Reeling slightly due to the barrage of material from nowhere--a spell is the obvious cause--Garidan struggles to mop the blood out his eyes long enough to take stock of the situation. Though he's sorely tempted to down another of the precious potions, there are others in need as well. Not to mention a wounded gnoll currently sprawled out on their supply cart that needs to be dealt with.
Reaching out, he gives the gnoll a quick poke to the nethers with the tip of the blade, though blurred vision due to the head trauma and seeping blood makes it hard to get in a properly damaging strike. He then steps carefully a few paces closer to Gruskorb and presses one of the potions into his hand. "Here, get this down your throat while you can," Garidan says with a voice full of urgency as he warily watches the gnoll he just stabbed. Should the gnoll do anything but die, Garidan is ready to respond.
The gnolls encircling Ptahh continue to press the attack by flanking him and sending him down with several nasty wounds. "Ptahh!!" screams the paladin. While the gnoll atop the cart withdraws momentarily by slinking off the cart away from Garidan, the gnolls to the south defend themselves. One gnoll attacks the eagle, while the other slides to the south and slices at Quistaine. The hulking ogre turns his sights on Truk'tosh. Taking a few strides, he swings his greatclub at the half-orc, bashing him once upon the back and sending him down.
Quistaine guts another gnoll and looks nervously back north at the still body of his friend.
Niyut steals a glance to the east trying to determine whether the watchers were the true masters of the battle or neutral interlopers.
Unfortunately, she can no longer make them out where she believed them to be. Seeing her brother fall to the ogre only heightens her worries. Though the battle seems to be swiftly drawing to a close, they all still very much in danger. Not for the first time she considers the fact that she would be safer with just her brother, but there would be no honor and little wisdom in that choice.
With a shake of her head and a flick of her wand Niyut sends a ball of frost hurtling towards the ogre's broad back.
She looks towards the gnoll sorcerer, hungry for his magic.
But her desire for more power cannot compete with the love she has for her brother, and so she breaks her silence.
"Now is neither the time for fear nor grief, Quistaine. They will all die unless we finish this battle quickly. We must trust that they are strong enough to live until we can save them. Killing that ogre should be your concern now."
Then mists burble up from the old well and spill out across the woods until she is lost in them.
As the mists close in around her, Niyut lets out a wild and fey laugh before calling out to the ogre. "So big, but so stupid! The giant has fallen. The sorcerer is dead. If you were wise you would flee into the night; but you are stupid, so I will have the pleasure of killing you and drinking your heart's blood too."
The ogre shakes off the freezing effects of Niyut's snowball and roars at her with such ferocity that the hairs on the back of her neck instinctively stand upright. But with a quick check, she notes that a life essence and three ethereal essences reside on the dead body of the sorcerer. The life essence is fading however and she realizes she has only a few moments to extract it.
As the ogre finally enters the fight, putting Truk'tosh hard into the dirt with a single swing of its weapon while Ptahh goes down under a mob of desperate gnolls, Garidan swallows anxiously and clamps down on his rising desire to flee. Strangly, his mind is unusually clear in spite of his anxiety and fear, a very tentative plan of action already presenting itself. If they can just put that ogre down, then the last few gnolls should pose little problem. And seeing the large humanoid flinch away from the campfire it just stepped with a pained roar give Garidan a pretty good idea of how to do it. Even as a blast of ice strikes the creature's broad back--Niyut's work, no doubt, if the accompanying taunt is any indication--Garidan is already preparing to move.
Looking at Gruskorb, he nods briefly at the nearer two gnolls of the three closing in, clearly emboldened by the presence of the ogre. "Can you keep them busy and off of my back for just a few moments? I have an idea that might just be enough to manage that big bastard there before he flattens us all. But I need time, and I need to not have mangy mongrels climbing all over me." While waiting for the pragmatic hobgoblin's decision, Garidan calls out to the remaining members of the group, of whom only Quistaine is visible. "Focus on the gnolls if you can, I think I can manage the ogre!" Privately, Garidan very much hopes that his plan doesn't come apart at the cost of all their lives.
The blood from his wounds having moistened his clothes to the point of being sopping near the damage, Gruskorb wanted nothing more than to snap at the request to give more of himself. He wanted to back around the ruined walls, sliding behind to Garidan before yelling at him. I could die. He gives me a potion that I can't safely drink, then tells me as I bleed out to give him cover...
Yet a calming influence came from within. There were no spoken words, no vivid images - just emotion. He had a hunch Querkus was responsible, yet somehow, even knowing there was an attempt to manipulate him, the rogue trusted the spirit in this matter. Fair fights were not the rogue's specialty, and neither were larger battles like this; his inexperience yielded readily to the firm confidence emanating from within his mind - or adjacent to his soul, to be more accurate.
