The Righteous Shall Rise...

Game Master verdigris

Round 8, Init 3

Serra double moves closer to the cage, avoiding the scythe as he moves. He studies the cage when he gets there.

Cage he touch the stone from betwixt the bars?

1d20 + 12 ⇒ (13) + 12 = 25 Know (Arcana) on her ritual
1d20 + 12 ⇒ (8) + 12 = 20 Know (Arcana) on what to do with the rod

It appears that she's just trying to keep you away from the stone. She finished casting a divine favor on herself as you guys entered the room.
You need to make a touch attack with the rod through the cage. Yes, he can touch the stone. It has cover of +4 from the bars, but it is only a touch attack, and the stone is, well, a stone. An artifact, but still, it's not moving.

Round 8, Init 3-

Eli moves through the doorway, avoiding collisions with Grasker and Irabeth as best as his tree-like frame permits. Likely drawing an AoO from that reach-looking scythe of yours...

He positions with Beagan for as much distraction as he can, watching Serra advance on the Wardstone for the real purpose in this room.

"You are a blight here. I'm surprised the Goddess herself didn't snuff you out, for all the foulness you brought to this Garrison."

+1 Hammer: 1d20 + 7 + 2 + 2 + 2 + 1 - 1 - 1 ⇒ (13) + 7 + 2 + 2 + 2 + 1 - 1 - 1 = 25 for 3d6 + 3 + 3 + 3 + 1 + 3 ⇒ (3, 2, 4) + 3 + 3 + 3 + 1 + 3 = 22 damage

Round: 9, Initiative: 16

Cole wonders if he should just move into the room, or continue dealing with cover… In the end he decides to take his two shots through cover trusting in his narrow focus to ensure the hit, after a quick 5' step.
Bow (magic, cold iron): 1d20 + 6 + 2 ⇒ (20) + 6 + 2 = 28 (point blank, aspect, ranger, cover)
damage: 1d8 + 7 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 7 + 5 = 13 (point blank, ranger)

Bow (magic, cold iron): 1d20 + 6 + 2 ⇒ (18) + 6 + 2 = 26 (point blank, aspect, ranger, cover)
damage: 1d8 + 7 + 5 ⇒ (5) + 7 + 5 = 17 (point blank, ranger)

Bow crit threat (magic, cold iron): 1d20 + 6 + 2 ⇒ (18) + 6 + 2 = 26 (point blank, aspect, ranger, cover)
damage: 2d8 + 14 + 10 ⇒ (8, 2) + 14 + 10 = 34 (point blank, ranger)

"Your reign of corruption ends today!"

Eli's oversized hammer slams into the frail half elf and still she stands, though her insectoid arm hangs limply at her side. Cole rains arrows down upon her head, each one jerking her left, then right, yet still she stands.

For a moment, and only that. Like mud off a flooded hillside, she slumps to the floor.

please stay in initiative. The stone is still there..

That was a genuine ColeCockin'...

"She chose her fate." Irabeth looks down upon remains of the frail half elf. She moves as if to heal her, but her a clatter downstairs draws her attention instead.

"I'll go check on the others. You, " She points at Serra, "You know what you must do! The rest of you, guard him and guard this room. DO NOT leave it for anything while that stone still stands!" With that, she turns on her heel and rushes out.

Began and Grasker are up!

Grasker delays.

"Good luck, Sir Serra."

Round 9, Init 12
(hp 43/45)

"দেখেছি, মন্দ উৎস প্রহার!"

Beagan keeps a sharp eye out for anything that could disrupt the de-artificing process.

Readied action - charge anything he perceives as a threat to Serra.

Round 9, Init 3

Serra's rubs his hands against his armor, trying to eliminate the dry sweat from them as he tenses up for what he must do next.

He reaches down to his belt pouch to retrieve the rod of cancellation, a minor magic item trying to quell the power of an artifact.

His eyes dart around, looking for Kastor and hoping he is safely back from whatever might happen next.

"Kastor...get back...behind the wall! Be safe! If we fail, you must tell others what happened!" Serra yells nervously.

Serra pushes the rod towards the wardstone, activating the magics...and touching...

1d20 + 6 ⇒ (16) + 6 = 22 touch attack.

Serra closes his eyes...waiting to see what will happen as magic and antimagic meet.

will save for the stone: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (9) + 12 = 21Yay! The stone fails the save!

