Ingryd utterly pulverizes and incinerates the next shambling foe, leaving little behind to reanimate unless one was interested in creating a new unholy ooze. Gunnar's icy magic of the far north washes across a pair of the recently raised undead. The first seems to shrug off much of the magic while the second slows even further, a layer of white frost and ice covering its torn and burnt acolyte's robes. Seeing his initial target crushed beneath Ingryd's mangling maul, Quinn shifts his aim and sends a pair of hunter's arrows streaking toward the frozen zombie. The first sinks deep into the undead's chest, the barbed point emerging from the enemy's back. The second, enters its eye and because of the combined power of Quinn's bow and Gunnar's ice magic, the zombie's head simply explodes in a blast of frozen skull and brain.
Scramsax continues to circle the crash site, calling out a targeting algorithm to Luthael even as he slips his own psychic blades into the grim, empty landscape of the zombie's mind. At first the halfling's flaring pink blades find little within the blank realm to slice, dice, or otherwise bring copious amounts of destructive harm. It isn't until several long, mental miles of flight that the blade comes across a tiny green, sunlit meadow where a fluffy brown bunny hops cheerfully occasionally stopping to nibble a bit of clover.
The blades see their opportunity and instantly dive for the kill. Scythe shadows fly across the meadow, the rabbits puzzled eyes look upward and grow wide with sudden fear and realization. It's final squeak echoes forlornly across the suddenly fading mental landscape. All drifts to darkness and the swirling, underlying chaos of the void.
Back in the true world, Luthael zeroes in on the location pointed out by Scramsax and unleashes a barrage of Khors' holy fire upon what one can only expect is the rising Elder Patriarch. The fireball bursts in a blast of pious fury and flame. Bits of airship wreckage explode outward. For several moments smoke and flame roil the area obscuring any visibility.
But whatever lurks within, is clearly still active as more of the broken crew and even a handful of the tiny fae bodies begin to reanimate and join the fray. But the slow moving gruesome corpses do not hold your attention for long, for the source of such things finally emerges from the burning wreckage.
At first it appears to be some kind of bizarre, misshapen box. Gold, inlayed with silver, ivory, and jet sigils line the entire thing. The ancient symbols gleam and swirl with dark eldritch power. Three sides are square while the forth is set at a sixty degree angle back toward the center where a bulbous clear cylinder rests on the top of the entire contraption. Inside the cylinder is a withered ancient head. Sunken eyes are like coal pits in a wrinkled, pale face. Wisps of hair lie flat against and mottled scalp while worn yellowed teeth snarl in rage. As you peer at the oddity, it begins to rise further from the wreckage. Floating upward under the influence of some unholy power. Spinning so the head faces the carpet, you can each see the twisted black sun symbol burning like a blackened pit of hell prominent front and center.
The snarling withered lips move speaking an unheard language behind the glass cylinder. But the effects of the unholy calling are seen immediately. Power gleams from the center of the fallen symbol of Khors and a powerful wave of thunderous void energy slams into those flying on the rug. Bits of feline waste, dust mites, and flea eggs are tossed into the air while the magic tries to do the same to the larger passengers upon the rug.
[dice=Zombie
Zombie 1: Dead
Zombie 2: Dead
Zombie 3: Dead
Zombie 4: Dead
Zombie 5: 25/25
Zombie 6: 25/25
Patriarch: 173/200
The necrotic wave blasts Quinn, flinging the elf from the carpet and to the unforgiving ground below.
Ingryd will move until she comes across the next zombie.
=13 total
Gunnar is buffeted by the sonic boom, but not pushed off the rug. Seeing that Scramsax has likewise remained in place to pilot the rug, Gunnar says, ”We should probably land soon.”
Battered and bruised, Gunnar fires at the floating head, aiming at the unholy symbol on the head in the box!
The unholy Thunderwave pummels Luthael who holds on to the carpet. The prophet inhales sharply at the sight of the unholy monstrosity, "My Khors, what power has the Elder Patriarch given his soul?"
