Dandelion looks at the wall where the others suddenly looked, but he sees nothing. Used to such things, he guesses they heard something. "I used to hear..."
"Perhaps some settling of the rocks? I felt nothing, though." When someone mentions a growl, Dandelion offers, "If tearing it apart and burning doesn't kill it, a mound of dirt and rock will not either, will it? It will just slow it down. We must dig quickly. If you have magics that will help, then sleep. I will keep digging while I can."
He begins to dig again in earnest, trying to ignore the fatigue in his muscles.
Cal gives a chuckle at the spoon, telling the others at what the spoon can do. " A Sustaining Spoon, it'll keep us fed so that is somethin of good news. The slippers are magical in nature, as to what they do, no clue yet."
Cal stifles a yawn, thinking on what little magic he had for helping with moving rocks. Regretfully mage hand wasn't going to help the three of them too much.
Cal didn't have much in the way of usefulness in labor and Dandelion couldn't hear the words of the Song. Cal decides that repairing the groups equipment and clothing with a minor Song.
As soon as Cal hears the growling from the other side of the cave in, Cal stops breathing for a few moments; keeping still he waits for the worst to happen. When it stops he let's out a small breath, waiting for a few more heartbeats to pass before whispering " Bleedin' presistent bugger."
Digging faster increases the risk of a complete collapse, which is borne out when a fairly substantial bit of the ceiling lands on the group. It takes some time to reorient yourselves, and breathing through fabric is the only way you can avoid suffocation, but within a few minutes you are back at digging.
A way to speed things up significantly is to dig without rest, all through the night.
Your gear is repaired as mending magics knit them back together.
Occasionally there are noises from beyond the tunnel, suggestive that the vampire is still unalive, but it does not appear to be getting any closer. It appears to be sanguine in temperament and morbidly excitable, so you ensure not to disturb it any more than needs to happen.
A day later your exhausted forms crest the surface having moved slowly up a far greater distance than you would have imagined from below. You come up among the ruins of a church that perfectly matches the sketch.
You place the direction of the vampire's hole as east of your position as its growls echo up from that direction.
It is night...eternal night.
The foul rain continues to fall, and the plants around you are already wilting, and small animals have already died en masse.
Dandelion breathes a sigh of relief as they reach the air above. But he looks with immense sadness at all the death surrounding them. This is not natural, he thinks. Something must be done, but what?
He futilely attempts to brush the dirt off himself, then gives up. Taking stock of their current clothes and possessions, he recalls they had more, before. When had that been taken from them? Perhaps it is still by the original hole?
He looks to see if he can see the original hole from here, thinking of that vampire all the while. "We need to come back here, with help. It will get free," he says to the others.
All of your belongings remain on your person.
You have tracked the approximate position of the hole by the vampire's growls, and imagine it to be roughly 70' east of your position, considering the length of the tunnel that led you to the stairs.
Confidently you imagine you can work your way back her should you wish to return to this place in the future.
After the first night of rest, Grendel offers restorative magic to help combat the blood loss and general beating they had all taken. The druid also has a ritual that will seem as though they had spent the night at a king's banquet table. The road to physical recovery was speed up considerable. Unfortunately, Grendel didn't have anything to help with mental recovery. The unclean feeling of being the vampires meal was still very much in his thoughts.
When they finally broke free of their own entombment, Grendel thought he would be elated, fill his face with warm sunlight. What had blackened the sun had seemed like a nightmare, on he had thought was false. Being smacked with the reality of the unnatural night was like being kicked in the head by someone wearing armored boots. The druid looks at the surrounding blight and shudders visibly, his stomach rolling.
"I think it's a fair guess that this Death Cult has something to do with what has blotted out the sun," Grendel looks at the other two. His mis-matched eyes were filled with sadness, back lit by a simmering rage. "The other three had some kind of lead as to what is going on." The mud slowly drains off his clothes and gear under the onslaught of the foul rain. "And the only real lead we have that might garner us anymore information is the gnome that did the tattoo carving. From what I gathered looking at the sketches, see lives in that city with the spires."
"As for that thing down there, your right Dandelion, we need to destroy it. Just not until we are actually capable of defeating a vampire. As proven, we don't stand a chance," the druid looks up at the black sky and frowns. "The help may be hard to come by. I think people will be a bit more concerned with their own skins right now."
"I say we travel to this city, both to see if we can gather up aid, and find the gnome. She might be able to translate the diary, or helps us figure out what Dimqu and company where up to. Actually, let's get the hells away from the tunnel. Like now," Grendel casts a fearful glance down at the hole they had crawled out off. He begins to move away from the tunnel, herding the other two if necessary, also avoiding going anywhere near the other entrance to the crypt. Grendel just wants to get a couple of hundred yards of space inbetween the blood sucker and themselves.
"Okay, any other plans or ideas?"
Whether moving away to gather support, or moving away to escape, the group is able to put ground between themselves and the apex predator of the night. Its growls are soon enough lost to the rain and the thunder.
A blight accompanies the rain, but it also softens the ground making it more like a marsh, or in some places a swamp. Pestilence fills the corpses of the fallen animals, who wriggle with maggoty contents.
"I agree that some answers might be in the book," says Dandelion. "So getting a translation is important. But I'm worried about the vampire getting out. Suppose we filled in both holes with dirt and rock... It would slow him down more, maybe."
" Either way, we are all battered, I can take a look at the book when I get somewhere dry. I say we should come back to face the vampire at a later time and we have found out enough on how to defeat one." Cal finishes with a shudder.
The bard was tired, the battle and defeat at the hands of the vampire had taken a toll, mentally, physically, and even spiritually. Still the Half-orc had been tempered by the last few days, looking at his hands and the new scars, he gives a wry smile at the plans of coming back, with holy water.
Looking at the ruins, Cal puts his plans for justice mixed with revenge to the side, rubbing his hands together idly thinking about anything else that the book didn't mention about the church ruins and what, if anything, was the cause of it's current state.
The lack of the sun wasn't going to bode well in the long run, especially since the sun hurt the creatures of the night. Shaking his head ruefully, Cal hoped that some better clues were found.
" If we go to the city of spires we will have to contend with bandits which could be vampires. Perhaps we should circle around to Dewsdam and see if we can find some priest water and I think... Garlic. I thought I remembered something about it. I'm not sure what lies in the church ruins, of if there would be any other nasties."
Glancing in the direction of where he was pretty certain, Grendel thinks for a few moments. He nods, mostly to himself, and than looks to the others.
"Alright, circling around to see what happened to Dewsdam is good, let's just not get to close to the areas that started the blight and the chains. There is the chance that everyone in Dewsdam is dead, or even undead. Just want to put that out there. The town was only a few miles away from the blight," the druid says. He looks back in the direction of the crypt and church. "I really don't want to try anything at the moment with the vampire."
Grendel chews on his lower lip for a moment, thinking strongly about the vampire and their capture with a shudder.
"I don't think we would be as lucky to escape a second time. Even if it was half pinned under the earth, I don't think we could kill it. It's trapped enough for us to get away. Plus with the rain, more than likely, it's entrance hole with collapse," the druid sounds fairly convinced that hole with collapse. Of course, that might takes days and days.