Round 0
Serra touches the fragment with the Rod of Cancellation, hoping to drain all of its remaining magic out, to thwart whatever evil future the demons were planning.

Contact!

The stone sings with the voice of an angelic choir, filling the room as the rock and the rod vibrate in unison. The tone climbs higher and higher as the stone rocks on its perch. Finally, the Wardstone explodes in a thousand razor-sharp shards of stone. Jeslyn's body is ripped to ribbons as it is caught in the blast.

Hundreds of shards shower each of the warriors as well; for there is no place safe within the chamber. Golden light fills the room. It bounces, rebounds off the walls; there is no room for shadows, here.

Round 1:

The shards, rather than ripping through them as they did the half elf cultist, kiss the skin then sink inside, leaving a light exhilarating tingle in its wake, multiplied and magnified by the hundreds of shards that fill the air and find the heroes' skin. Even the light suffuses into them, and in an instant, the golden light pours OUT from them rather than in. A surge of power like none they have ever felt surges through each of them, filling reservoirs inside that they never knew they had. Their souls have to stretch to contain it all and for a moment they exist both in their bodies, and as the very light and air around it. There is very little they can do, but soak it all in, and hope to live through it. treat as stunned, except you don't drop everything you are holding

Any wounds left over from the minotaurs knit all on their own, leaving fresh, scarless skin in an instant. Spells, spent and erased from the mind in the fight against evil this day, return, full and whole and ready for use. Fresh muscle aches and old scars both fade; they have surely not felt this good in *years*, if ever before. Still, none of these register overmuch, as the power coursing through them overwhelms the senses and overloads the mind. All hit point damage, any disease, poison, or negative conditions are erased. All spells/spell slots are recharged and all limited use per day abilities are as fresh as they were this morning.

Please remember, you are stunned. Eli is up, though I don't suppose it really matters which of you goes within the round, we are still tracking rounds.

Round 1, Anew

His forearms tighten, supporting his body's weight, a light burning extending into his shoulders. He barely notices, as he feels the sweat find the tracks of the nails recently run down his back, feels the sweet sting. His breathing slows, allowing his rib cage to ease its strain, but his heart runs rabbit, and it doesn't run alone.

He looks down, almost seeing Her for the first time. A bead of sweat defects from one brow to another. The morning light reflects across Her eyes, and he is stunned. When She smiles, his heart almost bursts. Words are unnecessary. He is healed. He is made whole.

Cole, Beagan, Grasker, Serra...

Round 1

The gouges of the minotaurs blades already mended, the bursting light drives the deep, debilitating bite of the huge axe strikes into less than a memory. But then the shards bite into the Gnome's skin, his flesh and fevered mind remembering the too familiar feel of stinging barbs, sending a fearful shiver through the battered little warrior. As the stone sinks deeper, the marks of old, the enduring revulsion of his handiwork, the long scars criss-crossing his back seem to hum with tantalizing pleasure rather than terrifying pain.

The power of Cathyra's sacrifice infuses him, her holy fire searing through his small form. His mind swims with the absolute joy of her successful service, the freeing of his enshackled comrades, and the Gnome's liberation from his enslavement to his own whip. Nothing is sweeter than the ecstasy of true deliverance, the sight and sounds and aromas of dancing, prancing, truly free-spirited halflings engulfs his being in pure rapture.

Round 1

I understand, Lord Connla. I understand.

Round 1

Until now, Cole never realized he hunched over a little. Something in the light makes him straighten, and in doing so, he sees the world as if through new eyes.
My city.

His mind spins through the last few days as if in a daze. He spins through the family, the fighting, the camaraderie - all the way to the demons.
My enemy.

He realizes his whole life has been spent rushing to the next demon. He was missing the spaces between the battles. Life was passing him by.
Myself.

But no longer. Now things will be different. And the demons shall still pay.

...although, perhaps this experience is itself a subversion? What if the demons have already corrupted the stone to their purpose? What if this is all false?
and Cole stoops just a little...

Round 1

Serra flinches as the first golden motes hit, warming his skin.

STOP! I'm not worthy!

Serra steels himself, trying to prevent the warmth and power from suffusing his skin.

Serra stretches his hands out to block the shards, keeping them from his body.

STOP! I'm not worth it!

