Ingryd will roar and summon forth all the rage!
Smoke wisps from cloth and fur that is singed but strangely durable Ingrud goes into powerful sweeps with her hand axe.
"Aye Arianne! Pour it on! Khors will protect us!" Luthael replies and brings another bolt of bluish radiance to send toward the flaming creature, but it goes wide into the murky horizon.
Gunnar yells, ”Hands off the chain!” as he carefully positions himself to send a lightning bolt fully through the tar creature and into the chain behind it.
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Aterro and Ingryd: CON Save vs DC15 or you are on fire from the initial reactions to your melee attacks. On a fail you are burning and take 1d10 fire damage per round until the flames can be extinguished with a full round action.
Aterro and Ingryd: DEX Save vs DC15 or take 6d6 ⇒ (3, 1, 1, 5, 4, 6) = 20 fire damage and you are on fire (if you aren't already). On a success, half damage and you are not on fire.
As the paladin Aterro WADES into the heart of the battle, heat like a furnace CRASHES upon him. It is like a solid, tangible thing, this heat. Waves upon waves of it emanate from the undead fire-thing like the eternal tide that washes all the lands of Men.
Alas for the vile foe, Aterro's training has FORGED him into a solid, immovable object, and the heat that comes like waves also CRASHES against him like the tide upon the ever-living rock. The meat of the fire can but lick at his body as Deathmetal BLUDGEONS the precious material away. Further flames can but tickle his strong body in little more than annoyaqnce.
"Ha! It will take more than that to lay low a warrior of Thor!"
Though the beast seeks to bring the warriors low with attacks of it's own, the horrible, fire covered things that snake out, again Aterro's expert use of his stout shield of METAL is there to meet the thing at every turn. Again and again the shield darts about until it is like a living wall of STEEL, meeting every thrust with an impenetrable barrier.
"Go back, vile servant of the dark!" Aterro yells. As the friendly fire from behind arcs out and slices deep into the foe, Aterro knows his plan has worked. The end for it even now draws near. "Go back and tell your masters the siege is broken! We are coming for them! We are coming to rid ALL the lands of MAN from their horrid taint!"
Aterro swings twice in a strong pattern.
With the last hit he SWINGS his shield in a seamless motion, putting extra oomph into it, still seeking to quickly rid the chain of the interloper.
The heavy ghoul forged steel of Aterro's mace crashes into the flaming abomination. Hot, flaming tar bursts and splatters and splorks in every direction. In a matter of moments it is nearly impossible to distinguish the enemy ghoul from the knight, except by the battle cries emanating from the latter. One resounding blow burst's a pair of fiery arms emerging to cast another round of blazing tar balls at ferry or friend. But manifesting limbs explode in a blaze of sticky burning tar.
The knight brings his shield around ramming into the oozing mass. At first the thing gives, but its thick sticky attachment to the chain is not so quickly budged. Yet the blow does manifest something deep within the creatures tiny, fire-filled mind. A remote remnant of instinctual survival and fear suddenly emerges and wraps its tendrils around the creature's minuscule mind. A cascade of ripples flow across it's body as it freezes in place unable to move forward. It tries to act. To attack, but the fear holds it at bay, lost and trapped in a place it hadn't experienced for hundreds of years.
"Hands off the chain!" Gunnar's voice almost crackles in the air. Moments later lightning sizzles along the chain toward the burning mass of tar and undying souls. Sparks and electrical shocks flash and arc all along the chain and the ferry's machinery, but the main blast tracks directly toward the amorphous mass. At the last moment the ghoulish conflagration attempts to dips, twists, and contorts itself away from the electrical blast but it can't avoid the electrification of the chain within its sticky grip.
The blast is quickly followed by another flurry of arrows and holy fire from Luthael. Arianna's steel tipped shafts of doom again sink deep into the oozing mass. The second bursts one of the bulbous, psuedo-heads sending more splattering flaming tar into the air. An unexpected fireworks display and the bits of flaming mass drift down into the depths of the canyon.
Accidentally bumping his exposed elbow against the metal of the ferry flywheel, Luthael is jolted by a bit of lingering electrical energy just as he calls forth the power of Khors. The bolt of dim heavenly light shoots of into the sky, a counterbalance to the falling flames.
Ignoring the heat and burning flames, Ingryd once again sacrifices her best dress, and much of her fur, to the rage and chance at extinguishing the fiery undead through sheer brutal strength. Unfortunately, she finds herself engulfed in the conflagration and unable to properly swing her axe. Blows go awry, even as the surrounding flames sear and cook her fur and flesh.