"Something occurred to me. With all that is going on, perhaps someone has fled to the city with the spires who does have an idea of what is happening," Grendel grins faintly. "After all, the only thing we really have to go off of are guesses gleaned from sketches."
While it is unlikely that you will die of immediate infection, or that you will bleed to death, it is highly unlikely that you will ever gain full use of your ravaged hands again. Tearing the sinews along the spike has left behind a severe chronic pain, and limited movement of your fingers. Making a fist, casting spells, and the like send lines of fire along your sinews.
Oppressive humidity thickens the air, as if to push you off your course of acton, a warning perhaps? Unseasonable cold prickles your flesh as all the warmth from the sky is perfectly obscured by unnaturally oppressive clouds. Half-wilted flowers bow their heads in melancholy. Disconcerting is the utter silence, save only the fall of the rain, and the boom of thunder. You hear no birdsong, or anything to suggest any animal still remains alive.
Oily rain burns your flesh, and stings the eyes, leaving you smelling of brimstone and death.
Your sodden approach to Dewsdam is untrammelled, save for the occasional bloated corpses of animals or man. They look to be infected, as green-black pus thickly crawls forth from their open wounds, as their inflamed skin ruptures on its own.
The bodies of the races of the realms grow thicker the closer you come to the large town. Dewsdam is a ruins its buildings smouldering, a great furrow cut across the ground, a swath of destruction hundreds of feet along. It appears one of those strange creatures had crashed here as well, devastating anything that got in its way. Only quadrupedal scavengers remain to feast on the fallen. Either they are all dead, or they have fled this unholy place.
So many children are among the fallen, their tiny hands little more than claws.
A deeply macabre thought is inevitable as it freezes the blood, considering reports of chains hundreds of miles away, and the rumours that were swirling about: you might be the last people alive in all of the realms.
Dewsdam ruins provide a momentary reprieve from the rain, and a bit of warmth as bodies and their livelihood burn in close proximity. Scouring through the book time and again reveals two new facts:
- A second relatively unassuming woman appears in enough of the sketches to make you wonder if she was not traveling with the trio of Dimqu, Bragh, and Xelien. The guard had also spoken of another woman being seen with two of the group, which seems to corroborate that further.
- Though you cannot translate the words, you recognize that they are written in a much more erratic manner after the first sketch of the chain. This progresses throughout the tome until the last entry has several stuttered starts, and tears in the parchment suggestive that a number of writing implements were broken there.
It appears that the book has nothing else to share.
You are able to scavenge a number of useful items as Dewsdam is obliterated around you.
Human towns seem unnatural to one who grew up in the forest. But to those living in them, Dandelion realizes, they seem the most 'natural' places to be.
Now he sees the destruction is very similar to what is happening in the forest, and Dandelion's concern grows. Surely others must have survived? How could the Mother let this happen? How could all the gods?
Dandelion is not really interested in material goods, so he wanders around the town a bit. Seeing all the death makes him incredibly sad and depressed. After wandering around for a bit, he comes across a dog. It might be the one he saw this morning, but it's hard to tell as it has been eaten away by the rain. He shakes his head and continues on, and back to the inn where the three were taking refuge.
Entering the inn, he goes to the bar where the drink is kept, was kept, and looks for the strongest thing they have. Not sure which it is, he picks something randomly and pours a drink for himself, and for the other two if they want. He downs it in one gulp and pours himself another.
Cal gives a sigh of disappointment at the sight of Dewsdam, it was talked about but the bard had a small hope that the city was still going to be intact.
Wondering into the remains of the local shop, he starts looking for better armor, as the leather he was wearing wasn't going to last long. After moving a pile of melted wood, other rubble, and Glendia's corpse with brought a feeling of disgust at touching her. She had been quite attractive once, her current fate hadn't done her any favors.
With a sigh that threatened to turn into a sob at the last few days Calvoric bows his head in grief for a few moments. Glenda been the one who had pursued the half-orc instead of the other way around, when he had first gotten into town, Cal had turned her down as he didn't know how long he would have been in town.
Pushing off the regreat, he managed to find what he was looking for, a shirt made of chainmail and a better cloak along with a change of clothing for the others.
Finally leaving, Cal shuts the door, stalking to the local temple, looking for vials of holy water. With a half hearted search Cal finds a box containing only two intact vials. With a sigh Cal takes the box and shuffles back to the Gilded Wyvern, his hands aching.
Dandelion sees Cal getting better clothes and gear. He shrugs, and decides if he is going to keep going, he may as well get rid of his old things. He searches for a new, clean cloak, and other clothes but other than the cloak, finds nothing that fits him.
Not knowing the fate of others, in the spire city for instance, Dandelion grabs some gold and platinum from those who no longer need it. He also takes a few bottles of distilled spirits and puts them in his pack.
Sitting in the tavern and drinking, he starts to carve some wood.
At the site of Dewsdam slowly burning to the ground, Grendel's heart sank. The druid hadn't really expected anyone to be alive, being confronted by the horrible reality of it was another thing all together. The smell of burning flesh rose over the stench of the rain and pestilent corpses. The smell wrapped itself around the half-orc prince, clawing at his nostrils, searing into his brain. The site of the bodies twisted in pain as they had burned was something he wished he had the misfortune to lay his eyes upon.
Grimly, the druid searches for things to help their odds of survival. Grendel was considering himself somewhat fortunate. At least he didn't really know anybody from the devastated town. He could only imagine what Cal was feeling at the moment. The druid was fairly certain that the bard had been staying in town for a while before Dandelion and himself had shown up. Mis-matched moving over the ruins, he rubs the healing holes in his hands to ease the pain. Not that it worked overly well.
Lingering in the remains of the healer's home, Grendel looks around for healing supplies, and just about anything else that he thought that they might need. The druid feels rather like a ghoul searching through the house. He was completely aware that the dead certainly didn't care about what he was doing with their former possessions. It just felt a bit.., off. Perhaps since he knew that they had all been alive a short time ago.
Looking a few more of the not fully destroyed buildings, Grendel lingers for a few moments in the presence of a slain family. They had been flash burned while eating a meal. Sighing, the half-orc leaves and goes to checking outdoor cold cellers. He doesn't really expect to find anything alive, but it was worth a checking. Grendel makes his way to the lifeless shell of the inn. He nods to the others when he enters.
"Miserable place. I wasn't expecting to see anyone alive, but having it thrown in my face is another thing all together. Looking at Dandelion, Grendel walks over to the bar and takes the offered glass. He sniffs at the rotgut and takes a half-hearted shot. Coughing, he walks around the bar and runs a noble's eye of the selection. Frowning, he spies a bottle of wine that looks very promising. He also grabs two bottles of much better tasting spirits.
"Don't get drunk, we still have a lot of ground to cover. If the cult is responsible for this..., blight of sun and land, then spirits know what else we might encounter," Grendel walks to a nearby table and sets his scavenged supplies down. "Those are much better spirits then what you had grabbed. Seriously, I think that stuff is used for polishing armor, not drinking. Use it if you need to start a fire."