Serra's teeth clench, more furious his efforts to resist the energies...but failing, always failing...the shards hit his flesh, entering, warming.

Finally, Serra gives up...again...he always gives up in the end...

Mother, father...forgive me.

Grasker is cast back in his memory by the hail of glowing shards.

For a moment he relives the past, standing with his parents in a stone keep built by the church of Iomedae. All about bustle priests dressed as his mother and father. And ahead...

"Is that..?"

"Yes, the wardstone," she answer. His father adds, "Our wardstone, for the are several." They have a religious harmony, and calming blend their conversations. His mother Gothi continues, "Alone it cannot stop the demon hordes. It is working together with the other wardstones that pushes back the tide."

"Like you and father working together, sharing thoughts?"

And that was when Prestur kneeled down, just like he did when the memory was formed. "It is not marriage, oaths or Iomedae's magic, but common purpose that unites us with all other attendants to the wardstone. We sacrifice our independence together so your sister Skyr and brother Gular can follow their dreams, like the rest of the city. Our prayers and magic helps the wardstone shelter them."

"You're rituals and magic... you priests are like walking wardstones," little Grasker exlaims in youthful enthusiasm.

"Perhaps you will too, one day," Gothi says, the words drifting off as the present rushes back.

Beagan, lost in the flood of sensation burns like a flame, and Xanthos, Xanthos, The Understated, burns with him, at home in the fires of Righteousness.

Serra would fight if he could, the onslaught of power that spears his being. But power such as this listens to no one, and only the gods might decide who is worthy. Still, his hearing betrays him and his mother's voice fills his ears. "You are your father's son, Serra. You can be anything you dream, just trust in yourself and *Believe*." A warmth brushes his forehead like a kiss then melts away, his vision obscured by a sudden flurry of apple blossoms....

Cole straightens, all of Kenabres laid out before him. His TOWN, his HOME! Cole’s vision spins, then rises high and higher, until not just Kenabres is laid out before him, but all of Mendev. The wall of warriors clusters on one side of the wards, as many as could be found, while on the other, demonic hordes wait in slavering anticipation. A split second more, and the vision spins again, enveloping Cole, and his all of his companions besides....

Graskers memories billow out, his mother and father and the wardstone as they were, or at least as he remembers them. And yet, there is something that tugs at his mind. Was it a dream, perchance, a phantom fantasy born of too much mutton at too late at night…

Round 2:
The visions surge and ebb, then swirl onward, to something else. Their minds swims like the scrying pool, the water taking on a silvery luster before a vision spreads forth over the vast horizon in each man's head. it is Kenabres, but not of today. The buildings are wrong, and the courtyard is nearly as it was at the beginning of Armasse Day. The fashions, though, are old, like something out of the early 4600's. Crusaders are arrayed in rows, with some ritual taking place. An Angel, golden and winged with a halo of small swords circling his head, and there, there is the Wardstone in its full glory. The Angel - and surely it can be no other than The Hand of the Inheritor, the Herald of Iomedae Herself - attends, blessing the Stone, and the Wall of Wards that it provides.

The vision pulls them in, as if instead of watching, they stand in the middle of forces of Good. "The Second Crusade" Already it is named, but hope still fills the hearts of the men and women around them. They know not what the future brings, and for a moment, that spark of hope flares within the hearts of each of them. Yep, still stunned. But oh the things you can see, and feel, and hear....

Initiative for ease of use

Cole Zeff: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16
Beagan Berelcar: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (9) + 3 = 12
Grasker: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (7) + 0 = 7
Serra Iondri Phaer: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (17) + 2 = 3
Elyanius Myoch: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (3) + 0 = 3-

Eli is up, followed by Cole, Beagan and Grasker.

Round 2

The sight of a gleaming, unspoilt Kenabres tantalizes him, reminding him of the wistful tales of the virgin Tanglebriar before its demonic despoilation. As his gaze scans over individual knights and squires, heralds and pilgrims, each of the ancient scars on his back pulse in sympathy with the sight of another crusader's face.

At first, each inspires hope, that every person, every action, no matter how small, can make a difference. But as he ponders, confusion and doubt spread through his mind. Does each man, each mark represent a failure, the inability to prevent future tragedies from happening? Or does each represent a success? Is every crusader's devotion and each strucken scar a willing sacrifice to deflect evil and absorb damage meant for the innocent?