"Khors has put us here, right now, to remove this atrocity from Midgard. Khors save us." He considers sending another ball of holy fire but concludes that it is magic holding him together, so he attempts to dispel it.
Scram was too busy watching the beautiful fire blossom below to notice the giant roiling wave of thunder tearing apart every molecular bond in his body. The system shock paralyzed the thief for a split second, his grip slipping from the wet handholds before tumbling oddly sideways like a skipping stone across a lake. Rotating wackily over Gunnar, he smacked right into Quinn, blasting the elf off the side. Something long, black and rotten snaked its way out of the halfling's vest pocket...
---
*ding-a-ling* The triangle bell jostled its note, announcing dinner was ready. Scramsax the Countryside Wheat Thrasher tossed down his scythe, cooling himself with a lazy wave of his straw hat on the way back to the cabin. After a hard days work, nothing sounded finer than a roast quail and some buttermilk biscuits...he had earned it after all. A flock of birds chased the setting sun as a twilight wind caused great waves of light and shadow in the fields of grain.
An incredibly ugly red skinned devil wearing an incredibly conservative prairie dress and white bonnet greeted him at the door with a smile. "Another day in heaven, my love." before a long, sensual embrace. She had thrown his favorite quilt over the hand-carved rocking chair on the porch...knowing Scram's habit of a quick pipe before dinner.
The evening proceeded as it had hundreds of times before, for little ever changed out in the quiet grasslands where few had ever tread. Of course, later in the night the devil worked herself up as she always did...with more rumors and fears about natives lurking and shouting about old Mr. Edwards place "Oh Laura, more likely they'd stand looking at each other up in the cold, wet woods...they don't know each others words." he consoled.
Suddenly Scram realized he had no idea why he was talking like that, or why he was more concerned about a panther carrying off Baby Carrie in the night than natives up on the ridge. But he loved Laura, that was for sure. Certainly there was nothing suspicious about this place, or her...she wasn't keeping him here for a reason...
---
*rrrrRrRiPPpppp* The devil's middle finger, or more precisely the finger's yellowed razor nail, snagged and tore a line down the Nasty Rug, slowing the soulknife's tumble and preventing him from falling to an early death. The thief scrambled to stow his life-saving keepsake and stabilize the odd craft, corkscrewing a landing pattern near the elf's body below.
Unholy power slams into the rug. Quinn finds himself an unlucky pin in a round of halfling bowling as Scramsax tumbles into the surprised elf. Although known for their nimbleness and quick reflexes, the elf is simply unable to regain his footing on the suddenly out of control carpet. His hands shot out to grab anything. He snatches at pair of frayed silk tassels. The potential safety grips snap, sending the elf falling to the hard ground below.
Fortunately, Scramsax was still gaining a bit of altitude after releasing the Mark IV Smashing Bear so the distance Quinn spends attempting to learn the art of flight is fairly short and not instantly terminal. But the ground does still pack a punch. A cloud of dust and ash burst upward from the elf's impact as he lands with a resonating *THUD*. Bones snap like twigs stomped by a giant and the air rushes from his bruised and battered lungs. His eyes focus on the spiraling carpet as it whisks down toward him before they close and his fades away to unconsciousness.
Meanwhile, Scramsax, with the aid of his demonic battle trophy, manages to regain control of the carpet. Shedding passengers and cat hair like a recently bathed tabby, the Nasty Rug spirals down toward the fallen Quinn. Having weathered the Patriarch's blast, Gunnar unleashes his own barrage of eldritch might. A triple blast flows from the magical staff and pummels the unholy priest's resurrection box. Cracks form in the outer layer as gold and silver filigree fly away in vast chunks.
Luthael follows up on the dwarven blast. The holy prophet of Khors calls upon his god to simply undo whatever heretical magics keep the foul Inquisitor alive and functioning. Khors' power shimmers in the air around the Patriarch. Several of the sigils and runes suddenly go dark including the powerful runes that so recently called forth the magic that slammed into the carpet. But the Patriarch survives.
Having put to rest the immediate enemies, Ingryd looks around for new targets. She spots multiple zombies lumbering toward her, but she also sees the Patriarch in his magical conveyance rising not far away.
