Envisioning a dragon rising from the cavern, Gunnar can think of no good way to block the multiple entrances at the moment, and with Scramsax going down, he realizes they need help!
Pulling the Horn of Valhalla, Gunnar prays, “Noble Viking spirits, aid me!” as he sounds a long blast in answer to the murderous snarls of their foes!
”Attack the frost drakes!” he calls as the Berserkers appear.
Shocked back to consciousness the thief desperately scrambled out of the way of the dreaded Frost Nostrils of Levoca...
Shocked back to consciousness the thief desperately scrambled out of the way of the dreaded Frost Nostrils of Levoca...
After blowing the Horn of Valhalla, Gunnar moves towards Scramsax...In part to separate himself from the pack so as not to be such a tempting target for any incoming breath weapons, and also to be close enough to aid the severely wounded ally at need.
(move 25 feet)
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Braggi Broadshoulder was always a contrarian. As a young raider if he was told to go left, he went right. If someone said 'jump' he said 'f%$k off.' Most folk just ignored him or learned to cope in various ways. Of course this was not always easy, as evidenced by his ultimate downfall. Braggi's wife, Hildi had put up with more than her fair share of obtuse contrariness from her husband of five years. If she asked him to take out the day's trash, he let it rot for weeks. If she asked him to fix a hole in the roof, he made the problem worse. It even got to the point where if she asked him to give her a child, he would lock himself in the other room. But the true end came, when after five long years of asking him to put down the privy seat at night she once again staggered out into the cold dark and planted herself directly onto the cold seatless surface of the commode. Straws were finally broken and Braggi's contrarian days were soon to meet an end.
So it was, that the following morning, Hildi served Braggi his usual breakfast of coffee, toast, eggs, sausage, and fried potatoes.
"Whatever you do this morning." She said to her cantankerous spouse in a most light hearted and charming manner. "I don't want you to drink the coffee this morning because I think I burnt it and it wouldn't soot your system very well."
Picking up the knife to butter his toast, Braggi looked across the table at his wife who simply smiled and fluttered her blue eyes. Offering his own smile he grabs the steaming mug of coffee and swills it down in one great gulping point of contrariness.
The massive doses of arsenic, hemlock, and hydra venom insured Braggi was dead before his head hit the table.
Thus the tale of Braggi Broadshoulder moves from the mortal realms and into the immortal. For under normal circumstances, a warrior of Braggi's dubious record, arriving at the gates of Valhalla dressed in his night shirt and shorts and wielding naught but a butter knife would result in said warrior being laughed out of that holy hall and escorted directly into the pits of Niflheim. But as the wizards and academics of chaos theory would say 'sh#t happens.'
And it just so happened that Thor, who as everyone knows oversees who can and can't enter the sacred halls of Valhalla, was a bit under the weather that particular morning. The result of a evening spent watching old Star Hopper reruns with Khors, Hecate, Sif, and Volund and having to down a shot of Grandmother's Old Time Hard Lemonade whenever anyone spotted a plot inconsistency. Needless to say, the world was lucky that the sun managed to claw its pounding head and sweater coated tongue above the horizon that morning. So it was that because the Thunder God couldn't handle the tiniest booming pin drop, the butter knife wielding, poisoned by his own wife, contrarian Braggi Broadshoulder was waved into Valhalla by an inattentive Thor.
The Mighty Horn of Valhalla sounds into the night air. Its resonating drone carries across forest, space and time calling upon those valiant warrior brothers and sisters of the northern realms to aide one of their own in dire need. The power of the horn is inescapable. Not even one such as Braggi Broadshoulder can resist its pull back into the mortal realms. So it is, the knife wielding warrior arrives with seven of his fellow faithful. So it is, that as soon as the raging, axe wielding Ragnar Gronarsson points at the drake on the far left and shouts for all to fall upon the fell beast, Braggi immediately spins and charges the drake on the far right.
Somewhere in a hut in the far northern reaches of Wolfheim an old woman staggers out into the cold to the privy. As she lifts her heavy nightdress and turns to sit, the lid seat flips up as her backside lowers. Hildi's screeching curses echo into the night.
A fierce pride races in his hearts as his sisters quickly take down one of their clutchmate's killers. Seeing the short one's flesh turn from pink to blue in a matter of moments is a fit beginning to the defense of their mistresses new realm. The triumph is short lived as only second later the halfling bounces back to her feet and scampers away into the dark confines of the thick forest.
Stifling a growling curse, he easily ducks away from the sword wielding elfmarked and her charged blade. The arcane energies dance and sparkle upon the menancing metal.
His brother is not so quick. A tall bearkin slams her hammer into his side with a roar of her own breaking the former peace of the woods. The strike doesn't put the drake out of the fight, but he will certainly need time in the soaking pool should he live through this fight.