The vision of the Angel entrances him. Should not those blessed with power be able to protect the more vulnerable? Or is it a fool's errand to set up wards, to accept blows, to make sacrifices, as whatever Pharasma has forseen will happen anyway?

His mind wanders from tragedy to tragedy - the ruins of Kenabres, the blight of the 'Briar, the death of a god, and the unspeakable treatment of his fellow captives. Fate sucks.

Who am I to try and change anything? Have I truly been called by the Big R' to help? Or am I just fated to be a tiny vessel of infinitesimal vengeance? He gazes over the crusaders' ritual, swallowing hard as he knows what will become of the city in the future. Does any of it make a difference?

Ethereal eyes gaze over the ritual. Elysium. Heaven. Hell. As the whim of the Azata has decreed, all three have appeared. And all three will be needed.

The realization dawns slowly, as his gaze pans across the crowds. My sight!! The miles of it!! From the time... before... The healing, it's, it's restored my...

Grateful tears stream down Eli's face.

The second realization dawns more slowly, as he starts to put his religious studies to bear on the scene before him. This... is the Past. Memories and dreams don't limit my sight either.

Tears continue to stream, but they now come from a regret Eli has forgotten until now.

His attention is drawn to the Angel. The masses slip away, as his vision tunnels with the steadiness of a predator as it hones in on its prey. Ohhh, Marcy. I only hope that one day, your Calling will bring you this Rapture. Or perhaps you've already been blessed as I am now. Words can not describe... They are truly in a better place. I should have never doubted you.

Eli's legs give out, and he drops to his knees.

Round: 2, Initiative: 16

Cole remains stunned by the vision playing out before him. His mind tries to separate the truth from what might be demon manipulation… but he cannot. It seems to pure, to clear, to honest. There can be no demons here in what he senses before him.

He takes a deep breath and tries to get a hold of himself, and the smells of the second crusade assault his nose and send him reeling further. As he spins, he grabs at the occasional image to try and steady himself, steady his mind.

Round 2

As the vision changes, so does Serra...he stands more erect, more knightly, as if he were the one standing in the Herald's presence among the righteous of the Second Crusade. Serra tries to forget his failure with the shards...moving on what is important.

What an angel!! I would follow her!

Serra peers around at the assembled knightage, trying to find a way to enjoin those in the vision.

Take me! TAKE! ME! I'll die for you!

Serra's head lifts, seeking divine instruction. He tries to lift his ranseur, so that his desire to join might be seen.

Take me! TAKE ME!!

Round 3

The world turns and the vision spins, each man's view spinning with it. Round and round it goes, a storm of fire and soot stirring within its center. Flames and ash burn away the Hope of the world before, ushering in the truth of Fear and Hatred.

The courtyard again, the wardstone stands, but lies unscratched. In front of it, tall and strong and full of a young man's righteous certainty, a 20 year old Hulrun stands in gritty ash covered armor. In front of the Wardstone, a stake stands surrounded by rushes. Two women and a man stand tied to it, as Hulrun sets fire to the kindling and the smoke begins to rise. Across the courtyard, dozens of "witches" wait their turn, bound and gagged. All proclaim their innocence, though some are more believable than others.

The vision pulls back, away into the crowd where a woman watches with dry eyes and a slight twisted smile. Her hands rest upon the shoulders of a young boy, lightly toying with his hair. "Learn from your father's mistake, my pet. Hulrun listens to me. He should have listened to me too."

The boy nods but he can't stop the shiver that runs down his spine, nor hide his red and swollen eyes as his father goes up in flames. But in the dust and ash and fear, no one notices, no one notices at all.

By the Gods... witch hunts... How many were truly tainted? There is no justification there... lynch mobs were as innocent...

Eli's mouth takes a subtle gape of horror, wishing for the next vision to arrive, and banish this one quickly.

Round 3

Serra's exultant rejoicing for the Crusade turns as dark as the thick smoke as the vision turns. Serra takes in the scene of the inquisition, understanding too little of it.

Coming from a small town, where everyone knows everyone, the idea that one could be branded and murdered as a witch seems foreign to him: and a corruption of his knightly virtues.

Serra recoils as if the burning flesh was attacking his nose; he looks again for the Angel, for she would lead him to divine action.

Ah...Grasker must be loving that scene.

