With careful aim, Garidan strikes out at the hag with a shard from his rapier. The fragment of metal strikes Li'luraant's face, slicing open a massive wound. Her eyes turn to glare at the swashbuckler when she feels the impact of Truk'tosh's axe. She fends off the next several blows before the druid finds his mark once again. Finally, he draws on the strength of sky. Calling the crackling energy of lightning, Truk'tosh imparts the power into his axe and throws the weapon with all the strength he can muster. The axe ignites with brilliant energy as it slams into the hag.
Li'luraant crys out, "The male, half-orc. Take him now! I have the casters." Fatigued and beaten, she returns her gaze upon Malthazir as the wizard retreats quickly. The hag screams in frustration, then turns upon paralyzed oracle, biting and clawing. She sinks her teeth deep into Niyut's neck, then opens her chest with two quick strikes.
As Niyut regains control of her limbs, her eyes widen as the clear night sky grows dark and dark tendrils of smoky shadows fall aside revealing the true vision of what is above. The sky crackles with lightning, illuminating the upper branches of the forest canopy. Her mother dangles unconscious, lashed to a tree limb over one hundred feet from the ground. Below her, hovers Prisca, the witch from the Firebird clan. Her hood pulled back revealing her disfigured face. The witch cackles loudly as a ray of dark purple energy pulses from her finger tips and strikes Truk'tosh in the chest. The great half-orc stumbles backwards, clutching his chest. His strength wains as he feels the life force drawn out of his body. Prisca shakes her staff above her head. As a crow's feather drops from the staff, it pulses brightly. Garidan feels the clutches of the ether constrict around him. It pulls and tugs at his skin and bones. The pain sears throughout his body.
A familiar incantation rolls from Malz's lips. The summoning begins.
Garidan groans in agony as pain wracks him. He knows from the hag's command that someone else has joined the fight, but cannot actually see the new foe anywhere within range of his sister's senses. And so, unable to do anything about this newest threat, he struggles through the pain and keeps focus on Li'luraant. However, considering the imminent threat posed to Niyut, the swashbuckler elects to forgo the usual shard of edged bone in favor of something that will, hopefully, prove a good bit more of a problem for the hag. That shard that flies upward quickly splinters and expands into a lattice of bone that attempts to enclose the hag entirely.
Without pause to gauge the effectiveness of the cage, Garidan is scrabbling at his harness with his free hand, desperately seeking the ever-refilling flask of restorative potion stuffed into one of the loops. The pain, which he suspects is the result of some sort of spell from the unseen foe, is still present and he rather doubts that it won't get worse. Facing it in somewhat better physical condition that what he's currently in seems a smart idea. The flask in hand, he prepares to uncap it as he shuffles closer to Truk'tosh.
Gruskorb does not relent. He continues to scourge the hag.
Truk'tosh groans in pain when the traitor's dark spell saps his strength. Suddenly his movements are sluggish and less sure. The druid continues his assault despite the magical impediment, determined to finish the fiend harrying his twin.
Finding his flames ineffective against the hag, Nethuns trills. The flaming sphere obeys, rolling toward the witch that cursed his master.
For each negative level a creature has, it takes a cumulative –1 penalty on all ability checks, attack rolls, combat maneuver checks, Combat Maneuver Defense, saving throws, and skill checks. In addition, the creature reduces its current and total hit points by 5 for each negative level it possesses.
Seeing the hag drive off his mistress, the small, nightmare dragon swoops in and breaths acid on the hag.
Garidan feels his insides turn outside as his form begins to change. His ears elongate and his two front teeth extend. His back hunches as the swashbuckler falls to his knees. Whiskers sprout from his chubby cheeks. Oh, no! a voice fills his head as his sight returns to his eyes. He looks up from the ground to see Truk'tosh standing to his right. The half-orc looks huge, towering well above Garidan. He feels his sister's presence close-by. Gari... you're a rabbit!
No sooner had Garidan transformed, Gruskorb lashes out with his whip striking the hag several times. Dark pulses of energy ripple like waves from her wounds. She screams in agony once again causing the hobgoblin to wince from the pain. He covers his ears, trying to shield himself from her wails. Gruskorb never sees the Morgrym's Axe but the rogue feels the rush of wind as it streaks past him striking Li'luraant. Another strike and she reels back lifting her arms above her head and drawing energy from a far off place. A dark place. A place of nightmares, Gruskorb thinks.
