Feeling confident in the security and safety of those being left behind, the Narg Nasty Six Who Are Currently Only Four, say their fond farewells and until we meet agains to set off for warmer southern climes. The first couple of days pass with little incident. The occasional sighting of wild drake or wandering spirit uninterested in tangling with a foe of such caliber. And then the lights and towers of Courlandia appear on the horizon. The seat of the Dragon Queen and nominal ruler of the wild lands you so recently left behind.
From Courlandia it's three days flying south along the road to Lingenau along the western reaches of the Wormwood. It is near the crossroad to Uberlauten that you decide to set down and rest for the night...
Looking well-protected yet unburdened in his new set of magical mithral half-plate, Gunnar spends most of the travel time meticulously scribing scrolls for potential use in combat. During breaks, he speaks freely and discusses plans for the future, though he does occasionally seem to focus on his shield, perhaps trying to commune with the spirit it houses.
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Seeing your attention she offers you a smile and steps up to your side.
"May I join you?" She asks politely and receives you own welcoming nod. For several moments the two of you stand side by side, quietly breathing. Peacefully listening to a robin sing the sun into the sky. Finally the first ray of true sunlight pours over the horizon. The light bathing the tops of the trees in Khors' golden blessing.
You each speak the usual ritual prayers. Katerina's being a bit more archaic than those you grew up reciting. As you each speak, the sun continues to climb above the horizon until the light shines upon you both. The warmth quickly taking away the chill of an early morning in late summer.
The saint, who no longer resembles the gangly youth rescued not so long ago, but instead has miraculously grown into a stout, fit woman who already shows the hard muscular frame of a warrior, smiles at you again.
"You stood firm against the corruption that has seeped into the god's church. Stood firm and exorcised it in Khors name." She says, her voice stronger, more resonant that you recall even from a few days earlier. "Our father would offer you a boon for such faithful service."
She reaches out. Carefully takes the holy symbol hanging around your neck in her calloused hands. Her thumbs run along the well worn lengths of the sun's rays and the blessed heart that brings light and love and warmth to the world. As she does so her hands begin to glow and with each trace of finger or thumb, your holy symbol gleams and glitters in the morning light. You can feel the power of the god tingling in the air until carefully, gently, the saint releases your holy symbol pressing its warmth against your chest once again.
"You have taken on a task with many trials still to face. May Khors light and blessing always shine upon you Luthael Invictusol." She says before turning and walking back toward the inn and the sounds of folk stirring with the new dawn.
Ingryd during her break will buy new clothing hers' were falling apart. She makes sure she has a green dress, with a leather kertle and leather jerkin. The woman also looks over some minor weapons to add to her arsenal. A few more throwing axes, a dagger, a heavy crossbow, and some bolts.
She even looks into a few one-handed weapons to use in tandem with the shield. War Hammers, Picks, Flails, Axes, and Swords what sort of weapon would she get she wasn't quite sure.
Katerina gently runs her hands over the entirety of your shield. Feeling every ding, notch, and groove like a blind man reading a lover's face. All the while the saint softly sings an old northlands lullaby. Her voice is soft, filled with strength, and one that would surely have even the greatest bards in Midgard listening with rapt wonder.
As her voice drifts through the room, down the hall, and across the inn like a gracefully passing spirit of tenderness and love. For a few moments all grows silent and quiet as if the snows were falling upon the deepest winter's night. A lone, forlorn wolf cry echoes upon the chill wind...
The wolf is howling in the forest of the night
He wants to, but cannot sleep
The hunger tears his wolven stomach
And it's cold in his burrow
Wolf, wolf, don't you come here
I will never let you take my child
The wolf is howling in the forest of the night
Howling out of hunger and moaning
But I will give him a pig tail
Which suits a wolven stomach
Wolf, wolf, don't you come here
I will never let you take my child
Katerina finishes her examination of the shield and offers a tired smile. She nods like an apothecary giving not the worst news.