Thinking for a few seconds, he pours himself and the others a half shot each of the much higher quality spirits.
"Don't drink too much, this is for sipping. We shouldn't really touch it all, given the stress our bodies have endured. This is more for mental health," the half-orc grins at his friends. "On a more unpleasant note, if the other city still has living people in it, we're going to need gold. So, we should look around in here for that, assuming that it hasn't been done already."
Sodden ash chokes everything staining everything a uniform grey.
In the small hours the dismal rain tapers and is choked off. Prior to the cessation of the despoiled rain you were restless under the cacophony of thunder, strange noises and movements in the distance, and the constant threat of death by lightning.
You find no reprieve in sleep due to the immediate onslaught of your nightmares: The dead dominate your dreams, but as withered shadows of their former selves writhing in eternal agony, their mouths open in silent screams. Amongst those you have met, and those you have loved, is a barrage of fleeting images of paper-thin amorphous creatures fashioned of a grey transparent material haunt your dreams.
More than once in the night you wake up screaming, ragged breaths gasping for air, your skin crawling with sweat, and your eyes wide with fright.
Each night is like this, and you grow more and more exhausted with the passage of days. Within days there are moments of waking sleep where you will stumble to your knees momentarily oblivious to what had transpired, but even in those moments of repose the nightmares await.
While your other wounds are healing the ones on your hands show no sign of getting better. Working them too hard causes the wounds to open once again, and makes you immediately regret the motion.
An unnatural fog crawls across the land, its tendrils hungrily eating up the land and obliterating what few plants and animals that remain.
Dandelion's hands are a problem. He uses his hands for everything, almost, and their condition is not getting better. He looks for some gloves, digging through winter clothes in various homes' storage.
He first thinks he can get some herbs, but quickly realizes nothing fresh is available. Then he remembers that townsfolk are good at preserving things. Herbs are often dried and then wrapped in cloth, or put in a jar. And, essential oils are extracted and kept in small vials. So he goes looking for herbs and extracts, sniffing everything until he finds some appropriate herbs. Geranium oil, Goldenseal, and Comfrey salve are three he knows townsfolk in Cruor River, at least, knew about.
His thought is to wrap the hands with poultices with those ingredients, and put the gloves over them, removing all or part of the fingers if necessary. It should reduce direct contact of the injuries with everyday things, and give them a better chance to heal. He also tries to channel his healing magic in different ways, seeing if it can be used to better effect on the same injuries. This is all on his own hands, and on those of the others, if they will let him.
Dandelion thinks they should try going to the city of the spires, after trying to decipher the book.
Looking over his gather supplies before they left the relative safety of the ruined inn, Grendel looks at his hands. The young druid's sleep had been tormented by nightmares. Reliving the short time spent as the vampires blood doll had been magnified by his cruel mind. This time they hadn't been able to free themselves. He watched as the undead creature slowly pulled out the organs and supped on them. They had been pinned there, unable to die. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, Grendel focus at his task at hand.
Peeling of the rags he had used to bind them with his teeth, the druid finds the bottle of rotgut left on the counter. He looks at the savage holes in his hands with a trained healer's eye. The wounds were serious, and were going to take time to heal. Fortunately, he did have stronger healing magics he could add, in place of months of recovery.
Pulling what he needs from the Healer's kit, using both hands to avoid bending his fingers. The druid is more or less using his fingertips like tongs. Grendel lays out the bandages and ointments that he will need for what he is planning to do. 'This is going to sting a bit,' the druid thinks to himself as he double checks everything. A faint look of amusement crosses over his face as he picks up the bottle using both of his hands.
First off, he soaks four smaller pads of bandage with the alcohol. Ignoring how clumsy he feels trying to pour with his damaged hands, Grendel mentally preps himself for the next part. Setting the bottle near the edge of the table, he tips it over so that it's contents pour over his hands. Muttered curses slip past his gritted teeth as the potent alcohol washes out the holes in his hands. He could swear he heard the wounds sizzling as the rotgut worked it's "magic".
The amount of filth, both dirt and dried blood and pus that came free was heartening, although intensely painful, not to mention disgusting. 'Not as bad as pulling them off a spike,' Grendel thinks, gently blowing on the wounds. He had to blink rapidly to keep his mis-matched eyes from tearing up. The half-orc consoled himself that pouring the rotgut over his hands was better than scrubbing the holes clean with a cloth. The thought of an abrasive cloth running thought his hands left a shudder dancing up his spine.
The rest of putting the bandages together was a little time consuming but not horribly painful. Grendel put the ointment and alcohol soaked pads to cover the hole, using his pointing and middle fingers. Using a slightly comical placement of fingertips, teeth, and the edge of the Healer's Kit, Grendel is successful in bandaging his hands. Looking over his wrapped and padded hands, Grendel nods to himself. It wasn't perfect, but he felt it looked pretty damn good. He had left enough room for his fingers to wiggle for when he needed to cast magics.
Grendel realizes that the others had woken up and had probably been up for a while. He saw that Dandelion was working on his own wounded hands. The other half-orc seems to know what he is doing, Grendel gets the impression that Dandelion has had some healers training. Of that, the druid was very glad. He offers what aid he can to Dandelion, and mentions that the gloves were an excellent idea. The druid looks over to Cal and motions with his head for the Bard to come over.
Taking his time, not too mention being much more careful with his hands, Grendel cleans Cal's wounded hands with another bottle of potent rotgut. Between the three half-orcs, the Healer's Kit that Grendel had scavenged from Jyr's house was pretty much used up. The remaining bandages, he put with own kit. Gently, the druid shifts the small bag that held Ichi's bones. The druid had cast a simple spell that reduced the monkey's body to bones. Grendel didn't want to bury his friend in that place.
Before they had left, Grendel had used some of the more powerful healing rituals that he knew. The moderately powerful healing spell had laced his hands with a familiar green-white glow. The glow had been stronger, rather than a ghostly appearance. Explaining that he channel so much of Nature's gift at a given time, the druid will trade healing between Cal and Dandelion.
Nagrish's wounds, were not as horrible as Grendel had thought at first. Once the blood and mud had been cleaned off, the druid could see that the cat was well on his way to being fine. 'Of course, he wasn't staked to a wall,' Grendel thinks as he examines the big desert cougar. The cat looks at him with his piercing blue and "murrs," nuzzling the druids cheek. Grendel was a little surprised by the cat's show of affection. He had been expecting a clawless swat to the face.
The memory of the ruined Dewsdam had retreated in his mind as they traveled. Rest brought no real comfort, for the nightmares that he (and the other two) suffered were unrelenting. His time just seemed to blur together between awake and not awake. If they even bothered to sleep anymore, Grendel couldn't tell. All he could do was keep moving towards the city that held the spires. Grendel was beginning to think that it had never existed in the first place. Or perhaps it did, but since they had died and ended up in the hells, they were going to be wandering around this dying, blighted land for all of eternity.
Making up for the lack of change between night and day, Grendel picked a time he called "morning" to preform his meditations. The druid had to spend time centering himself to regain his magics so that he could keep up the healing schedule. Not to mention it was perhaps one of the few things that was keeping him in the realm of sane.
