DC: 14 0th—Detect Magic, Mage Hand, Prestidigitation
DC: 15 1st—Color Spray, Grease, Protection from Evil
Traveler’s Outfit
Backpack,
Dagger
Light Crossbow
10 bolts
Waterskin
1 day of trail rations
2 sunrods, 4 gp, 2 lbs.
Tindertwig x2, 2 gp
Belt pouch, 1 gp, 0.5 lbs.
Spell Component Pouch, 5 gp, 2 lbs.
1 piece of chalk, 1 cp
3 gp, 3 sp, 9 cp in belt pouch
Ever the soldier, Gregori gathers all of his gear as he heads to the plaza with the others after breakfast. Invigorated by his usual dawn training ritual, He enjoys the feeling of excitement that radiates throughout the plaza.
As he notices those upon the steps, he smiles at the sight of the woman in the blue dress, clearly impressed to see her present.
He stands amongst the group, eyes roving the crowd, seeming to miss nothing.
Considering that virtually everything she brought with her to Mendev fits inside her backpack and that a barracks where she spent a single night doesn't feel like a safe or appropriate place to leave all her worldly belongings, Docia slips the straps of her pack over her shoulders and carries it with her to the festival. At home this would be a day for finery, but she has already gotten used to the uneasy state of readiness for the worst that the inhabitants of Kenabres have adopted, most of the men around her in at least light armor and a weapon on every belt. When she spies the fine lady on the platform, she raises an eyebrow quizzically. She must be either very important or very foolish to venture out as if she'd been invited to a box luncheon at a country estate.
She looks around at the banners celebrating the Inheritor's deeds with a wry grimace. "Here I thought it was Armasse," she remarks to Theodric, "not Ascendance Day. You'd think there'd be a mention of Aroden somewhere."
A life in the caravan with a rotating group of travelers has taught Nessa not to leave unattended items. Plus, she has doubts, that if she loses sight of the others, that she can find her way back.
So she takes her pack and of course her sword. She is quite liberal with her whistle as the group moves through the crowd, both in celebration and to help serve notice that those of short stature do not need to be trampled as part of a celebration.
Aarol takes notice of the disadvantage in a crowd for the halflings. "Harrol, Nessa, was it? One of you can ride on my shoulders if you'd rather, you don't weigh much and it'll give you a better view of the festival than I'm guessing you're usually afforded."
"You best take Harrol. Not sure he can take a good squishing. And if he stops to pick up any bandages, he's a goner. Me, I make them move...<TWEET-TWEET>".
"What do you say, master bandages, a ride through this crowd so you can get a good look at the festival?"
She looks around at the banners celebrating the Inheritor's deeds with a wry grimace. "Here I thought it was Armasse," she remarks to Theodric, "not Ascendance Day. You'd think there'd be a mention of Aroden somewhere."
Theodric smirks at the observation and responds in a hushed voice.
And yet, if you asked that question of the 'faithful', they'd no doubt say that by honoring the one who inherited his portfolio, they are, in fact, paying homage to Aroden. But the truth is that even gods fade from history--people are a fickle lot, and even the 'noble' ones put their stake in the god that can give them the most power, now or in the afterlife. For these people, that's the one that hasn't died yet.
Time passes and there is a building of suspense in the plaza and crowd. A hubbub of conversation swirls in and around you as you wait...
"...hear that Terendelev herself is here..."
"...filthy crusaders cleaned themselves up before..."
"...lets not forget why we're here..."
"...remember when the Storm King came and..."
"...almost time for the speeches innit..."
"...can't wait for the jousting, last year..."
Food and drink vendors service the outskirts of the crowd and the mood is fine indeed.
The sun is nearing to it's zenith within the sky, as Hulrun grimly gauges that time has come. With specific and ponderous gait, he moves to the head of the steps of the cathedral and holds his hands out and wide, drawing in breath to begin to speak...
