Approaching further, Themp once again attacks from the underbrush.
Nme'an moves south and fires again.
for
Beorae lowers her shield slowly, wide eyes focused on the menacing dagger embedded in the wood at her arm. Just then the party hears a sharp screech followed by a pop!, and a fully-grown and rather angry wolf, wreathed in fog, appears behind the giant of a man, opposite Shark. As the cloud dissipates, the beast growls and then chomps at Craig with its fangs, trying to bring him low.
Shark closes distance with Craig, now flanking him with the wolf.
Beorae’s attention is brought to the rain falling all around them. This is a lot of water… she thinks to herself, and then her lips turn to the slightest of mischievous smiles. ”Don’t like magic? Well then, you’re gonna really hate this…,” she mutters to herself. The druidess shouts something in her secret tongue while flicking a gesture at Craig with her free hand. The effect is subtle enough that those in combat would miss it, but those paying close attention would notice that, for a brief moment, the raindrops between Beorae and the Urlghain instantly turn into snowflakes.
Tare’Owluf jerks back, avoiding a killing blow from Mot’s greatsword, though the blade still cuts down one side of his scarred face and into his meaty shoulder. He wrenches away as another arrow from Themp pierces his side. Nme’an’s arrow glances his armor again. The sudden appearance of the wolf he scarcely acknowledges as he maintains his defense against Shark, that is until canine teeth bite down hard on his calf and tries to pull him to the ground. Craig curses and kicks away the wolf and keeps his footing. A bloody grimace starts to take his face when he sees himself surrounded and bleeding badly, but then the expression changes to confusion as he looks down at the thin white layer of frost spreading over the highlander’s breastplate. He turns a desperate look to the boat.
Olp notices the look and circles around to stand between the mountain of a man and the lakeshore. The shielded kobold plants his feet.
Nme'an too sees the look of panic on the fugitive's face. The Knight Lieutenant trades his bow for his sword and shield and attempts to force his way through the collection of wooden spikes.
At this, Craig Tare’Owluf the Twice-Slain sneers defiantly to those around him. The meaty, giant hand and the deformed mitt wrap around the handle of the magical sword and he raises it to swing. With all the force he can muster, he twists and delivers a savage sideways slice aimed at Mot. “Aenooff!”
The chain shirt is as paper against the mighty blow, and on the barrel chest of Mot Casns opens a wide, deep cut that exposes muscle and bone. As the Urlghain falls, the momentum carries the sword to Shark! But the big grey tiger twists and the huge blade rolls over tough hide. Interrupted in his carnage, Craig lurches, off balance for a moment.
The heavy rain spatters over his hulking form as his rough laughter scrapes out from his thick throat. Rain mixes with blood and the muddy red pool under the fatally wounded Mot grows wider with every passing moment.
Like so much meat off a butcher's block the mighty Casns berserker flops into the blood and rain soaked soil.
Eyes wide in horror at the savagery of the blow, Nme'an's hand somehow finds purchase on the recovered holy symbol hanging at his side. For one brief moment the sunburst steams in the rain as it is wreathed in heavenly fire. In the next, an unusually strong wave of healing energy expands from where Nme'an stands.
Most of the golden wind sweeps through his companions, but a small portion of the wave burns an angry red as it cuts sharply to one side or the other of Craig Tare’Owluf the TwiceSlain, refusing to touch him.
Aiming over the sudden spurt of blood, Themp can't help but let a quiet curse escape his lips as he shoots, advancing as he goes.
Both animals flare their nostrils at the smell of blood, their primal instincts charged for combat. The wolf snarls and snaps at the big man once again, trying to him to the ground once more.
Likewise, Shark lets fly with another round of attacks.
”Mot!” Beorae’s face blanches when the big man is nearly sliced in two by the beast of an Urlghain. Unsure about what to do next, the druidess hesitates as Nem’an’s healing spell passes over the group. Figuring that the best thing she can do at the moment is to gather information, the druidess re-focuses on the magical energies emanating from Craig.
As the cursing archer releases the bowstring, he hears a whispered Sylvan word as the string thrums. “รวดเร็ว” The word means “swift” in the Common tongue.