"The spirit is still present, but terribly weak I'm afraid. Her encounter with the Patriarch..." She suppresses a shiver at the foul evil of that creature and what she herself has experienced at his hands. "Her encounter nearly destroyed her. I have done what I may. Given her comfort and reinvigorated her link with our realm. But, it may be some time before she fully recovers."
She pats you on the shoulder. "She is a fine, potent guardian. She will return given time."
Katerina then carefully passes the shield back to you and excuses herself. "It is nearly dawn and there are other matters I must attend. Blessing of Khors upon you and your journey."
A bit of magic touches those staying at the Inn of the Willow Grove that night. Or rather in the early hours before dawn starts to brighten the sky. Although summer still holds sway over the land, each of you dream of winter. Snow covered trees glistening in silver moon light. A lonely cottage sits in a frozen clearing. A tendril of smoke drifting upward from a stone chimney. The soft yellow light of an oil lamp flickers through the shutter slats, the icy breeze causing it to dance a jig to stay warm. From the inn a voice sings softly. A lullaby for a quilt wrapped child held in a mother's strong arms.
As the words pass through the inn, all present burrow a bit deeper in their blankets or feel the comfort and warmth of a loved one's protective presence. Even Ingyrd in her drink-muddled haze, perhaps the bearkin most of all, feels the hurt and pains and sorrows of loss, of out surviving those she should not have, drawn away. Burdens lifted. Burdens that at least for a few hours she does not have to carry by herself.
The next morning, all wake refreshed and revitalized and in good cheer. But the there is also something else in the air. The season is changing and there is work to be done. Warm greetings are shared and sad partings granted. Then soon enough the sounds of wood being split, shingles be replaced, and swinging scythes cutting the oats in the fields is what can be heard for even that lazy, lackabout, Finn is busy repairing the shutters in the barn at the request of fair, young Rosemary.
Sighing at Finn "Na...forget it. I already tallied the loot splits, I don't wanna calculate everything again. I always forget how to carry on an abacus. Yer picks are too big for my fingers anyways." switching Finn's full tankard of beer for his own half full one, then drinking it all a few paces away.
---
Luthael rejoices in the personal attention and confirmation from a saint of Khors. He keeps his fanboy reaction in check using his rituals to guide him.
The prophet felt that his faith was weak against the patriarch, but the saint's words and blessings affirmed his faith. He still carried a heavy burden for his divine patron and needed the strength for the journey to come.
Near the capital of Courlandia, Luthael asks for some time to report to the diocese. The good news of the new saint. The bad news of the Elder Patriarch and inquisition. The ugly news of giants, witches, and fey/alien tomb/prisons. He will not mention the unholy sword and simply say that he currently is on a mission from Khors which takes him south with the Narg Nasty 6.
He invites the Narg Nasty 6 to visit his parents who live on a modest manor in Courlandia.
The evening before the Narg Nasty 6 were ready to depart, the elven Lady Dawnflower returns to the inn. The noble elf of an empire long ago abandoned by her people is still adjusting to the reality of her situation in Midgard upon her return. As she enters most pay her little notice. A few mild greetings, but most folk are wary of such a creature who lived in a time that many prefer to forget or whose ancestors gave their blood to put to an end. All but one.
Quinn gasps. Something within the elven warrior instantly recognizes the nobility and heritage of this ancient noble who for a time was only a few paces from the throne of mighty Thorn. He walks up and kneels before her.
"My Lady, permit me to introduce myself." He says as she peers at him with those ancient eye, her unaging beauty filling the room. A smile scrolls across her face and what appears to be the first genuine glimpse of happiness any of those present have seen from the elf since being rescued from her dream prison.
"At last!" She says with unhindered excitement. "Rise o'warrior of the blood. Rise and sit with me, so I may understand this strange new world where elves no longer linger or wish to call home." She adds stretching out her delicate hand to take Quinn's own.