Tar Ghoul Conflagration: 50/198
Scram chucked off another parasite corpse at the tar ball before ducking behind the ferry deck railing. Hearing a giant explosion shortly after, the thief grinned.
Arianna picks two more arrows from her quiver and sends them both down range.
"Scram, don't just pop out the way you came," she tells the Halfling as he hides again. "You got to mix it up a little. Come out from cover where you're least expected."
Disappointed that he contacted the chain in front of the monster with the lightning bolt instead of behind it, Gunnar spares a glance at the ferry’s machinery, but that is all he really has time for. Pulling another scroll from his belt, he says a few arcane words and sends another trio of magic missiles towards the corpse collection. Moving to the front of the ferry, he prepares to extend his shield of the vehicle itself is targeted.
"Conserve your power. Khors' guardian will engage if it gets closer to the ferry." Luthael shouts to his companions.
The prophet heeds his own advice and readies holy light if the creatures closes within range.
Ingryd's rage continues as the tar is burning her clothes and fur. She growls and lashes back out with two more strikes from behind her shield.
Ingryd's strikes enhanced by the special bauble add magical force to each blow. Right now though her mind shunts those logistics to the side while her arms strike hard and fast to kill this during the worm of doom.
The first blades of psychic energy that bolted forth from the chaotic mind of Scramsax found themselves penetrating a devilish morass of chaos, fiery rage, and primordial nothingness. Within the vast open spaces of the ghoulish beast's mind where time is as meaningless as a politician's promise, the blades dart here and there seeking something meaningful, something purposeful to strike. Finally deep with in the depths of the ever shifting maze of undeath the pink duo come upon a trio of tiny consciousnesses.
Three once mortal beings with lives, hopes, dreams, sorrows and joys. Now turned to mere remnants trapped within the confines of their abominable body, forced into a hellish mutual existence of misery, rage, and fire by the vile sorcery of the imperial shadowmancers.
Directed by their wily master the psychic pink penetrators dive at the quivering vulnerable soul bits at the center of the burning ghoulish monstrosity. Screeches of surprise tinged with perhaps just a little bit of welcome greeting for their impending doom erupt from the tiny constellation of awareness amongst the internal night of the things mind. One of the lights burst as the blade duo strike. A final nova of spiritual radiance that in fact dooms its two companions.
For it is that nova of spirit bursting back into the cosmic aether that guide the second set of blades cast forth by Scramsax quickly and directly to their intended destination. Within moments two more internal novas explode into existence and quickly fade.
With not even a tiny remnant of mortality remaining, the sorcery binding the creature simply ceases to be. The oozing tar looses all sense of integrity and simply begins the slow process of sloughing away into the canyon like rotten flesh leaving a bone. Bit by burning bit the blacken tar drops away into the canyon leaving a filthy, sticky layer of goo coating the red hot chain.
*POP*POP*POP*
The sounds of the overheated metal punch through the lingers death echoes of the creature like sledgehammers busting up a glassblower's shop. All eyes turn toward the section of chain where the sounds appeared to emanate from as the ferry suddenly lurches under with the reduced tension of its sole support and life line preventing a drop into the great chasm below.
"Oh blast. Not again." Mutters the ferry troll wearily.
”Fly me to the break in the chain and hold it together while I mend it!” calls Gunnar, seeing the hot metal starting to separate.
"There Gunnar! We're hanging on by a mere hook of metal!" Luthael calls out to the wizard pointing to the exact chain link. Khors save us.
Scramsax was about to say something but the Invictusol saw him say it in the past, and thought to pre-emptively strike the thief with such foreknowledge a split second before he could speak. "...hap..." was the halflings start and sudden stop of some attempt at a random language, as he heard his own thoughts being formed by the priest as they were created in mind.
Putting linguistics and mouth-hopping phrases aside, Chief Deputy Scramsax the Self-Anointed strode forth to inspect the sticky missiles that dotted the deck...wondering just what in the hell was the best way to put out a fire, anyways. Besides the obvious Ice Hyena.
==10 total
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Aterro was about to engage in another daring attack, but the psionic blades from afar came and rendered the thing asunder making the point mute.
The Paladin watched the flaming undead monstrosity receive its final reward with mixed fascination. What kind of magicks could meld three such horrors together? Was one not enough? Were three separate ones not enough? Could he meet this things maker what would he say?