Alas, Serra, The Hand of the Inheritor could not stay for long. Such is the way of the Angels, they are too few and the war against Evil too vast....

Round 4
The vision pulls back again, following the rise of the greasy witch smoke up into the sky. A storm rumbles in the West, bringing with it its own clouds, riddled with lightning and shaking the world with its thunder.

A funnel cloud grabs them and spins them wildly around. Caught in a tortuous spin of images, they are inundated with the sights and sounds of battles and ambushes and life on both sides of the Wardstone border. Years flash by at a distance. Able to see and hear, even smell the quick snippets of time as they slide passed, they find themselves unable to affect anything in any real way, unable to touch or correct anything before it is gone again.

Is this what the world looks like to the gods?

Suddenly, the funnel cloud plunges down upon the world, and they fall like rain into another close up vision of Kenabres. The storm, huge and looming hangs in the sky behind them and riding upon the clouds is Khorramzadeh, the Storm King with a host of demons behind him. The attack on Kenabres is brazen, coming in the storm tainted light of sunset. He wields a mighty sword, laying waste to the crusaders throwing themselves in his wake. with crusaders crushed beneath his feet, he marches upon the Wardstone, with his weapon raised high. For a heart stopping moment, it seems it must be the very end of the stone, the end of Kenabres, the end of Golarion as something other than a playground for the Demonic Hordes.

But the balor's sword shatters, leaving only the tiniest of cracks in the stone.

At that moment, Terendelev rises like the sun in the East, and rushes Khorramzadeh, hitting him with a furious attack. Again and again the shining silver dragon flashes in the sky as she rips at the demon that dares threaten her adopted home. The Balor, torn and bleeding and with no weapon save his own evil form, flees the conflict, rushing back into the Worldwound, leaving the Silver Dragon triumphant and the barely cracked Wardstone nearly as good as it ever was.

Eli rises to his feet when Terendelev Herself comes into view. He remembers tender words, descriptive to their extent, but failing nonetheless to capture Her, as the sight of a dragon in its fullest ferocity overwhelms his senses. For the briefest moment, he feels the same fear the Balor likely feels in his moment of defeat.

He feels a warmth from the scale, imagined or no. He dreams of what words he would bring forth to describe to lovely ladies on rooftops, and finds himself again at a loss for words. He would fail to capture Her as well.

Round 3

The Gnome is roused from his ruminating torpor as he spots the witches at the stake. Keen eyes bore into each lashed soul, leering, contemplating, and evaluating. It's not always easy to tell which are accursed which are not, is it? Still, Hanzi showed his true colors, that of a most unworthy Satyr, along with the other blighted fey in the cultists' camp. I shall not be so easily fooled again.

With a new sense of purpose, the Gnome stands taller in his boots. The iron poison cuts both ways - demon and fey, blighted and unblemished. May the Big R' grant me the wisdom to exult in the natural passion of the true world, and resist the temptations of the crude, cruel drives of the Abyss.

He stands in stunned realization. Both are in me - the uplifting, enhancing surrender to nature's desires and the destructive, withering of Abyssal hunger - I can understand the difference. Perhaps I do have a role, a place in the fight against tyranny? Defending the oppressed, always and forever.

Round 4

Spotting the Silver Dragon, his heart rises. Angels make a difference. Dragons make a difference. Perhaps, under the Big R's guidance, even an ill-fated, cursed Gnome can play a part?

Round 3
Elysium. Heaven. Hell. Not an easy alliance, is it my Lord?

Round 4
His eyes zero in on a strange looking demonic form in the midst of the fight, ignoring all others. He was there! Radiant eyes close in agony.

... The attack on Kenabres is brazen, coming in the storm tainted light of sunset. He wields a mighty sword, laying waste to the crusaders throwing themselves in his wake. with crusaders crushed beneath his feet, he marches upon the Wardstone, with his weapon raised high. For a heart stopping moment, it seems it must be the very end of the stone, the end of Kenabres, the end of Golarion as something other than a playground for the Demonic Hordes.

But the balor's sword shatters, leaving only the tiniest of cracks in the stone...

And here we are, finishing the job the demon started all those years ago. I sure hope it was the right thing to do.

Cole's mind whirls with the images and the smoke. He looks for something to hang onto, something he can trust.