The two then disappear to the noblewoman's room, naught to be seen again for several days. Only the sound of voices locked in conversation can be heard with the exception of the occasional request for food or wine to be sent up.
The city is much how each of you remember. A bustling, thriving city of medium size. Bigger than many in this vast region, but not able to rival the truly great cities of Midgard like Zobeck, Per Bastet, or even Barsella upon the sea. Still it is a welcome change to the distant wilds and rough living of Nargenstal. Struggling Academy mages hock scrolls and potions brewed in their academic labs upon the market square while all manner of merchants sell most things from strong silk climbing ropes to flask's of lamp oil to full set of carpenters tools.
But no city can fully escape the pressures of war. Although it has been ten years since the fall of Krakova and seven since Illyria in the south fell to the dragons, tent encampments line open areas within the city and a vast expanse outside the city walls. Refugees who still seek some form of safety and ability to live their lives beneath the eye and protection of the Red Queen. This influx of new citizenry has stretched the both the ability of the government to see to their needs and the patience of former citizens who are tired of the constant increases in taxation to feed so many hungry mouths.
It is the topic of conversation that infuses most tavern and dinner table talk throughout the city. The small, modest estate owned by Luthael's parent's is most certainly not immune to the debate over such issues. A well tended manor house, some who have traveled with the prophet of Khors, are quite surprised at his reasonably-well-to-do roots. Fortunately, the fact that they are Luthael's parents and Scramsax continues to abide by the prophet, most of the family heirlooms and trinkets are still in their proper place following the visit by the Narg Nasty Six.
Scramsax had seen Zove's familiar, Snicker, both in reality and during his subconscious encounters in the gritty shadow city of Dalliance. It was clear the spell that summoned it forth, however it worked, was a clue to the caster's identity. As scrambled as the halfling was upstairs at times, and with the power of his new ring, he started to think the spell was something worth investigating. More than that though, it was a vexing and paradoxical sense...perhaps some psychic instinct...the companion was like a memory of future events.
Later Scram had tagged along to the Arcane Stationery with the dwarven abjurer, just to 'have his back'. The Courlandian scribe was quite helpful picking it from the rows of square wooden cabinets, even describing how the spell pulled from the caster's inner self...how the arcane bond was so strong it was almost like sharing a common existence. Maybe the creature could fill the hole Illarya had left.
Gunnar dutifully explained the requirements...brass braziers? 'special' charcoal? ...it was all totally absurd, more like an incense merchant's con job. But as the flame burst asunder and the myriad colors started their mystic dance, sure enough slowly a smooth polished egg rose from the ashes, something like a fat tourmaline gemstone.
"Uh...is that thing going to hatch?" Scram was standing on one foot touching his nose. Of course, that wasn't part of the ritual requirements, but Gunnar couldn't help himself. Before the abjurer could respond the hard shell simply vaporized in a cloud of sparkly glitter dust, blinding them both momentarily.
It was a tiny crayfish whose chitinous exoskeleton sported every color of the rainbow and more, along with a curious brass colored mark in the shape of a candle holder.
Despite its form, Scramsax recognized it instantly. It was Coin.
---
Scramsax was back in his element, the urban jungle where streetsmarts was as powerful as a lion's maw. He hit the impoverished immigrant sector that night, seeking out fellow thieves...
==22 total
Thankful for Luthael's hospitality, Gunnar relaxes in the evening after making his purchases and trades that day in the city. Although he was planning merely to use his coin to purchase supplies for scribing scrolls of his own so he would be prepared in case he ran out of spells again in another long day of combat, he was happy to work with Scramsax and seek out magic scrolls containing spells with which he was unfamiliar -- all the more to add to his own knowledge!
Gunnar listens carefully to the rumors of war as he assesses the city itself, thinking about the life of quiet craftsmanship he has left behind. Still he thinks to himself, he is growing in power and doing some amount of good with it. As long as he is true to his god and his friends, he will be well satisfied with his life, however long or short it may be given the challenges they are up against.