"Got it. Go." His cool words belied none of the internal conflict, but a hint of resignation indicated he knew what he was in for.
Gruskorb kept looping the whip, sending it back and forth in shallow arcs as if to strike, yet never making a full draw to do so. They couldn't get by him without provoking a strike, and he could almost surely drop one of them to the ground if they went after Garidan. I can't stop both though. He didn't dare leave himself open against two blades in his current state for the sake of one slash, but he hoped the threat of the sickle being dug into their hides kept their eyes ajar and focused away from his ally.
Truk'tosh drives his axe into the gnoll when he tries to climb to his feet.
A moment later he Truk crumples when the ogre's club smashes into his side. He looks around for his twin with the last ounce of his strength before darkness claims him.
Niyut frowns at Garidan's shouted instructions, and furiously wills that Quistaine follows her advice instead. This behemoth will take more than just hope to fell. It will take our strongest attacks. If we strike our most powerful blows at it, then it will fall. For better or worse, Quistaine is the most powerful blade we have standing.
She had her stories of lowland holy warriors channeling the fury of their gods through their weapons to smite their foes. She also had heard that the thralls of the gods could cast spells. Yet she has seen neither spells from Ptahh nor channeled fury from Quistaine. Perhaps the stories were wrong. In any event, she realized she had no true knowledge of her new allies' capacities.
One more eagle returns; clearly Malthazir cannot keep up this game forever as his power wanes. But the two eagles continue their onslaught, tearing into the next archer.
Malthazir begins his last summoning spell. A bead of sweat drips from his forehead as his voice cracks.
The eagles converge on the last gnoll to the south, and while they tear at him repeatedly, the gnoll still lives.
Moving back a few paces to the cart's side while weaving under the ogre's flailing club, Garidan digs once again into the contents, but pauses briefly as his eyes flick to something else in the bed. After shifting his reach just a bit to the side, he comes up with a lumpy sack that exudes a pungent odor. Pausing only long enough to judge his aim, Garidan then hurls the sack right at the ogre, the material splitting under impact to splash the sack's contents across the large body. In seconds, the ogre finds itself struggling to move, and the clinging goo threatens to further glue it to the ground upon which it stands, as long ropes of the stuff slide down the creature's legs to pool over its feet.
Even as the ogre struggles and strains against its unexpected restraints, Garidan shouts more directions to his fellows. "If the ogre gets free of that stuff, I'll hit it with another of those sacks before it has a chance to do much of anything! If it can't get loose though, or takes too long to manage it, then Gruskorb might have the chance to gut the bastard." Even as he speaks, Garidan warily eyes the gnoll on the other side of Tacal and readies his rapier in case it decides to make him its target. In fact, he actually hopes it does do just that, and to encourage it, he whistles sharply to get its attention, then makes a rather rude gesture with his free hand that he hopes translates properly.
Garidan launches the tanglefoot bag hitting the ogre squarely in the side of the head, before it oozes down its body entangling it. An injured gnoll leaps to its feet, and upon hearing Garidan taunting it, he launches a savage attack catching Garidan by surprise. While a nasty blow, it narrowly misses a particularly vital spot under his armor. Blood gushes from underneath his right arm where the gnoll's falchion struck through his parry. . The other two gnolls converge upon Gruskorb, taking a vicious blow from the first gnoll.
Seeing Gruskorb go down, the second gnoll in the camp turns and attacks Garidan from behind but the swashbuckler is on high alert and avoids the blow. The ogre, now fully enraged, cannot reach the swashbuckler but fails to break free from the tanglefoot bag's sticky substance.
The gnoll to the south makes a run for it to the west. Although one of the eagles gets an opportunity to try and claw him, he escapes and runs into the darkness. Ptahh continues to bleed out.
The two eagles fly after the fleeing archer, trying to finish him off
Malthazir's last eagle arrived behind the foe attacking Garidan, tearing with beak and claws!
Malthazir moved up to Garidan and places the red ooze on him. Completely out of summoning spells...
Garidan howls in pain and very nearly collapses as one of the gnolls lands a very bad strike. He manages to stay upright though, and is thus able to see Gruskorb struck down before the hobgoblin can do anything about the ogre's vulnerable state. Things are looking decidedly bleak at the moment, but his earlier fear is strangely absent. Quistaine is on his way, as is Niyut, and Malthazir is still casting spells from where ever he's concealed, not to mention that Garidan isn't dead just yet. And the ogre, the greatest threat to their survival, is sorely wounded and virtually helpless.
Drawing more energy from her sorcery, Niyut's wand punishes the ogre with cold and frost. The night echoes with her mocking laughter.
She looks towards the giant to see if it has any life essence to capture.
Then with a thought, she disappears into the "darkness" that swirls around the tree where she stood.
