Seeing the mass of flies and some evil being above, Gunnar prepares to cast a spell up into the shaft above!
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Seeing the room open up, he sheathes Thorn, the Blade of the First Storm and Weed Whacker. "We need to burn this whole room. The stone will survive. But first, let's kill some bugs."
With a quick prayer, he summons the holy spirits of Khors to protect them and destroy any bugs or threats.
Scram watched the given dump make a sticky plop, and was diseased by its sheer, nasty visage. The rogue suddenly exhibited heavy symptoms of the rare and inscrutable condition known to certain medical circles as Jumping Per Bastetmen of Bjornshafen.
"Ugh...oh no...I feel it...its that damned plague of the northeast, the Jumping Per Bastetmen of Bjornshafen..." clutching at her elbows to avoid sudden body jolts, she warned "...quick...don't say anything you don't want repeated..." stumbling around as lightning and holy radiance vaporized everything.
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Gunnar and Luthael act in tandem. The wizard summoning forth a crackling glowing sphere of electrical fury while the prophet of Khors calls forth the angelic spirits of the sun god to surround and protect the holy warrior and his companions as they set about cleansing the unholy evil festering within the god's shrine. Yet, once again the prophet senses Khors' pain and weakness as he draws upon the sun's power. It is like squeezing juice from a drought-stricken orange while also stabbing oneself in the side with a dagger. The shock of the pain causes Luthael's concentration to flicker momentarily, but the battle hardened prophet is no big city temple acolyte unfamiliar with the stark realities of battle. He quickly shrugs off the piercing sensation and readies himself for the next step even as Gunnar sends a bolt of lightning slashing through the darkness of the dome to strike at whatever foul evil lurked beyond the swarm of biting blood suckers.
Ingryd quickly shrugs off the foul stench of the vile effluent swirling within the chamber. Fermented honey truly being a potent elixir for many ailments.
Despite a bout of sudden and uncontrolled twitchiness, the snap of her sling signals Scramsax is in the fight before she disappears into the flickering shadows.
In an instant hundreds of mosquitoes are instantly vaporized by the crackling blue bolt of Thor's retribution. Hundreds more just outside of the main path fall like a summer shower into the waiting muck below, their wings and bodies shriveled and burnt from the proximity to the lightning strike. Yet, thousands still swarm, their hum now both hungry and angry as they continue to descend upon the party below.
From above a fiendish voice rasps.
"Oathbreaker. You are summoned forth, cursed by your deeds, bound by your deceit. Feed your black soul upon the bright one and its allies. Quench your blood thirst and earn a boon from your master and lord."
Each word grate like nails upon slate as it hisses down from above. The swarm's hum rises and falls with each syllable riddled with its hellish cadence. Then silence reigns for a pair of heartbeats. Only to be suddenly replaced by a sucking sound as a skeletal hand emerges from the mound of oozing offal covering the central altar of the once-temple. It holds a rusting sword that steams and hisses as it feels the touch of air for the first time in a century. This is quickly followed by another hand armed with a shield and quickly followed by the rotting remnant of a body garbed in the filth covered armor of a griffon knight.
Red eyes hover within the empty sockets of a stained skull bearing an equally rusted and fouled helm. As the death knight rises and steps from the altar, it is accompanied by the doom rattle of seventy-eight black onyx chains. Each length of chain connects to one of the knight's bones the other end running back to the desecrated altar where is disappears into the offal-covered depths.
The knight rolls its shoulders, heft's its blade and angles its shield before striding forward toward the gleaming glory of the prophet of Khors and his surrounding angels.
Demon HP: 180/190
DK HP: 180/180
Gunnar continues concentrating on the evil foe above, his Storm Sphere’s swirling winds continuing to slaughter flies and buffet whatever evil entity lurks above. Sending another jolt of lightning at the evil presence from the Storm Sphere, Gunnar follows up with another lightning bolt directly from his blessed hammer!
Luthael follows Gunnar's lightning bolt with a Khors' fueled fire ball targeting the Death Knight. Destruction would be a release from his current state.
The prophet grunts through his personal, spellcasting pain as his divine patron also suffers to hold his connection to his protective, encircling heavenly host. He commits to himself to restore the Sun Lord.
"...b-boon from your master..." the thief uncontrollably repeated. With no chance of a precision shot while so afflicted, Scram looked for any advantageous item on the death knight's person to tamper with or steal...
Ingryd moves in, she roars and begins to bridge the gap to slam into the first skeleton.
