Damiel looks back at the introductions with a bemused smile, nods, and returns to studying their surroundings.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Unable to stop himself from smiling, Thurin nodded respectfully at Ansha, acknowledging her answer, and then looked up at the half-orc. ”Well, best answer him. Lest I become seven hundred before the conversation ends.”
Unable to stop himself from smiling, Thurin nodded respectfully at Ansha, acknowledging her answer, and then looked up at the half-orc. ”Well, best answer him. Lest I become seven hundred before the conversation ends.”
Morgrym can't help but crack a wry smile as he awaits a response from the half-orc.
Dranok’s lip twitched—not quite a smile, but enough to show amusement at Morgrym’s circling around a question already answered.
"Well now, lad," he said, voice like gravel dragged through broken plate, "if it takes ye five rounds and two laps around the camp to hear what the dwarf already bellowed clear as a warhorn, that sounds more like a 'you' problem than a 'me' problem."
He rolled his shoulders, his well-worn greatsword shifting slightly on his back as he stepped forward, giving the group a curt nod.
"Name's Dranok. Dranok Ironsong, if we're bein’ formal." His eyes flicked toward Ansha, then Nasira, then Damiel—evaluating, not judging.
"I've been a crusader since before some crusaders were swingin’ training blades. I swing a sword, shout loud enough to scare off demons, and bleed where it counts."
He reached up and scratched at the stubble that traced his jaw. "Me and Thurin’ve dragged each other out of more than one meat grinder, and if the Forge Father hasn’t smote me yet for walkin’ beside a priest o’ his, I figure we’re good company."
Dranok’s tone flattened a little, gaze briefly distant. "And I am here because the Wound’s not closed, and because too many good folk are in the dirt already."
Then, with a small grunt and a smirk toward Thurin: "Now quit your bellyachin', you old anvil. He asked. I answered. Might even say I did it before your next beard braid grew in."
Thurin called out in a clear and authoritative voice. "We approach in peace! This is Dranok, Paladin of Gorum! Wielder of radiance, as bestowed upon him by Sir Arigoder."
Dranok’s lip twitched—not quite a smile, but enough to show amusement at Morgrym’s circling around a question already answered.
"Well now, lad," he said, voice like gravel dragged through broken plate, "if it takes ye five rounds and two laps around the camp to hear what the dwarf already bellowed clear as a warhorn, that sounds more like a 'you' problem than a 'me' problem."
Raisin' an eyebrow, and refraining from attempting to smash the half-orc into a pulp, "Yeah, I didn't catch that first part. Mainly because I didn't care. Only when I heard the name 'Thurin' did I find it even mattered. No offense," he says, this time sounding as if he doesn't care at all if the half-orc is offended.
”Aye, aye. But the two of ye aren’t asking the real questions.” Thurin said, walking between the two warriors. ”We’ve been choking down sand for day upon day now. Where can we get something to bloody well drink?” Nodding at his own wisdom he added ”We’ve got a war to win, and we can’t do that on a parched throat. Wouldn’t be proper.”
"To be quite honest, we sought to greet you out here in the open in the event that you were a threat to our forces. Come, we'll introduce you to the camp."
Damiel's inspection of the horizon has stopped. He looks intently to the north, but when Nasira steps up to ask him what he sees, she realizes that his eyes are not focused. He is more feeling or listening to something in the distance.
When he notices her patient presence, he smiles wryly. "I don't know. But there's something out there. Something calling to me. Maybe my time with you has come to an end, but I won't leave without saying good-bye."
”Aye, aye. But the two of ye aren’t asking the real questions.” Thurin said, walking between the two warriors. ”We’ve been choking down sand for day upon day now. Where can we get something to bloody well drink?” Nodding at his own wisdom he added ”We’ve got a war to win, and we can’t do that on a parched throat. Wouldn’t be proper.”
Relaxing, and realizing what he's doing, "Aye, it wouldn't. And after the lass introduces ya to the others, I'll let ya in on all the fun we're about ta have," he says, not smiling in the least.