The druid ignores her cries. He digs down deep and summons the power of the skies once again. Lightning gathers in the bladed head as it flies at the hag, and imbeds itself into her chest. The dark, necrotic energy she has gathered from the demi-plane erupts sending shock waves outward.
From a distance, Raektov looks at the battle, blinking in disbelief as the fabric of the material world opens revealing the demi-plane. Li'luraant's body implodes and is sucked into the chasm. The release of energy stuns those nearby. Truk'tosh disappears first. Drawn into the demi-plane by a force they cannot withstand. Gruskorb hangs on for a moment, then his strength fades. The young wizard watches in horror as the rogue vanishes as the chasm seals shut.
The rabbit's mouth drops open. His eyes can see but he believes nothing he just saw. A curse from above draws his attention. The witch, Prisca, remains. She does not see him, as she looks to the south. Garidan turns to see nothing but the underbrush of giant trees and bushes.
Nearby, panic overtakes Raektov until he hears the masterful incantations of Malthazir. He looks to the east to see the elf casting a spell.
Truk'tosh lies upon a thick bed of pine branches with a fire crackling nearby. The village elders are debating about something for which he cares little. His fingers are laced together behind his head. He hears the call of the forest beasts. Soon it will be time to hunt, he thinks.
Gruskorb rests easily in the deep cushions of a leather chair. The soft breeze of feather fans cools his skin. The sounds of coins rustling nearby bring a grin to the hobgoblins face. The mines are forgotten. The whips no longer crack.
Garidan doesn't know how he's been turned into a rabbit, or how he'll be getting back into his normal form, but he does know that he's currently ill-equipped to fight much of anything, particularly a foe that he can now see(!) is hovering well out reach in the air above. And, seeing as how it seems to be only himself and perhaps Malthazir still around--as his newly-restored sight hadn't seen the elf drawn into that noxious-looking void--sticking around in the open doesn't seem like the best of ideas. With that in mind, and taking advantage of his current ability to see again to find his way, the man-made-rabbit begins to cautiously creep away from his present location.
Prisca screams with primal anger as the portal collapses. She streaks southward towardsd the her clanswoman and the elf and thrusts her staff outward pointing its feathered head piece at Niyut. "The shadows of this land will bind you and drawn your power out girl! They will curse you for eternity!" she shrieks as dark purple tendrils of energy burst from the staff. The shadows at Niyut's feet coalesce a begin to creep up her legs. The half-orc feels them digging into her body, tugging at her strength.
The ethereal fires return around Niyut burning brighter and brighter as it consumes the malice that Prisca sends at Niyut.
"The Night's blood defies you, Prisca. See how the power of the Flame-Keeper wards me? The spirits of the shadows favor me. Can the same be said for you?"
The spirit guide tosses silver dust in the air with her left hand as her right hand draws the power of the shadows through her wand. She murmurs the incantation she learned from Korlez, weaving together the silver and the shadow into plaits of power to bind the traitorous elder.
Little Garidan Foo Foo continues his sneaky creep through the underbrush, stopping only when he hears the angered shrieks of their last--or so he hopes--foe as she attacks Niyut. Glad that the oracle hasn't been caught up like Truk'tosh and Gruskorb were, he does the only thing that he can at the moment, directing his sister to unleash a blast of light that catches the witch while just barely avoiding the oracle and wizard.
Unfortunately, he's overlooked one small but vital detail; he's a rabbit and can't speak. So his direction is nothing more than rabbit noise that grows increasingly frustrated as the realization that he can't communicate effectively dawns upon the swashbuckler. Still, his angry chitters and paw pointed at the witch seem to get the point across and, with a considerable bit of mental laughter on his sister's part (and both studiously ignore the slightly desperate edge to that laughter), 'Ruza releases the magic within her vessel.
Once the witch receives Garidan's little contribution to the fight, the rabbit resumes creeping along toward safety, the ioun torch tucking neatly under his folded ears for cover.
Oh. Well, that's not good. Malz pants, watching his allies sucked away into the ether. But that would have to wait. This battle was not over, and both sides were carrying heavy losses.
It was time to end this.
The ether is torn open as Malz finishes his spell. From it flies a pair of warming orbs, bursting with light.
But Malz is not done. He burns a candle, and with a sneer forces the portal to stay open. From it erupts even more of the warming orbs.
With the air swarming with the lantern archons, Malz barks a shortened incantation, letting his devil ooze focus the magic.
Lastly he waves the staff, covering himself with an illusory double.