Patriarch: 124/200
Ingryd seeing the big target roars. She strikes at it and sends a Swarm of bees at it.
Ingryd charges the Patriarch in his odd floating chamber. As she does her roar calls to arms a nearby bee hive damaged and disturbed by the crash of the airship. The buzzing defenders of the hive, already angry, eagerly answer the bearkin's summons. Although the insects are unable to penetrate the thick glass and metal shell, they do distract the Patriarch well enough that he doesn't see the rushing barbarian bear with the massive maul. Ingryd's hammer connects with the floating resurrection chamber. Metal gives and groans and the Patriarch goes spinning, a silent scream emanating from the glass encased head.
Ingryd chases after and delivers a second blow, her back swing checking the spinning chamber but knocking it another few feet back.
Moments later darkness engulfs Ingryd and the nearby Patriarch. It is the pure blackness of the deep void. Cold and impenetrable to even those with the most adapted eyesight. The orb extends outward to fill an area thirty feet in diameter.
Within the void, the comforting hum of her bee allies, suddenly shifts. Another sound, soft and quiet at first, but then growing louder within her mind. Whispers. Hissing sibilant. Something like how your fallen love used to whisper in your ear upon a summers night, your head tucked in the crook of his shoulder. But although the sound is that of your husband, the words are twisted and wrong. Their very existence brings heartache and physical pain, daggers that strike at your mind and very soul.
As Ingryd struggles against the Patriarch's mind magic's Quinn's eyes flutter open. Although nearly every muscle in his body hurts and he is more than certain a few bones are broken, the elf does find himself alive. At least for the moment. The trio of drooling zombies shambling his way look like they hope to complete the task started by their masters magic.
Patriarch: 82/200
Luthael was disappointed that his faith was not strong enough to disassemble the patriarch, so he looked around the battlefield for a mismatch. Seeing the zombies shambling toward Quinn, he calls out to the elf, "Quinn, focus on the patriarch! Let the holy fire or Khors cleanse the undead!" With that, the prophet releases another ball of holy fire to envelop the zombies.
Hopping off the carpet at ground level, Gunnar moves to interpose himself between the downed ranger and the approaching zombies, handing Quinn his last healing potion as he moves by. Taking up a defensive position in front, Gunnar says, ”I am out of potent spells, but I can defend you as you shoot.”
Ingryd Roars not in rage, but pain, agony and loss! The loss of her husband at the hands of the hag, which ate there children.
It cuts off though as she slumps and rests on her maul, breathy and sobbing, her body wracked and wrought with grief and guilt. Why did she live, why wasn't she the one to die. Why her, why?
"Gunnar, help me get that artillery back online?" the rogue asks, not moving from his position piloting the rug.
If Scramsax heads away from Quinn and the patriarch, Luthael will hop off the magic carpet ride if he can avoid falling damage.
Quinn slowly gets to his feet and draws his blade. Moving toward the closest of the zombies, he hacks away.
Astonished that the ranger refuses his protection and his proffered healing potion, Gunnar can only watch in amazement as Quinn walks past him to engage the zombies. He hopes that the zombies are weakened enough by the fireball that Luthael hurled to be unable to land the final blow on the brave/reckless ranger...
Luthael's fireball bursts among the summoned undead as they lurch toward Quinn and Gunnar. Khors' fury ravages already scorched and battered undead flesh. Fingers, arms, a leg, an ear, all sorts of body parts and shattered gear go flying in every direction. A grotesque rain of dirt and blood and gore splatters elf and dwarf as they ready themselves to defend against whatever survived the prophet's fury. As the smoke and flame recede, a half dozen blackened corpses emerge slowly from the blast area. One, only the upper half of a body, dragging itself along leaving a trail of entrails behind as it crawls toward living flesh.
Nearly equally as battered, Quinn steps past Gunnar and it a quick flurry of elven fury, slashes his twinned blades across first one an then another of the undead creatures. Although the elf's first blow practically eviscerates the zombie, eerie eldritch light still flickers in the fire blackened eye sockets.