The last time Luthael had seen his family, the prophet was so shaken by visions, the Church had to take him. For more than three months the visions plagued him. The sudden spells grew so acute that his fellow priests in the Temple of Light in Courlandia feared for his very body and soul.
He was bled to remove potentially evil humours. The Bishop of Courlandia, performed an exorcism upon his person to remove any potential possession by arcane or other force. For three days straight he fasted and prayed only to have the visions return more powerful and forceful than ever before. Some, including even himself in his darkest moments of pain and suffering, began to wonder if his mind was broken like happens to some folk in their later years. The irony is that the Elder Patriarch was the one in needs of the exorcism.
His family was happy to see him well and within the Light of the Lord. They updated him on his childhood friends and neighbors and how the war nearby had affected their lives. He blessed them and confirmed that he was still on a mission from god.
Ingryd finds a decent enough camp spot just a short distance away from a crossroads where the main southern road you've been tracking since heading south from Lingenau intersects with a poorly maintained east-west track that heads into the dark canopy of the Wormwood to the east or the gloom shrouded plains of Morgau and the gray peaks of the Cloudwall Mountains to the west. It is a forlorn, no man's land that few, if any, folk call home.
It is a desolate region of scrub pines and tall grasses. A land like a crumpled scroll with broken ridges and jagged valleys filled with slow moving streams of bitter tasting water that cause the cottonwoods and willows growing along their shores to grow twisted and malformed. But the lack of civilization has left room for others to thrive. Rabbits, ground squirrels, and grouse are all common sites as are the occasional herb of antelope, deer, or elk. Of course, such plentiful prey also draws more than a few predators. Sign of wolves and large hunting cats abound as do the rarer track or sign of even larger, more deadly beasts. Drakes, Night Haunts, Demon Dogs and many things that none of you can remotely identify.
Storm clouds brew to the south, lightning flickering in the evening sky. Thunder occasionally rumbles in the distance as the cold winds of coming autumn cause the tall plains grass to whip and rustle with wild abandon.
By the time full night had settled in the storm clouds continue their march north. Their wild pummeling of land and air growing closer with each passing hour. An owl screeches its hunting call, putting the night's smaller scavengers on notice as your fire's light grows low.
The fence's mouth was full of wealth, serving to sweeten the rough deals...her two gold front teeth were flanked by two of silver. Scramsax inferred the history, she had them knocked out...twice. A retired mugger was the halfling's bet.
Regardless, the variety of tools available and the care she had taken to not let them rust were a good sign. She held up a strange right-angle pair of scissors "Seen the new Courlandian cipher locks yet, footpad? Won't get far without these...tripwire built into the tumbler fills the cylinder with adhesive if you bumble it. Gotta use these orthoganal snips." snipping at the air in demonstration.
He hadn't. In fact, he felt a bit out of practice with the mechanical pleasures of thievery...cursing himself for ruining Radovan's masterly book on the subject. His last feat he could remember had been to disable the labyrinth on the edge of the void...but he didn't want to be caught unprepared again. "...heh, what the hell is that?" pointing to what looked like a long silver string, about half the diameter of Scram's pinky.
"Well, ever heard of a periscope? Kinda like that. Artisan called it a flexible prism...lets you snake your sight around tight corners. Some kind of organic resin...cant usually get it around here, ships from the far west. But if you're gonna get that, of course you'll need this to go with it..." passing him a miniature hand drill with a diameter bit about the same size as the prism.
"Oh yeah...no, I mean I'll take all of it." lighting his pipe, setting the reflective mouth on fire in a smile.
Scram had dozed off with a belly full of gamey venison...
Luthael thanks his family for the hospitality and blesses them in the light of Khors. While they are proud of their son, they miss him and worry about his life as directed by the Lord of Light.