Then a curious expression comes upon him. "Where in the blazes is Arigoder?" He glances around, not seeing him. "I knew I had a feelin' that someone else was missin'."
”Ye knew him?” Thurin asked. ”We ran into him out in the wastes. Gave a sword to the tall lad here, named it Radiance.” The old dwarf said, thoughtfully. ”Said the same thing as your scout there. That he heard a calling from his God.” He let it hang there, as he looked quizzically at Damiel. ”If that blade wasn’t so obviously holy, I’d be right concerned.”
"I hesitate to say I've received word from a god, but..." he looks northward again, "I've rarely stayed with one group long and never quite figured out exactly what brought me to this forsaken land in the first place. I've definitely seen some things since joining this troupe and have to admit... well... I think the time is coming for me to pay the tab for some of the extremely good fortune I've enjoyed lately."
The archer is trying to be as stoic as usual, but there is an uncertainty also as he tries to figure out his future path.
”Ye knew him?” Thurin asked. ”We ran into him out in the wastes. Gave a sword to the tall lad here, named it Radiance.” The old dwarf said, thoughtfully. ”Said the same thing as your scout there. That he heard a calling from his God.” He let it hang there, as he looked quizzically at Damiel. ”If that blade wasn’t so obviously holy, I’d be right concerned.”
Furrowing his brow, "Really? He never said a word ta us about it. But, I guess when yer called, yer called." He shrugs.
"I hesitate to say I've received word from a god, but..." he looks northward again, "I've rarely stayed with one group long and never quite figured out exactly what brought me to this forsaken land in the first place. I've definitely seen some things since joining this troupe and have to admit... well... I think the time is coming for me to pay the tab for some of the extremely good fortune I've enjoyed lately."
The archer is trying to be as stoic as usual, but there is an uncertainty also as he tries to figure out his future path.
Turning to the archer and looking perplexed, "Ya thinkin' of leavin' us too, lad?"
As you are all parlaying out in the heat of the scorched earth of the wastes a pair of figures from the north approaches from Drezen. Most of you readily recognize Irabeth Tirabade. The figure next to her is someone you havent met before but had word of his arrival.
The female half-orc looks the group over. Well I don't see any blood so I take it this meeting is a positive one. Not too often though we see 2 dwarves and 2 half-orcs in the same 100ft without weapons drawn. Irabeth smiles and reaches out a hand to the 2 newcomers. Irabeth Tirabade...glad to meet you. Pointing at the halfling beside her she introduces him. This is Lershim Rill. He just arrived this morning via 'special delivery' from Queen Galfrey. He is assigned to us to help out in whichever capacity is needed while we are here on the front lines. I will leave it up to all of you to determine where his talents will be most used. I also must get back to Drezen. It has been too quiet here lately and I am not liking it. Whenever there is a lull like this it makes me nervous.
Don't get me wrong. The Claw of Terendelev has been busy making its presence felt in the area clearing out minor resistances but we have not seen a sustained incursion since you all left to the Midnight Isles. I get that Baphomet and his followers may be recovering after what you told us but that still leaves Deskari and his ilk along with the others demons to contend with.
To Morgrym, he nods, "Yeah, maybe. I think maybe I need to do something very unfamiliar for a bit. General, good to see you. Lersham Rill. You have an outsized reputation, sir." Damiel grins at the terrible pun before adding, "That is, I've heard you're good. Keep an eye on that one for me. I will find you before you leave."
With that confusing combination of messages, he nods to General Tirablade and turns to walk toward camp.
Lershim is a dark little halfling. His countenance is rather simple. Armor, weapons, a straightforward little pack, and a few odds and ends poking about. He wears a thick black beard and longish hair which goes with generally darkened gear and appearance. Even his hatchet is cold iron, sticking out of a nice sheath on his belt.