Themp’s arrow sticks into the side towering figure, who grits his teeth to the clearing beyond his spiked fortification. “Och! Weear ess t’at coomin fro- hup!” Craig is cut off when his foot gets pulled out from under him by the wolf. The mountain of a man crashes to the ground. With his prey flat on his back, Shark’s claws and teeth dig into Urlghain muscle, but so many are the Twice-Slain’s wounds that the fallen warrior does not even flinch at the tiger’s mauling.
One muscular arm tightly gripping the glowing magical sword, Craig Tare’Owluf’s eyes flutter and his breathing is ragged. His broad chest rises and falls sporadically, and his eyes struggle remain open in defiance, as frost over his armor whitens and crystallizes. His ugly, bloody lips begin muttering indistinctly in a gurgling rumble.
“Jeg skal stå opp igjen…"
Craig kills you for looking.
Like before, Beorae positively detects magical auras over the battlefield.
*Dies without making a fortitude save.*
Coughing up blood mixed with mud, Mots eyes open as the hulking Tare'Owluf falls next to him.
Rolling over to one side, he pushes himself to his knees and leans over the other Urlghain. A ragged cough precedes whispered speech. "Yoo cannae kell mea," more coughed blood "Ahm prootected by thae goods themsalves."
Reaching for the familial greatsword, Mot grasps its ancient grip and tears it from the foul giants hand, hoisting it above his head. With what strength he has remaining, he brings it down on his hated enemy's-
-neck.
Beorae hears Craig’s gurgling words…
The wolf and Shark are keen to finish off their enemy…
As the mountain of a man collapses under the angry growls, Themp finds himself unsure if he should keep firing.
Instead he approaches as he stashes his new bow, hoping to be of any help to Mot. The rogue stops just short of the supposedly un-trapped segment of the thornbush.
Nme'an fails to notice Craig's speech but he does notice Mot's actions. Were he able to speak, the Knight might warn Mot away from his intended course, for the sake of mercy, of interrogating Craig for information, and of due process... but alas, Nme'an cannot speak.
Shark and the wolf continue to tear away at the fallen man, who lays before the Casns and the upraised sword. Quite suddenly, his eerie eyes turn glossy pitch black as he grins with a perverse vitality. “Yoor not teh only one...” he grunts back to Mot. Purple-black energy traces around his many wounds and they begin to knit, and his oversize arm whips up lightning fast and grabs a handful of Mot's woven chain.
“An’ not all teh gods are good!” he roars as he takes hold of Mot, despite his sodden clothes being frozen by the Sevenstone’s spell. Chunks of ice fall from his dirty breastplate as he jostles and pulls the Casns to the ground, wrestling for the sword.
The strongest magical aura the druidess sense seems quite obvious when Craig’s wounds begin to close with unnatural black energy. The other four require some concentration, for their signatures are faint by comparison.
Whatever mantra was muttered by the monster of a man meant, Beorae is certain it was not an incantation. But she does not recognize it as a language she has heard before.
--
The wolf chomps down again…
And Shark follows suit.
The druidess continues to focus on Craig’s magic while moving toward the opening in the spikes.
Seeing that the battle is not over, Nme'an makes a renewed push to reach Mot.
Seeing that the battle is not over, Nme'an makes a renewed push to reach Mot. Snapping the spikes against his far harder armor, Nme'an reaches the two highlanders and attacks the worse of the two!
for
+
Mot stumbles as the massive arm drags him down. Landing face to face with the undead brute, Mot comes to a stunning revelation.
He cannot beat this foe.
The Urlghain warrior of clan Casns decides then and there that if he can't beat Tare'Owluf then he can at least make sure his friends are safe from him, at least a few moments longer.
With all his strength he grips his family's ancient weapon as tightly as he can. Closing his eyes, the equally brutish poet smiles a bloody grin at his enemy and roars:
"DEW YOO HEAR MEA SENG!"
"SENGEN THA SOONG OOF AN ANGREE MAN!"
"ETS THA MUSECK OOF AE PERSOON WHOO"
"WON' LET YOO HURT MEA FRANDS!"
The mountain of a man growls as the Casns warrior bellows his mighty song while in the desperate hold.
As Nme’an charges through spiked barrier, the wooden points snap and scrape harmlessly against his armor and shield. But for all his untrustworthiness, the one thing Craig in which did not deceive were his defenses. The Knight Lieutenant wades through, but hears an unexpected zip at his steel greaves, and suddenly feels his feet caught in place. The forceful momentum carries his top half forward, then down. Looking his boots they are entangled by twine that was not there before he entered the barricade. Nme’an lands flat on his chest, just short of the fight.