But then he pauses, eyes narrowing as they gaze into the distance. The crowd grows quiet, and there are murmurs of concern that ripple through. The lady in the blue dress also stops and looks, before a moment later her face becoming a rictus of shock... and everything changed in an instant. A sonorous whine sprang from nowhere and built from a deep bass to an ear-splitting shriek before a hollow thud boomed across the plaza.
To the West of the cathedral and beyond the Temple of Iomedae lay the fortress known as The Kite. A two-story stone keep housing the wardstone that helps keep demons from overrunning the Worldwound’s borders. Or at least it once did. The fortress had vanished, leaving in it's wake a brilliant plume of red fire, lightning, and smoke erupting into the heavens. As the shockwave floods over the crowd, panic begins to descend and screams fill the air. The once peaceful milling crowd becomes a murderous crush, with civilians and crusaders alike fleeing Eastward.
And yet over all of the tumult, a bestial roar issues from the mouth of the lady in blue. Crouching she springs into the air and transitions from a skin shrouded avatar into her true form - a massive and resplendent silver dragon. The downdraft from her wings presses people to the earth as she begins to gain height above the plaza... but her welcome and heartening roar is matched by a chilling and terrifying derisive laugh.
Passing through the plume of fire, earth and lightning comes a humanoid shape three times the size of any man, with skin coated in fire and lightning, gripped a flaming sword and whip. The creature’s identity was immediately obvious: Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the Worldwound, had come to Kenabres!
Time slowed as the two behemoths surged towards each other through the sky. The Storm King's face seething with contempt, and Terendelev the dragon showing more stoic resolve. The press of the crowd was unrelenting as those with more level heads near the cathedral bellowed in firm voice for calm and tried to bring order to the chaos. The aerial fighters met and passed one another, Khorramzadeh's blade opening a rent in Terendelev's side as her claws ploughed a furrow in his armor. After the briefest moment of contact, the two passed each other... and the earth shook and heaved.
Rents opened beneath the plaza and around it's rim, earth parting to disgorge unholy figures of the abyss that defied description. Demonic portals of swirling black flickered and popped, each spitting another of the abyssal abominations into the square. The scent of sulfur, vomit and bile filled your nostrils as terrified citizens voided themselves and the demons began to cause bloody mayhem. The sheer sudden violence and chaos intensified as acrid smoke and burning flashes of light began to fill your vision. A swirling maelstrom of death and dying upon the ground stark contrast to the elegant and desperate struggle playing out in the sky.
The collossal figures wheeled and met once more, the jaws of the dragon tearing at the Storm King's shoulder, before the balor lord dropped his whip and took firm grip of the dragon's wing, mounting the stout defender of Kenabres and gouging at the dragon's back with his horned head. The dragon screams in pain as the horns tear through scale, skin and muscle and send a healthy number of scales flying from it's back - blood freely pouring from the rent.
The battle upon the ground develops a tenuous thread of cohesion, chanting voices filling the air as the high art of wizardry and faith are matched against power born of depraved thought and action. Flesh and demon hide are cut, blood spilt, death walking around and through you. A form in burnished metal cuts down a bat-winged lanky fiend before a corpulent beast with a boar's head calls down lightning that causes the knight to burn within his armor.
Somehow the position that you chose to wait is spared the worst, but you are penned in by a crush of people and left paralyzed by the pressure, unable to bring sword or bow to bear. For what seems like minutes, but is more likely seconds this holds as you helplessly watch the demons dispense death. Creatures with alien physiologies locked in desperate fray with the desperate crusaders that oppose them.
Turning your gaze upwards though, you see the death of hope. The balor lord had reversed his grip upon his blade, and was repeatedly burying it within the dragon's breast. Wings once powerful became weak and the pair were beginning to fall to the ground. Stark contrast to the fervor of the Storm King, a pained look of resignation covered Terendelev's draconic visage. The pair smashed into the facade of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell. The silver dragon collapsing like a rag doll as the Storm King rode her to the ground.
At that moment, a titanic demon erupted at the far end of the plaza, reducing several buildings to ruins as it smashed into this world. The rift it created shot across the plaza, and this time there was no escape as it sped unerringly towards you and opened below your feet. As the ground fell away and you angled into darkness, Terendelev noticed your plight.