Nimble as he was, the aegean was injured and outnumbered. He saw the blade come for him before it severed his consciousness.
Collapsing to the ground, his last memory was of concern from Querkus.
The two eagles chase down the fleeing gnoll, killing him before he can escape. Another eagle appears, flanking the injured gnoll and tearing chunks of flesh from his back. The gnoll shrieks then falls to the ground dead. Creeping under the cart, Malthazir places his devil ooze on Garidan who immediately begins to heal some of his wounds.
Niyut circles the camp in the shadows, then hurls a ball of ice from her wand. The icy globe strikes the ogre who clutches his chest shaking off the frigid effects. Quickly checking the hill giant, Niyut can see that a powerful life essence from his corpse is present. Like the sorcerer, this life essence is fading quickly.
To the south, Quistaine rushes the ogre. But, the raging brute was ready for the paladin and smashes his greatclub into Quistaine's side. Undeterred, Quistaine leaps high in the air and swings his massive bastard sword. The ogre sees the blade coming for his head and knows that it is all to easy to step away from the paladin increasing the distance between himself and the keen edge of the blade. But, as he lifts his leg to make the saving step, he feels the pull of the tar from the tanglefoot bag, and looks back at the paladin with hopeless eyes.
From under the cart, Malthazir hears a loud thud crashing down to his right. He rolls over to see the lifeless eyes of the ogre staring at him from its severed head. Just beyond, he sees the creature's body slump to its knees before toppling over onto Ptahh. Without hesitation, the wizard can see that no life essence was present, but he can detect two ethereal essences residing within the ogre's head.
Garidan nearly jumps out his bloodied skin when a shrieking eagle appears out of nowhere and tears into the gnoll at his back, dropping the wounded creature where it stands. Malthazir certainly saved his hide just then, the swashbuckler muses as he focus his attention completely on the gnoll before him. As he prepares to engage the gnoll, both he and the creature are momentarily distracted by Quistaine's removal of the ogre's head, and Garidan see the realization of its impending death appear in the gnoll's expression as their eyes meet again. With no further hesitation, Garidan's rapier darts out to pierce the gnoll's body before it can act.
Pulling his blade free from the falling body as the life drains from it, Garidan clears it with a short hop, darts around Tacal--who has been surprisingly calm during this bloody chaos--and moves to confront the last gnoll still standing, his footing carefully adjusted to account for Ptahh's prone form. Rather than his usual defensive stance, Garidan is poised on the balls of his feet, ready to dart out of the gnoll's reach in an instant.
Pulling his blade free of the snarling creature, Garidan spits a mouthful of bloody saliva into its face, then backhands it with a disdainful expression before using his free hand to wave it forward in the nigh-universal gesture known as 'come get some'. He then assumes his usual defensive posture and waits wearily.
The gnoll facing Garidan takes the swashbuckler's blade to its gut, then hesitates as Garidan coaxes it forward. With much trepidation, it barks loudly before turning and running. As it turns northward, Garidan sees an opportunity for a thrust of his rapier. Slipping the rapier just above the armor at the base of its neck, the swashbuckler skewers the dog with his blade exiting out its snout. The gnoll drops dead instantly.
The final gnoll sees that the battle has turned and he has lost, tucks his tail and breaks for the east into the darkness.
No sooner had it departed, Quistaine stretches his hands outward and you feel a suptle but refreshing energy touch you. The paladin then rushes to Ptahh and finally to Gruskorb and Truk'tosh, laying his holy hands upon each and bringing them to back to the world of the living.
Kneeling over the gnolls sorcerer, Niyut inhales -- drawing forth glittering essences that her chants turn into strange gems. Once she has sucked the spiritual remnants of the sorcerer's soul out of his broken palace of bone, her eyes glaze over as she peaks into the veil. She searches the corpse for any hints of magic. Detect Magic
Following the battle, while Quistaine, Niyut, and Malthazir are hard at work healing the staggering number of injuries among the group--and Garidan notes in passing how the latter two coax forth more of those essences from some of the fallen foes--Garidan clears the campsite of all but the largest bodies, stripping them of their possessions in the process. While it is unlikely that the group will be able haul so much salvaged armor and weaponry, much less find use for it all, denying it to the gnolls that are sure to investigate the loss of this party is just as important. Further, there's no telling what these scavengers might themselves have acquired that stands out above the average.
With the bodies stripped, Garidan piles them up some distance from the camp, adding wood from the dead trees in the area to form a makeshift pyre. He'll make sure to set it alight before they leave the area, ensuring that none of these bodies rise to trouble anyone a second time. That matter settled, Garidan tends to himself and his equipment, cleaning up as best as he can manage before settling down with an exhausted sigh at their rebuilt fire. "That was...," he says before trailing off, not quite sure of what say about the recent battle. After a few moments of silently sorting through the pile of gathered loot, he does think of something. "So, does anyone else think that all of this was just a bit much for the likes of us? Granted that this Rgulblux has the numbers to spare, we still killed a pretty decent number of his gnolls. Not to mention the giant, the ogre, and that spelltosser. Numbers or not, those losses he'll surely notice. So what makes us worth that attention?"