It is then that he sees the dwarf bring the horn to his lips. Hears the forlorn echoing call as it fills the area and careens off the nearby hills echoing into a distance both real and elsewhere. A finger of concern slithers down his long spine. The power within that strange note was palpable and already he could feel the portal opening. Could see the spirits emerging from the realms of the dead. Could hear their ringing battle cries and the clash of iron against shield.
He glances up at the clouds, could sense the stars shining within the infinite depths of the great void above. His sister's spirit was already soaring into those great heights. Would it be that he would soon be following?
Today is a good day to die.
That's when the area erupted in a burst of holy fire.
Three of the drakes manage to leap away from the worst of Luthael's holy blast of fire. The one on the right side of the line fails to jump clear. She screeches in pain and defiance of the searing magic as her gleaming white scales turn gray and black.
With the flames still dissipating, the drakes roar and press forward. Raseri is able to defend a swiping claw, but she doesn't pivot away from the fast snapping jaws in enough time. The nip manages to punch through the leathers protecting her leg and leaves the limb bleeding in multiple places.
Although looking badly wounded the drake fighting Ingryd rallies, feints low to get the bearkin off balance before switching its momentum in a brilliant display of quickness and control to slash the barbarian across her shoulder. Three gleaming streaks of red erupt along the bearkin's muscle.
Seeing the approaching hoard of wild berserkers, the drake on the left of the line suddenly starts making several odd cooing sounds as her eyes whirl and sparkle with an eerie glowing light. Her head begins to swing back and forth and up and down creating an odd hypnotic pattern. The maddened hoard of warriors suddenly stumble in their charge. Four of the warriors cease their charge, enthralled by the drake's display. If not for the shear number of potential enemies, the entire clutch would have eaten well.
Only the strong minded Klelland Tor truly shrugs off the reptilian magic and continues forward. His display of bravery and focus rallies one of the other warriors enough to break the drake's hold.
One the opposite side of the field, Braggi raises his butter knife against the looming form of the drake. A claw slashes out. The blow is light but manages to knock the berserker off his stride. Moments later a dense fog billows up from the ground surrounding Braggi, the drake and the far edge of the dragon's well in an impenetrable cloud of swirling vapor. The berserker's curses spring forth from the swirling fog, his voice moving ever closer to the black maw of the cavern.
Another roar rumbles from the depths below. Closer. Its echoing blast filled with promised revenge, promised death for this unwelcome intrusion and the death of her favored servants.
Drake 1 (M): 88/100 (Raseri)
Drake 2: 0/100
Drake 3 (M): 52/100 (Ingryd)
Drake 4 (F): 88/100
Drake 5 (F): 76/100
An experienced abjurer, Gunnar notes the drake’s behavior and recognizes spellcasting! He weighs his options quickly and decides to take action, as even with the Berserker allies their position is still quite tenuous.
With a quick gesture, Gunnar attempts to counterspell the magic being cast by the drake, his arcane ward springing into existence as the abjuration spell does its work!
Continuing to move off to the side, Gunnar aligns himself with the two drakes attacking Ingryd and Raseri, then unleashes the fury of Thor! A lightning bolt flows out in a streaking jagged line over the two frigid creatures!
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Using a wintry mix of tree cover and dwarf cover, the wounded thief crept forward...hungry for a piece of the action...
Scram remembered a pet lizard she used to have back in Barsella, one that always loved to be scratched in the little piece of soft skin just below the third rib. The gambler figured that might be a weak spot for these big lizards, too...
Ingryd leaps and sends her fury and rage into the dragon. Swings and furious bees strike the dragon as she pressed on.
Luthael continues back away from his companions and threats to attempt avoid both melee and breath attack from the drakes, while staying within 60 feet of his companions (fore Healing Word).
He calls Khors for another explosion of holy fire on as many of the drakes as he, while avoiding his companions.
The prophet calls on Khors to thread a Wall of Holy Fire through the drakes keeping his companions just out of the effects trying to hit as many drakes as possible and preparing for the dragons to enter the battle.
Fire and lightning blast their fury across the clearing as wizard and prophet unleash their potent elemental magics upon their draconian foes. Vaporized snow and ice create an instant a cloud of dense steam. The roiling cloud fills the clearing making it difficult to see. Line of sight is not needed for Ingryd and her fury fueled hammer. In comes crashing down directly on the skull of the blasted drake attacking her and the creature drops with a resounding thud at her feet.
Having been saved from the drake's magic by Gunnar's quick countering conjuration, the hoard of northern berserkers swarm the swooping drake. Two get themselves caught within the broiling wall of flames, but what is a little burnt flesh when there is killing to be done. Ancient axes slash and chop. Reptilian blood flows in great streams upon the ground. Within moments the hapless creature's struggles cease and like its clutchmate crashes to the ground in a heap of scales and flesh.