When they set down for the evening, the priest stretch his legs after sitting for hours.
Ingryd in New clothes and with new weapons is keeps watch over the camp. Figuring the spellcasters could use the most sleep.
As she does she eats some honey and drinks a nip of mead.
Gunnar prepares to bed down for the night, though he volunteers to take the first shift.
With little expectation of meeting anyone upon this lonely stretch of frontier, you each settle in for a quiet evening. Scramsax quickly falls asleep, while Ingryd nibbles honeycomb. Gunnar uses the last of the evening light to continue scribbling arcane formula and notes in his spellbook. And Luthael decides to take himself for a short walk to work out the kinks from the long days confined to the carpet.
And so it is with some surprise when a trio of lanterns emerge from between a narrow break in the eastern ridge. The three lights bob and swing like oversized fireflies in the dark, storm charged night. At first neither Gunnar or Luthael, the first to actually spot the approaching lights are sure what to make of them. Then comes to distant sound of cracking whips and creaking wagons made all the more clear as the lights get closer and illuminate three long wagons pulled by broad-shouldered, shaggy oxen. The animals plod along at a steady pace despite what must be the heavy burden of the three thick iron cages comprising the cargo of each wagon. All within the cages is hidden in shadow and darkness.
A pair of redcapped gnomes sit on the benches of each wagon. A driver and an escort judging from the heavy crossbow cradled in each gnomes arms. But most importantly, and most unnerving are the pair of immense and immensely ugly creatures striding along each side of the lead wagon. Standing over ten feet tall with stubby almost draconic wings folded at their backs and a single cyclopean eye, the creatures seem to be some odd amalgamation of gnoll, dragonkin, and machine. Their helmed heads swing back and forth sniffing the air with a canine-like nose over jaws of metal that gleam in the lantern light and with each approaching flicker of lightning.
It is a Psoglav Demon. A creature bred to protect by a variety of Abyssal Breeders and Lords. The price to hire such protection is terribly high and never for gold or silver. For such abyssal protection one must give up memories, part of a soul, or more preferably a loved one's soul. They are always helmed, and while Kiper never actually determined what was stored under the protective device, he did offer several speculations ranging from stolen shadows and souls to whatever infernal key keeps the creatures bound to their current owner.
Hearing and seeing the gnome caravan, the prophet hustles back to the camp to wake everyone up.
"Company, team. Gunnar, do you know what those huge things are?" He dons his shield to make ready for violence.
“They are Psoglav Demons, good priest, and any being that would hire such likely trades in stolen memories and souls,” answers Gunnar, putting away his scribbles and casting Detect Invisibility as he gazes at the oncoming wagons. ”We should alert the others.”
But what your eyes cannot see, your nose and ears offer hints. As the wagons creak closer, the smell is what comes first. It is a smell of unwashed bodies, blood, and the dying. The stench is punctuated by the soft sound of an occasional sob, a rough stifled cough, or smothered moan of someone in pain.
Scram rubbed the fairy dust from his eyes, rinsing his mouth with some stale Courlandian ale. He still had the same dark bottle stashed away from 3 days ago, rationing it slowly with the patience only a truly miserly drunk could know. "*gah* Demons you say? Hmm, probably burn just the same as anything, right Invictusol?" the hopeful halfling asked, ignorant of demonic physiology.
"Most certainly." Luthael hasn't a clue what to expect.
Ingryd will stand. She brushes off her new clothes and stands up. She flexs her muscles and swing her hammer as she looks to her smaller companions.
" I'm ready if need be." ingryd says standing tall and seemingly letting the other more magic people take the lead.
"I cannot see inside the cages, but I hear the sobs and groans of prisoners who have lost hope. Shall we come to their rescue?" asks Gunnar, hefting his hammer.
Scram could hear it too...but what if it was a trick? The crying orphan in the street...who could resist?