"I worry more for the silent watchers of the battle. I doubt their motives were benign."
Malthazir directs his eagles maliciously onto the last fleeing enemy. He turns with a scowl, dropping his invisibility. I should use that trick more often. The eagles start to vanish behind him into the ether as he directs the ooze around, greedily gorging itself on blood but leaving behind healed wounds. Malthazir focuses on harvesting what essences he still can, knowing they will need them if the fights are to be this difficult.
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Once all the essences have been wrung from ramshackle palaces of bone, Niyut watches as they streak out to find there new homes. This time none seem to resonate with her. This absence leaves her strangely . . . hungry? It is an unpleasant feeling and one on which she does not wish to dwell.
To distract herself, she goes to her brother to check on his recovery and wash the blood off of him. There is no warning before she topples over on the the bloodsoaked earth.
Though insensate in the world of the flesh, her eyes open in the world of spirit.
Gone are the chains that once bound her to Viosil. This is not the only change. Where once she appeared in the spirit world as a woman, now she knows that in this world she is both woman and cloaker – distinct and yet simultaneous. What remains of Viosil’s consciousness swirls in her mouth/maw like spawn hiding in the mouth of a frog. He tastes of silver and the silence of snow.
Poor little spawn, the world is a dangerous place, but what if their parent gets hungry? Gulp. Gulp, and the spawn would be gone. Viosil’s voice no longer resounds in her mind with fury. Too weak he is to speak; too thin he is to fight. But while Viosil’s thoughts have grown weak, his substance now suffuses woman/cloaker.
How she knows this, she does not know. The spirit world possesses its own logic. I am like Chana Eye-of-Stars, but where she is a peacock and an elf-woman, I am something far less natural.
Her musings are interrupted by a sibilant voice with which she is all too familiar.
”How rude, little sister, that you did not save any morsels for me. Your elven spirit was quite delectable, little sister.”
Niyut, as woman, whirls at the sound. Her eyes flash with wrath. Her tail, as cloaker, lashes in menace. This time, she is not paralyzed. This time she will not feel his sirocco breath on her neck.
Wordlessly, Niyut, as cloaker, engulfs the coal-eyed figure. Unfortunately, neither her beating wings nor her lashing tail overcome the terrible strength of the coal-eyed figure.
Ruby teeth flash as the shadow-thing pins her to the ground. ”You have grown, little sister, as I knew you would. You are becoming more like me and less like the mortal chaff. Where once you were a small stream, you are now becoming a river as tributaries flow into you. Each life you end, each soul you eat, adds to your waters. But you should not forget that where you are becoming a river, I have always been an ocean. Mightier rivers than you have fed me. Be still and receive my gifts, little sister.”
Once the great spirit has left her, Niyut, as woman, curls up in a ball and lies there for a long while.
After a time, she notices the spirit world getting brighter around her. She looks up at a woman robed in sunlight. The woman wears the face of Niyut’s mother. No, it is her grandmother; now her aunt; now her neighbor in their village. The features of the woman’s face seem to hold something of every woman Niyut has ever know who has given birth to a child.
The woman robed in sun sits down next to Niyut, places her head in her lap, and begins to stroke her long, dark hair.
”I have seen you before,” Niyut murmurs. ”You looked different then.”
The woman robed in sun smiles as she responds. ”You see me as I am, daughter, but part of my seeming is in the seeing. Few things are solely one thing or another. In shadow there is darkness, but there is also light. If there is woe, there is also weal.”
At these words, Niyut breaks down in hopeless sobs as Teysura rocks her back and forth, clucking at her comfortingly. ”My daughter there is nothing that has ever been broken that cannot be put right. You are defined more by what you do with what has been given to you than by what has been done to you. It is in your nature to receive our gifts. We cannot but help to give them to you. But, remember, my daughter, it is you who determines what you do with them. Go now. Your brother worries for you, and know that some of my light goes with you.”
Garidan is distracted by his thoughts, and doesn't initially notice the essence that moves to drift at his side after leaving Niyut's possession. Not until his sister's voice sounds in his mind does he finally see it. With a curious frown, he reaches out to grasp the little crystalline manifestation of power. The moment his fingers draw close, a short arc of blue-white lightning leaps from the essence to strike them, and Garidan jerks his hand back with a startled oath. As he inspects his hand for damage--having had an unpleasant reminder of his last encounter with lightning--the essence tumbles in place briefly, then zips toward his rapier. Upon contacting the hilt, it disappears with a faint crackle of energy and the intense tang of ozone.