He nods to Damiel, ”Pleasure, I’m sure. Glad someone’s heard of me.” He chortles and immediately begins to get down to it, ”I’m still fairly new to this crusading business, but I’m eager to cut down the opposition. Need a little re-fitting on my hatchet, so hopefully the haulings are good from these abyssal a%@~@!%s.”
”My name’s Lershim Rill as her lordship said. Queen Galfrey sent me to shore up your numbers and thin the hoard of demons in the worldwound.” he produces any documentation he may have been given. ”I’ve been traveling for some time now, and my feet are weary of the road. They need some invigorating. When do we start? I’m ready!”
He chuckles, listening to himself carry on so, and adds more humbly, ”Well, maybe not for anything, but I’ll do what I can to help. I understand it’s pretty hairy up here.” He looks at you earnestly for some real intelligence from the front lines.
"Welcome, Master Rill. We were about to retreat to the camp to share what we know. If Damiel is called away, we will need access to some... unusual skills. Based on your attire, I suspect you are more likely to serve well as a scout than Master Ironfist. Would that be a fair assessment?"
She makes a sweeping gesture to all of the gathered crusaders. "Come, friends, new and old. We travel again to a demon's realm, not to treat with him, but to steal something he finds precious. Let us break bread and share our knowledge. Much as I appreciate my goddess' presence, I am aware some of you would prefer some shade."
”Just Lershim. I am master over no one.” he shakes his head at the thought.
”Yeap. I can scout. I’m a thief, and a good one. Never was much for picking pockets, but I can crack a safe like nobody I know, and that goes for traps too. You’d be amazed at what rich folk rig up!” He grins, ”Of course, I wouldn’t thieve from you lot of course. Comrades in arms. Wouldn’t be right.”
”I’m happy to scout whenever it makes sense. Happy to overcome those pesky traps. I’m also quite happy to cut down some demons.” he looks around at all the muscle, ”Though it seems you have that well covered! I can at least stay out of the way.”
”Stealing from a demon is good. Let’s eat!” he follows the others.
Morgrym nods at the halfling and gives him a simple, "Welcome, lad."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Once they gather around, Morgrym allows everyone to get their fill before he brings the news about their next mission. "Okay, lot, here's what's on the agenda. Iomedae herself spoke ta us. Her herald has been taken, and we've got ta rescue him. Or, at the very least, confirm he's dead, whichever the case may be. But there's a slight catch," he says, looking around at them all, making sure they're ready for the next bit before...
"We've got ta go to the Ivory Labyrinth ta save him. And that means, we're gonna have ta meet Baphomet and kill 'im." He lets that sink in a moment before finishing with, "So, are ya sure yer up for killin' a god? If ya are, then you've come to the right place," he states matter-of-factly.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Thurin almost laughed. That is, until he realized that his kinsman wasn’t joking. The fact that his hammer hummed excitedly in his head was a clear sign of that. Its demanding excitement was deafening.
”A worthy death for an old man.” He said.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"Well that's a sobering thought." Lershim stops grinning and wonders what he's gotten himself into.
"Baphomet? Couldn't be someone, you know, easier? It is my first day." he quips, but without the grin.
Then he shuts up, and listens to the seasoned folk. He's new and he knows it, so he's all ears.
Dranok chewed the last of his rations with the slow, unhurried pace of a man who had survived too many briefings like this one. His eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Iomedae’s herald, but he said nothing until Morgrym finished.
He glanced at Thurin, then at Lershim, then finally let out a long grunt, like a forge bellows exhaling.
“Kill a god, huh?”
He set his tin plate down on the stone beside him and rolled his neck until something popped.
“Fine by me.”
He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t look around for reaction.
“If the bastard’s in our way, he dies. Makes no difference if it’s a bandit, a balor, or some horn-headed goat god with a complex. We’ve come this far.”
He reached behind him and loosened the strap holding Radiance, the blade catching a sliver of starlight.
“We kill what needs killin’. That is all.”
A pause. Then, without even a hint of a smile:
“Besides. By Sarenrae’s teets, someone’s gotta teach that smug bastard what a proper ass-kicking feels like.”