Her death was standing over her, Khorramzadeh raising his sword to deliver the killing blow. But ever selfless, she seized this final chance to save a few more souls. Uttering a few arcane words and stretching out a bleeding talon, you felt a dweamor take hold of you, slowing your plummet into the darkness and making you feel as if you were feathers tumbling through the air. Yet fall you did and your last memory was of the Storm King lashing with his terrible blade and cleaving full through the silver dragon's neck. As Terendelev's severed head fell separate from her body, the rift above you slammed shut, and the light of the world above was gone. Darkness took you entire, the dust of the earth choking you as the tumult of the plaza above faded and unconsciousness descended.
As Eudocia and Theodoric discuss theology, Harrol walks between them, doing little to hide his eavesdropping. Something about Theodoric's tone makes him snap out of his meek silence. "Power? Don't be a damned fool. He-Who-Came-Before is dead, an' it's Iomedae dat rose to protect us in his stead. Savin' Eledar and the Barrowwood, Kantarina and Fair-Absalom, smoiting Tar-Baphon, curse-his-name, and freeing da world from his villainy." he says fervently as he motions to the banners. "I don't take yew for a prayin' man, Master Abernathy. But don't go galavanting around wit' yer head held high fer remembering a dead name. The faithful remember well enough, but it's Iomedae, not Aroden, what protects us now." He falls silent, dusting off his robe and staring at his knees. "...Oh, bother. Did I say too much?"
Harrol falls in step behind Nessa as she stomps through the crowd. He seems a little hurt by her remark, and answers Aarol's gesture with a defiant glare. However, sensing his intentions aren't all bad, he shrugs his shoulders and smiles, clambering onto his shoulders and chattering away, the timid halfling coming out of his shell somewhat. "Sure. Can't see a blasted thing from down here anyway. Let's find us some ale! It's a festival, and I've a throat on me this merry-mornin'. Did he say jousting, lads?"
_______________
Harrols enjoyment turns to horror as the explosion echoes from the walls, and the plummeting of wings sends him, soaring from his perch atop Aarol's shoulders and nearly sees him trampled. Finding his feet, he weaves through the crowd with surprising skill, falling in with the others. "Where's... what is...?" he says, silencing himself and gritting his teeth. Remarkably, the frightened looking halfling seems to have his wits about him, but the press of the crowd is just too much. He mutters a short prayer for comfort as he tries not to contemplate the possibility of being trampled. She is my sword and shield. She will protect me.
The ground gives way beneath his feet.
She will protect me.
As Eudocia and Theodoric discuss theology, Harrol walks between them, doing little to hide his eavesdropping. Something about Theodoric's tone makes him snap out of his meek silence. "Power? Don't be a damned fool. He-Who-Came-Before is dead, an' it's Iomedae dat rose to protect us in his stead. Savin' Eledar and the Barrowwood, Kantarina and Fair-Absalom, smoiting Tar-Baphon, curse-his-name, and freeing da world from his villainy." he says fervently as he motions to the banners. "I don't take yew for a prayin' man, Master Abernathy. But don't go galavanting around wit' yer head held high fer remembering a dead name. The faithful remember well enough, but it's Iomedae, not Aroden, what protects us now." [/smaller][/b]
Seeming unoffended, Docia shoots the halfling an amused glance. "Undoubtedly. However, from an etymological standpoint -- what would you call the study of religious celebrations, Mr. Abernathy: 'festivology' or something of the sort? -- this holiday is ... was Aroden's. You'd think he'd get a mention if only as the Inheritor's kindly if doddering mentor whose convenient death made all this possible. After all, husbands don't give their second wives presents on their first wives' birthdays."