Quinn's second blow although a bit weaker, strikes perfectly. The zombie's head slips from its shoulders and falls to the ground with a squishy thump.
Seeing more of the creatures coming, Gunnar steps up and blocks the path of the first one even as Quinn manages to slip past the clawed blow of the creature he failed to kill with his first strike.
Meanwhile, Scramsax lands the carpet and scrambles into the tilted control seat of the airships Anti-Dragon Battery. Although several of the systems are completely offline and no longer functional, a handful of indicators still flash purple. Now if only the halfling can figure out the correct aiming and triggering mechanisms.
Within the bubble of pure and utter darkness, Ingryd wrestles with her lost family and her own heart torn asunder with guilt and sorrow. As she weeps, the bearkin looks up to find herself sitting upon a wide open plain. A pink sky glows overhead as a soft wind blows across and sandy landscape occasionally pierced by a crooked squat pillar of red rock. It is upon one such rock stool that Ingryd sits weeping into blood soaked hands holding a child's flowered dress fluttering softly in the breeze.
A kindly, old priest dressed in the white and gold of Khors slowly walks up to the crying bearkin. His staff softly driving into the sand with each toddling step forward. Dark eyes filled with sorrow and sympathy peer at the bearkin as weathered lips turn downward.
"It is a terrible thing to lose one's family so suddenly and in such a manner." An old voice crackles through the desert air. From one looking so feeble, the voice is filled with strength, power, faith. "To go on. To live even after all we care about has been taken away is truly one of the most difficult challenges any of us can face. You do not need to carry such a burden alone." The words drift into Ingryd's heart pull at her. Beckon to her. They offer comfort and a freedom from what has haunted her for so long.
Scram immediately realized he bit off more than he could chew, the yards of multi-colored spaghetti string wire all over and strange symbols flashing alarms uselessly. ::Gunnar...I see a pentagonal crystal leading into nexus of wires, above a light is flashing with an upside down goose symbol. Any ideas?::
Feeling the pressure and relief she nodded and sniffles., "Yes, It is,I..I think I am gonna go. You...don't deserve it, sorry" She says and turns to head out of the darkness and away from the shocking ephinany.
At least she tried to go, something else inside of her screamed to stay and fight. Head and heart fought. Doing so she stood transfixed unsure about what to do. Eventually she begins to move gingerly back afraid something may strike her.
"Quinn! What are you doing? Attack the Patriarch!" Luthael calls out to the elf wondering has overtaken him. Turning back to the patriarch, he sees Ingryd become enthralled by the patriarch's unholy control.
"Ingryd! Attack the Patriarch. May Khors holy light allow you to see the truth!" The prophet attempts to dispel the magics of the patriarch.
Gunnar offers his help to Scramsax as he spends his time trying to block the zombie’s blows. ”Yes, leave the wiring intact other than bypassing the short to attach the power source,” he says, defending himself as best he can from the zombies that are closing in.
It takes a bit of time for Scramsax to mentally relay the confusing mass of wires, symbols and buttons to Gunnar, but eventually a reasonable picture builds within the dwarven wizard's mind. Fortunately, having hailed from the Ironcrag Cantons, Gunnar knows a thing or two about airships and their design. Although not an expert mechanic by any means, his studies took him in obvious different directions, but rare is the young dwarf whose early years don't have a period where they dream of taking to the skies upon the majestic airships to trade, explore, and defend their mountain realm.
And so, Gunnar begins to instruct Scramsax in which wires needed to be rerouted to which still functioning controls. A task complicated by the need to avoid yet another zombies clumsy attempt to eat his heart and brain. NO! Not red to YELLOW...red to BLUE! The wizard mentally shouts at Scramsax at one point as the halfling nearly vaporizes the entire area in an explosive arcane feedback loop. Another few tense moments as sparks crackle, and eldritch power hums menacingly causing the hair on the halflings head to momentarily stand on end until the surge passes. But once it does, the indicator crystal over the trigger flashes yellow several times and then turns a bright green.