Thurin almost laughed. That is, until he realized that his kinsman wasn’t joking. The fact that his hammer hummed excitedly in his head was a clear sign of that. Its demanding excitement was deafening.
”A worthy death for an old man.” He said.
With a sigh, Morgrym nods. "It might be."
"Well that's a sobering thought." Lershim stops grinning and wonders what he's gotten himself into.
"Aye, that it is."
"Baphomet? Couldn't be someone, you know, easier? It is my first day." he quips, but without the grin.
"I wish it were, lad, but it's not."
He then looks to Dranok and gives an agreeing nod before addressing them all once again. "I know it's a lot ta ask, especially from you newcomers. Ya just show up at a place and find out yer bein' asked ta do the near impossible. But it's where we're at and it's what we've got ta do. There's no one else. And failure is not an option. By Torag's hammer, we are gonna win this thing... whatever it takes."
Nasira purses her lips at Dranok's disrespect. "The Lord in Iron may not care what your words are, but he expects you to be fighting, not healing. The Dawnflower is worthy of your respect and is far more than a collection of body parts to ogle and comment on. If she doesn't deign to extend the gift of healing through me to you, you will be wasting time healing yourself when you should be honoring your god and that blade in battle."
She takes a breath and smooths her features. "Say what you will, but we are reliant on gifts of the gods to prevail. My counsel is that we speak well of those that are closest to us or they might choose other champions at a time most inconvenient."
"As for our task, it is very possible that the lord of the minotaurs does not figure into our task. The herald is our focus. Nocticula has put a serious scare into Baphomet due to his impertinence, invading her realm. While he will certainly throw his forces against us when he learns of our presence, he is unlikely to enter the battle personally."
Dranok blinked once, slowly, as Nasira laid into him.
He scratched the side of his jaw, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding in a comment—or several.
“Look, priestess,” he said after a beat, “if I thought for half a breath that sayin’ ‘Sarenrae’s teets’ was some kind of holy sacrilege, I wouldn’t’ve said it.” He shrugged. “But Desna guide me, I’ve seen more statues, mosaics, and temple carvings of your Dawnflower with her chest out than I’ve seen demons with tongues.”
He raised a hand, not in defense, but as punctuation.
“What I said was outta habit, not mockery. If she didn’t want the attention, maybe she wouldn’t be so, uh... prominently featured in half the holy art from here to Osirion.”
There was no smirk. Just Dranok being matter-of-fact.
“I don’t mock the gods. I don’t worship half of ‘em either. But I fight beside those who do, and I bleed with those who carry their banners. That’s gotta count for somethin’, even if I ain’t polished when I open my mouth.”
He looked her dead in the eye.
“If your goddess ever pulls her healing hand away from me, I’ll live. Or I won’t. But I’ll still kill what needs killin’, and I’ll still have your back in the thick of it.”
Then, with a grunt, he turned his gaze forward again.
“Now let’s stop wringin’ our hands over divine teats and focus on stealin’ from a demon lord.”
“Devout” follower of Calistria (or was it Shelyn today?) that she was, Ansha couldn’t help but silently titter at the exchange between the half-orc and Nasira. The Lady In The Room definitely had more than her fair share of bawdy descriptions and depictions, and so the choice of words about a fellow goddess hardly fazed her.
Actually, hadn’t they heard about a succubus named Shamira whom rumors said was related to Sarenrae when they were in the Midnight Isles…? Something about flame-red hair and a penchant for seducing in dreams.
Best not to bring up the resemblance now, the enchantress thought.
Instead, she helpfully added: “Calistrians like to say ‘by Calistria’s taut t’—Oh, right. Not helping.”
They also referred to her honeyed thighs a lot, but it was doubtful honeyed thighs (or tongues, or any other of a number of anatomical parts, really) were any better in Nasira’s eyes.