His reverie is interrupted by the screams of twisting metal accompanying the dying light of the monster's death. Aided by the shouts of the cleric Aterro is quickly able to see where the life chain is about to follow the flaming foe in death.
"Ingryd! Go and grab Gunnar! I shall...give you as much time as I can!"
Pausing only long enough to store weapon and shield, Aterro LUNGES at the slain link. Grasping the torn ends with both hands he grits his teeth and prepares to hold on.
"Hurry!"
Arianna freezes and doesn't move as the ferry starts to sway with the weakening links threatening to send them tumbling to the depths below.
"My friend, I hope we both survive. You sound like you have many tales to tell," she quietly tells their ferryman.
Ingryd snaps out of her rage and slips the hand ax back into its holster. Still burnt the bear woman rushes in and grabs the dwarf.
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Scramsax starts stamping about putting out the remaining small fires caused by the globs of burning tar. The *stomp*stomp*stomp* of his boots a bit lighter and quieter to the growing panicked *thump*thump*thump* of mule hooves hitting the ferry floor as the conveyance lurches again in a very unsettling manner for those on board. The stomping does do the trick of putting out the fires. It also leaves the bottoms of the halflings boots covered in thick sticky tar which grip the surface of the ferry tightly with every step.
Meanwhile Ingryd whooshes in a grabs Gunnar in her smoldering grip and races back out to where Aterro finds himself filling the nearly three foot gap created by the broken and stretched link of the chain. He grabs the two intact links at either side and pulls. Pulls with every ounce of strength, faith and determination he can muster. The still burning hot metal sears flesh regardless of glove or gauntlet. The lingering tar fuses to each gripping hand. Ignoring the searing pain and the stench of his own burning flesh blending with that of the smoking tar, the paladin grits his teeth and holds. He hold as his flesh feels as if it is being welded to the failing chain.
In fact, the magics that created and maintained such a device across such a chasm for so many eons could very well be doing just that. The calculating eyes of Gunnar observe the various frayed tendrils of magic woven into the chain and the break as he flies in Ingryd's grip toward the desperate paladin. He observes with wizardly curiosity and wonder as the chain attempts to mend itself using the fleshy mortal substance offered by the brave knight.
Aterro's eyes bulge and the veins stand out upon his neck. Every ounce of the holy knight's strength is devoted to keeping the failing link from failing completely. Holding the line just long enough for Gunnar to perform one of the simplest magics ever invented. His will, his determination, his unwavering grip lures that primordial power of the chain itself.
A puzzled grunt bursts from the paladin's pressed lips. Neither pain nor purely the pressure of holding on. The sound is surprise as he feels the magic wheedling its way from his burnt and sticky fingertips up his arms and across the expanse of his chest. Strengthening mortal bone and sinew, using the provided temporary bridge in its own desperate attempt at self repair. Muscle ripples. Flesh begins to harden. A primal roar bursts forth from the knight. Miraculously, the chain continues to hold as the bearkin arrives with her wizard passenger.
Seeing the size of the gap, a concerned Gunnar shakes his head and hollers. "Aterro! You've got to close the gap!"
Gunnar positions himself on Ingryd’s shoulders so she can aid Aterro should she choose to do so. He grips on tight with his legs and readies to start the casting of his spell as soon as the links are close enough for the tendrils of magic to be woven together.
"...oops I stepped in corrupted shadow soul essence." checking the bottom of his boots for sludge. "Hey Invictusol, check this out..." stompy stomping a little black-eyed smiley face with the demonic shadow tar.
But then he felt the lurch of the ferry and noted the look of concern on the troll's warty face, rushing to the ship's helm for a better look...were they going to secure the link? Scram held his breath.
Then he remembered the cure for halted breath, a few good rips from his trusty crystal pipe of Illarya's sweet bush.
The Bearkin Warrior Slips her shield back onto her back and helps Gunnar to her shoulders. She will then look at Aterro and assist, taking her own meaty paws and wrapping them about the links and pulling to ease some of the strain. as she does she clenches her muzzle and growls her muscles seeking to really seize making sure the dwarf has time and Aterro doesn't see his arms ripped from his torso.
Luthael watches the repair of the chain link with great anticipation. He wishes that he had anything which could help beyond saying a prayer to Khors. Khors helps those who help themselves, but he says a prayer to Khors anyway.
Luthael looks over at Scramsax's art design after finishing his prayer with a sad smile. The halfling could make a statue smile.
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the Paladin's scream of pain and anguish and pain and terror and pain can be heard from one wall of the massive chasm to the other. In sooth he had thought that his ring of fire resistance would keep the meat of the pain parted from him. Perhaps it would smart a little, perhaps sting a little.