Meanwhile, Luthael attempts to rip away the shroud of darkness surrounding Ingryd and the Patriarch. Light arcs out from the prophet of Khors. White light clashes with Void black. For several seconds the two powers crackle and battle creating a zebra striped globe of magic until finally the darkness is overwhelmed revealing the bearkin sitting on the ground, shoulders slumped, hands at her side. The Patriarch's box hovers just behind her, gray tendrils of power twist and flick all about her head and heart as she lifts herself up and slowly starts to walk away.
Quinn continues to hack away at the living dead.
Quinn finishes off another zombie as he jabs his blade through the creature's eye snuffing out whatever unholy power that was animating it. He tries to do the same with a second creature, but the blow must be precisely aimed and this time it was off by just a hairs breadth and so the creature is able to make a counter strike.
The zombie's riposte missed the fast moving elf who is already dancing away practically before the undead raises its fist. Gunnar, partially distracted by providing instructions to Scramsax regarding the methodology underpinning most dwarven wiring constructs when attempting to channel and focus larger quantities of arcane power into tight-beamed pulses useful for blowing stuff up when needed. This allows one of the zombie's he draws toward him to actually land a blow with a meaty, blackened fist.
Meanwhile the Patriarch snarls as the darkness finally gives way to the Luthael's dispelling magic. But his hold is maintained upon Ingryd as her glassy-eyed gaze stares into somewhere else.
Ingryd rises from the desert stone and begins to walk toward another formation. Something pulling her in that direction, although there is little to see except shadow shrouded stone and desert sands. The old man shuffles along at her side, his staff plunging into the sand with every hard earned step. Gray, powerful eyes peer at the bearkin and then look back at the approaching pinnacle. A hiss escapes his lips and then he points with a frail finger leaning in toward the bearkin's ear.
"Beware! For look there! Is that not the enemy that has taken so much from you?" He whispers into Ingryd's ear. "Let's us together, put an end to such a thing that would bring so much wrongness into the world." He adds and begins striding forward, somehow finding strength and power that surely wasn't there just moments ago.
Looking up Ingryd follows the old man's pointing finger. At first she see's nothing, but then up in the fork of the split rock he spots hideous visage of The Hag. The one who brought doom to her family and her soul. The foul faced witch with her scraggly hair and elongated arms, snarls and growls and raises her fists ready to unleash some sort of terrible life ending power.
With a terrible, fierce, raging roar, Ingryd brings up her maul and starts to charge toward the foul beast who has haunted her for so many years.
Eldritch power surges from the patriarch into Ingryd's body and mind. Moment's later her eyes grow wide and furious. She raises her maul, looks directly at Scramsax and the arcane blaster perched in a nearby tree, and lets forth a blood curdling roar that none of you hope to ever hear focused your direction again.
Ingryd nods and steps towards the trees.
With rage she snares and rushes in to strike the Hag!
"I KILLED YOU,RENDED YOUR FLESH, TASTED YOUR BLOOD, YET YOU LIVE!!!!"She roared sheer rage bottomless unflinching rage like none have seen cross her face.
"YOU TOOk THEM FROM ME,MY CHILDREN, MY HUSBAND,ALL OF MY PRECIOUS FAMILY!!!!NOW ONLYTHIER TEETH AND CLAWS REMAIN,DIE HAG,DIE!!!!"
"Not beary nice at al-*GURK*" the thief stammered before getting ripped to shreds.
Luthael follows the raging bear but is too late to save Scramsax. "Ingyrd! The Patriarch blinds your mind. Please snap out of it. You've just felled Scramsax!"
"Khors, heal this industrious halfling." The prophet reaches out with the blessings of the Lord of Light.
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Heavily injured and surrounded by zombies, Gunnar stumbles a step away from Quinn and focuses his will and channels what thunderous power remains in his body to blast the adjacent zombies.
sonic damage to all adjacent.
In the unlikely event the adjacent zombies go down, Gunnar moves towards the patriarch, angling his shield to disrupt the tendrils connecting the patriarch and Ingryd, thinking at Silvia “Do what you can, noble warrior, to free our sister from the evil possession!”