Only the sound a body hitting the ground breaks his focus, and Garidan nearly strains a number of things getting to Niyut's side, a worried expression on his face as he scans the darkness for signs of another attack. Finding nothing, and no evidence of injury to her, he gives her brother a quizzical glance and shrugs wordlessly.
Yet this was no pleasant respite, but a nightmare.
He found himself in the back of a caravan, bound and gagged. He was back on his trip to the quarries, basins of production where bodies entered but never returned.
Except in my case...
He relived the cramped quarters, foul smells, and unspoken despair around him. Yet with his memories from what should be the future, there was less desperation in his own mind, leaving it free to wander.
Am I dead? Well, if I am, this must be punishment - to relieve the lash of the past.
But a thought dawned on the clever rogue. He could choose to relive the past, in theory guaranteeing his freedom after an extended period of punishment. Yet he could also push for an early release, taking a risk. He struggled against his bonds, finding them just as tight as he remembered, yet they somehow didn't feel quite as formidable. The only possibility was it was he who'd changed, his skill improved. After a few minutes, he successfully loosened them, choosing to retain the appearance of bondage. For now, anyway...
The caravan came to a halt for the evening, and as he faded into sleep, he saw ... Quistaine?
His eyes flew open as the paladin - surely the one who brought him back to the realm of the wakeful - strode away from him. He and his companion are strong, but they have their own goals.
You survived. I knew you would! You -
You knew nothing, Querkus. I could have just as easily died there.
The cold water he threw on the spirit's hope was partially due his disturbed slumber. He almost preferred that time and place to this one, for at least then, he had knowledge of the future to give him an unparalleled edge in events to come. I could even see to that damned Hazard in advance if I wanted... Though it wasn't clear whether those events were authentic or not in his "dream", they felt real enough to Gruskorb.
Just as in the dream, the already opportunistic rogue felt more daredevil now, less risk-averse; it was time to throw caution to the wind in their mission and push the limits to see what they - and he - could gain.
Old habits died hard though. The aegean summoned the energy to stand and pushed himself forward despite the pain from his wounds. Walking from corpse to corpse, he severed their ears; those of gnolls were especially durable. He helped Garidan pile them in the process, more out of an implicit excuse for privacy than to aid him.
"You're damn right it was too much for us," the rogue replied softly to him as he laid a corpse upon the others. "That pair is powerful. Whoever they serve doubly so to command their loyalty. We need to find out exactly what their intentions are. If they turned on us, there would be no second chances."
The warriors of healing power were generally helpful to all regardless of stripe - provided of course you weren't actively doing something heinous. Yet the other one ... he seemed much more a loose cannon. But he fell. They aren't beyond mortality.
When it came to the larger corpses, the rogue harvested a toe from each. His dagger bloodied, he lifted the trophies for appraisal. Sometimes, when the rare killing from his past was called for in defense or convenience, bits were harvested as proof or reminders. This fork in the road called for a special craft to keep the memory alive. Maybe a necklace.
He reclaimed his trap back at the camp, oiled from the fluids of his foe. "So Quistaine - you weren't tracked by these? Wonder where they came from then."
Niyut kneels over the lifeless corpse of the gnoll and raises her hands as though she's lifting a veil of immense weight from the sorcerer. A faint ethereal mist forms and searches out the body looking for energy to discover. The mist begins to pulse a bluish hue as it settles upon the black robes. Looking closely, Niyut can see the darkened, billowly shapes that flow across the fabric appear as storm clouds against the night sky. She reaches out a moves the robes ever so slightly to look at the lining. As she does so, the clouds flash subtley as if charged with lightning and in her touch she feels the static surge. Peeling off the robe from the sorcerer, she feels the warmth of the fabric and marvels at the relative lightness of it. Niyut holds it up before her. It is long, tall enough to cover the gnoll from head to toe... much to long for her. And the sleeves would extend well beyond her reach. As she lowers the robe down it reveals the elf, Malthazir, near the fire. He has just harvested essences from the ogre. It would fit him... Viosil says before he drifts off again.
To the north, the hobgoblin smiled as he sliced off the big toe of the ogre and stuffed the trophy in his pocket. Yet when Gruskorb removed the left boot of the hill giant, he gasped and fell backwards with a thud. A green substance was eating at the dead giant's toes.
One moment Truk'tosh is drifting through the darkness of oblivion and the next he's returned to the world of the living in incredible pain but alive. Quistaine and Niyut immediately come into view - the latter of which does a great deal to calm the orc's nerves as his last moments before unconsciousness come back to him. How much time had passed was unclear. The empty heavens of this sundered world rarely had anything to say. His twin appeared unharmed - a small but welcome blessing. The others looked to have survived as well, even Ptahh. Truk'tosh sits up slowly and then in a rush as Niyut's eyes roll into the back of her head and she goes limp. He lowers her gently to the ground once again.