The scarred and wicked highlander roars as claws and teeth find purchase into his deep wounds, and the last thing he hears is the deafening Urlghain brogue. The eerie eyes pale in lifelessness, and the immense form of Craig Tare’Owluf the Thrice-Slain slackens around a bloodied Mot Casns.
The strongest aura, now fading, radiates the power of Necromancy. The foul magic was focus to reanimate dying flesh. It was not cast by Tare'Owluf, but it certainly originated from his being.
The second aura she recognizes, a faint Abjuration magic emanating from the large black cloak he wore. The heavy fabric is woven with energies to protect the wearer from the elements, spells, poison, and even disease.
The third emanation of Transmutation magic pulses from the glowing CASNS greatsword, now in possession of Mot. It is enchanted to swing easier and cut deeper.
The last two faint magical auras buzz from Craig's deceased form, near his belt pouches. Beorae is unable to identify them but she knows they are giving off the same energy signature.
Nme'an pulls himself up and loosens the twine from around his feat. For a few moments, the half elf is unsure what to do next. Not being able to speak weighs heavily on him... but then so do the heads on the spikes behind him.
'The one will lead to the other...' he thinks before beginning the gruesome task of collecting the heads in preparation for their burial. To begin with, he solemnly removes each head and places it at the foot of the spikes, then he moves outside the encircling rings and looks for a good place to dig.
Selecting a wide area west of the cottage, Nme'an beings the burial process. The heads of the four knights he buries together at the four points of his previous Sarenrae starburst which he places in the center between them. The remaining heads each get their own small grave with each head oriented towards the east... towards the sunrise.
When finished, Nme'an retrieves the Sarenrae holy text found in the Gnomes' tunnels. He sits near the grave of the four knights, opens to one of the marked passages, and begins to read.
As the beast breathes its last, Mot sighs with the last of the combats tension flowing out of his tired muscles. Using his family's ancestral weapon as a crutch the man of Casns rises to his feet.
The rage gone from his eyes, Mot just looks tired as he watches the body of the dead Urlghain in the pouring rain. He winces with the pain from the still open gash in his chest, but nevertheless raises the weapon high over his head.
He brings it down with all the force his Urlghain arms can muster.
Reaching down, he grabs the oversized head by its gnarly mop of hair and hefts it up to eye level. Pivoting on one foot, he hurls the offensive object as far as he can out into the troubled waters.
Cleaning the blade of the magical greatsword on the dirty fabric of his kilt, Mot walks back to the ramshackle shack and makes to the entrance as of to explore inside.
Beorae is about to check Mot’s grievous wounds, but turns her head quickly when Mot brings the blade down on Craig’s frost-lined neck. She draws a breath and turns around so that she can inspect the cloak and other magical items, trying not to pay attention anything above the shoulders.
”This is the second time we’ve seen Necromancy in the last couple of days… whatever is causing it is wielding some very dark magic. And I’d bet we’re going to find it in that tower,” she says, looking to the imposing feature in the middle of the lake. After a moment, she adds, ”This cloak is magical, too. Seems to protect the wearer against all manner of maladies. Except us, of course…” her voice trails off, realizing as she says it that the joke really isn’t all that funny.
Beorae pulls her own cloak to her face, filtering the smell of death as she nears Craig’s body. She checks the belt, suspecting that the matching magical auras will be potions of some sort.
”Themp, are there any traps on this building?” she asks, indicating the entrance to Craig’s cabin. ”We should probably check it out.”
Themp approaches the lifeless body cautiously, weary of its moniker. As Mot flings the head into the lake, however, the thief decides to scout out the cottage, in hopes of getting his mind off the danger the death-defying feat he has just seen.
The light from the magical greatsword shines a bit brighter as it is cleaned, bright enough to light the path after nightfall. There are lines like the grain of wood that trace along the smooth flat of the blade, showing of its antiquity, when folded steel was still new to the craft. Both sides of the greatsword are honed to an edge, forming a broadleaf point at one end, and the other meeting the hilt as wide as a closed handspan. Above the hilt, a series of straight lines spell out the clan name: N. Below the simple cross hilt, the long leather grip is polished from use, and yet the embossed artistry remains intact. Woven between intricate knots display the image of the sun near the hilt, a bear head in the middle, and a crescent moon near the pommel. The bottom of the handle is capped with a solid, heavy steel knob, which offsets the weight of the enormous blade by a small amount.