The disgusting unnaturalness of what the blight had brought sickened Grendel to his core. The lack of the sun's caress, the play of the wind, sounds of life dancing in the background din, was soul crushing to the druid. He had retreated deep with in his mind, falling silent. Nagrish keep close by his side, glancing around them at things they could not see nor hear. The desert cat was clearly not enjoying trekking through the blighted land.
Cal sighs at the lack of mobility in his hands, hoping that magic would speed along the healing process, he starts to Sing the new Song that he had heard playing in the back of his mind, letting the words of the Song flow over his wounds, directing the flow over to his hands.
Calvoric had to hope that the magic fueled by the Song would help, he also wrapped them in clean bandages (after another minor Song). He knew that he could get by with a lower motor control on his hands for a little while but not forever.
Once the power of the Song had expended itself, the bard looks at the book, starting a new chant to try and break the language of the book itself, attempting to see if any new meaning could be gleaned from the words of the book.
While the Song was still working on the book Cal also, looked over the slippers again, getting the final act ready to peer intently at the slippers, hoping to break through the meaning of the hidden Aura around them.
Finally after all that time, Cal registers Grendal's words, and slammed the shot that the druid had poured for the three of them. With a quiet sigh after the pleasing burn of the whiskey, Cal says " I think we should stay here as little as possible, let us get some rest and move on to the city, if their is no one alive, I suggest we raid the bringers of the divine for healing and protection magics. After all if our hands are not recovering, then we have little choice but to scavenge what we need to try and reverse the effects of the blight."
Cal stops, turning the events of the last month or so in his mind before saying " If and this is a big IF, we are able to find nothing that will help us figure this out, then we will be forced to search the ruined church. Otherwise I don't know what else we can do, if the death cult did this and we three are the only ones left alive, crippled unable to fight..." Cal trails off. This had been a very bad week, at it looks like it would only be getting worse. with a sigh, the bard also copies the other two in at least wrapping up his hands, as the art of healing wasn't the bard's forte.
The lack of sleep wasn't useful either, Cal wonders what if the farther they get away from the area that rest might be obtained. Cal kept up humming, trying to keep himself going by bringing Songs to the others.
"Day" and "night" are but concepts, for you have no way to track either....if there is even a sun anymore. Perhaps it was snuffed, like a giant candle.
Holding your hands up provides a gruesome window through your flesh to the world beyond.
Dandelion's makeshift unguent provides significant relief from his injuries, and greatly speed the rate of healing from never to months of healing. Grendel's alcoholic libation-based ministrations are equally successful in cleaning out the two half-orc's wounds and preparing them for potentially months of healing. Calvoric's healing magics speed the healing of his wounds as well, taking them from horrific to something a bit more palatable. Each half-orc treats the surface injuries, but beneath lies much more serious wounds. If they are to regain the lost functioning both in mobility, and feeling, then they will need much stronger regenerative magics, lest their hands are destined to be loped off.
The bar of the Gilded Wyvern is a mess of pooling blood, whiskey, pus, and all manner of bandages.
Magical energies emanate from the bard and enwrap themselves around the tome, providing Calvoric with a great deal of information at once....perhaps too much, he throws himself backwards, stumbling to the ground with wide eyes fixed upon the place where the tome lays. His words are absolute nonsense for a time; the entire manner of which is very familiar. It takes time but he slowly regains his calm, understanding how close he came to his mind breaking. He cannot think of what he saw for more than a half a heartbeat before he feels himself falling into madness once again.
There is a memory there, that he knows is of crucial importance, if he is willing to expose himself to the paradoxical elements of hysteria for a time.
Dandelion consults with Grendel to try to spread the knowledge both ways to improve their healing, and wrap their hands so that they are somewhat usable while still being encouraged to heal better. He offers the others poultices that he had used on himself.
When Cal does his thing with the book, he looks to see if he is all right. It seems the book has had a profound effect on him.
"I agree, we should go soon. Did you find any useful information?"
In the evening he drinks a little too much, but he figures it's fine as long as they are ready to leave in the morning. He tells the others of his mother, the giant, and of his blood mother (what little he knows), who lives, or lived, rather, nearby in Cruor River. His phrases are typically short and simple. He had no family, even before all this.
Dandelion asks Grendel and Cal about their families, and hopes they have somehow escaped this destruction.
" I... Might... Have... Something.." Cal says slowly " All I can say right now is the price is going to be high, if I can give what we need then I will however, if the effects of remembering is too high and the price that I will pay is to great, then end it for me." Cal says, not waiting for an answer, the bard sends his mind into madness once more.
Grendel listens to Dandelion's story intently. There wrote few the half-orc prince considers to friends. Fewer if the blight was world wide. His questions were being organized when Cal suddenly throes the time, and begins to speak gibberish.
All to familiar gibberish. Grendel shudders as he moves to help the bard back to his feet. Seeing that he recovered, the druid nods to Cal.
"Let me spun a tale while you recover," Grendel says with a grin.
Everything is smothering smoke and ash around you forcing you to wear cloths over your mouths and nostrils.
You can see but a short distance due to the eternal darkness.
Plants and animals rot, having partaken of tainted food sources, or suffered much more nefarious departures from the mortal coil. The dead are strewn about, like a child bored of its toys. So much meat rotting, flies fill the air, a chorus of feeding.
___
Within your night mares dull clouds of poisonous confusion...burning your senses...distorting your perceptions...hanging by a wrist over an inferno of fire, smoke and horrible creatures...you smell your shackles cutting into your flesh...drawing blood...smoke smothers you...coughing...vision blurred...starting to fade out...darkness....cold stone chills where you lay upon it.
Not a single restful night awaits you.
Your very subconscious rails against the freedom it has been provided, immersing you in horrific nightmares consisting of insane ramblings and images too horrific to behold. You awake in a cold sweat panting and screaming after only a few hours.
Insomnia is your norm.
____
Calvoric peaks behind the thin curtain that stands between normalcy and the gibbering maelstrom of insanity. Though it is but a glimpse, looking any longer makes him question whether he will ever return, as staring into such dissonance leaves its effects.
All means of communication are blocked, including song, sketches, and anything else he might consider. To him his actions and words are spoken in the easily-understood Common tongue of the realms, but the confusion that plays across the faces of his two companions suggests that they understand none of it.
His words are gibberish as he attempts to explain what he has seen, providing him a profound insight into the nightmare that Xelien and Dimqu had experienced: to have seen a glimpse of the horrors to come, and not be able to convey the information to others.
An eternity passes for Dandelion and Grendel as their companion continues with insane ramblings for the better part of the night. Eventually a word or two slips forth that they understand, which slowly transitions into normal speech.
He is unable to remember the specifics of what the words had portended, though information is emblazoned on his very heart and he can speak freely of it.
An ancient, slithering evil dwells within a previously unknown land beyond the shadow chains, and it is feeding on the essence of goodly and lowly creatures from beyond the known world who are battling it even now
As a child, Dandelion had complained to his parents only when things were really, really bad. His Mama would fuss over him only if he was on his deathbed; otherwise she would tell him to get up and about. His Papa was even more practical - he ignored Dandelion until he was able to be functional again.