That was a close one boy. You're gunna have to fight a lot harder - for both of us - if you want to survive this thing. We've gotta stay alive to protect the others, right? Truk'tosh bandages his remaining wounds as he considers Morgrym's words. He'd spilled more blood in a handful of days than he had the rest of his life and he'd have to spill a lot more and he knew it. I know takin' lives isn't something that comes natural to you. Jolnar's gift of battle isn't something everyone enjoys but we need to work together better. You've got my axe but not my instinct - not yet.
After fifteen long minutes, Niyut stirs and her eyes flutter open. It was the longest episode her twin could recall.
"They are getting worse," Niyut whispers to Truk'tosh. He can feel her shudder against her. The tiny cat mews softly and and nuzzles against her. She lies there for several moments collecting herself before she stands.
She watches Garidan collect the bodies. She doesn't know where he finds the strength. He seems more graceful than strong. Then Niyut stands and makes her way to the cart, she had set the robe she had stripped off of the sorcerer there. She turns to see Malthazir scribble in his incunabulum.
Setting the robe next to him, she murmurs, "You may find this useful."
Now without any chore or duty to distract her, Niyut walks into the darkness where she softly weeps.
The paladin smiles at Gruskorb, "No, I don't believe so. We hadn't seen any gnolls since leaving Pyrae; only undead and lifeless corpses." Quistaine looks at Ptahh who is snoring quite loudly much to Garidan's annoyance. "I suppose it is possible," he continues. "The gnolls have very clever scouts. They move through the night as quiet as a field mouse... deadly with their poisoned arrows from a distance too. We should be more careful and will make all haste to the Eastgate. "
When Gruskorb moves off towards the ogre's corpse brandishing a knife, Quistaine stares into the fire. "You are wise to strip them of their weapons... and to burn the bodies," he says to Garidan who works feverishly to pile up the blades and armor. "We'll take anything you can't haul back to the dwarves. I'd hate to rearm the gnolls!" He glances up from the fire when he hears the hobgoblin fumble the hill giant's boot and scramble away from the corpse. Turning his attention away from the decaying body, he looks up at Garidan and shrugs before returning his gaze to the fire.
Malthazir watches the oracle approach him with a cocked eyebrow. Her episode hadn't slipped under his notice, although she appeared to be in no danger from it. But as she lays down the robe he arcs a brow. No advice? No condolences? Malz watched her walk off, and after a moment follows her. Then he is startled to find her weeping; one of the strongest women he has ever met. He stands there in silence for a moment, then comes over and pulls out a flask, sitting by her side and offering it. He doesn't say anything, he just sits with her and offers his company and whiskey.
For a moment, Niyut is chagrined that Malthazir had followed her. But that passes quickly as she examines the thought. She is not ashamed of her tears, and she values the gift of silent companionship.
She takes the proffered flask and considers her distress. She neither weeps for the gnolls nor for the danger. Killing them is a necessity. Surviving is a necessity. Why weep for necessity?
Her mother had once described Niyut's gifts as thus: "Imagine a tall tree soaring above its fellows. That is the tree that will draw the lightning. You are the tall tree, my daughter. You draw the lightning."
A younger Niyut had not been pleased to draw the lightning, but she knew even then that the tree struck spared its fellows from a similar fate.
But now? For all she knows, her people are dead. They have vanished from this earth, yet still she draws the lightning. In their place are left but four. Four who she has determined to bring safely through the end of the world by her wit, by her power, by her sheer cussedness, if needs be.
Four. They would have to be enough. As much as she wants to preserve them, she knows that she could also be their end. If she is weak, that which stalked her might eat her up from the inside. In the end it does not matter if it is the Lord of Lies, the Flesheater, or some great spirit unknown to her. If something hungry ever squats in her palace of bone these four would be its meat. They did not know the rituals of binding to contain one possessed.
Perhaps her brother would notice before it was too late and do his duty, but she suspects that he has already been compromised by the thrall that is a guest in his palace of bone. She does not blame him. These are not easy times and the power the great spirit offers him might mean the difference between life and death.
Worse than possession, what if the shadow-thing is right about her? What if she is more like it than she is like them? What if she is a hunger whom they should fear?
Her tears are for them as much as they are for a young woman being brutalized by a great spirit.
Niyut speaks none of these things to Malthazir. Instead she sips from his flask and feels the fire on her tongue.
"Thank you."