The druidess uncovers two potent poultices.
The falling rain makes sleet slide off the Tare’Owluf breastplate, cleaning much of the filth off. Beorae finds the steel much shinier than normal, sharing a similar luster to silver. Upon closer inspection, she thinks this breastplate could be forged of the rare material of mithral, a lightweight but durable metal found deep in the earth.
Before Mot can disturb the door to the cottage, Themp looks over the entrance and finds no hidden triggers or tripwires. He even circles the uneven home for any other hidden dangers. By the time Nme’an finishes burying the heads, the Thaleniel scoundrel determines the small cottage to be safe to enter.
Pushing the door open, for it has no lock, they find a huge bed piled in furs (one of which is from an adult tiger) in one corner. At the center of the single room home stands a simple wooden table, strewn with letters and a book left open. An unlit candle is half-melted onto a tiny clay saucer. Behind the table crackles a warm fire under a shoddily-built stone hearth, a welcome change from the hours of heavy cold rain outside. There is one stout chair at the table. Opposite to big bed, the walls are covered in shelves, featuring tools for butchering, an iron cookpot, a few disorganized piles of foraged tubers and nuts, a bundle of dried rosemary, a box of withered apples, and a skin of wine. A wooden plate, a wood bowl, and one set of simple metal cutlery is also found among the supplies inside. Below the shelves sits a large barrel, and an iron banded chest. Lifting the lid, the waist-high barrel appears to be full of salt. The heavy chest is locked.
The frozen chest-piece releases a gentle fog into the rainy air as the ice beings to melt away. ”Mithril!, Beorae exclaims quietly. ”Nme’an, you might want to check this out…”
Pocketing the two potions (as well as the dagger that was embedded in her shield), she makes a cursory inspection of Mot’s wounds while he brandishes his long-lost family heirloom.
Once the door is open, she follows Themp into the cabin, leaving Shark outside. She’s curious about the contents of the locked chest, but wary of traps.
Nme'an rises from his reading to see what has the Druid so excited. Wordlessly, he removes Craig's armor and is surprised at how light it is. He turns it this way and that, looking for any indication of who it's actual owner might be while also focusing on it in case it was the armor giving Craig his unnatural healing abilities.
He then follows the others inside and takes an interest in the book and papers.
Strolling through the cottage, Themp can't help but feel his gaze constantly pulled to the chest.
"Is it just me or does that chest look awful with that lock sealed shut? Any objections to me opening it?"
Nme’an and Beorae know that mithral is extremely rare, and forging enough of it to armor a torso must cost thousands in gold. The paladin finds no evil intent in the armor or the rest of Craig’s possessions.
The glowing, magical metal stands out to Themp when he glances over Mot’s new sword. For the imbued magic alone, the enchanted blade must cost quite a bit, probably as much as the magical bow carried by the Knight Lieutenant. However, the thief has never had the means to go shopping in Thaleniel for magical weapons, so he is unsure, but he would guess the price to well over one thousand in cost.
Beorae stoops to get a good look at the locked chest. She does not see any taut wires or hidden buttons that might indicate a trap. But when she scans the room from the new angle, she notices a loaded heavy crossbow under the bed, positioned to be quickly drawn by anyone laying in the bed. Under the bed she also finds a container of ten crossbow bolts, and a loose, thick wood board not part of the bed. When she pulls on the board, she finds two handles on one side, and bands of iron fortifying the heavy wood. Then, she realizes, it is a tower shield, a veritable wall a soldier can strap onto one arm.
The Dawnflower knight looks over the letters and open book, but cannot make any sense of the writing. It is scrawled in a language he does know.
The most common of the giantfolk, hill giants, tend to be illiterate. However, a written form of their brutish tongue does exist. The markings in the book and on the letters appear to be the language of Giant.
Curious about the Large shield, Nme'an hefts its weight and momentarily uses it to completely block the door to the cottage, trapping everyone, and himself, inside. Satisfied, he straps the oversized board to his back and turns his attention back to the book.