Morgrym, clearly not happy with the half-orc's words, "What the hell is yer problem, half-orc?! It's not a mystery as to why we dwarves always get the better of yer kind, outside of us simply being better. Yer too busy runnin' yer fat mouth instead of swingin' a sword. And when ya did swing yer sword, yer fat tongue got in the way. Stupid orcs. The lot of ya. Ya just barely rank above goblins as far as I'm concerned. And I mean barely. I'm not seein' how ya didn't smash this one's face in on yer way, Thurin. I sure as hell would've." Morgrym looks the half-orc dead in the eye as he speaks, hoping he gives him any reason to smash his face in.
For a heartbeat, Dranok just stared at Morgrym.
Then he threw his head back and laughed like thunder on a battlefield—loud, raw, and full of the kind of joy only a half-orc could muster when someone called him filth to his face and expected it to sting.
“By Gorum’s rusted codpiece, lad, you’re serious!” he wheezed between gulps of air, shaking his head. “You really just gave me the ‘better race’ speech. In the middle of a gods-damned crusade.”
Dranok wiped the corner of his eye, still grinning wide.
“Thurin, my old friend, I do not know whether to praise your patience or question your hearing. That you’ve put up with this sour keg of kindling this long and not brained him with your hammer speaks of saintly restraint. I mean that.”
He turned back to Morgrym, jaw tightening just slightly.
“Lad, let me spell it out since your thick skull is clearly protecting something more fragile underneath: I ain’t your enemy. I ain’t the one who burned your temples, ate your kin, or crawled out of the Abyss to flay this world open.”
His tone sharpened, cutting through the heat like cold iron.
“There are demons out there who skin dwarves, eat elves, and make playthings of angels—and here you are foamin’ at the mouth over me, because I’ve got tusks and a tan.”
He let that hang for a beat, then took a breath.
“Save that hate for the abyss, boy. That’s where it belongs.”
And then, with a tired shake of his head:
“Now unless someone else wants to lecture me about holy breasts, racial purity, or what insults qualify as divine blasphemy, I’d like to get back to planning, some real divine intervention, killing a god.”
Thurin almost shrugged, but he didn’t even bother with that. This was not the first time he had seen such arguments, and even if the last one had involved a human of noble birth. As far as he was concerned the younglings could work it out with each other, and it was on the whole a good thing for them to reach their own understanding now, before they saw combat. That, and in his experience shared bloodshed tended to bring warriors together.
Instead his mind was elsewhere, for he was mentally communicating with his hammer. The task before them was momentous, and the holy weapon was singing with excitement. He couldn’t help but remember the corpse of the last dwarf who had held the hammer, and how the poor champion’s fate had done nothing to damper the weapon’s burning desire to combat the enemies of his God. As devout as he was, he knew that if he was going to survive longer he’d need to temper its enthusiasm with his own common sense.
”Fair enough, Dranok of Gorum. I have said what I needed to say. I will not hesitate to do my best to support you or any of our number. But I must speak up for the one that sustains me when I feel the need.”
"Indeed, a path that is as wise to travel as you are fair to look upon."
Lershim listens as the barbs travel back and forth. He's impressed by the depth of feeling, and the general skill of banter. Good thing no one hates halflings, he thinks to himself ignoring the slavery predominate in Cheliax for the moment.
"Indeed, a path that is as wise to travel as you are fair to look upon."
She just shakes her head with one eyebrow raised.
Grinning, "Look at the wee lass tryin' ta sound tough. I didn't know they were lettin' wee lassies fight battles. I thought we were supposed ta protect 'em. Well, I guess not. And I guess ya proved me point. Still runnin' yer fat mouth because that's all ya can do. I shouldn't be surprised, though. When yer nothin' more than the whelp of an orc whore, I guess it's to be expected. Just like that fairy princess Gorum ya worship. You two have a lot in common in that regard."
"Speakin' of which, when we've eliminated Baphomet, I'll be gunnin' for Gorum next. Not ta worry, though, I'll send yer princess's head to ya in a box, and you can spill a few tears for her durin' yer quiet time."