Once Niyut is back on her feet, apparently unharmed, Garidan finishes up dealing with the equipment taken from their fallen foes. Using twine from their supplies, Garidan does his best to bundle the gathered gnollish equipment for transport. The swords and bows are managed easily enough--and Garidan includes the gnolls' arrows as well, though he does divert some to replenish his own hefty stock--though the armor is considerably more challenging. The massive clubs, however, he simply drags over to the assembled pyre; no one in Eastgate will possible have use for such crude weapons, to say nothing of their size. To this are added the suits of armor that Quistaine's and Ptahh's horses won't be able to manage, just over half of those present. Garidan privately acknowledges that pulling dead gnolls out of their armor, only to turn around and stack that same armor next to its formers owners for disposal seems a waste of time and effort, but it was a good way to be sure than nothing unexpected ended up being burned along with the rest.
Still full of manic energy after his all-to-close brush with his own death, Garidan turns his attention to their cart and the precious supplies within, giving everything yet another reordering to make access just a bit easier. He also decides to clear out a few things that the party clearly has little use for--the chainmail armor, that battleaxe, as well as the two suits of armor and the blade gathered from a previous encounter with gnolls. Toward the end, he stops and eyes the set of crossbows speculatively, then his companions. The weapons have never seen use since he got them, and Garidan wonders if they ever will for that matter, in spite of how useful they could have been in the recent fight. After debating the matter for some moments, he gathers the crossbows, and their ammunition, and sets everything down next to the piles he's assembled for Quistaine and Ptahh. Garidan then clears his throat to get the attention of his companions and points at the weapons. "Tell me, are any of you ever going to actually use these? I realize that some of you," and he nods toward Malthazir and Niyut briefly. "Have some potent magics at your command that makes these a rather feeble choice, at best. But I think that our recent battle could have been a bit easier if more than just myself had been engaging those gnolls before they charged us. And even after, just one of us inside a circle of defenders could have made that spelltosser's life a lot harder with some well-placed bolts." As he raises that last point, Garidan indicates Gruskorb with a hand. "From the way you use that whip, I'm quite certain that a crossbow would pose little trouble to use."
Garidan gives the crossbows another look before turning to face the others. "However, it seems that I alone of our number finds any value in engaging foes from a distance by choice rather than necessity, when the opportunity is given of course. So, do I send these back to Eastgate with the stuff taken from the gnolls," he asks with a questioning expression. While waiting on his companions' decision, Garidan adds the unwanted chainmail, battleaxe, and falchion to the pile heading off to Eastgate, while the two suits of gnoll armor join the rest at the waiting pyre. He then eyes the pile with an unhappy look and shakes his head dejectedly. "I hate to give all of this up to no gain, I really do. But it does nothing for us whatsoever, carrying it all would be foolish, and the dwarves could almost certainly find use for it, as raw material if nothing else."
Once she collects herself and shares a quiet moment with Malthazir, Niyut returns to camp just in time for Garidan's anxiety-fueled rant. Calmly, she approaches the man and lies a delicate hand on his chest above his heart. She breathes deeply and evenly, knowing that touch and deep breathing will draw him to match the pace of her breath. She gives him several quiet moments to collect and center himself.
"I am very pleased that all of us survived and were able to cast down the enemies who struck without warning or cause. Undoubtedly, we have all learned much from this experience. I would also like to commend Garidan for his tireless organizational efforts on all of our behalf. You acquired those crossbows for us only a few short sleeps ago. No doubt they will be of use in the future. One can only have as much preparation as one has foresight."
Niyut suspects that Garidan's current mania has little to do with the actual tactics of the last battle and more to do with how close three of them had come to death. She knows that he was in no way critiquing her ranged tactics, and if he thought about it how little time Gruskorb could have had to retrieve a crossbow from the cart or the fact that Truk'tosh had been in melee with a giant from the first moments of the battle. No it is not about tactics; it is about trying to control what cannot be controlled. It is an understandable, if unreasonable, response and she will not shame him for it. She will however try to give him what succor she can.
Malthazir's brows furrow in displeasure. "Garidan, there were foes in melee. As a spellcaster there is nothing I appreciate more than you all holding the line. If you are being harried by a Mage, it is my fault. I am a summoner, ir fiestyrier, a spellbreaker. There is a reason summoning is banned in caster duels. My failing there was cowardice. I wasted time protecting myself with spells when I could have trusted you all with defending me. You trusted me to protect you from other mages, but I did not trust you to protect me from their warriors."
That infection on the giant's toes does not look natural... it certainly looks magical. The thought from the druid startles Gruskorb further as he scrambles to his feet. It had been some time since he'd heard the druid's voice, and he had nearly forgotten that he was ever present in his mind. Then a brief vision came to Gruskorb. Perhaps it was the druid's old memories or one of his own, long forgotten, but the hobgoblin recalls hearing that giant toes were often sought out by the wizarding types as a spell component. Malthazir would likely know more.