He was wrong.
"This is the he shouts, unable to keep the thought inside. He, who had been bested by a raider chieftain in single combat. He, who had grasped a Spear of Thor himself and then did battle within the spirit world so contained. He, who had stood single-handed at the pirate-controlled docks (no, wait, Zove was there?) and taken the best this world of evil could throw at him, but this THIS trumped ALL OF THAT.
Then the burning in his arms turned to ice.
'By Loki's piercing cackle what is--,' he thought, the torment of holding together the massive links suddenly pushed to the background as magic...INVADED...his personally body. 'Have things gotten worse? Or better?"
He is comforted by a familiar hulking presence as the bear-ess appears carrying her magical cargo, who delivers his ill-omened message.
'So it is all on me? Well, hasn't it always?'
And then time for thought is done.
ruh-ro!
Nice!
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Shadow magic warp and wefts its way through the grasping paladin. At first the weave does as it pleases, but slowly, surely, Aterro pushes and pulls directing just enough of the magic to keep it from fully engulfing and incorporating him into the chain. What feels like a lifetime hanging as the only remaining link between the two ends of the gargantuan chain and what would be certain doom for all aboard the ferry, is in fact only a few briefest of moments.
Gunnar's words still resonate in the air as Aterro musters every ounce of power and strength to try and bring the two ends of the split link closer together. Veins bulge, muscles strain, shadow magic flows. Aterro's face turns as red as devil's backside as he strains and pulls. Slowly the chain creeps closer together. Slowly and not nearly enough. The ferry lurches downward once again.
Scramsax gets his pipe lit in an attempt to find sweet oblivion in the dryad's fancy leaf. Arianna clamps a frantic arm onto the ferry trolls own study form while Luthael holds onto his faith in Khors and his companions to save them all.
Then a rustle of fur, a rumbling growl followed by hot bear breath right in his face. Ingyrd adds her strength and raging will to the moment. In a single mighty burst of energy bearkin and knight roar and give everything they have. The chain creaks, groans, protests and then in a sudden burst of motion the two ends slip closer together...
"GOT IT!" Gunnar exclaims. Magic flows from the wizard's hands into the broken link. Arcane power fills the remaining gap with molten metal. Shadow steel shrieks and groans as arcane power welds the two ends back together in a magical instant. Although a bit of slack still remains, the ferry stabilizes and ceases to tilt and bounce awkwardly bringing much relief to those still on aboard.
With the joint repaired the shadow magic flees Aterro's body, and its initial inquisitive steps toward Ingryd's, but not without consequence. While Ingryd is unharmed by her very brief encounter, both she and Gunnar can see Aterro may not have been as lucky. A metallic sheen coats of the warrior's skin, at first it looks like simple sweat, but then they realize his skin itself has an odd glint. Steel colored eyes stare back at the two all while they observe the slow flexing of the man's hands as he attempts to clumsily pry them free of the gripping tar. The black substance maintaining it sticky grip as it slowly hardens with each cooling moment.
The giant ferrytroll probably doesn't even notice Arianna's weight as she clings tightly to the closest solid thing she can reach. Her eyes are screwed shut while she silently prays to Elalune for safety and the success of her friends. The ferry lurches and sways. Her mind plays terrible tricks on her as she imagines them falling and tumbling to their deaths.
Then things are calm once more. The swaying ceases. The mule yet to be named goes silent and the stamping of its hooves still. Not daring to look, she asks the others, her voice muffled by their ferrytroll's bulk.
"A-are we dead?"
"Certainly not, Arianna. I would see Khors and a choir of angels." Luthael replies to the elf's probably rhetorical question.
"Um. Aterro. How do you feel? You look a little different?"
Arianna slowly opens one eye, then quickly lets go of their ferrytroll when she realizes what she's doing.
"I-I'm terribly sorry! I didn't realize what I was doing," she says to him.
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The danger now passed, Aterro makes his way back.
Groaning all the way, heagonizingly pulls himself along the chain back to the ferry. He grips it all but blindly, and were he to lose his way he might fly off aimlessly until gravity reasserted itself. The last few lengths are less a pull and more a guided fall sideways.
Once attained in the space of the ferry, the once-mighty paladin collapses in a heap, a man spent. All his vigor has been pushed to its limits and then pushed some more. And then more still. He lays on his back like the dead, summoning the last reserves to pull off gauntlets and helm so he might more comfortably convalesce for a thousand years.
