that. I feel like a god. So, what d’yas think?” The crab-bear monster strikes a horrifying pose, “smiling” and “waving” with its claw.

Rasso’s new look.

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Oh my unholy god he's hideo-- uh-- beautiful.


First levels: 2/4; THP:17/21; HP:43/43; MP:4/5
Stats:
HP:43 THP:21 / AC 17/21, T 11, FF 16 / Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5 / Perception +2 / Initiative +3

That is not my drawing by the way. I am not so good.


Sin Mage (Gluttony) 3
Stats:
HP 22/22; AC 11, Flat Footed 10, Touch 11; CMD 11; Fort +4, Ref +2, Will +4; Perception +4; Initiative +1

Unaware of the course of the discussion, Fenyx only arches an eyebrow as Marcellano steps forward to fire a shot into The Black Rider's face. Too late comes the necromancer's attempt to halt the marine; so late that it doesn't happen at all. Only a half step towards the old man's fall, Fenyx beholds the inky fog of the rider's boon. As the ethereal essence pierces his body to clutch at his heart, the Shalasti ambassador finds himself gasping feebly through clenched teeth. His legs lose their strength, and he pitches forward onto his knees and elbows clutching pointlessly at snow. A tide of thoughts and pasts erupt all around him. What would have been; what could have been. What should have been—all replaced by a thousand possibilities.

Fenyx's acceptance at the Korvosan Academae had been fortuitous for not only he, but his family. The son of a cobbler in Magnimar, little existed for Feyronix in the way of possibilities. This was a chance to make something of himself. A chance to lift himself out of the squalor his parents had birthed him into; to escape the simpletons and their meager means. It was the proudest moment of his life.

A loud sputter of breath forces past Fenyx's clenched teeth. His hands clench so tightly that his nails threaten to pierce his gloves.

Karzoug's campaign conquered much of Varisia's northern fronts. It was only a matter of time until the rest fell. Thassilon resurgent; what hope did the backwater fools of Varisia have to stand against such unassailable power? It was an opportunity for those with the wits to see it. And Fenyx had seen it. He had dreamed of it—obsessed over it. All of his efforts to this end would finally see reward. His shackles were gone, replaced by the promise of true guidance at the hands of the most powerful wizards ever to walk the face of Golarion. They had finally realized his worth. He was to be assigned to a master of Sin Magic himself—placed on the true path to knowledge and power. It was the proudest moment of his life.

A rasped inhale tells the tale of struggled breaths all too clearly. It could not be fought. It would not be denied. Such power...

Fenyx kneels before Karzoug in deference, only to be ended in a fit of envious rage by the Runelord's ire.

Karzoug lies in withered ruin at Fenyx's feet, whose skin is rotten and twisted, bones protruding from what little taut skin remains. His eye-sockets now empty save for malign red flames, he reaches to retrieve the fallen Runelord's weapon.

Fenyx clasps hands with Lord-Admiral Styvanus, both in the twilight of their years. The combined fleets of Cheliax and Andoran sit in impressive array outside the now-conquered ruin of the slaver town of Sandpoint.

Life fading before the Whispering Tyrant's assault, Fenyx recites the final phrase of the Dictum Eternus, sacrificing the very fabric of his being. The motes of positive energy that had once constituted the Virtue Mage coalesce along the length of Feyswatter, and Ordrud charges Tar-Baphon with an explosive warcry that shatters the very foundations of Gallowspire.

A thousand other lifetimes explode through his psyche, each wildly different than the rest. It is more than a mortal man can fathom. More than he can withstand. It threatens to unhinge him; to swallow him up forever in a chasm of lost identities and an utter lack of self. Breath now feeble wheezes, Fenyx finally stops resisting, then yields himself over to the torrent of power that yet seeks to swallow him whole. I accept your terms! I ACCEPT-gghrrrggh!

Finally, the feeling subsides, replaced by something different. He remains motionless, crouched in the snow for several long moments, examining his body as if it were no longer his own. Such is his awe that Fenyx does not seem to notice his hearing has returned; his bruises and wounds gone. The invisible miasma of power still thrumming through his very being, he turns to regard the others, curious if they too have received such a blessing and curse. "The portal... the Rider? Yes. I am different. I am more whole."