Now, in the misery he shares with Cal and Grendel, his hands have grievous injuries under their bandages, he has barely slept and wishes for a dry and acid-free spot anywhere on the forest floor (which is not available), and the very air is foul, causing him to feel nauseous. Since these afflictions are shared, there is nobody to complain to. Even the monkey Ichi, who taught him to understand monkeys, is not there to hear his complaints, sadly.
Dandelion pouts and almost curses Mother Nature, but the respect he was taught for her is still stronger, and he holds the curses back. Add frustration to the list of afflictions. Not being able to blame anyone or even complain, Dandelion has never felt worse. At one point, in what might be morning, he goes stomping off and smashes some remnants of the buildings with his flail. It might have been more satisfying had someone cared about what he was destroying. It's not satisfying at all, so he comes back and downs a drink of something he finds in the inn.
Now he recalls the dreams once more, and the look Cal had when he finally stood and spoke in the understandable human tongue. He says to Cal, finally, "I do not want you to go mad; but if you can speak of what you read, speak."
Cal gives a groan, shaking his head trying to feign like he is clearing his head he fully reaches this world that the three of them were occupying. No that wasn't right, this 'reality' was the word he was really looking for.
"Gahk!" Cal spits on the ground, " I wouldn't recommend looking through the book." His eyes managing to twinkle with merriment although as tired as Calvoric was, he knew that the others would be just as tired, if not more so.
" Hell's bells, I've found a little bit out, or at least what little I can remember. I know the cause of the blight, but it isn't on this realm. 'Tis old, and 'Tis bleeding the life, nay souls of everything that is good. The cult I believe is only the tool or weapon, at least it is an instrument of the Nemesis." Cal stops speaking his eyes widening at Grendal's friend, trying to swallow some of his fear, the bard closes his eyes, not moving.
"Its a parasite!" Grendel exclaims. He had weathered Cal's.., episode fairly well. Mostly, by keeping calm, and trying to avoid thinking that the bard had lost his mind.
"A giant thing that feeds off of the realms like a monsterous tick," the druid says, momentarily animated. A madman's grin pulls his tusked lips apart. "That means we can do something."
The druid enthusiasm melts quickly.
"We just have to figure out some way to poison it at it's feeding points."
As the rain and area of blight around the chain has scribed upon your very soul with an oily indelible ink, so too has the words on the tome done something similar to Calvoric's psyche.
"We should go. Bring the book. We should be away from this place." Dandelion feels they need to leave, to walk, to act. Anything would be better than staying any longer, he feels.
He gets his pack together, and brings along a piece of canvas to cover his head and his backpack.
He looks at Grendel, and asks, "How can we poison it when we do not know what might kill it?"
Cal shivered for a few seconds trying not to yelp at the thought of seeing the couger, focusing on his breathing. That book had brought it's own kind of 'fun' the glimpses into what was causing this blight. The price to be paid was sanity, which is never over rated.
Cal could remember dimly when things hadn't been so terrible, but it felt like a half remembered dream. The bard had a sinking feeling, that no aid was ever going to come except for what the three of them were going to manufacture. Absent minded, Cal sings another Song of healing towards his hands.
" Well this trip is going to be the pinicle of fun and excitement." Cal's caustic humor bubbling to the surface, sighing, he shuts the time with a toe, then mutters a few words, and the book lifts off the ground and into his open pack.
" Now what were we talking about before I went off to madness land?" He finishes with a smile
"How to poison it would take knowledge greater than my own, certainly," the druid says. Thinking for a second, he pulls the tattered feather from the multi-winged creature. "Perhaps the people that fight it might know."
Tapping his cheek with the feather, Grendel notes that Cal seems to be scared of Nagrish. That was puzzling to the druid. While the cat wasn't particularly friendly, he had barely acknowledged the bards existence.
"I was getting ready to the a tale of my younger years in my homeland."
Taking care to avoid putting strain on his hands, Grendel finishes tying on the poncho he had made for Nagrish. He almost chuckles at the thought of what he must look like, tightened the rope with his fingertips and teeth. The desert cougar on the other paw, was clearly not amused (but he rarely was). Grendel had to speak with the animal, explaining that the smelly rain was not good for the cat. Grudging, he agrees to the poncho, growling softly as it is put in place.
After placing the battered feather back into his pocket, Grendel slips into his own poncho. It was little more than a light sheet of leather, that he had cut so that his cloaked head could poke through. He hoped it would help to keep the worst of the blighted rain off of him and his gear. At least it would give him a place to shelter his hands from the rain. The throbbing coming from his savaged hands agrees with the half-orc.
"Before I launch into my tale, I would like to point out something. So far, insects haven't been dying off. Just anything else larger has been wiped out. Except for us for some reason," Grendel shudders at the thought of the three of them being the only people alive. "I don't really understand what that means, if anything. But it is food for thought. Perhaps like the insect life, we have been tainted somehow by this "Nemesis's" initial arrival. More terrifyingly, we could have been infected somehow by the vampires undead taint, so we might be a sort of invisible." The druid pauses as he double checks his gear, trying to appear calm. The thought of undeath was particularly uncomfortable to the druid.
"More than likely, we're to insignificant to even be noticed, which is probably a really good thing for us," Grendel falls silent as he stares without seeing out of an ash and blighted rain splattered window.
It is difficult to navigate, since entire towns have been all but obliterated, the thick and unnatural fog obscures any chance of consistently seeing landmarks and hides things that tangle your feet, forests razed, and there are no stars, sun, or even a horizon.
The road before you is paved with the corpses of innocents.
Scavengers, those with carapaces and those tiny befurred quadrupeds, are drawn to the death and decay, flitting freely back and forth to take part in their sumptuous repast.
It is difficult to know how long or far you have traveled, without the guidance of the sun, which forces you to place reliance on your hunger as an unreliable guide. 3 meals have been eaten, libations provided by magic as that is the only potable source of water you have found, and the only meat you have found has been rotting corpses.
Without preamble lightning flickers in the distance, somehow too dark and dull to be natural. A heartbeat later, thunder rips through the air. 5 hours of being doused by foul rain leads to the storm moving away from you.
Blisters and torn flesh are the norm, as you sodden clothing rubs your skin raw, which is further exacerbated by the poisonous rain and fog. Your hands appear to be getting worse with increased loss of movement and sensitivity. Your pain is lessened, which appears to be a blessing until you realize it is because the tissue it dying. Your water-pruned flesh puckers around the wound, where it is scarily pale.
You have done the best you can navigation-wise, but you find yourself far afield from where you expected when reach the roaring banks of the River Ibey. It has likely been far more than 12 hours since you set out, since your stomach growls for more sustenance. Torpor is your norm, as your energy is bled away with each step, fully knowing there is no reprieve awaiting you in slumber. You have perhaps added another 10 miles to your journey, which shows a great deal of navigational acumen considering how difficult it is to maintain a heating. Momentarily waving aside the mist reveals the water to have occasional tendrils of green-black mist.
There is no high ground in this place, leaving you to lay down on the sodden ground.