==24
”The demons must be destroyed. Those that consort with demons must be judged. Innocents must be released from cages.” Luthael replies to Gunnar as if quoting scripture.
He positions himself across the road and creates a symbol of Khors above the lead cart when it comes in range.
"So sayeth the one True Prophet." Scram nodded before slipping into the shadows created by Invictusol's light.
The light of Khors flares to life above the first wagon illuminating the two gnomes and the iron cage poised in the bed of the wagon behind them. Both lurch in surprise and immediately raise their hands to shade their eyes from the sudden burst of illumination. Using the moment of confusion, Scramsax disappears into the tall grasses and shadows.
The oxen merely plod forward uncaring and unconcerned by either Luthael's appearance or the brilliant light hovering overhead.
For those whose attention is not entirely taken by the immediate reaction of the gnomish drovers, it is abundantly clear that the cages or something within the cages is imbued with arcane power. For the light of Khors does not penetrate the darkness within the cages. Any stray ray of glory that passes through the heavy steel bars is immediately devoured by the darkness leaving the internal contents shrouded in mystery.
While the front two gnomes scramble for their weapons and blink to clear their eyes, the drivers in the rear two wagons pull back on their reins bringing the bulky wagons to a slow stop. As they do, the guards on the rearmost wagon raises his crossbow and snaps off a shot at the illuminated prophet.
The snap of the heavy weapon echoes across the empty plain and is followed by the whistle of the bolt as it passes through the air and slams into the prophet's shoulder.
The guard upon the middle wagon raises a hand and utters something in the harsh tongue of the infernal hells. Immediately the two demons rush forward toward the priest their jaws snapping rapidly as their single eye leers hungrily.
A blinding light flares in front of the gnomish crossbowman, but Luthael still takes a bolt to the shoulder above his shield. Faith in Khors tests even his prophets.
He raises his holy symbol and attempts to banish one of the demons, "Khors, the Lord of Light, exits you from Midgard!"
If the target is native to the plane of existence you're on, you banish the target to a harmless Demiplane. While there, the target is Incapacitated. The target remains there until the spell ends, at which point the target reappears in the space it left or in the nearest unoccupied space if that space is occupied.
If the target is native to a different plane of existence that the one you're on, the target is banished with a faint popping noise, returning to its home plane. If the spell ends before 1 minute has passed, the target reappears in the space it left or in the nearest unoccupied space if that space is occupied. Otherwise, the target doesn't Return.
Gunnar moves up beside Luthael and targets the other demon, lining him up with one of the gnomes beside a wagon, taking care not to let Thor’s Wrath smite the cages—just in case those tormented souls were not past saving…”Thor Smite Thee” he says as he looses a lightning bolt at the foes!
Ingryd roars as her Maul flashes with fire! The Bear maiden picks one of the big fiends and begins to strike hard.
Scram's blade of thought seemed to whirl through the air, even though in truth it was nothing at all...
...splintering the Psoglav's psyche.
==9 tot
...the rogue then tried to duck back into the shadows, but found limited options to hide.
Luthael raises his arms. Radiance flows from the holy sun symbol as the prophet of Khors calls upon his god to vanquish the demonic foe who charges toward his humble servant. His prayers echoing into the sky light flares brightly and trumpets proclaim the arrival of the Sun God's servants to shackle the demon and drag it back to the Abyss from which it was bred. Unfortunately, the demon was disinclined to cooperate. As the angelic shackles are clamped upon wrist and ankle in preparation for the final banishment the cyclopean demon calls forth an ear shattering roar and snaps its iron jaws across the radiant chains of light. The bindings shatter into a million motes of light that scatter and disperse upon the storm driven winds and moments later the simple servants are little more than a few feather and dribbles of light dripping from the demon's jaws as it continues its charge toward the prophet.