Fenyx stares momentarily at Ar'Zarrcal. Did he witness it too? Would he then think me a traitor?


First levels: 2/4; THP:17/21; HP:43/43; MP:4/5
Stats:
HP:43 THP:21 / AC 17/21, T 11, FF 16 / Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5 / Perception +2 / Initiative +3

Wow. That Megatron link just sent me on a 15 minute youtube diversion of transformers videos when I should be doing classwork.

Dark Archive

Male Chelish Human Fighter 1/Gunslinger 2/Guardian 1
Stats:
HP 39/39; AC 19, Flat Footed 17, Touch 12; CMD 19; Fort +8, Ref +4, Will +2; Perception +7; Initiative +3

Ah, Transformers nostalgia. Good stuff.. I remember that movie. I remember watching it many times.


Sin Mage (Gluttony) 3
Stats:
HP 22/22; AC 11, Flat Footed 10, Touch 11; CMD 11; Fort +4, Ref +2, Will +4; Perception +4; Initiative +1

I watched that movie nearly every day between the age of 4 and 6, haha. Still in my top five films list, easily.


Male Grey Elf (Fey) Magus 3/Champion/Archmage 1 AC 16/12/14/ HP 30/30 / F +5 R +3 W +3 (+9 vs cold weather) / Init. +2 / Perc. +9 / Mythic 3/5)

Laughter rings outward from around the snowy portal. The cackle of an ancient woman. Blood falls to the snow.

Come to her banner. Rolling on the ground, blackened claws of umbral shadow tear into Teladon. The elf screams in pain, shaking his head back and forth with such intensity as his mask falls to to the snow with a muted thud. He nearly blacks out from the overwhelming power. It fills him and binds him, seeking something out from within him.

Breathe the sun and sky Eyes rolling into the back of his head, Teladon's back arches up near to breaking. He tries to scream but the pain is unbearable and he cannot breath. He feels the claws tearing at his heart... seeking and molding him. Shaping and changing, discarding that which was not needed and heightening that which was.

Kneel, take a vow From above long dead leaves begin to fall from the ice rimed trees. The wind gusts and howls, as the ancient maple trees locked for so long in a wintery embrace shed their leaves for a final time. Spinning and whirling through the winter wind, they fall to the ground around Teladon, burying him with their weight.

To die, if she commands it. Lost in his pain Teladon is never able to see the pale ray of sunlight breaks through the clouds and darkness. It is something that should not exist and yet it does. The ray of light carries with it heat, but no succor. It is the last ray of a setting sun.
 
 
 
Arylon, twin of Teladon lay at his brothers feet dying. The few remaining Spire Guards that had taken the Celwynvian Academy of Arts lay wounded or stunned from the Dark-Kin's onslaught. Blood dripped down a horrific gash on Teladon's face and his sword lay abandoned next to him. They had won, but only by the most narrow of margins. Br... other... Arylon gasped, clutching at his neck, his eyes wide with shock. Falling to his knees, Teladon clutched at his brothers wound, his hands turning red as he tried to stop the flow of blood. Its.. its ok brother.. I go to the brightness..

Shaking his head back and forth, Teladon felt tears running down his face. It was like watching himself die, seeing that mirror reflection in front of him, gasping to the last fading strings of life. No.. don't go Arylon, you'll be alright, just hang on.

Smiling softly and gazing outward to something that only he could see, Arylon raised a hand and placed it waveringly on his brothers shoulder. Twin-soul, be at peace.. I hear the chimes of Yuelral and the call to hunt with Ketephys. Eyes fluttering, Arylon looked up into Teladons eyes. Give my love to Es'shandra and Varyon.. it is my time to move on. Breathing in and out slowly Arylons chest rose and fell, then rose again and fell... before stopping.

You could have saved him, mortal... if only you were stronger. Whispered an old woman's voice that sounded like dry dust in an empty room. Many have worn the mantle. Some have chosen it, others have had it chosen for them. But all have known LOSS.
 