Round 4

Serra watches the battle between demon and dragon with awe...and more than awe, a wish. The wish for victory, of course...but also for finality. For an ending. For an end to the Worldwound.

Serra raises his mental arm with her ranseur up, saluting the dragon and his battle against evil.

Serra cheers for victory as the demon is vanquished, but less so if he been eliminated permanently.

Round 5

The people on the ground celebrate the victory, kicking up a swirl of dust from the courtyard as they do. When it settles again, the vision has moved on. Things, the buildings, the Wardstone have settled, marking the passage of time. They do not look much different than they did on Armasse day, save that the courtyard is empty.

From behind the stone comes a clash of steel on steel and the thunder of boots. A burly dwarven man, with a crest upon his chest, twin hammers crossed above a halo comes barreling into view. Staunton Vhane, leader of the Hammers of Heaven mercenary group. Somehow the knowledge is there, to go with the image.

A moment later, Irabeth rounds the corner, her face alight with rage and her father's sword in her hand as she chases the dwarf. They fight, their weapons ringing off one of another. The paladin hems him in, slowly whittling down his area of movement. Vhane backs up, once, then again. His shoulder touches the Wardstone and he Screams! An acrid stench rides on a billow of smoke. He jerks away and ducks to avoid Irabeth's next blow, then manages to swing his hammer around and up, crushing her knee. The Paladin stumbles, drops to the ground and the Mercenary advances, his hammer ready to deal one final blow.

The heavy rhythm of soldiers on their way reaches his ears and stays his hand. he begins to mutter, his hands crafting complex motions in the air. Suddenly, a fiendishly awful wasp is at his side. He mounts it and flies out of the courtyard as the soldiers rush in.

Eli watches the next historical play unfold. The truth of the scene is unquestioned, and reassures Eli all the more that Irabeth's word is to be trusted. Within the observation, Eli realizes that he is wholly other, a witness, no more, no less. He can neither choose to interact with the players, nor change the outcome, should he desire. Her knee is broken, her life is saved, her will is obstructed. As I shall remember it, it will not alter in my mind. Not when the scene is painted with such colors.

He could have finished her. Could have faced certain death right after hers. He showed no mercy, only the selfish act of preservation in his flight. Eli watches as the wasp heads in the direction of the Worldwound, and he wonders.

Round 5
Beagan watches the Wasp with fascination. Most followers of the Savory Sting despise how the demonic subvert the true invigoration and health of passion. Instead, Abyssal servants turn drive and hunger into a demented form of mutilation and oppression. As Her fire burned within him, he had begun to trust Her again.

Still, some see the similarities in those who are so devoted to desire. The Unquenchable Fire's thirst for vengeance on the demonic despoilers is real, yet perhaps not all of Her devotees follow that path. Perhaps his misgivings aren't entirely misplaced.

Xanthos' sad, angry eyes simply glower at the abominable insect.

Round 5

Serra tries to move to save Irabeth, his own waddling impeded by the rush of vision rather than the rush of bodies.

NO! COME AT ME, VHANE!

Serra lunches lunges to protect Irabeth as she stumbles, his face twisted in pain as he is unable to get close enough, then filling with relief as Vhane flees.

Serra breathes deep, wondering if Vhane still lives and when this attack happened.

1d20 + 9 ⇒ (14) + 9 = 23 Know (History) - Staunton Vhane/Hammers of Heaven

Round 6
The image flies too, but not out of Kenabres, but up the stairs and back into the the room where they have been all this time.

The curves.

They capture the attention first, and hardest, for the curves of the woman in front of them are so perfect, so promising, they age a man simply by looking. They seize the heart and fire the blood, promising a torment a million men would kill for and another million gladly die.

The rest of her registers a moment later. Her whip slender tail and her long clawed fingers promise a much different sort of torment than the swell of her half bared hip, or her impossibly perfect breasts. And yet, there are those that would die for that as well.

It is her face that registers last, and perhaps that is a blessing. It too, is beautifully sculpted perfection, even the horns that curl up and back from where her eyes should be. Surely blind, she none the less moves as if well aware of everything about her.

In her clawed hands, she carries the fragment of the Wardstone, all that is left of the proud artifact laid so carefully all those years ago by the Hand of the Inheritor. The half-elf Jeslyn grovels at the demon-woman's feet. She begs for a boon, a wish, to help her protect her demons from the stone. The demon nods, and the cage springs up around the fragment. Jeslyn tries to kiss her feet in thanks, but the demon disappears in an instant, leaving her alone with the fragment to guard, with only the cage to hold its holy power in check.