Shaking his head and still grinning, "Ah, the wee lass tryin' ta be a grownup. You'll get there, lassie, you'll get there. Maybe. I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you. And just to make ya feel better, I've got plenty o' hate ta go around so ya won't feel left out. I guarantee ya that, lassie."
Dranok stopped dead.
The air around him seemed to still as he slowly turned toward Morgrym. There was no grin now. No raised brow. No joke hiding in the back of his throat. Just a quiet, dangerous stillness.
“You can insult me all you want, dwarf. Call me bastard, half-blood, whatever helps you sleep.”
His voice was low, almost calm—but there was iron beneath every word.
“But you crossed a line just now.”
He took a single step forward.
“Mocking Gorum is one thing. Threatening him is another. That is no jest. That is no campfire boasting.”
Another step.
“You just made a direct challenge against the Lord in Iron.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes locked like a predator considering its prey. “And before you take up your axe and try for a god, you might want to try me instead.”
His hand rested calmly on the hilt of Radiance, not drawn—but no longer idle.
“Because I am not in the habit of letting blasphemers make war-cries they do not intend to back up.”
He let the silence stretch between them, letting the weight of the moment settle. Then he added, voice like steel on stone:
“Say what you mean, Morgrym. Because next time, you might not get a second chance.”
Getting to his feet, Thurin walked between them. ”This is a bad spot to be in. Swore an oath to bring the lad back alive, and here is looks like the two of you are going to make it just one of you.” After a moment thought he said ”If we are going to let this world drown in a demon horde because we are all too stubborn even pretend to be civil.” He gave his kinsman a meaningful look. ”Then at least use fists instead of blades. That way this can be cleared up without anyone dying.” Probably, he thought to himself.
”I don’t want to make any enemies this early in our time together, especially since we seem to have enough already, but I’ve gotta side with Dranok on this one. Now sure, he may have said some suggestive things about your god,” he nods to the offended party, ”But he apologized. Besides, in my opinion, he’s not wrong exactly, though I might have said it differently.”
”But you sir have threatened to kill his god, totally based on a dislike or orcs. Now I understand disliking orcs, but what the hell man? You should show a little respect. Dranok is here, on his own recognizance, and he’s ready to do his duty against the demons. Even after you all talked about what we’re going to have to do, he didn’t back down. Didn’t walk away.”
”That’s deserving of respect. And you gave him none.” Lershim gets a little red in the face with his squeaky voice squeaking away.
”Now I apologize if I’ve gone and pissed you off, ‘cause that isn’t my goal, but I’m about as neutral as can be here and I think you’re in the wrong Lord Ironfist. Sir.”
"Blasphemers? Maybe you should take that sword to yer own throat then. And if you want a piece of me, whelp, then bring it on. You're still all talk and always will be."
He looks to Lershim, "No, ya haven't pissed me off, lad. And if he wouldn't have gone an offended Nasira with his disrespect of her god, then we would've been fine."
He then looks dead straight at Dranok, "But he couldn't keep his big mouth shut. And since he shows no respect for her, I've no respect for him, or his pathetic god. And you scare me in the least, whelp. Especially with you wielding a sword you don't deserve. I've no idea why Arigoder would give it to the likes of you."
Looking to Thurin, "I'm sorry, Thurin, but this one has pushed too far. He's just too stupid to realize it."
Dranok let the insults roll off him like rain on steel.
He didn’t reach for his sword this time. He didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at Morgrym—and then past him.
“You still think this is about respect,” he said quietly. “Still think this is about your pride, or my mouth, or the gods you curse because you do not understand them.”
He turned his gaze to Thurin, that same tired, steady look he’d given him a hundred times across a battlefield.
“I know why Arigoder gave me Radiance, old friend.” He unfastened the strap holding the sword to his back and drew the blade—not in challenge, but in reverence. The light gleamed off the weapon’s edge like a final sunrise.