And then...the light flashes out, blinding and burning, filing the area with painfully bright magic. Malz pants heavily, his limbs had been moving so fast that it didn't seem real, and his words tumbled so quickly it was like he was speaking simultaneous sentences (which he was, in part, actually doing by blending similar words from the spells together). It was a vicious magical assault he summoned, but it was clearly a taxing effort for Malz.
The shadowy energy swirls around the witch penetrating her magical defenses. Her look of concern grows for a moment as she believes in Niyut's magic, but her will proves too powerful and she shrugs off the attack. Prisca smiles a toothy grin at Niyut, "Foolish girl! As if your worldly magic could touch me! I shall take your dreams and those of your mother... feeding them to the Soulbleed. She will rise again from the Nightmare and destroy all that you hold dear!"
Ruza bolts out of the underbrush enveloping Prisca in a brilliant light. The witch laughs as the ioun torch's magic takes no affect on her. "You waste your time, little one..."
However, the light of the archons that Malthazir summons in flurry overwhelms her. Prisca writhes in pain from the holy light of the lanterns called from the Ether. Her flesh burns and begins to crack. Her hair ignites and is consumed. Ash falls from her charred form. Prisca staggers back and takes a final look at the elf. "Your clan is wea..." Her mouth shrivels before the words form upon them. She drops to both knees and falls to the ground, disintegrating in puff. Her staff stands, balanced upon its tip. The various feathers strapped to the gnarled tree root rustle in the wind.
As the dust of her body dissipates in the breeze, the familiar form of essences begin to form.
"Malthazir, did you see what happened to Garidan? Was he too sucked in by the rift?"
Niyut swoops down and extracts the witch's Essence. With a flick of her sleeve, Prisca's potent staff disappears into her robe.
It's a shame about Prisca's blood and bones, I could have worked them into my magic.
With Detect Magic Niyut will scan the rogue and the other orc to find their magic items.
If something feels good, if something feels easy, then it is probably a lie. For all I know, that hag is feeding on me in some hellscape while gulling me with happy thoughts. There is always a whip and there is always someone thinking they are a master.
Gruskorb will try to use the Calling function of the whip to bring it to hand.
To not feel the malice and the fear makes Gruskorb angry. Not angry with the whip, but angry with this world in which he has found himself. Gruskorb, better than most, knows that all things have their histories. The past is never past. It is always here with us.
Did I like the crack of the whip? Did I shiver with the thrill of fear? Did I love the malice of the master? No. But they were hard won lessons that ultimately led to my freedom. To steal this from me is to rob me of my freedom. This whip is not merely a whip is is the long and bloody rope that I climbed to freedom.
Gruskorb rejects this false peace. Easily won coins, even the relief of the fan were lies. If not lies, then new fetters. He was done with fetters.
Truk'tosh hesitates. He wanted nothing more than to rush to his mother and twin and enjoy the freedom of childhood again but it was not meant to be. He knew in his heart that he was still needed elsewhere. The idyllic vision before him was just a fantasy, one he could not afford when his family and friends were in mortal danger. Somewhere.
Grandmother, he thinks. I need her wisdom now more than ever.
Malz sneers at the smoldering corpse. Do not think that mortal magic can face me. My craft is a honed edge, yours is a club. Breathing heavily he nods to Niyut. "Transmuted...rabbit..." He forces out. He takes out his regular candle, starting another summoning.
Seeing the witch's blasted form hit the ground, and Niyut land shortly after, Garidan cautiously hops into view, the ioun torch circling his body and flicking dimly to draw the oracle's eye. His ears are up--through no conscious effort on his part--and his head is turning constantly as he checks for further threats.
From beneath the bush, a small rabbit stares out at the wide world. The towering elf overlooks the hare and begins to cast an incantation, searching throughout the forest for his companion. The rabbit twitches his nose and bounds towards the elf. Before Garidan can reach him, the wizard lifts into the air with a small jump and begins to circle the campfire. Malthazir directs his draconic friend to join in the search and the pair search for a rabbit without success.
Garidan looks around for his sister, ”Ruza, where are…” Suddenly, the rabbit is swept up by a pair of gentle hands. Thin, sinewy fingers hold him firmly but with a sympathetic touch that reminds him of a mother’s cradle. ”Well, well… this won’t do at all… a man trapped as a rabbit fur.” Garidan wriggles and squirms to see his captor. Finally, he is able to turn enough to see the green eyes of a goblin look down at him. Her toothy grin sends a shiver down his spine, but Garidan’s fears are whisked away as she chuckles. ”Gnisk, look what I found!”