It all happens so fast. Ingryd's mind manipulated, raging charge. Her hate and sorrow filled bellows. Scramsax's surprised and abruptly cut off platitudes. The halfling manages do divert the first fall of the maul by sacrificing the working Ack-Ack Battery. The bearkin swings high and utterly crushes and destroys the arcane device in a fury of metal rending metal and shattered power crystals. Shards fly everywhere peppering the halfling with a half dozen minor cuts.
Then the second blow comes swooping in. It catches him right in the chest slamming him back against the wide trunk of the tree. His broken body slowly slides down until it is caught on one of the lowest branches just a few feet above the ground.
Ingryd roars her defiance as she watches the hated hag crumple upon the end of maul and slammed lifeless against the stone pillar. Nearby the Patriarch cackles his admiration.
"Yes, my child. You are truly the Hammer of the Gods, bringing Light and Justice to the darkest corners of a benighted world." The old man says, leaning heavily upon his staff, his breath coming in gasps from the run across the thick sands. "Be evil is ever treacherous and clever. Where you think it dealt with, it seeks to rise like weeds in a garden. It is your destiny and duty to tend our garden mighty one. And there!" His hand stretches and points to yet another grinning, scraggly haired, twisted limbed witch. "There is another weed to be..."
"Ingyrd! The Patriarch blinds your mind. Please snap out of it. You've just felled Scramsax!"
The words are distant as if shouted from a cliff far, far away, and yet the echo in Ingryd's mind. For a moment confusion reigns. Scramsax?! What?! Must kill hags! NO! Patriarch!...
Thunder erupts nearby even as Luthael's shouted plea to Ingryd still echoes upon the field. Zombies are blown backward from the dwarf as he rushes toward the floating abomination that is the Elder Patriarch. One of the creatures manages to stay upright. A second simply loses its entire structural integrity as it body is no longer able to hold itself together following the crash, multiple burnings, and thunderous calamity. It bursts apart sending gore and body parts flying in every direction. A third is knocked away, flesh blasted from bone, but somehow still manages to live.
Luthael seeing the mighty bearkin turn her malevolent eldritch gaze toward him, hurriedly sends the healing power of Khors toward the fallen halfling. All the while whispering additional prayers that his pleas to the good hearted Ingryd would break the Patriarch's vile spell.
Patriarch: 58/200
Quinn glances over his shoulder and sees the Patriarch. Quickly targeting the Patriarch with a spell, Quinn rushes in slashing away at the abomination.
(Hunter's Mark)
(Hunter's Mark)
(Psychic damage if either of the above hit)
Again the hag lives Again! Why? How? Rage filled she roars and rushes in to strike out seeking vengeance for her family!
Swollen blue masses bulging at his eyes "...heh...have to try harder than that to kill this Barsellan..."
Leaving the zombies for the moment, Quinn takes advantage of the opening created by Gunnar to charge the Patriarch. As his fleet feet carry him across the clearing, the an elven rune appears upon the Inquisitor's coffin, marking him as prey for the hunter's blades. Not wasting a moment, Quinn slashes with his first blade. But he belatedly realizes his footing is precarious as he ends up stepping on a severed arm. The soft, fleshy appendage quickly gives way as the elf leans in for his attack causing his blade to slide harmlessly up the metal exterior of the Patriarch's outer shell. Metal sparks as shrieks as elven steel dulls itself along unholy gold plating.
But being an elf, Quinn recovers his footing quick enough to shift his balance and drive his second blade deep into one of the cracks created early by both Ingryd and Luthael. After some initial resistance, the blade suddenly breaks through into an interior chamber. A viscous orange liquid seeps from the wound after Quinn extracts his blade, hissing and popping with a foul odor as the jarred head of the Patriarch lurches backward in alarm. The tendrils of power linked to Ingryd flicker momentarily, but then quickly regain their hold and the bearkin resumes her charge toward Luthael.