It wasn't enough. None of it: the armor, the weaponry, even the sheer numbers of people massed in the plaza. Moments before Eudocia had thought that, surrounded by crusaders and armed men, she had never been anywhere safer, but against the demons, all Kenabres's defenses were like boys playing knights, with tin breastplates and shields cut from parchment. How had the Crusaders ever stemmed the tide of these creatures pouring out of the Worldwound and held their ground so many centuries? As even the dragon's hide proves pervious to the Storm King's blade, Docia in her leather armor feels as vulnerable as a child in a summer shift. Unable to find space to draw her light blade, it occurs to her that, even if she could, she would be more likely to injure those around her who might be forced against it than to score even a scratch on the enemy. She is beginning to wonder in a detached manner whether they are likely to be pressed to death by the panicking crowd before any demon carves a swath to their end of the plaza, and whether it might not be a more merciful death than those she is witnessing, when the ground crumbles beneath her feet.
Your bodies ache as you become aware that though suffused in blackness, your mind has returned to the waking world. You can feel bruises blossoming, but for the most part you seem intact. A layer of dirt and rubble covers you, this you can feel. The air is musty and wet, tones of soil and decay upon it, this you can smell. The distant squeaks of bats echo broadly, suggesting that wherever you are is large and relatively open, this you can hear. But the world around you is black, pitch black and devoid of light.
The walls and floor of this cavern have the rough texture of natural stone. Grit and rock dust covers everything. Clumps of stalagmites jut from the ground.
Waking in blackness, Docia tries to open her eyes and finds that they are already open. Fighting panic, she almost reflexively goes through the motions and syllables of a simple cantrip to evoke light. Arcane lanterns conjured, she pushes up on one elbow to look around her and see what they reveal.
At first it seemed that death had taken him, surely it must have after the fall. But his other senses prevail, the musty air so permeating that he can taste the deep earth and the shrieks of bats echoing in his ears. Quietly, he sifts through his pack until he finds the sunrod, but before he can activate it the arcane words from Eucodia bring forth light.
Finding his spear next to him, Aarol brushes the dirt from the sunburst banner of Iomedae and raises it proudly in the gloomy cavern, then sets to protecting the group as the others get to their feet. "Looks like your new armor got a few scratches there princess, and I'm guessing it might get a few more before we get out of this hell hole."
Looking at Hulrun as he is about to speak, Gregori realizes something is wrong moments before it all literally goes to hell. As the panic grips the crowd, Gregori feels the fear as well, but it is tempered with a building divine rage that fills every fiber of his being. He moves in front of Eudocia, shield up, forcing the panicked mass of flesh to part around the group as he prepares for battle.
The the ground collapses under them and he falls, the last sight being that of the city's great defender's head being severed from her body.
Then...blackness.
Able to feel numerous aches and pains from the fall, Gregori opens his eyes to pitch blackness. He can hear ragged breathing that indicated fear, and groans of pain. Tentatively he shifts to bring himself to one knee, slowly rising as he focuses on drawing forth the power of the inner light that was always a part of him.
A glow begins to spread as if every hair on his head were being illuminated by it's own internal light, turning his dark mane a luminous silver as a halo manifests above him.
Radiating light, battered and bruised, he seems fiercer, larger than life, something more than human, rising from the wreckage around him.
"If you can, sound off! And let me know if you can move."
The theological discussion lingering at the back of his mind, Theodric watches the chaotic battle and, with the dragon's death, one thought rises above the others: There's the answer to life's most important question--the gods can't, or won't, protect us. He braces for impact, not ready to die, before the dragon's spell takes hold, carrying the wizard to relative safety and merciful unconsciousness.
Theodric coughs the dust from his lungs and stands shakily. He searches his mind for information about the now-closed demonic rift that dropped him to this place--what could cause such a thing, and what (besides an abundance of demons) are the lingering effects?
I--I'm here. I'm alive.
"I can move well enough, just a few bruises, and I've got my spear in hand. There are others here, not among our group. Ho there," Aarol calls to the other slumped forms, "you folks alright?"
Docia feels what she privately knows to be a ridiculous sense of relief when Gregori is revealed to be both present and able: A demonic host is rampaging through Kenabres while we're entombed somewhere deep below the surface, but the knight in shining armor is still standing, so everything's all right, she mocks herself sardonically. "Mr. Shadowbane! Over here." With his nimbus illuminating the area directly around him, she directs her lights farther afield, searching for other survivors.