Out of the sky, a hobgoblin, her hair dressed in black feathers, swoops down to look at Garidan. ”Stop playing with dinner, Māheo,” she barks. ”The others are nearby, we must find them quickly. If Anarzi is correct, we have little time to bind them before it is too late and they return. We must find the El’vítch and the Wiavch.”
Niyut, unaware of the approaching goblinoids, casts a quick spell to secure the essences left by Prisca’s spirit and grabbed the witch's staff. Tucking the staff into Brynderie's Silken Robe, the oracle glances once more where the eve woman had been dispatched just moments ago. Nothing remained of her, she was consumed by the ether, Niyut thinks. Shaking her head, she bolts into the sky racing to the shrouded figures bound to the upper branches of the trees. ”Malthazir!” she shouts. ”Catch them!” With a flick of her wrist, a streak of frost flows from her fingers freezing the hemp rope. The brittle strands crack under the weight and begin to give. She pulls the cloak back to see the lifeless face of her mother. A paleness had overtaken the witch’s skin. Niyut gasped as the bindings gave way and her mother fell towards the ground, followed quickly by the orcish woman. Before the landed, Malthazir’s spell takes hold of them and their descent comes to a quick halt. The pair of bodies float slowly to the ground and the awaiting arms of Niyut.
The oracle places her hands upon her mother’s cheeks and sighs as she feels the traces of warmth and blood flow still flowing in the woman. She reaches out and confirms that the orc woman is also caught in a fugue. She turns to speak to her elven companion, when she is caught by surprise with the arrival of another elf. This one clad in the garments worn by the elves of the First Lands. The elf looks gravely upon Asulad, then closes her eyes and calls upon the spirits. Greenish smoke rises up from the earth about her and her eyes roll back. For several moments, she slowly convulses her body then awakens. ”Anarzi, of the Seven Stars Clan, am I,” she says to Niyut. ”Lives your mother between the worlds, the first and the dream. The El’vítch is she since before your birth. But, now trapped she is by the Soulbleed and her coven.” As the elven witch speaks, two other witches approach followed by Malthazir who anxiously looks over the scene. Yet, when the witches smile upon seeing the still living bodies of Asulad and Yazgah, he relaxes.
”Look, Anarzi! I found a rabbit,” the goblin witch cackles, holding Garidan up gently for the others to see. Malthazir sighs upon seeing the young swashbuckler. The boy is still a rabbit, but at least he is found.
”Time it is not for eating,” Anarzi silences Māheo with a open palm held at the diminutive witch. Turning to Niyut, she points to Asulad’s remade staff. ”Give it to your mother. Provide her the mastery of the Dreaming, it will.” Anarzi shakes her own staff at the oracle and then demonstrates placing it in Asulad’s hand. Niyut nods her understanding and gently opens her mothers hand. Before placing Si’elwaght within the unconscious witch’s grip, she turns to look upon the elven witch’s staff and cocks her head with the recognition that it appears quite similar to that of Prisca’s. Seeing this in Niyut’s eyes, the elf becomes excited. ”Observed the Wiavch’s staff you have as well! Please, give to Yazgah, her staff.”
Niyut pulls the staff that Prisca had just wielded against them from the deep pockets of her robe. She gingerly lays the two staffs in both of the witches' hands. The land goes quiet as a small quake seems to tremble all about the forest. Streams of ether begin to pour out of the sky into the orc’s open hand. A billowy mist of shadows consumes her and she fades from sight. Then, a dark forces begins to swirl around the encampment. The whirlwind takes shape and Yazgah appears.
Niyut turns to her mother. Her staff crackles with white energy. ”The fusing of the elements,” the hobgoblin witch mutters. ”Never did I think I would see it.”. With a brilliant flash, Asulad entire body contorts. Her back arches and her hands grip the staff tightly. She floats up from the ground as if the staff was pulled by invisible hands from the sky. She pirouettes once, then lands upon her feet and opens her eyes. ”Where is Truk’tosh?” she says looking at her daughter.
As Niyut desperately tries to breathe life into her mother's still form, she sags with relief when she discovers that Asulad yet lives.
"Why does she not awaken? When I shattered the Soul-Bleed's Dream Stone all the souls she had stolen should have winged free. I do not understand."
Running her the back of her fingers down her mother's still face she begs, "Wake up. Please."
Her prayers are interrupted by the sudden and conveniently-timed arrival of Anarzi. Niyut is not so lost to courtesy or to honor that she fails to give the Daughter of Chana a traditional greeting.