You will move much quicker when you wake, since following the river upstream probably 30-35 miles will take you to Muaem.
Moving makes Dandelion finally hungry. He tried the gruel provided by the magic spoon... Having lived in the forest, he's had worse. Sometime one had to make do with whatever was there, when other, better food was not available. He eats his fill and hands it off to the next person who wants it, satisfied, at least, at the sustenance.
The darkness is overwhelming and disheartening. Dandelion fights it by making a light, using magic that still works, amazingly. The light provides a cool and unnatural comfort in the darkness. If it attracts something, well, that would be a change at least.
Having found the river gives some comfort, as it provides direction, even if the water is most foul. They slog on until they can walk no more, and they rest until they can neither travel nor rest, but only sleep.
Looking at the pestilence flowing in the river with a frown, Grendel raises his mis-matched eyes to examine their surroundings. A slightly annoyed glance was shot at the light source that Dandelion had conjured up. It was seemed to help the big half-orc to deal with the unending night, so the druid didn't say anything. Not to mention the light kept messing with his natural darkvision, giving him a headache from eyestrain.
The druid finds himself thinking of there final moments in Dewsdam, huddled in the ruins of the inn. They had been going through the final checks on gear and supplies when Grendel had spoken up.
"I also have druidic magics that I can use to help aid us. Besides the healing magics. I know of a ritual that I can use that will feed us once we sleep," Grendel remembers explaining. "The Dreamfeast will sustain us though you had been at actual feast. Something I could use every other day, since we have the spoon. Also, the more powerful of my healing magics will be used on the damage to our hands. Now, I can't fix them," he had shaken his head rather grimly. "However, I can pretty much force the skin to heal so that they'll be more akin to pierced ears, rather than open wounds. There will still be the big holes, I don't have the power to regenerate all of torn tendons and ligaments."
The noise of the Ibey River snaps his attention back to the present. Grendel had spun a ritual of druidic magic that acted up his innate wild instincts. The effect had been rather dramatic, surprising the druid. Even though he felt ill, drained, and raw in places from his soaking gear, his senses felt almost hyper alert.
"Dandelion, when we get ready to rest, can you see if any of us are poisoned? If so, I can prepare something to drive it out of our bodies," Grendel says quietly, looking at the larger half-orc. "I plan on doing the same to make sure we are not diseased as well." His eyes slid over to the magic light source. "That is really not a good idea. If there is anything around, like say more vampires, that's pretty much screaming "dinner time," to whatever sees it," a tired grin finds purchase on the druid tusked face for a few moments. "Besides, we're half-orcs, we don't need light to see, that's a problem for humans."
You have all been poisoned, and are diseased as well.
A handful into your journey the next "morning" finds you fighting for each step against the storm that came in during the small hours.
Howling wind surges against you screaming in your ears, as driving rain slashes exposed flesh.
Exhaustion has long since stolen the fine warrior’s edge of your attention, and though it is probable that you would be caught unawares by the ambush, you catch a high-pitched scream, which orients you to the three creature’s movements in time to raise your defences and even launch the first blows.
They each stand knee deep in the frothing waters of the River Ibey, having stood in something approaching unison to launch their javelins the approximately 20' between you.
This creature’s python-thick apish arms and stumpy legs conspire to drag its dirty knuckles through the wet grass and mud. The stooped 10' tall giant blinks its dim eyes and an excess of soupy drool spills over its bulbous lips. Its misshapen features resemble a man’s face rendered in watercolour, then distorted by a careless splash. It snarls as it charges, a sound the offspring of bear and man might make, showing flat black teeth well suited for grinding bones to paste.
A gang of ogres.
Across the river are two giant sacks with contents that squirm and emit screams.
Cal had been telling tales about his childhood, the various cities that the Last Free Marches had been traveling around for years. Cal avoided talking about the low times, being run out of town for being a half-orc, only touching base on some of the lean times.
The bard was tired, so tired that he almost didn't know that they were under attack. With a groan Cal touches the inner fire inside his core being. Stoking the fire, he draws the power of the magic, infusing it into his sword that he draws with a grunt, in grade stance protecting hid body as he casts a spell of protection.
Cal, his sword glowing with a glowing crimson color and a light green glow around his body moves forward and takes a swing at the ogre and spits at his face. Cal uses the ogre's bulk to shield himself from the two javelin throwers.
"Ah'll rip out her throat within my teeth!" Cal says, no longer caring about the weakness he was feeling, glad to finally have something to vent his rage, at the last few weeks.
The Previous "Night"
"Well, to start off with, allow me to formerly introduce myself to my newest friends. I am Prince Grendel Varax Kunndas, twenty-eighth of thirty-three sons in line for the throne of the Merchant-King Trak'Vull Kunndas. I'm from the Kingdom of Narissa, lands of Desert Winds, which lies between the kingdoms of Kull'Tek and Harrakain. My father's kingdom is the peace broker between the other two countries, not to mention their center of trade. The Desert are mostly surrounded by cliff's leaving our port city as one of the few able to import and export goods through out the realm." A tired smile finds its way to the druid's face. "Needless to say, I come from a exceedingly wealthy family."
"Growing up, I literately wanted for nothing, every whim was being catered for. I did enjoy the finest tutors, and rather enjoyed my studies," a sly grin steals across his face. "Shortly upon my voice dropping, I picked up a rather fierce interest in..., carnal education. It's good to be the prince," Grendel chuckles. "My more academic learning's may have suffered, but I was gaining a sage like wisdom in anatomy and proper etiquette involving coupling with multiple parties. Now that I think about it, I kept my personal healer rather busy." Grendel's mis-matched eyes are distant, bits of memories sparking to life for a moment or two before fading back out.
"This went on for, oh, let's call it a fair number of years. Thanks to a charm that we were given, I wasn't fathering an army of bastards. All though, I did find out later that was the running joke from my guards," the druid snorts in amusement at the memory. "But some of my antics ended up complicating an arrangement that my father was making, so at that point Father did have to take note of the trouble I was getting myself into. Apparently, I very much take after my father in the regards to our.., let's call it, randiness." He pauses for a moment, carefully taking a small pull from the half full bottle of spirits that he had taken before passing it over.
"I'm pretty certain that Father was amused more than angered, he looked like he was trying to keep from laughing when he "sentenced" me. I was to be sent to study with the druids that guarded the desert lands, " Grendel shrugs his shoulders slightly. "Since it was the Master Druid's grand daughter I had slept with, oh, don't give me that look, she was older by several years, they felt it brought about a balance. Besides, she hated living in the desert, and had wanted to live in the city for years. Arranged marriages are fun like that."
"I thought that I had been sentenced to the worst, hottest level in the hells that there was. No servants, no one out to share my bedroll, no being hand fed by a naked serving girl, I had but the clothes on my back and some supplies. It was in the weeks of travel to the druid's oasis, when I was pretty much let to fend for myself, that I realized I felt alive, for perhaps the first time in my life," the druid pauses for a moment, his eyes distant once more. "Now, I don't want to give you the impression that I was along on the trek to the oasis, I never would have made past the front gate of the capital. There were other druid there to guide me to the oasis. The catch was, they really, really, really didn't like me at the time," Grendel smirks. "Not that I can blame them, I was horribly spoiled at the time and something of a brat."