That charge ends when the bearkin slams her maul into the prophet's shoulder as he does his best to back away. But it is clear that many of the stories about raging bearkin are quite true and the holy man is unable to escape. The first blow lands with a bone jarring crunch twisting Luthael around like a top. But the hand of Khors nudges the second blow by what can only be the intervention of the god, it flies well wide of the mark.
Having spent a few moments in brief but intimate conversation with his goddess, Scramsax sucks in a deep breath and manages to pull himself upright before attempting to find some kind of cover in the shadows of the smashed tree.
Patriarch 42/200
From his secure position on the tree's lower limbs, Scram tucked his small intestines back into his stomach while apparating forth a pink swirling manifestation of thought. Although the head had no spinal column, luckily Scram knew nothing of how the central nervous system functioned and flung the thing forward business as usual...
...before taking a tactical retreat around the tree trunk, disappearing.
Luthael tries to distract the raging bearkin causing holy light to flash in her eyes. But the Patriarch's grim on her mind is too strong. He turns his shoulder to take the brunt of her maul.
The prophet turns the other cheek and calls to the bearkin, "Ingryd! It's me! Luthael! Break free of the Patriarch's grip."
"Khors! Strike down the false servant!" The Invictusol sends a holy lance of flame and fire on the patriarch. But he feels his faith is being tested as the lance does not strike home.
Gunnar plunges in at the patriarch, attempting to shove his blessed hammer into the rent in the coffin opened by Quinn. Through he has little magic left, he calls forth Thor’s lightning in an attempt to overload the dastardly foe’s synapses!
The prayers of the prophet fall upon seemingly deaf ears as neither ward or spear of brilliance are able to strike blows for good. Luthael is left staring into the swirling, mind altered, raging gaze of Ingryd as the massive barbarian bearkin growls and brings her thick arms around for another swing.
The Patriarch shifts slightly as Gunnar swings his own electrically charged hammer. The move is just enough that the wizard's weapon doesn't find the opening left by Quinn's blade. Instead it simply bounces off the armored shell, the electrical damage unable to penetrate whatever grounding layer exists within the odd device.
I shall do what I can at any cost Silvia's voice rings suddenly in the wizards head, interrupting his curse of frustration. The shield shifts completely out of position of its own accord and instead interposes itself into several of the eldritch tendrils connecting bearkin and unholy villain. The shield flares to life, and for a brief moment causes a severe feedback loop that crackles in both minds.
At the same time a battered Scramsax unleashes his own blast of psychic energy that rips through the desert landscape of the Patriarch's mind. The blows seem to have a substantial effect as liquid begins to ooze from the head under glass and a purple smoke begins to cloud the interior of the chamber.
Patriarch: 10/200
Quinn presses his attack on the Patriarch.
(Hunter's Mark)
(Hunter's Mark)
(Psychic damage if either of the above hit)
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Hearing more words and a flare to the brain Ingryd growled and groaned.
Ingryd manages to shake free and turn. She rushes in and strikes hard and fast.
On top of that, she summons forth Bees again letting them swarm around the patriarch hindering him.
”Many thanks, Silvia, I believe you may have just saved all our lives,” thinks Gunnar at his shield, then he strikes again with him Blessed Hammer!
Within Ingyrd's mind the desert landscape suddenly shatters like a broken mirror revealing the forest, the crashed airship, and her battered companions, including the momentarily nearly deceased Scramsax. Seeing the wild, desperate look in Luthael's eyes as the prophet readies himself for another blow from her maul, the bearkin covers her confusion and any feelings of guilt or regret by spinning and charging the cause of her suffering.
Bearkin, dwarf, and elf converge upon the metallic coffin of the Patriarch and proceed to bash, smash, cut, and otherwise render it completely and unquestionably destroyed. Ingryd's maul comes crashing down upon the leering head shattering the hardened glass and crushing bone and soft flesh. Quinn finds another series of openings and sinks both of his blades deep into the internal workings, severing tubes, wires, and all other manner of arcane workings. Disgusting smelling fluids pour out of the wounds in a torrent even as Gunnar's hammer adds to the destruction, shorting out any remaining connections within the infernal device.