Malthazir, on the other hand, does not share her circumspection. She fights off a smile, and keeps breathing deeply and evenly.
"I think, Malthazir, that your choice of invisibility was wise. It let our warrior focus on fighting the enemy instead of worrying for you. The best way they can protect you is by killing our enemies."
Garidan's request deserved a response. "I don't like being weighted-down. Those crossbows are cumbersome. I'm a good shot, but like our elf-friend says, the quarters were close. And they will continue to be outside in the dark." He took a moment to let that truth set in, for even with his darksight, he could close the gap and strike in a single charge.
"And speaking of you, Malthazir, what is wrong with this toe? I can't use it as a souvenir if it's going to rot something putrid." The hobgoblin held the severed digit out for the mage, disappointed there might need to be a substitute made.
Malthazir wrinkles his nose with a brief look of disbelief. How absurd. Why would just a creatures toe have ma... Malz frowns. "So it does. Perhaps a magical disease that was just taking root?"
All things rot into something putrid. I hope we have the salt to desiccate those things.
Blinking when Niyut approaches him, Garidan tries to figure out what she's doing with her actions, not making the connection between them and his growing sense of calm. He then listens to her praise with a faint blush, and a bit of nervous handwringing, before responding. "I'm just trying to figure out these weapons are worth the weight that could be used for other things. It seems senseless to haul them the length and breadth of Esteparon when we won't actually use them."
When Malthazir speaks, Garidan frowns and quickly shakes his head. "Actually, what you did there was perfect. Those eagles did more damage than a mere crossbow in your hands ever could have, and casting from concealment as you were kept the enemy unable to take you out of the fight. I'll wager our entire load of rations that the gnoll whose robes you now own would have focused that lightning entirely upon you if you had been visible." Gruskorb's own point is met with a thoughtful glance at the pile before Garidan bends down and locates the smallest--and lightest--of the four weapons, which he shows the hobgoblin with a slight smile. "A fair point. But sometimes, the quarters won't be close, or not enough at any rate. Or the enemy won't cooperate by being conveniently on the ground for us. I'm sure you remember those drakes." He doesn't add anything further after this, merely places the weapon back with the others.
The moment that the discussion unexpectedly turns to toes and their afflictions, Garidan swallows heavily and turns away, a disgusted expression on his face. "Right, well, I'm going to go do something over there, away from the toe and its putrid little infection." Garidan doesn't indicate any particular direction during his statement, but just wanders off in a direction apparently chosen at random. After a few moments, he returns, gathers up the crossbows and bolts, and heads back to the cart with the load, where he repacks it. "Since we do have them, might as well keep them just in case," he says by way of explanation before taking another look at Gruskorb's noisome trophy and shaking his head wordlessly.
Malthazir examines the toes with much fascination. What Gruskorb believed to be an infection of the giant's toes was in fact, the byproduct of a magical enhancement. With a wave of his hand, the wizard could detect the weak, but ever present ethereal energy in the toes. As the toes began to glow under his watchful eyes, Malthazir saw the presence of transmutation. Curiously, the green substance was not magical, but a powder. He recognized the substance but couldn't put his finger on it until he recalled his earliest days of arcane studies... and alchemy. A subject he never really got into, but one that had its uses, nonetheless. Pondering in deep thought, it came to him... copper carbonate. It was tarnish. The giant's toes were tarnishing... they are made of copper. Then it all came together.
In the earliest days of arcane discovery, it was known that giants had once been human. They had been transmuted by one of the greater spirits into the monstrosities they now are. One of the earliest spells researched by the Hazard of Transmutation was Enlarge Person... a rather simple spell that Malthazir had never bothered with... the original material component for this spell was giant toes. However, as uncommon as the toes were, and the fact that most giants prefer not to sell their toes, a substitute component was needed. Hence, the common use of a bit of metal in today's world. The most common, albeit heaviest, is iron; a small piece of which was undoubtedly in the wizard's pouch at this moment.
But here, Malthazir held a magically enhanced, copper giant toe. Without another thought, Malthazir went to the giant to find that two of the remaining toes of his left foot were also copper. Slicing them off just below the second knuckle, he harvested the other two and began to study them for their special qualities. Which, for a intellect such as Malthazir, was less than an hour. He had his answer.
After a time, the camp is cleaned up and order is restored to the cart. The group takes a much needed rest with everyone taking their share of watch duties. Refreshed but sore, you are all awoken by Ptahh playfully antagonizing his horse. The horse brays and stands on its hind legs, joyful that Ptahh is alive.
Following a quick meal, Ptahh and Quistaine load up a makeshift sled with the remaining weaponry and prepare to head towards the Crossroads. "Be safe and travel quickly to Pyrae. Siv will surely welcome your help at his tower."