"They did not make my live easy during the journey to the oasis, that's for certain. Perhaps it was considered to be a trail of sort, to see if I would even be allowed entry to their sacred grounds," he looks at Nagrish for a few moments. "One of them thought it would be good to to charm a cougar and have it stalk me for several days. The charm didn't work, because I heard him start screaming from where he was walking several hundred yards away," a rather cold expression creeps into his gold and green orbs as he looks into the rumbling black storm off in the distance.
"I bounced a stone of the back of Nagrish's head, which kept him from finishing tearing off Sangit's face. Downside being, I had an angry cougar looking at me for dinner," Grendel shakes his head, thinking back on the event that helped to define the start of his new life. "I'm still not really sure how it happened, but I remember freezing like a mouse caught in a viper's gaze. The next thing I know, I'm flat on my back in the sand, and his claws are hooked into my ribs and his fangs are just breaking the skin of my neck. I felt.... serene. Perhaps it was the will of the Desert Spirits, but Nagrish let go of my throat and stared at me for, I don't know how long."
"The others that were guiding me finally arrived and found Nagrish sitting next to me. He has replaced my shadow ever since then, which is some amusing, because, I don't think he likes me," the druid chuckles. "Last time we chatted, I exist to get him foodstuffs, or to scratch places." As if to confirm this, Nagrish lifts his head and makes a low grumble growling sound. "See what I mean? I get no respect," Grendel shakes his head as if sad, though the druid's grin says otherwise.
The Next "Morning"
Trying to not curse himself out for trying to scrounge up a tent, or some other type of shelter from Dewsdam, Grendel blinks his eyes blearily. He would kill for some Kahlah, or even some of the stronger imported coffee's would have been perfect. 'Then again, I would kill to not have the damned holes in my damned hands,' Grendel thinks bitterly. Shutting out the death and disease that fills the air, the young druid fends off a deepening sense of despair that threatened to rot away his will. It was difficult to fight off, the feeling that they were being watched, mayhaps even hunted kept chipping away at his resolve.
Although it takes Grendel a little longer than normal to clear his thoughts, the druid does slip into his meditations. He needed to focus on a few different rituals, since he was planning on using the Dreamfeast on the four of them today. The disease and poison, he wasn't as sure about as he had claimed the previous day. Eyes opening once he completes the ancient druidic ritual of mediation, Grendel looks around as they get ready to head out.
The knowledge that the three were both poisoned and diseased, was both frightening, but not surprising. The walked in the place where death ran rampant with the ability for life to renew itself. The very land was being drained of life. The fact that they remained alive was.., puzzling to the druid. It threaten to consume his waking thoughts, why the three of them? What could they possibly do to help anyone, let alone the very earth they stood upon? 'We can't even take care of ourselves,' comes the bitter thought.
So lost in his thoughts, that the young prince doesn't even notice the ogre's, even with the aid of his enhanced wild instinct. He is startled out of his black thoughts by Nagrish's snarl cutting through the river noise. Jerking his head up, the druid's eyes narrow as he takes in the scene.
Words older then the time man has spent upright spring to his lips. Energy crackles through his veins, dancing within his infected blood as the magic gains in strength. The natural magic builds in force, as if eager to find retribution for the blight. With druidic word and focused will, Grendel selects the first ogre slashing in the river. His voice rising in strength and volume, there is a sudden crack that rumbles through the the black, cloud filled sky above them.
With the anger of Nature backing the spell, lightning rips from the clouds, sizzling with desire to obliterate. It seeks the ogre as though he was a lightning rod stuck in a knee deep pond.
Dandelion thanks Grendel for his story. He had heard few stories as a young one, and few more as a youth in Cruor River. "I have heard few tales of princes, and none of those places you mentioned. They are across the sea?"
----------------
The walking is hard, but Dandelion feels satisfied that at least they are going somewhere, and doing something. Small animals have survived, and the three half-orcs, so it seems likely others who were perhaps sheltered during the storm of fire and acid may have come out alive as well.
As they walk, on their occasional breaks, he tends to his wounds, and helps the others with theirs. Alcohol, herbal poultices, and an occasional spell where necessary, would hopefully help the hands heal somewhat.
The light he had used to raise his own spirits does not last long, and he does not renew it. Somehow, having a close light seems to make the darkness out there even darker. Better to make do with what they have, he realizes. A part of him had hoped the light would have drawn some creatures to them, even hostile ones, but none were there to see it.
Thus, it is with some surprise and even joy that he sees the large humanoids in the river. Someone survived! He is unsure, even, if they should fight them, but the others seem sure; Grendel even bringing lightning down upon one of them! Feeling tired and weak still, Dandelion decides not to attack them in the river, opting to stay on shore and even taking a step back, away from the ugly creatures.
Instead, he merely voices a Murderous Command at one of them (but not the subject of Grendel's lightning) to attack its brother next to him (or sister, as the case may be). Then he takes his flail up into his hand.
Calvoric prepares for battle, an invisible shield of force hovering before him and his longsword dripping energy.
Amplified by the storm's fury the lightning nearly blinds everyone, leaving an afterimage as a reminder of nature's fury. The ogre tries to move, but the onrushing water slows its movements too much and for a split second you see the bones 'neath its flesh. A large slash of charred flesh appears from the ogre's shoulder to nipple, and the monster screams in pain.
The other two ogres get a momentary start as the electricity disperses within the river, comically holding the ogre's hair aloft.
Dandelion feels his spell start to take purchase, but then shatter into nothingness as it seeks purchase with the ogre's feeble intellect. The oracle can feel how tantalizingly close he came to taking control of the monster.
3 javelins fill the air, they are followed by an ogre each as they throw off great volumes of water to cross the expanse before them. They scream "Fare Tre Kjott!" as they advance.
The first javelin comes in with impossible force, but the bard does not blink as he trusts in his spell, and the wood shatters into kindling just before Calvoric. All is darkness, save for the red glow coming from the half-orc's sword and its reflection in its masters eyes and smile. Spittle crosses the expanse between the magic wielder and the ogre, emphasizing the young half-orc's point far better than words might.
Dandelion understands the giant's war cry as "danger three meat" as the javelin finds its way into his thigh, tearing a deep puncture as it partially protrudes out the back of his leg. Dark blood burbles out from the wound as the oracle tears it free.
Grendel's movements had been tracked perfectly and the javelin sinks deep into his chest, flashing blood into his throat, and making it difficult to breathe properly. His concentration on his offensive spell washes away like blood from an inn's entryway.
The ogres are now close enough that you can smell their fetid breath, and observe matted clumps of hair sticking to the monstrous clubs they each wield.
Dandelion's mother's face flashes before him as the Giantish words are formed on the mouth of one of the ogres. He remembers the way the humans treated her - it was anything but fair and just, and perhaps that was because of the likes of these. The reputations of giants and ogres were borne of their cruelty and strength, and his mother had been the exception rather than typical.
Dandelion readies his shield for the onslaught, and takes another step back.