The snap of a sling bursts from the tree line. The sound is followed by the bone snapping sound of the stone cracking the skull of the drake ready to bite Raseri. The blow stuns the big creature and gives an opening to the priestess. Her mighty blade lands with a thundering boom and punches through the drake's heart.
Inside the dense cloud of fog, the final beast trades blows with Braggi the Contrarian. Sensing the demise of her clutchmates, she trumpets a final warning to her mistress and readies herself to join her kin among the glorious stars.
Gunnar listens to the answering roar. A few quick calculations taking into consideration distortion due to the tunnels and estimates a new foe will arrive within the next few seconds.
Drake 1 (M): 0/100 (Raseri)
Drake 2: 0/100
Drake 3 (M): 0/100 (Ingryd)
Drake 4 (F): 0/100
Drake 5 (F): 66/100
Berserker Braggi: 54/67
Berserker 2: 67/67
Berserker 3: 67/67
Berserker 4: 67/67
Berserker 5: 67/67
Berserker 6: 67/67
Berserker 7: 43/67
Berserker 8: 43/67
”Into the fog cloud, Warriors of Valhalla, to the aid of your brother in arms!” commands Gunnar as the other drakes fall. With the dragon arrival imminent, he hopes that being away from the fog cloud himself and his companions being somewhat scattered will lessen the tactical impact of the inevitable Draconic Breath Weapon.
Moving to be away from his companions enough to make targeting from the dragon breath difficult, Gunnar prepares his mightiest spell, intending to cast it just in time to block the torrent of death nearly upon them!
Luthael concentrates on his wall of holy fire hearing the rumble of the imminent arrival of the true dragon. Hopefully it cannot avoid the wall.
He readies to sling holy flame into the dragon's face, while he positions his lance of solid sunlight to the most likely area of emergence.
Scram simultaneously liked and disliked the numerous drake corpses now littering the steamy mesa.
On the plus side, they were dead as a doornail. Big and meaty enough, even, to take the punishment should some cover be desperately needed.
On the minus side, a fear tickled the thief's senses. A fear that the dragon knew blood magic. A fear that the meaty corpses would soon be exploding in cold red showers, or worse reanimated and dancing at the ancient lair-master's whim.
Scram took a chance and dashed over to one of the fallen creatures. There, clutching her ring, the thief squeezed out the last of Invictusol's magic...
Within the swirling gray confines of the arcane fog and mist all goes momentarily quiet as Braggi and the single remaining drake stalk each other. The natural hunter's instincts apparently prove superior over the contrarian's skills as a snarl is quickly followed by the sickening harsh, shout of Braggi as flesh is ripped from his body. A spray of red mist bursts from the fog followed by a twirling forearm. Braggi no longer has to worry about choosing between his right or left hand when fighting.
Following the burst of violence silence once again descends upon the field of battle. The other berserkers with no targets in sight, stand at the ready. Their warrior senses keenly aware of a coming storm about to burst from the bowels of the world.
Scramsax takes advantage of the momentary peace to boost and strengthen her bodies resilience. Similar to their conjured allies, Gunnar and Luthael wait for the emergence of the real threat. Raseri and Ingryd, sensing that their position so near the cavern where the drakes fell might not be the best of choices, retreat a few steps so they are better able to cover the spell slingers or quickly advance upon the enemy.
A few more moments pass. The ground trembles. The sound of rocks cracking, tumbling to a final hissing splash in the hot spring echo from the dark depths of the cavern. The scratch and scrabble of claws on stone. A huffing bellows of lungs hard at work. The noise grows louder. The staccato clatter more rapid with more speed.
Something else seeps into hearts and minds with that unstoppable rush upward from the deep. Nervous eyes flick back and forth warily among the hardened northern warriors. Sweat makes palms slick. Some take a wary step backward. None are immune. Gunnar, Ingryd, Scramsax, Luthael, and Raseri all feel that growth of fear and it buds and begins to blossom within hearts and minds.
With a rush of air and a furious roar the source of that fear is made manifest in reality. Climbing to the top of the opposite side of the cavern, powerful hind limbs each as thick as a treant's mighty waist launch the beast upward into the air. Wings the size of a galleon's sails stretch out and instantly embrace the thermal rising from the heated pool below. Another roar rattles the trees and physically assaults those gathered in the clearing.