Round 6

Serra stares at the unfolding scene, saying nothing, and totally not looking at cleavage at all.

Edit:1d20 + 10 ⇒ (18) + 10 = 28 Know (boobs) (planes) - the horny woman

His mouth goes dry, as truth's portrait shifts into grand guignol. He forces himself to believe that the understanding comes from the interaction between Jeslyn and the demon she worships. Jeslyn was pawn to this... this thing. This beast-like object of... lust.

He could not possibly misunderstand what lay before him. Her bare breasts, sun-touched and eager, compete with her exposed thighs for his attention. The humidity of the barn makes it hard for him to breathe. She begs for him to join her, nestled in the hay, obscured from the casual eye. Words that promise perfect deceit slip from her flush lips. He can not look into her eyes, will not. She tries to reach for him, but he slips from the barn in an instant, leaving her alone in her nakedness, with only his word against hers should the subject ever arise in the presence of his wife.

Round 6

His eyes fix. His face ashens. His heart stops. This one is no amateuse, not like the thin-blooded, tainted mortal in the 'Briar. Unlike the Tiefling, this Presence seared through all he had been raised with, all he had seen, every scintillating memory fading before such an utterly riveting, engaging, engrossing attraction. Damnation, who needs a soul?

But the sight of the half-elf slices through the thick haze and touches something deeper, burrowing through the bewitchment to reach a truer meaning. The image of Marret shakes him from his fervor, to reject all he had been taught of living in his nature, and to instead reach for something more. She needs me to have a soul...

Xanthos snorts. Mortals. Her tail isn't even fluffy.

Round 6

Cole looks on and admires the beauty before him while a part of his brain revolts at the very idea.

There is a lot of attention paid to this little stone.

He tears away from the visions, or tries to, and attempts to look at the physical stone before them. He wonders if it's sentient and if we're watching it's death throes. He fights the visions a moment as he tries to break free, and fails, clutching at the air, he continues the ride.

Round 7

The image begins to swirl once more, then stops, shudders and shakes before stabilizing again. The edges are ragged and the vision is flatter than those before, hazy and less real, but the room is the same.

Another woman (NSFW?), still demonically tainted, but primarily human, stands near the cage with a deep purple crystal the size of a human head in her hand. With a touch, the cage opens allowing her access to the Wardstone fragment. She moves the crystal to it and deep purple veins begin to crawl over its surface, then seep down into the floor.

The image pulls back, above the Garrison, above Kenabres, above Mendev. All along the border, thousands of diligent crusaders stand gathered near the waning border. The ugly purple of the tainted veins flashes from Wardstone to Wardstone. It taints the crusaders clustered at the border, turning them into half fiend monsters, vicious new members of the demonic hordes.

The vision pulls back again, shudders back to Kenabres, to the Garrison, to the room, but it is the room of the present, not of the ruined future just witnessed. There is no fragment for the tainted woman to poison, no taint to flare from Stone to Stone. The loyal crusaders that crowd protectively at the border remain safe in their holy attention, due to a single touch of rod to stone.

Round 7

He pulls himself up straight. Are the Fates toying with us? Will this happen, like those things in the past already did? Can any of this be changed?

The voices of Calistria's Priestesses reverberate through his head...

...Everyone controls themselves, sets their own fate, so let your fire, your passion, your needs lead you to your own truth. When wronged, you must plot for your revenge, and create your own reality.

...Why fight Fate? If it was meant to be, it will be, and your own fire will lead you to your fated destiny. Your own burning need for retribution, and your ability to make it happen, tells you what Fate has decreed.

And he hears the Queen chuckling softly in the background. Be patient and insightful, and your calculated burn will engulf your enemies at the opportune time.

He shakes his head. Hard. But the memories, the conflicting thoughts - Or are they conflicting? - remain. Big R', be I poisoned or cursed, inconsequential or helpful, I will try to follow Your direction, to submit to the path lit by Your flame, to serve as an instrument of Liberation in Your name.

Round 7
He snuffles deeply and closely watches the mass transformation from crusader to half-fiend. Is that what happened to him? I can only hope so...