The thing crashes to the ground with a resounding thud and then splits in half unleashing a further torrent of multicolored fluids and waste. Revealed within is an odd and chilling sight. A frail, wasted body is pierced through and through with dozens and dozens of tubes, coils, and wires linked to a variety of, now empty, jars and other arcane devices. All are engraved with numerous runes and symbols, some of which are the mind twisting, reality battering symbols and glyphs of Void Speech.
With the patriarch's end, the remaining zombies collapse to the grow, their unholy reanimation ended. All that remains is the smoldering wreckage and scattered bodies. A few of the tiny fae sprites and pixies emerge from wherever they had taken refuge and flit about in wild glee. For a few moments glittering flower petals rain down upon Luthael, Ingryd, Scramsax, Quinn and Gunnar. The cascade of spring clears some of the foulness in the air and even eases the numerous wounds suffered during the bout.
Then even the fae are gone, leaving only yourselves standing within the battered forest clearing.
Scramsax with his swollen shut black eye, tenderized cords of muscles and multiple fractured bones, slinks over like a zombie...driven of course by greed rather than hunger for brains. Noting the Void runes, he held a vertical finger over his one good eye, making sure to only glimpse half of a symbol at a time.
"Eh...this isn't Khors real symbol, right Invictusol? And Gunnar, something else here...some writing, looks familiar somehow." pointing out the Ankeshelian.
Meanwhile, Scramsax in his habit scoured for a souvenir, ultimately selecting a fist-sized electromagnetic coil from the giant contraption.
Luthael pats everyone on their shoulder nodding in wounded and appreciated victory. Removing the Elder Patriarch from Midgard was righteous vengeance and the start of the redestruction of the Inquisition.
The prophet starts looking through the wreckage for anything to explain the Patriarch's downfall and to find anything unholy that must be destroyed. Carefully avoiding any direct reading of the void runes, he searches through the muck and foul remains of the rest of the body and device. He manages to discover a mundane corrupted holy symbol of Khors embedded into the chest of the Patriarch's body.
But what draws his attention is tattooed beneath the red and black sun symbol is another inscription, this written in Ankeshelian, the long dead language of a long dead empire that sank beneath the sea over three thousand years ago. "Gunnar, can you look at this script? I hesitate to copy it because words have power. But, it may provide a lead on others who have be possessed like the patriarch."
"Ingryd, after Gunnar reviews the script, you make enjoy destroying this corrupted holy symbol of Khors embedded in his chest."
After Gunnar examines the thing. Ingryd summons the flame of her maul and places it on the symbol and presses down hard. Exhausted and pained she just slumps setting the hammer head to press down as she bears her immense weight on it.
As she does she cries softly, the memories brought back, the hatred, the anger, and more importantly the loss. She had lost everything to the Hag, to the damned Ghoulish empire that the Hag allied with. Still, nothing could bring them back. That loss welled up inside her as she then reared back and swung the hammer up to strike down a heavy sagging blow. Blow after blow she cried out in pain and loss forgetting about the symbol and instead mourning. Once more she had felt it all, from this creature.
Nodding, Gunnar performs a ritual and uses the resulting magics to make sense of this king-dead language (Comprehend Languages). After carefully reading the script and writing down a safe translation of it, he says, ”Scramsax, there may be some valuable metals and minerals left once Ingryd has properly rendered the remains.”
Polishing his jeweler's loupe quickly donning it in his one not-black eye "Yeah, good thinking. Say, wreck like this will attract attention you know? I'm thinkin' we set camp here and get first dibs...set a perimeter or whatever. Probably take a few days to properly salvage this monster..." thumbing back to the mountain of loot that fell from the sky.
Grateful for the bit of healing, Quinn calls out to the departing fae, "Thank you, my friends."
When Scramsax mentions camp, Quinn nods. "That sounds like a fantastic idea." as he looks around, seeing the ragged condition of he and his new companions.
"I'll see if I can find somewhere appropriate and defensible to take our rest for the night. Do you all have an established watch order? Being an elf, I do not require as much sleep as the rest of you might and would be happy to take a double shift."