Light streams from Gregori's halo and Eudocia's conjured spheres of cold flame. Lying on one side of a vast cavern you see the ceiling and far walls recede into darkness. Lying atop a wall that has collapsed into an enormous mound of rubble, here and there are the arms or legs of other humanoid forms jutting at odd angles from the piled earth.
The walls and floor of this cavern have the rough texture of natural stone. Grit and rock dust covers everything. Clumps of stalagmites jut from the ground. Within the piled earth you spy glints of silver and find six scales scattered amid the stones, each about the size of
a human man’s palm. Bloodstained, but still retaining their lustre they sit as a stark reminder of Terendelev's sacrifice.
A portly man in fine though now dirt stained clothing.
An elvish magister whose face is a mess of blood and burns.
A woman in leather armor whose leg is badly broken.
"I'm... I'm okay m'lord." Harrol says, winded, picking up one of the scales and clutching it to his chest. He seems to be relatively unscathed by the fall. "I have to see to the others!" he says, starting to attention and gritting his teeth as he sets his healer's kit on the ground and clears a space. "Help me with the bodies."
He sees to his work, expression wooden and motionless. Whether from shock or a grim determination, you cannot tell. But his hands tremble as he clutches his holy symbol. "Bruised... badly burned... a broken leg. I'd need at least two hours to treat them properly." he says, silver chain of Iomedae rattling against his armour as he trembles. "Gather round, now, and I'll do what I can for ye."
And with that, he opens his holy text and begins to read. The words seem to echo off of the cave walls, and as he speaks his hands cease their shaking. "Taldorans 6:13-17 ... Put on the full armor of Iomedae, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the goddess' vigilance. Take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of evil. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of Aroden forged anew."
As Harrol puts hand to scale, a vision flashes through his mind... In the vision he holds the scale and concentrates before being struck by lightning, though he feels no pain.
Looking over the bodies of the others that still draw breath, Harrol knows that the healing of either the elf's eyes or lady's leg are well beyond him. He can salve their pain, but not return sight nor straighten the leg.
The inheritor's grace salves wounds, and the three begin to stir.
The woman rouses first, sitting upright with a start before trying to stand and collapsing back to the earth clutching at her leg. Wincing in pain she looks to Harrol, recognizing now that it was his attention that roused her. Speaking quietly she says "Thankyou stranger... Where are we?"
The man next, also alarmed and scrabbling to put his back to earth and looking at you disdainfully. You see recognition cross his face as he looks to both the elf and lady, but he does not go to comfort him. Scoffing at the lady he blurts "Buried alive, can't you see..." before looking around and picking out Gregori "You there..."
The elf stirs last, lying still on his back and calmly putting speculative hand to his face before coughing up some blood and grimacing. Speaking with authority he cuts off the well dressed and portly man "Horgus? Quiet yourself." he sits gingerly in place, clearly still badly injured "Who else is here, name yourselves." said in a tone that you think is used to quick obeyance.
Aravashnial: 2+5 = 7 / 35
Gwerm: 18/18
Theodric, feeling better from the burst of healing energy, also stoops to pickup a scale and examine it in the dim light before stowing it in his pack.
Terendelev--thank you. It's not much of a chance, but if I can find someone to bring you back, I will, the scholar thinks. In response to the strangers' question he looks deferentially to Gregori.
As Theodric's hand touches the scale, he gets a vision flash through his mind... rising upon the air and leaving the ground behind, plumes of cloud in your wake.
As each member of his group announces themselves a slight feeling of relief washes over Gregori. He hadn't lost anyone.
In the silvery light he could see the body parts of those caught in the collapse, but it wasn't until Harrol made his way to a few of the bodes did he realize that there were still a few amongst the living.
As the halfling healer graced them with the inheritor's blessings, he stoops to pick up one of the scales, noting the brilliant metallic sheen as he touches it, remembering the glorious moment he's watched Terendelev take flight, launching into what would be her last battle.
The voices of the injured brings his attention back to the present as the men both address him.