And then it becomes evident. What had been guessed at is now brought into the light for all to view. The wrinkles on his skin, woven in patterns of calluses from long hours of weapons work, no longer resemble the etched skin of the human condition, but are more akin to links of fine chain, woven into his flesh and glistening softly.
The infection seems to be total. For whatever new rents in his armor allow skin to show through, it is there, like small filings of iron tattooed by an expert artist, still shiny and new as if fresh from the forge.
Lastly, aye, his eyes stare senselessly out, no longer the angry-storm blue they once were. Not so even can they be called grey, but they shine like the steel on a sharp blade.
"Wine," he requests.
Focusing on the spell until the link is stable, Gunnar sighs in relief, though he grips his furry conveyance strongly given that he has no power of flight of his own.
"Well-done," he whispers to Ingryd, adding, "Let's get back to the ferry before something else horrible happens."
Gunnar gets back in the driver's seat of the wagon and sags again in relief. Once everyone is back in place, he relaxes his concentration on the spell of flight and looks at the ferry machinery and structure for any signs of damage, casting his spell of repair again as needed.
Ingryd pulls her chilled cup and passes it to Aterro. " Drink"
She the. Looks at her patchy burnt rags and hair. The woman shrugs and lays back slumps to the rails as smoke rises from her body and she grabs her wineskin.unstopping the skin she takes a l9ng drink before swishing it around and spitting it out. Another drink and she stoppers it.
With diligence she pulls out honey and cuts straps of cloth. This becomes the bear woman sitting in a knee length skirt and chest wrappings. Carefully a jar of honey comes forth and the woman lathers the burn Wounds before wrapping the cloth about them. After that she eats the rest of the homey before curling up and drifting back to sleep.
Arianna shakes her head at Ingryd and starts working on patching the bearkin's clothing. As she does, she sings a soft lullaby, soothing the party's hurts as they catch their breath.
Aterro, Ingryd and Gunnar cautiously and carefully make their way back into the safer confines of the ferry. Safer relative to prior circumstances. The ferry troll waves off Arianna's muted apology with an easy wave of his thick arm as he joins Gunnar in investigating the machinery.
"It all seems to be in working order." The troll rumbles, but then scratches at the scalp beneath his cap. His eyes take in the grimy, sticky, blackened surface that is the tar coated chain a few dozen feet down the line. "Except that goo is going to gum up things pretty quickly. Might be best if we just head back and wait a few hundred years for the stuff to weather off."
”We mortals don’t have that kind of time,” says Gunnar. ”I can freeze the tar in small sections with a minor spell as we go. That should make it brittle enough to chip off the chain, though it will slow us down a bit,” he offers, ”We’ll just need someone to chip away at it.”
"I have a trick or two myself that could help clean up the chains."
"If Adrianna's magic doesn't clean it, the tar is flammable. Maybe we could burn it off with holy radiance or Gunnar's lightning without affecting the chain?" Luthael offers.
Ingryd begins to snore as she lays back sore, smokey and seriously exhausted.
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"Gratitude," Aterro croaks out, gratefully accepting the chilled cup from the bear warrior. He manages to spill half of it on his face before, sputtering, lifting himself up to take a proper swipe before handing it back.
He lays that way in his stupor, passively observing all that goes on. As talk shifts to some gunk on the chain, he observes Arianna's plan. He thinks of adding the tricks of his own, but seeing that the bard is more than capable of taking care of this, he wisely determines to give in to the beckoning darkness and pass out, listening to the gently clinking metal of his own skin.
perfect!
Scram started to wonder when Aterro waltzed back as some kind of half ferry-chain half bee jigilo, but played it cool. It had been a while since he really understood what the hell was going on, and it would be a while yet it seemed. He pondered simpler times atop the beanstalk. That lure of leisure.
Better than this nightwhisperer slaughtering, choking obsidian ash hell that was the cloud of hate born of Chorvodni's ritual slaying. Yes, the Heartwood Pact that betrayed the Holly King...and doomed the elves to shadows. The thief considered less complex times.
Yes, he smoked that sweetleaf for a good hour, not doing a damn thing.
Luthael spends the time praying to Khors to heal his companions. While before he was concerned traveling with the light of Khors, after this encounter he felt no more sense of concern. With a little blessing, he brings a miniature sun into existence. Instead of brilliant yellow, the Shadow World twists its radiance into greens and blues, but it proclaims that Khors is in town.