But Luthael does not stand alone. Gunnar emerges from the tall grasses and unleashes the might of Thor upon the other demon and one of its gnomish companions. Lightning arcs from the wizard's fingertips and thunder rumbles across the plain, answered in kind by the rushing storm. But demon and gnome are quick footed and ready for some such assault from these interlopers on the plain. They duck away taking only a partial brunt of Thor's fury.
With rage flowing through her mighty veins, Ingryd bursts from the shadows, her mighty hammer flaming in the night. The demon manages to duck away from the first strike but not the second as the bearkin brings the heavy warhammer down hard across the demon's midsection.
Lurking in the shadows, using the barbarian's overwhelming presence as a distraction, Scramsax sends his psychic blades whirling into the evil creature. At first the attack meets with serious resistance and is almost foiled, but from his hidden position the halfling is able to concentrate long enough to find a weakness in the demon's mental barrier and moments later the blades slip through and sow havoc among its demonic synapses. It writhes and screeches in pain but once the attack is over, it redoubles it efforts against the most immediate threat which is Ingryd.
In a blur of snapping jaws and writhing, hellish flesh the single eyed demon shreds flesh and clothing from the bearkin. Her armor manages to protect against one crushing blow, but two others send the bearkin howling with pain.
Meanwhile the first demon slams into Luthael its own set of metallic teeth snapping and grabbing at the prophet of Khors. The priest ducks and dodges, his armor holds once. Twice. But not a third time. Metal teeth sink deep into his side, spilling more holy blood upon the thirsty ground.
Two of the gnomes fire their crossbows at the wizard. One flies wildly into the night while the other streaks toward Gunnar with unerring accuracy. The two drivers of the front wagons do their best to spur the lumbering oxen forward. Whips crack and tongues lash the beasts who bellow in complaint but pick up the pace in a direct path toward Luthael and Gunnar who stand astride the road.
The two gnome in the rearmost wagon suddenly begin to chant and gesture. One points a finger toward the demon mauling Ingryd and suddenly the creature's form blurs slightly and it moves even faster than before. The second gnome surrounds himself in a protective nimbus of abyssal power, it's eerie red glow adding to the bobbing lantern lights and flashes of holy power lighting up the battlefield.
Gnome 5 Cast Haste on Demon 2
Gnome 6 Cast Protection from Energy (Lightning)
Demon 1: 115/115
Demon 2: 57/115
Gnome 1: 70/70
Gnome 2: 70/70
Gnome 3: 53/70
Gnome 4: 70/70
Gnome 5: 97/97
Gnome 6: 97/97
Scramsax the Spell Sequesterer raised a fist, letting Invictusol's trapped magics escape wildly. The divine cloud of magic power blinked a few times in the halfling's direction before shrugging its shoulders and continuing on towards the target...
...staying in sight only long enough to see if the spell took effect or not.
Again Luthael's most powerful blessing fails to affect his target! Then, he grits his teeth when demon teeth puncture his armor.
"Khors! C'mon! Kick this demon out of Midgard!" He tries to Banish the demon again.
Trusting in his armor and shield to protect him from the crossbow bolts, Gunnar reacts to the gnomes’ spellcasting instead of their physical attacks, making a quick gesture to forestall one of the two foe’s spells (Reaction to cast counterspell at whichever gnome casts first).
As he casts his abjuration, Gunnar’s protective ward springs into existence. The Dwarven wizard pivots around the adjacent demon and aims a powerful sonic attack in a cone at the two demons engaged with he and his friends, attempting to blow them backwards with the power of Thor!
(DC 16 Constitution save for half damage and no push)
Ingryd hearing enemy magic summons forth her bees. They swarm around the gnomes on the lead wagon hoping to distract them. After that, she focused back on the Cyclopean horror before her.
Popping out of the shadows, Scramsax unleashes the holy power stored within his magic ring and one of the gnomes simply freezes midmove. His small frame teetering one the edge of the bench as his ally next to him curses and begins to look around for the hidden spellslinger. But Scramsax manages to duck back into the shadows just in time, and neither of the two enemies in the area spot the rogue.