The Elf was a Riftwarden, one of the highest ranking front liners. It was the first time he'd ever been in the presence of one.
"Gregori Shadowbane Sir," the paladin responds somehow giving the impression of being fully at attention, while simply taking a step forward. "Our squad was caught in the collapse. Honestly, I think saving our lives was Terendelev's final act."
Heal
Knowledge Local
As Gregori touches his scale a vision of him striding into battle with blade cutting through demon flesh fills his mind for an instant.
The elf nods and then hangs his blinded head "I saw her fall... just before my face was marked by a lash of flame. It is a great loss to Kenabres."
Nessa could not see much, but could tell something was wrong once the screams ans pushing started. Struggling to keep her feet under her, to keep from being trampled, she know not the threat until the two combatants took fight overhead.
By now suspended in the.crush of bodies, she could only watch in horror. She was needed....the beautiful dragon fought alone....she wanted to draw her sword, but she could not raise her arms....she wanted to run to help, to deflect the fatal blow, but her legs would not reach.....all she could offer the majestic sacrifice was tears as she fell away........
---------------
Nessa comes to in the dark, realizing that she could breath again with the crush off her lungs. She takes in a rasping breath and sets to choking on the dust that fills her throat. Then there is light....and voices.
Nessa unsteadily gets to her feet. "My ribs are bruised....maybe cracked even.....but that seems good by comparison of what awaited us....". The rubble shifts under her feet and a flash of silver catches her eye. She bends down and picks up a silver scale. Her tears are remembered. She chose to save us...even above herself...and now this is all that remains.... A large splash of a tear removes the dust in one spot revealing the true beauty of the scale. She wipes at it to remove the rest of the dust and tucks it under her chain shirt. It was uncomfortable and was rough against her breast, but there it sat over her heart where she knew it would forever belong.
She winces when drawing her sword and begins an exploration of their surroundings. When Harrol gives his blessings, she feels the worst of her aches fade. "Thanks Harrol. Looks like I was the one that couldn't take the trampling." She rotates her arm and shoulder marveling at the reduced pain and sets back to looking about.
As Nessa touches her scale... her mind is treated to a lucid dream where she leaps from the second story of a building to cut down a giant demon.
Not knowing the man, but following Gregori's lead, Aarol complies with the elf's request. "Aarol Varien, sir, I'm a member of Gregori's squad."
Seeing a glint of silver from the loose soil, Aarol reaches down and uncovers a metallic scale. Cleaning it carefully then stowing it in his pack, he resolves that day to avenge the silver dragon. Let the gods that weep this day use me as their weapon of vengeance, let it be my arm that drives the death blow through that demon!
As Aarol touches his scale, he sees a vision of a demonic incubus... but the face of the incubus melts away to leave his own face underneath.
After letting her conjured lanterns roam, Docia soberly draws them back to give more light to the Small cleric as he tends to those not yet beyond his help. As she holds them steady, she notices the insignia on the elf's robes. "I'm Eudocia Fairday, sir," she replies, "newly arrived in Kenabres. Tell me, how could this have happened? What's become of the Wardstones?"
Nessa looks over to the Elf issuing demands, "Nessa Glenbrook, also of Gregori's squad....and that's a real good question."
The elf sighs and shakes his head "That I do not know. When Khorramzadeh assaulted our walls some twenty years ago he could manage only to crack the stone before Terendelev drove him away... something must have changed."
The portly aristocrat cuts him off with a bluster "None of that matters now... what is important is how you are going to get me out of here. I am Horgus Gwerm and you must get me to safety." flustering a little as he turns a thought over in his head "I can pay, a thousand in gold if you see me safely to my door." looking pleadingly desperate.
The elf scoffs "Enough Gwerm, again becalm yourself. I Aravashnial of the Riftwardens will take charge here."
Lastly the lady with the riven leg speaks softly "We cannot follow you if you cannot see Aravashnial"
The elf's brow furrows at the sound of her voice "Anevia? - is that you... Where is Irabeth?" insistent and forceful.