Aterro and Ingryd rest from their earlier ordeal under the care and odd, but still healing, light of Khors. Scramsax rests in his own manner, drifting in and out of reality with the comforting slow rock of the traveling ferry. All the while Arianna and Gunnar team up to slowly but steadily clear the chain, and any other areas of the ferry, of the thick sticky remnants of the tar ghoul abomination. After an hour passes, the steady creak and grind of the ferry troll turning the wheel once again echos in the twilight air over the vast canyon. A second turn of the glass and the opposite side approaches. Another ramshackle building, long in need of maintenance houses the confines of the pulley and pillars for this end of the ferry. A second pole similar to the one across the canyon, also missing the expected bell from its hook.
Seeing the state of the building the ferry troll's lack of surprise is clear as he sighs heavily. "Looks like it'll be days of repair work at both ends of the line." He says. "Blasted ghouls have much to answer for."
A few minutes longer and the ferry bumps to a stop against the western dock and the troll lowers the gate allowing everyone to depart. Looking at the expanse of open land on this side of the canyon, the first thing you notice is the lack of the glassy, sharp bladed grass that is so thick and invasive on the opposite bank. The second is the looming mass of mountains, now seeming so much closer than just mere moments ago when all were still aboard the ferry. Then again, such is travel along the Shadow Roads where reality can easily bend and warp at a moments notice.
Luthael continues to pray to Khors for the rest of the ferry trip. Once on the other side, he exits the ferry and stretches. "Arianna, how much longer are we going to be in this sunless land?"
==18 total
Scram pointed out the mysterious bewt-prints to the others before chatting up the ferry troll "...uh, hey. So, why would a ball of tar infused with evil shadow souls attack your chain rider? Is there some kind of strategic importance for the war or something...?"
"Thank you for the transport, ferryman. Let me disembark and see if the bell on this side can be repaired as well," says Gunnar as he carefully guides the wagon off the ferry and back onto solid ground.
Once they are well away from the edge, Gunnar dismounts and looks for the missing bell.
Arianna stretches as she leaves the ferry, happy to be back on solid ground. She notices the disrepair of the shack on this side as well, and wonders if she could persuade the others to stay for a little bit to help with that, and give her the chance to get some tales from the troll ferryman, but decides that with the urgency of Luthael's mission weighing on him, and the need to resolve the slaving issue quickly, she is unlikely to get them to agree.
Besides, walking the Shadow Roads is a different experience from what she experienced growing up on the Fey Roads.
"As my dwarven friend says, thank you for seeing us across," she says. "What may I call you so when we next cross paths I can ask you about some of the tales you have?"
Hearing Luthael's question, she ponders it for a moment. Time, as it concerned the mortals of Midgard, is always such a slippery thing.
Groggily the Woman stands and debarks. She takes and a draught of liquor. With a yawn, she looks about as she scratches her stomach.
"That's weird. Those are really old tracks, that looks fresh?" Ingryd crouches down and points out the footprints.
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"I suppose it was inevitable..." The troll mutters, his words like his body becoming more solid and less aetherial with each passing moment. "Only a matter of time before someone broke the siege." The loud banging of a hammer pounding on stubborn equipment is shortly followed by the screeching grind of old gears slowly returning to life. "But I must admit....I've enjoyed the vacation." A quick nod of appreciation to Aterro as the paladin performs a bit of quick maintenance on the big hinges of the ferry gate. "Those have been a bother for long as I can remember. Though I'll probably miss the fine squeal they made in a decade or two."
Aterro sleeps like the dead for the remainder if the trip, and is the last to disembark. He's still struggling on gloves and helm when he gets off, and sometimes he'll shrug his shoulders or move a joint in an odd way, still getting used to the ancient metal now infused with his person.
He nods at the odd tracks pointed out by the halfling, then returns the favor by answer the question.
"Why would they attack? Why, Scramsax, is not the very fact that we -are- here, and using it, proof enough? Our ferryman stated himself it was a siege of sorts, and I believe him. This is a boon to the enemies of our foe, so naturally they would post some capable sentries to bar the way of those that wish to get around quickly.
Now that this way is open, we can but hope that others, equal at least to our standing in ability and hatred for the undead, can get around and be a thorn in their mutual side."
Aterro goes to collect Phobos and make ready.
Ingryd straightens what clothes she has. Weapons rattle as she then whirls her hammer up onto her shoulder and yawns. After that long yawn she looks at the group and shrugs.
"Maybe it was eating the chains. I'm more curious about these strange boot prints. As well as maybe some food, anyone got any food?"