A small part of Niyut, perhaps not as small as she might like, is not pleased about having to give up the staff they claimed from Prisca. Maybe it is the staff of the Wiavch; it is certainly potent enough. But where were these witches when we struggled against Li'luraant and Prisca? Where were they when the Soul Bleed was trying to use Eh’semghédôm to destroy the Dream and all the Souls therein?
Hiding and scrying, she would guess.
But, Niyut reminds herself, Magic, no matter how potent is not worth your honor. It is not worth the life of another to be lost in Dream.
She places the staff in the Night Blood's hands and watches in awe as Yazgah awakens. The last time that she saw a witch disolve into black smoke, he had been bound to a stone of Eh’semghédôm. His end had been far more terrifying than it had been inspiring.
But all Niyut can feel when her mother awakens is relief and joy. She buries her face in her mother's bosom as she embraces her.
"Lost. He is lost in Dream. When we returned to village at grandmother's behest, we found our people confused and your staff shattered."
She pulls back and points in the distance towards Raektov pulling a reluctant Tacal. "The young wizard repaired the broken pieces of your staff. I led Malthazir, far son of Chana, and Truk to pull power from the great spirit who preserves, he who is the enemy of time, nameless and forgotten may the great spirits be. By my arts, this power of remembrance resonated with the power that once inhabited your staff. The staff led us to Eh’semghédôm where the Soul Bleed and that traitor Prisca, cursed may she be, were trying to harvest all the souls in Dream. We did battle. To rescue you before she could sacrifice you in her rite, I caused her ritual to fail. Eh’semghédôm shattered. They fled that dark, but sacred place and we pursued. Here we did battle. Truk and I slew her remaining thralls. We vied with the Soul Bleed. Truk and Gruskorb, far son of the Twisted Iron, managed to destroy her body. Truk was glorious, mother! Not even the queen of nightmares, the uncrowned queen, could stand against him. In her death throws, she drew them into the Dream. Prisca, may her name be cursed and bound in iron, was laid low by the arts of Malthazir."
Tears gather in her eyes and she shrinks into herself. "He is lost. I'm sorry, mother. I failed you. But, I will find him, I promise. If I have to go into the Dream and strip all the ichor of Zamaz from the blood of the Soul Bleed I will, if I must, to return your son."
She quivers with silent sobs.
The first few moments after his body is snatched up are terrible ones for the transformed swashbuckler, as he struggles uselessly against what he believes to be a new threat. Hearing the voice of the one holding him correctly identify him as a person does little to calm Garidan, and he kicks desperately to get free, to no avail. And so, the rabbit is forced to watch and listen as his captor joins up with another and approaches the sight of the recent battle.
Finding himself shown off as though a prized pet--which everyone seems to believe is a meal--doesn't make him terribly happy about his current situation. "Still, as humiliating as this is," he muses to himself once he realizes that the one holding him apparently isn't a foe. "It could surely be so much worse. These could be new enemies, or just hungry travelers. I rather think things would end poorly for me in either case. That said, I do wish someone would see to getting me back to my proper form, before something unfortunate happens."
Observing with interest--for he can do little else right now--as Niyut restores her mother and explains matters does bring a momentary flash of disgruntlement to the young man, for in her exposition of assorted meritorious deeds done recently, the oracle has quite forgotten him! "Yes, yes, Truk'tosh was pretty impressive, and Gruskorb too. But it wasn't just the two of them down here, I helped!" Whatever his thoughts may be on the matter, the only physical sign is a laying back of his ears; rabbits' faces aren't really meant for showing off sour expressions.
However, the sourness fades in the faces of Niyut's obvious distress over her brother's absence, and the rabbit slumps in the grip holding him and looks about as dejected as it's possible to get. "Right, I'd forgotten that for a moment, those two got pulled into whatever the hag did. And who knows how, or even if, we'll get them back again. And I can't even help out unless I can get out of whatever's happened to me."
Malz hovers over the scene, slowly lowering to touch down next to Garidan. He takes the polymorphed rabbit, setting it gently on his shoulder, which Garidan quickly finds has a flat surface that is easy to keep his balance on; evidently decades of carrying around familiars has made Malz adept at this.
He observes the scene with disdain, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "A great victory today, but at a great cost. Garidan will be the easier ally to recover, I think. Either way, we are too spent and exhausted to pursue them now. We need rest and recovery. We shall plan in the morning."