The wave of fear washes across the berserkers like a storm wave clearing the deck of a ship. Only one of the stout warriors holds her ground. A maniacal laugh bursts forth from an ample chest as she raises her axe in welcome salute. This chance to face the mightiest of foes will earn her ample accolades and rewards upon her return to Valhalla. A feeling that seems not to be shared by her companions as all others scatter. One poor, fool manages to scramble the wrong direction entirely. Not seeing the edge of the opening in the mist, he goes tumbling to his death. His screams cut off abruptly by a the splash of boiling water. His flesh added to the carrot and snake stew cooking below.
Rising into the air, the dragon is different from its southern cousins. Although it bears the same massive reptilian, scaled head, and wide leathery wings, its body is covered in a blend of silvery, blue scales and thick fur. This mane of fur is more prominent along its neck, back, and the shins of its huge, clawed legs. A shower of sparks cascade from its outstretched wings leaving a prominent trail of embers that flutter to the ground where they hiss and pop in the snow and ice coated earth.
[ooc]The Dragon is
Drake 1 (M): 0/100 (Raseri)
Drake 2: 0/100
Drake 3 (M): 0/100 (Ingryd)
Drake 4 (F): 0/100
Drake 5 (F): 66/100
Berserker Braggi: 23/67
Berserker 2: 67/67
Berserker 3: 67/67
Berserker 4: 0/67
Berserker 5: 67/67
Berserker 6: 67/67
Berserker 7: 43/67
Berserker 8: 43/67
Ingryd feels fear. Her body stiffens and clarity calls momentarily to her rage. It is enough to halt her advance. Growling she slips her mual flares even more to life but she freezes. Even the swarm of bees about her is not comforting.
Tears fall on her face as she is fighting herself. She is tryinf to break free the damned wave of fear overher but the legs wont move. Fear had taken her.
Gunnar tries to steel his will against the irrational fear brought on by the dragon’s arrival. He forces himself to think—does this creature have a breath weapon? What tactics might it fight with?
Scram suddenly lost interest in playing peek'a'boo with the lord of lightning, sinking in her skulk deeper behind the cover of the fallen drake. She really just was concentrating on staying alive.
Although unable to review his trusty, but often times flawed, Rupert's Tome of Magical Beasts and Wondrous Creatures Gunnar does recall some mention of a dragon matching the description of the rather angry looking beast currently circling the skies above. Classified in the catalog as a Boreal Dragon, these creatures ranked near the top of Rupert's dangerous scale which generally runs from 'Easy Pickings' to 'May the Gods Have Mercy Upon Your Soul.'
According to the wandering wizard's research and around the world travels...
Boreal dragons are creatures who generally dwell in the far northern reaches of ice and snow covered mountains, tundra, and cold, alpine forests. But unlike the more typical dragons who inhabit these artic regions, Boreal dragons are not true creatures of elemental cold. Instead they practically exude heat and fire. Their breath is an ember filled vortex of superheated flame that will char any living creature to a finely roasted crisp in a matter of seconds. The most ancient of these creatures can wrap themselves in a cloak of embers making it practically impossible to engage them up close without suffering some manner of harm. This love of warmth and fire means their lairs although found in the coldest of climates always include some source of natural warmth. Hot springs, volcanic vents, and the like.
Fortunately for the people of the world, Boreal dragons are even more surely and isolationist than your typical rainbow variety dragon. In fact, they hate with a passion that burns as hot as their own breath other dragons who would attempt to trespass on their territory in any way. Thus they are not allied with others of their kind nor do they participate in the Imperial politics and actions of the Mharoti.
It is worth noting, that some tavern tales speak of warriors earning the respect of these brutal creatures through especially valiant, or one might say foolhardy, deeds. Or other tales of a less than reliable nature tell of the truculent dragons simply ignoring those vastly weaker or defenseless as being beneath their time and energy. This later is usually not the case if the dragon is hungry or the poor fools have come uninvited into the dragon's home.
”This foe may well be beyond us. Beware it’s fiery breath,” says Gunnar to his allies with more confidence than he feels. With his companions scattered and frightened, Gunnar decides to gamble with a negotiation.
Moving towards the center of the battle scene, he looks up at the Dragon and calls, ”Greetings Boreal Dragon. Your drakes have murdered our people and their threat has been removed. If you have no intent to do likewise, we have no quarrel with you. If, however, you intend to attack our kind as the drakes did, we must destroy you to protect our own!”
With no idea how this is going to go, Gunnar continues to ready his spell to try and block any incoming breath weapon.
The awesome aura of the dragon precedes it emerging from the cavern and washes over Luthael. The prophet takes a deep breath and taps into the inner peace of his pure faith in Khors. The dragon becomes just another beast to kill.
He ensures his spacing to ensure that the dragon could only target one of his companions with a breath weapon before moving his shaft of holy light near Ingryd to join in potential melee.
Then with a prayer to Khors, Luthael sends a bead of crimson from his bejeweled amulet, which blossoms on contact with the dragon into a ball of holy fire.
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