“It was never mine. It never sang in my hands the way it should. That was never the point.”
He stepped forward, holding the sword with both hands, and offered it—hilt first—to Nasira.
“It was given to me to carry here. To carry you here,” he said to Thurin. “Safe. Ready. Together.”
Then he looked to Nasira, eyes firm.
“You should find a Paladin of your faith. One worthy of this. This blade deserves more than a relic-bearer with bloodied hands and a temper too short for diplomacy.”
He stepped back.
“This war… this moment… it is not mine. Not anymore. I see that now.”
His gaze swept over the others, lingering last on Thurin.
“We always knew my part in this tale would be short. One stroke in a larger epic. Not even a footnote, really. And that is as it should be.”
He reached out and gripped Thurin’s forearm with warrior’s strength.
“Give ’em hell, brother. You always did have the better head for it.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked.
One step. Then another.
No drama. No flourish. Just a soldier fading into the heat-haze horizon, one last time.
"Dranok, please hold a moment."
Nasira turns to her ally of many battles and says, "Morgrym, you've become a brother to me. I appreciate you leaping to my aid, but with all due respect, shut up. And when you feel the urge to speak, I want you to count to five and see how many people you are going to offend first. At this moment in time, one is too many. Master Ironfist, please talk to your kinsman while I try to speak to your traveling companion."
She will stand and follow the exiting warrior in hopes that she can resurrect the team before it's even formed.
"Dranok, please hold a moment."
Nasira turns to her ally of many battles and says, "Morgrym, you've become a brother to me. I appreciate you leaping to my aid, but with all due respect, shut up. And when you feel the urge to speak, I want you to count to five and see how many people you are going to offend first. At this moment in time, one is too many. Master Ironfist, please talk to your kinsman while I try to speak to your traveling companion."
She will stand and follow the exiting warrior in hopes that she can resurrect the team before it's even formed.
Morgrym starts to open his mouth and say something in his defence, but pauses and sighs heavily while bearing an irritated look. "Aye, lass," is all he manages, clearly not thrilled as he crosses his arms like a pouty child.
Watching Nasira follow after the half-orc, Morgrym cuts his eyes toward Thurin and says, "So, Thurin, we have an instant fortress." he says, nodding matter-of-factly. "We do. We've never used it, though. I don't know why. I'm not even sure how ta use it." He shrugs, scratching the side of his face, not really knowing why he even mentioned that, sighing once again.
”Sounds right useful.” Thurin said, relief in his voice. The entire situation had been incredibly tense, having it resolved was a huge relief.
”Pass it over, aye? I’ll see if I can get it to work. It will be of great use for when we need to rest and need a defensible position.”
Rummaging through his pack, he digs it out and hands it over. "Maybe you can figure out how the blasted thing works. I believe there's some type of code word or somethin' like that. But I'm not sure because I've no idea what it is, if that is the case." He shrugs.
"Let me see it. Might be able to help."
If he's given a chance, He'll make some space, go outside, etc., for he's not quite sure how it works and he doesn't want to break anything. Then try to activate it.
vs DC 25 (?) to blindly activate
"Let me see it. Might be able to help."
If he's given a chance, He'll make some space, go outside, etc., for he's not quite sure how it works and he doesn't want to break anything. Then try to activate it.
[dice=Use Magic Device]1d20+18 vs DC 25 (?) to blindly activate
Shrugging, "All good ta me." If Thurin hands the item over to Lershim, Morgrym will follow and watch, curious if the halfling can figure it out.
After several minutes' discussion with the offended half-orc, Nasira nods. She appears to say a prayer before laying her hand on the warrior's forearm. She returns to the gathering of heroes. She stands in the entrance, surprised to see most have left the room.
She takes a seat and waits, deep in thought.
Nasira sits at the table, idly fingering the wrapping of a long slim bundle of cloth on the table before her.