Gunnar pivots and unleashes a booming blast of thunderous magic against the demon snapping at Luthael. The denizen of the unholy abyss manages to withstand the worst of the blast, but the casting does its job. Using the distraction created by his companion's arcane evocation, Luthael once again calls upon the power of Khors to remove the demonic foe. Once again trumpets sound and brilliant light flares upon the battlefield. Once again angelic enforcers descend from the heavens and lash their sunbright chains around the struggling demon. Once again it howls its defiance, but this time Khor's holy warriors hold firm...barely. Grappled within the chains of searing light the angels continue to wrap more chain about the demonic beast until it is contained within a brilliantly glowing cocoon. Occasional muted roars and bulges in the bundle indicated the demon's ongoing struggles, but they are to no avail. Each grabbing a length of chain the angels depart as quickly as they come dragging the bound demon behind them until they disappear into the dark of night.
The capture of its brother and the gnomes magical boost causes the second demon to become a blur of fury and rage to more than match that of the bearkin it currently seeks to feed upon. Ingryd smashes her hammer across the ugly head causing a metallic ring to echo across the plain. But the demon takes little notice of the blow. Metallic jaws glitter and flash in the lantern light as they grin wickedly at the barbaric bearkin. An instant later they ripping and tearing metal, flesh, and bone with equal abandon. Ingryd does her best to stymie the blows, but within a matter of moments the powerful bearkin is brutally ravaged by a series of blows much too quick for her eyes to track and her body to react. A final injury, and perhaps saving grace, is when she is tossed backward like a rag doll to land sprawled ten feet from the beast, who starts to turn its attention toward the priest who called upon its ancient enemy.
Gnomes launch crossbow bolts at Gunnar, but the projectiles bounce harmlessly away from the wizards arcane defenses. The rearmost gnome, seeing his companion frozen by clerical magic, focuses his revenge upon Luthael and unleashes a flurry of force darts that strike the prophet all about his chest and shoulders.
Demon 1: Banished
Demon 2: 44/115
Gnome 1: 66/70
Gnome 2: 66/70
Gnome 3: 53/70
Gnome 4: 70/70
Gnome 5: 97/97 Held
Gnome 6: 97/97
Luthael shouts, "thank you!" when the demon finally gets what it deserves. Then, he grits his teeth when he cannot avoid being hit by three magic missiles.
The prophet maneuvers around the demon to hopefully bring the second wagon of gnomes within the 60 feet diameter range of Khors Radiance of Dawn. He raises his pectoral amulet, and sunlight explodes from the bejeweled metallic sun.
Any magical darkness within 30 feet of you is dispelled. Additionally, each hostile creature within 30 feet of you must make a Constitution saving throw. A creature takes radiant damage equal to 2d10 + your cleric level on a failed saving throw, and half as much damage on a successful one. A creature that has total cover from you is not affected.
Then, he casually launches a holy lance at the demon. "Let Khors strike you down for not returning home with your brother." But the radiant weapon cannot hit the broadside of a barn
Aiming at the gnome on the middle wagon that gave the Psoglav's the attack command.
The guard upon the middle wagon raises a hand and utters something in the harsh tongue of the infernal hells. Immediately the two demons rush forward toward the priest their jaws snapping rapidly as their single eye leers hungrily.
Scram charged forward in an acrobatic tumble increasing his speed, leaping towards the held gnome...
...slashing at the exposed, unprotected throat with the cold blade sending an arc of gnome blood splattering and crystallizing everywhere.
...no one saw where he went after, the halfling vanishing in the fountain of blood.
Ingryd takes the blows her rage fueling her feels little as this demon, a creature that probably eats children faces her. With a series of moves and feints, she comes back in her hammer whirling in dangerous arcs before snapping hard toward the creature.
Ingryds' bees will move to visible enemy casters and command them to sting and stab the foul gnomes!