 
 
Words fleeing like shadows in the night, the vision fades. Teladon lay on the ground. His eyes watered and he felt something heavy upon his face. Blinking at the ray of light that had pierced the clouds above him, the elf pushed his to his feet. I thought my mask had fallen off. Teladon murmurs to himself, before glancing to the ground. Suddenly confusion fills the magi. His mask was on the ground. Clawing a hand up to to his face, the elf felt something heavy yet pliable at the same time. He tried to tear it away, but it would not move. Clutching and twisting, the elf gave a final tug before lowering his hand in frustration.

A single autumn maple leaf was clutched in his fist.

Grabbing his mask from the snow, Teladon held it up so that he could see his reflection in the polished steel. His white fox fur cloak now resembled a living cloak of leaves that moved ever so slightly in the wind. The wind picked up and another leaf shed itself from the cloak before falling to the snow and withering away. Upon the elf's face he also wore a mask but rather than steel it was comprised of hundreds of red, yellow and orange leaves, no bigger than the elfs thumb. His armor too had been changed. It felt the same, it weighed the same, but it appeared to be weaved together from more leaves and thin strips of hemlock and tamarack. The only thing that remained the same was Teladon's sword. Black as night, and seeming to draw in light, the elf reached for it heasantly. As he did so, the snow and ice around him began to rapidly thaw and melt, turning to water and then steam. Where as before the elf had been standing atop snow, now flash frozen grass began to melt and burst forth around the blade.

Holding the sword in a white knuckled grip, Teladon felt his body shake as his mind reeled in uncertainty. What... what by all the gods just happened? The elf asked himself trying to understand. From somewhere deep within him he knew what he was supposed to say next. “The hour approaches. See that you are not found idle.” The wind gusted again and pale light streamed from the winter portal and above the howling of the snow the elf heard an ancient crone cackle one final time.


Half-orc warrior | HP 72/72 | Bond 6/6 | LoH 5/5 | Smite 2/2 | 1st 2/2 | Ferocity 1/1 | AC 21 Touch 11 FF 20 CMD 20 | Fort +8 Ref +5 Will +7(+9) | Initiative +1 | Perception +6, Darkvision 60 ft.

Ordrud watches events unfold and the future take root in the present. The gunshot knocks him to his knees. Black smoke rises up like a serpent in the air enveloping his sight, muffling his hearing, and gagging his taste. Suddenly the inky smoke splits with a black tendril striking deep into his heart and memories.

Cackling laughter of an ancient crone overwhelms the baffled echo of the gunshot, as his blood-inked tattoos begin to heat, those tattoos drawn by his white witch mother to protect him and prepare him for his destiny. Light and heat radiant from these tattoos, and Ordrud screams.

Inside Ordrud’s silent and painful conscious, he hears his mother’s voice whispering to him again.

Come to her banner.
Breathe the sun and sky
Kneel, take a vow
To die, if she commands it.

”I vow, mother. I serve Her as you serve Her.” Ordrud’s painful screams become a dry-throated pledge voiced aloud and echoed in his soul. He collapses on his heels in a pool of melted snow which quickly begins to solidify.

After a minute of labored breathing, he awakens reinvigorated. He stands breaking and shaking the ice from his hands and legs. His mind swirls reordering his senses. Memories echo of previous rituals that were performed on him by his mother. Ordrud surveys the scene wondering what was next and grins.


First levels: 2/4; THP:17/21; HP:43/43; MP:4/5
Stats:
HP:43 THP:21 / AC 17/21, T 11, FF 16 / Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +5 / Perception +2 / Initiative +3
Rasso wrote:
At first he appears to be dead. Then the thing that is Rasso grunts, moans, and rolls over onto its stomach, before pushing itself slowly to its feet in an upright position. The alien creature wheels its head about inspecting itself. It flexes its claws and opens its forearms to reveal humanoid hands inside. ”Woah,” he says, his raspy voice the same as before. ”Been imaginin’ this new suit fer a while now, just didn’t expect that. I feel like a god. So, what d’yas think?” The crab-bear monster strikes a horrifying pose, “smiling” and “waving” with its claw.

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