Baphomet’s realm, the Ivory Labyrinth, began as his
prison. This world-sized maze was originally conceived by
Asmodeus as a prison for Baphomet after he captured the
Lord of the Minotaurs, a labyrinth the Prince of Darkness
boldly claimed none—not even the first minotaur—could
solve. It took Baphomet only a decade to prove Asmodeus
wrong, and when the Lord of the Minotaurs escaped, he
took the Ivory Labyrinth with him back to the Abyss and
made it his realm.
As a maze the size of the world, such a realm would be
difficult to map at best, but the world changes constantly,
generating new terrain and shifting tunnels and pathways
so that no one answer to its navigation remains correct
twice. Within this maddening maze, specific locations
remain stable and immutable, yet the routes between them
do not. As a result, no map of this realm is provided, for its
very nature renders such a convenience an impossibility.
Planar travel into the Ivory Labyrinth is always shunted
into one of many specialized “entrances” that even Baphomet
himself cannot predict. A knowledgeable denizen of the
realm can then navigate the maze to whatever locations
he wishes of course, but those who arrive ill prepared can
spend a lifetime wandering mazes of countless types and
styles without ever reaching their destination.
The Ivory Labyrinth is a place where the straight and
narrow doesn’t exist. The mazes that make the realm are
of all kinds, including hedgerow forests, tangled alleys,
twisting mountain passes, cavern labyrinths, and even
confounding plains where tall grasses and shifting rivers
make travel bewildering. All of these maze-regions are
decorated with the bones of demons and other horrors,
either paving the ground, embedded in the walls, or
decorating the realm as grim, freestanding sculptures. The
plane’s great city-mazes are all small by Abyssal standards,
but navigating them is as difficult as traveling through any
tangled warren.
Of special note is how the Ivory Labyrinth reacts to
attempts to use f light to defeat its mazes. Many of the
maze terrains are open to the air, and the skies above seem
to hold a sun, clouds, stars, a moon, and all the familiar
sights one might expect to find on any Material Plane
world. But as soon as any attempt is made to climb,
levitate, f ly, or otherwise rise above the upper edges of
the labyrinth walls or otherwise deviate from a mountain
pass, the realm rapidly constricts down to encase the
traveler in a classic underground maze with f loors, walls,
and ceilings made of solid masses of bones. Scholars have
long theorized that this underlying complex, known as
the Ivory Maze, represents the true underlying nature of
the realm, and that the mountain and city and swamp
mazes are but hyperrealistic illusions.
With the group ready to proceed into the maze the party activates their tokens and are teleported into the maze entrance.
This large chamber measures about fifty feet across, and has a
vaulted ceiling that rises to a similar height. A sphere of bright
light shines above, almost like a miniature sun, casting brilliant
illumination down into the room below. Patches of thick green
ivy cling to the walls, while a pool of water flanked by two
curving ivory benches sits in the center of the room. Numerous
archways and doors in the walls provide access to tunnels and
chambers beyond. But it is the walls, floor, and ceiling that
demand the most attention, for all of these are formed by
thousands of bones—skulls, femurs, ribs, and more—harvested
from all manner of humanoids and beasts, packed together in a
dense osseous patchwork.
The ivy is harmless, sustained by the magic of the realm,
and the fountain contains potable drinking water. This
plaza, like all those of its kind, is well guarded. Minions
of Baphomet lurk in these areas to greet visitors and
determine whether they should be captured, slain, or
allowed to pass into the mazes.
The keeper of this particular plaza is a
particularly reptilian-looking marilith named Odeenka and the plaza is guarded by a trio of sycophantic, fly-headed coloxus demons. Odeenka hisses in delight, greeting
You all in Abyssal with a much less than pleasant air. “Look,
my friends, look at what has fallen into our laps! Are
they not the most delightfully ridiculous creatures?
Welcome to the Labyrinth! Swear your undying love for Lord Baphomet and I shall grant you access to the Labyrinth. But, oh please, tell me you are not friends of the Horned Lord. I’m always looking for fresh slaves, and you reek of mortal foolishness.