Anevia looks mournful and saddened "I do not know... I... I lost her in the crush." casting her eyes downwards.
"Thanks Harrol. Looks like I was the one that couldn't take the trampling."
"Oh, none of that now." he waves her off, looking bashful. He stands about with a sheepish grin on his face before remembering himself and surrying off to prepare a splint for Anevia. He doesn't name himself unless pressed, leaving the introductions to the important types. "Hold this? That's it now... This'll moight twinge a little... There! I'll help ye up, noice and slow, now."
"Don't worry!" he says to the portly Gwerm. "Dat feller's one of those real paladins. We'll be okay." He grins at Gregori. "What should we do now, sir?"
"If there are bats, there has to be a way out," Docia muses. "They hunt outside at night. That's not to say their exit will be large enough for us to get out -- well, all of us anyway," she amends with a smile at the halflings, "and it could only be accessible by flight, but perhaps we could at least get someone's attention from the outside -- if there's anyone left whose attention we want to attract. But we have to get moving. Harrol, can she walk, or will someone have to carry her? Gregori, can you keep your ... hair on indefinitely? I have to keep casting this silly cantrip, and it's getting tedious. Mr. Aravashnial," she has a sudden thought, "do you have a light spell prepared? Even if you can't see it, it could help the rest of us immensely if you could cast it fairly regularly as we travel."
Theodric slowly approaches the injured people, using his magic to clean away the dirt and coagulated blood from their wounds. As he crouches over the Anevia's broken leg, he responds to Gwerm's comments without looking at the man.
I have to agree with Horgus--the destruction of the wardstone and the dragon-slaying balor are second and third in importance, respectively, to Mr. Gwerm's own personal safety and well-being.
The scholar stands, addressing Gwerm directly before the sarcasm has time to register properly. Fear not--our current location is probably the safest place in Kenabres. Think about it--if a criminal escapes his prison cell, for how long do you think he will linger in the vicinity of the prison, waiting to be captured or killed? Now suppose said criminal can teleport anywhere in the world. I suspect that the stronger fiends have already fled--sure, there are some lesser demons likely roaming about, but our numbers here are strong.
Then, turning to Eudocia:
Speaking of flight--I believe I can use Terendelev's scale to fly up to any exits you find, assuming there are any left to be found.
"I say we get moving, this earth isn't stable and we don't want to be here when the cavern collapses. Gwerm, make yourself useful and help Anevia and Aravashnial. Princess, can you keep some light out in that gloom, if bats are here then other creatures are likely to be lurking about as well." Aarol keeps his spear pointed at the gloom of the cavern, remaining vigilant for any creatures creeping out of the darkness.
"If there were anything hungry in the immediate vicinity, Mr. Varien," Docia reasons, "it had ample opportunity to attack us while we were unconcious and helpless. Still, it's possible unintelligent creatures might have been frightened away by the collapse and start returning to investigate as time passes." Once the injured have received as much care as Harrol can give, she'll move her lights out into the cave to the extent of their range to illuminate the cavern and look for relevant features, particularly any passageways leading out and up.
Nessa will move along the front edge of the light, always peering ahead.
"I've been down giant burrows before. Makes a big difference having light. She will take the opportunity to collect the occasional sling-sized rock and add it to her pocket.
"I can keep my...halo...radiating as long as need be, and if we get into a situation where more light is required, I can make the immediate area as bright as day for a short while."
Strapping his shield across his back, Gregori checks his gear.
"I can carry Miss Anevia, if walking on the injury would be difficult."
"I can carry Aravashnial if speed becomes an issue, though I'd prefer to keep my spear pointed towards the gloom, our light and noise is bound to attract some subterranean hunters."
Theodric casts a quick cantrip, studying the remaining scale on the ground.
Eudocia, here, take this scale from Terendelev. I believe some of her magic still resides inside. I'm not sure how this transference could have occurred--I've never heard of anything like it.
Eudocia's searching lights illuminate the rest of the cavern and you see two possible exits on the opposite sides of the cavern from where you stand. One to the North East and the other to the South East. However sitting between you and them an immendse black spider crouches silent and still on the ground. It is nearly the size of a horse, but black and ominous. Despite the noise you have been making though, there has been no change to it's disposition.