Nme'an hold the book close to his face and crosses his eyes so the markings inside align in just the right way to try and reveal the... meaning of the text before him.
”Looks harmless enough. Can you get it open?” Beorae asks Themp. She then turns to Nme’an, who is rather uncharacteristically blocking the door, ”Nme’an, tumekuwa kimya. Kila kitu sawa? … Mimi kudhani wewe alijua baadhi ya wakuu nyuma huko,” she says gently.
"'Can you get it open?'... Red, I'll pretend I didn't hear that question."
Nme'an turns and gives Beorae a small nod but then pauses. He pulls the fingers of his left hand gently over his neck as if pulling something out of his throat then smoothly moves that something over to the holy book he still holds in his right. Assuming that the druid will have no idea what he means he shakes his head and waves her away before heading back outside to sit at the gravesite and read his book.
Nme'an is trying to convey where his voice went. Meet the DC to have any clue what the heck he is doing.
Beorae quirks her eyebrow, not unconvinced that Nme’an may have sustained some sort of head injury when he face-planted in the mud. ”I think he’s saying that he lost his voice because of a spell, but I’m not sure,” she conveys to Mot and Themp.
Themp unrolls his kit of lockpicks, and chooses two after a brief assessment of the lock. One, two tumblers click into place. The third clunks and just as the thief thinks it odd, a jolt of electricity travels up his arms.
The chest remains locked.
Nme'an is unsure what the writing in the book means, though once every few pages there seems to be a short line at the top of a full page of the unknown script.
“What was that?!” Beorae scans the chest for magical defenses.
"อึร่วมเพศ!" curses Themp, jolting away from the chest. "The bastard booby-trapped with... with something!"
Most of the chest appears nonmagical to the druid, save for the circle around the keyhole, which reads as faint Evocation magic. The lock is enchanted to zap anyone who attempts entry without the proper key. The spell used to do so is a weak manipulation of the Shocking Grasp spell. There seems to be some other energies teeming behind the lock, but the electric Evocation magic obscures them.
“I think we might actually need the key,” the druidess muses. Is there something around here that might fit this lock?
"Maybe we can get Mot to smash it open...? suggests Themp, with a twinge of anger, while rubbing his hand muscles to relieve the pain.
“And break whatever's in there, too? There's something magical inside this box, but I'm not sure what it is yet. Let's see if we can find the key first.”
Glancing at Mot, Beorae considers his wounds for a moment before quietly adding, “นอกจากนี้ ผมไม่แน่ใจว่า วิธีการที่แข็งแกร่ง เขาเป็น ในขณะนี้ ผมไม่ทราบว่า วิธีการที่เขา เดิน แม้ ในขณะนี้” She's not sure if Themp completely understood, but she's confident that he'll at least get the gist.
The druidess finds a steel key buried under a layer of salt in the large barrel. It that looks like it may fit the lock on the chest.
Olp recovers from a bad coughing fit, his body still on the mend from the battle with the spore creatures. He sniffs around the sparse food supplies and eyes the magical chest with some curiosity.
Beorae hands the key to Themp. ”Here, think you can unlock it now?” she asks with a sly wink.
"Be my guest, Red. It's your key after all." quips Themp, gladly returning a sly wink of his own.
Mot busies himself examining his ancestral blade. He sighs heavily as the warrior leans against the wall of the small hut. Blood runs from his still open gash across his chest.
Nme'an continues to sit near the graves of his allies known and unknown as the rain falls around him. The knight Lieutenant notices Mot and ceases him reading.
Walking over, he reaches out and lays a hand on the big man's shoulder and concentrates. 'This may not work...' he would say if he still had his voice.
"Mah thenks, Palhaden." Mot says quietly as the healing energy alleviates some of his pain. He looks down at his blood and mud-soaked kit and almost grimaces. "Ef oonley there waas ae whey ta clen oop ae bet." He gestures to the towering mess that he's become over their journey and as he does so a warm amber light plays in his hands and quickly covers him from head to toe! In an instant the Highlander is clean as a whistle, practically sparkling in the dim light of the structure.
"HoHO!" the big warrior beams "Tha Accedental Good werks en mastereeoos wahs!" He turns a self-appreciating spin trying to examine himself from every direction. This is obviously the cleanest the Highlander has been in months. Maybe years.