The spell he had tried had failed, but he feels so close that he tries it once more, carefully so as not to frivol away his defensive stance, giving the same command to the one before him in the hopes it will disembowel its brother rather than Dandelion. He adds his own words, in the giants' own tongue, to fan the flames of wroth suspicion. "Your brother just gave you the Evil Eye. I would not put up with that!"
Dandelions steps back and brings forth his magic once again, this time utilizing the hours of training he had received to be able to do so without dropping his guard, it envelops the ogre who had struck him, causing the creature to blink a few times, shake its head and cock it's head to look at the ogre next to it with an expression that is far from friendly.
It rears its greatclub, little more than a slightly modified tree it had torn out of the ground, back and prepares for betrayal.
Grendel takes a few steps back, hoping to avoided being clubbed down.
Giving the command, Nargrish leaps into the fray from where he had been crouched down, near the druid.
Concentrating, the druid brings down another bolt of lightning on the one he had struck before.
Calvoric let's out a mocking laugh, saying g the Eldrich words of power once again this time keeping his sword in guard position long enough to send the spell out through his hands. His final chant of the words end with "Fuego." The spell hits the ogres in front of the bard.
Once the spell gets free, Cal swings his sword towards one of the ogres, hoping that the burning hand injured them even more, enough that the three Half-orcs would stand a better chance Cal knew his next course of action would be singing.
Grendel's concentration on his offensive spell washes away like blood from an inn's entryway.
Claws puncture and slash through thick ogre skin, leaving long rake lines down the back of the creature's leg.
Eldrtich flames issue forth from the bard's blade, catching both his ogre, and the ogre that had attacked it, which had impaled Dandelion. Their ragged tunics catch fire, but that is not their primary concern as the longsword sweeps in a draws blood halfway to the pommel.
The greatclub's impact sounds much like what you would imagine that an axe hitting a frozen stump would look like. The pokey ends of the club come back coated in blood, and though the attacking giant shakes off the oracle's spell, the other giant is far from done with its companion.
Blows are exchanged between the two dim-witted ogres, leaving only their companion keeping his dull eyes on the party. Fat droplets of his blood roll down the back of his leg, and his upper chest is blackened, but neither of these slow the sweep of his greatclub as it sweeps down and delivers a glancing blow to the druid, but even a glancing blow is sufficient to widen Grendel's eyes.
Continuing to back away while Nagrish savages the ogre's legs, Grendel narrows his eyes once more in concentration. The druid summons another bolt down onto the ogre's head.
Heavily amplified lightning crosses the expanse in a split second, far too fast for the giant to react, acting in concert with Nagrish's savaging of the creature's lower extremities. The greatclub dips close to the ground, then is used to hold the ogre's bulk aloft. Senseless finger lose their grip on its weapon, and a moment later it finds its rest on the ground. It breathes its frothing, burbling breath at your feet.
Two giants of ogre flesh clash, their ire getting more an more intense with each strike. There is nothing that you need to do, but pick off the victor, which is easily accomplished.
The ogres provide large hide armour, greatclubs, 9 javelins and other items worth nearly 300 gold.
Crossing the raging river is difficult, especially with the storm and fog, but you are equipped with both tenacity and rope, which makes it only a matter of time.
The blood-soaked. sacks reveal a total of 7 children, the oldest perhaps 4 years old and the more babies than anything else.
You see tracks that vaguely follow the river, on the other side of the river, in the same direction you were traveling.
Dandelion sighs in relief as the third Ogre drops. He looks at Grendel and notes the seriousness of the wound, and offer some healing. He needs to only reach out and touch the wound to feed it the Mother's magics. But the wound is grievous, so he does it twice and hopes that will be enough, for now. His own wound still hurts immensely, and there may be others in need on the other side of the river.
After they have crossed the river and found the little ones, Dandelion looks at the others. What to do with a baker's half-dozen of children... He ensures the children are set free, and are protected from the rain by leather, but he's not versed in dealing with children, at all. So he tries.... "We killed the bad ogres. Where are your parents?"
And suddenly he realizes what a stupid question that is. If they were in the sack, they would have no idea where they are or where their families are.
Luckily, there are tracks, and Dandelion has some experience with those. He says to the others, "If we follow those tracks, we might find where the children are from. Hey, come back!" Suddenly he runs off to try to catch a crying toddler who has run away screaming.
Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Grendel breathlessly nods his thanks to Dandelion. Seeing the large half-orc was half-way through casting once more, the druid grips the shaft of the javelin with both of his bandaged palms. Timing it for the end of the spell, Grendel grunts in pain as he pulls out the ogre's thrown weapon. Feeling the warm healing energy infuse his body once more, Grendel coughs out a bit more blood.
"Thanks, I really needed that," he says after shakily wiping off the bloody drool from his chin with his arm. With a grunt of effort, Grendel gets back to his feet. He had sunk to his knees after the ogre had crashed the ground in front of him. He had waited until the other ogre was victorious, before unleashing lightning down on its head.
Compared to what the three had recently been through, crossing the raging river Ibey was not a soul shattering experience. Treacherous, perhaps, but pleasantly, not traumatic. 'Just a little more poison in the old body,' he thinks with a twisted grin.
Then the contents of the bloody sacks had burst forth upon the tie straps being loosened.
"Oh the spirits do have a sense of humor, don't they Nagrish?" Grendel rhetorically asks the soaked feline. A barely audible growl is his response from the desert cougar. At a glance the cat was less than pleased about his river crossing adventure. The icy look coming out of the cougar's blue eyes felt like little daggers.
"Right, Dandelion, make some light, I doubt any of them can see," he says, glancing at the ear tips of the crying children. "Actually, hide the light and than slowly reveal it bit by bit so they can adjust. I doubt they've seen light for a while," Grendel says, speaking softly. That's one of the great things about travelling with Dandelion. As long as the larger half-orc could see him, he could understand Grendel.
"Shhh.. Don't cry, its going to be alright," Grendel says, keeping his voice soft, kneeling down to be a little more at eye level. 'That's about the biggest lie of the year,' the druid thinks to himself. He waits for the light to appear before moving closer to check for injuries .
Nodding at the mention of tracks, the druid glances in the direction that they were mentioned, before turning all of his attention back to seven newest additions to their group. Grabbing his empty waterskin, the druid fills it with a simple ritual of water creation.
Dandelion asks the oldest child his or her name.
He picks up a rock and cups it in his hand, and then produces Light on it, keeping it hidden in his hand. The light could be seen coming from between his fingers. "Look!" he says, and shows the kids. He waits a little, and holds the rock in his upper bandaged hand, letting the light leak onto the ground. Gradually, he lets more light get out, keeping his hand on top of it to keep the direct light out of everyone's eyes.
"We'll take you back and try to find your homes," he tries to sound comforting but is not sure how. He recalls living in Cruor river; there was one young mother there and she spoke a different language to her baby, a high-pitched, repetitive tongue which the baby might have understood, but it was not clear if it was the case. There were some words of Common thrown in, so Dandelion was never clear what was being said.
"I am Dandelion. Like the flower, but not pretty."