Harrol's salving words do little to make Gwerm smile, instead reinforcing his scowl. His attempts with Anevia's splint however engender a much better response. She smiles and after putting some weight upon the crutch, nods her thanks before handing him a small sack with a few items within "Thankyou good cleric. Here, hold these and put them to use if you can... I should be able to manage myself now" she then makes her way over and towards Aravashnial.
The elf responds to Eudocia's words with a derisive snort and shaken head "Unfortunately not... I did not expect to be blinded and entombed beneath the earth today." forcing his way painfully to his feet, he adds "Little good it would have done you anyway unless someone becomes my eyes. I will not stumble and trip through the dark... one of you will needs stand close and guide my way."
At Theodric's sarcastic address Gwerm's hackles rise "I care not for your opinion boy" before he turns to Gregori "I must be taken to my estate." though a quaver in his voice betrays some fearful concern. You've a fair expectation that he's unlikely to abandon you regardless and will follow along.
To Aarol, Gwerm scoffs "The elf has legs, and the lady now a splint... they can walk." the venom in his voice suggesting perhaps some history between the elf and the aristocrat.
Theodric's cantrip shows sign of magic upon Terendelev's final remaining scale, but his touching of it does not gift him with further vision. Whatever dwemor lies upon it though is far beyond his kenning.
Aarol's eyes are still struggling to adjust to the gloom of the cavern and he discerns nothing special about the spider.
"Captain, which side should I flank it from?" Aarol starts a slow circle in the direction that Gregori, and only Gregori, indicates.
Docia frowns but accepts the scale from Theodric. It seems morbid to carry around a piece of a creature so recently dead -- especially one that had looked like a human woman, even if she wasn't. Like a relic, I suppose, she thinks idly. Saint Someone-or-other's knuckle-bone. You never think about the mentality of the person who picked up the finger when it was still fleshed and bleeding.
The elf responds to Eudocia's words with a derisive snort and shaken head "Unfortunately not... I did not expect to be blinded and entombed beneath the earth today."
Did you expect the sun to go down at some point? she doesn't say, managing to hold her tongue. If the elf doesn't have the spell prepared, there is nothing to be done about it.
Eudocia's eyes widen and her breath catches as she spies the arachnid, but when it doesn't approach, she carefully maneuvers her dancing light nearer for a closer look. "Wait, Mr. Varien; I think it's dead. Perhaps it was crushed by falling debris. But ... is there something under it? Or eating it from the inside?"
Gregori doesn't notice anything other than the spider, but a Eudocia speaks he raises his hand, fist clenched in the sign to hold.
"If, something is eating this thing from the inside, it may burst out if we approach. It could even be it's young, not sure if giant spiders birth live or not. We might be better off keeping our distance and using fire."
"I can be yer guide, master elf." he says, eager to help. "Put yer hand on my shoulder there, that's it now, and we'll take it nice and slow."
"Can we not go around?" the halfling says, but at Gregori's mention of fire. Harrol brightens up. Gently brushing the elf aside for a moment, he presents the paladin with the sack Aneiva bequeathed on him earlier, with two smokesticks and two vials of alchemists fire within. "Here we go, m'lord. Foire."
As Eudocia touches the scale she gets a vision of herself with skin a metallic sheen standing radiant and in the midst of a wild battle with demons.
Harrol's kindness towards the elf is met with a grunted approval before Anevia puts hand on his shoulder "Perhaps it would be better if your attentions were on what lies ahead... I can walk beside Aravashnial, it would be a better use of myself... and we'd be somewhat fitting... the cripple leading the blind" chuckling in a tired voice with forced mirth. She then hooks Aravashnial's arm through hers as they both lean on artificial wooden supports.
At the talk of the spider, Horgus blurts "Kill it! Quickly, before it strikes at us!"
Looking at the spider more closely you discern that the movement is definitely within the corpse, and spy flashes of white skin outwith the black carapace.