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As fire and lightning disrupt the relative peace of his eternal damnation, Oathbreaker, for even he refers to himself as such anymore his true name having been buried so deep within the recesses of his mind that his consciousness has forgotten it even exists, ponders the choices made that brought him to this particular state of being.
Although his does not recall his name, he certainly remembers hers. Lady Juliana Pious Grantchester. Her hair was the yellow sun made mortal, her eyes emeralds whose faceted depths could pierce the darkest veil of secrecy. And her laugh and she rode behind him among the clouds was a symphony of joy and freedom. That she ended up married to that pathetic excuse of a trumped up commoner turned Knight Commmander, was simply a crime against all the laws and rules of the civilized world. Lady Juliana was a daughter of wealth, beauty, and power she belonged with a son of the same. She belonged with him.
It was inevitable that she would have ended up in his bed. Inevitable that he'd be forced into making the choices and decisions that ultimately brought about his current existence. To right such a wrong, Oathbreaker had been willing to sacrifice himself, his god, his Order to see things put right. Of course, he'd known that a life in service to the denizens of the Abyss wouldn't be easy. But really, being buried beneath a pile of s%^t for a hundred years was a bit much.
When the fireball bursts, the death knight braces himself for the rush of combustion as the entire oily surface of the chamber ignites. A symphony of curses and screams fill the air although they are nothing compared to those of Lady Juliana in her final moments as she plunged through the clouds toward the waiting final embrace of the earth far, far below.
The fire burns away the last few vestiges of rags and cloth that remained of whatever garment he'd last wrapped himself in. Nothing left now but bone, burnt tissue, armor and hate.
A bearkin charges and swings her warhammer against his sword and shield. The blows are powerful, fueled with a burning hatred as deep and abiding as his own. Perhaps even deeper. The burst of necrotic energy twists and turns through his spirit and what few mortal remains still keep him grounded within this world.
"Greetings Dweller of Darkness, Destroyer of Existence." Oathbreaker says, recognizing the ancient aura of a weapon thought safely dealt with long, long ago. Again, much like himself. Gods were ever arrogant and foolish with attention spans more suited to over sugared children rather than rulers of the multiverse. "I see that someone finally broke you free. Cracked any worlds open lately?"
Flames and smoke fill the air. Old bug brains is seriously upset given the conflagration must've killed more than a few of his precious blood suckers. Couldn't happen to a worse demon. The chains flick along his spine sending shockwaves of true pain and misery searing into being. With a grunt and a sigh the Oathbreaker answers fire with his own fire.
With a curse the he summons forth a swirling ball of black flamed doom and hellfire. Tossing it at the obvious priest of Khors and his wizardly companion, the ball erupts into a conflagration of burning chaos and agony as it both burns the flesh and sears the soul.
He then turns his gaze upon the bearkin. "Let us join in the dance of doom, devour our hatreds and regrets upon blades of hellfire and damnation."
Demon HP: 151/190
DK HP: 144/180
Gunnar reacts quickly, attempting to Counterspell the incoming fireball!
His Arcane Shield springs to life as he counterspells, hopefully protecting him from some of the incoming damage!
Gunnar continues his assault against the evil being above, throwing yet more lightning and windstorm damage at it!
He then follows up with a Magic Missile at the demonic creature above!
"His Name is Ennui" Ingryd says as she strikes again.
Ingryd leads with Vanity, though follows through with rage, In fact she summons her own swarm and unleashes it on the Death Knight.
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Of course the stinky, volatile oils had been a trap for the true faithful.
The thief wanted to curse herself for not realizing it sooner, but queasy glitches rippling through tummy and tongue had her searching for the nearest wastebasket. Somehow the stuff smelled even worse in conflagration, and after seeing the farty plops boil and pop from the necro-flames (some of the gassy bubbles sounding like the screams of innocents released) the thief figured a bit of vomit might actually be an improvement, wastebasket or no. But watching the prophet consumed by his own twisted flames, a mental cry swelled in response...yet the thief's diseased voice only stuttered in mimicry "...hatred and regrets..." as her acute health condition warranted.
Snuffing the scorching embers mercifully consuming her out-of-control armpit hair, Scram couldn't help notice the 78 black onyx chains attached to the death knight's 78 creaky fighter bones, leading to 1 common hitch joint near the mysterious brains and intestines of the offal-altar. Naturally, the rogue could attempt to convert the altar in a snap, just as she had done before in the fish village under the Margreve; such divine methodology (pulling the old switcheroo on the gods) worked perfectly and there had been zero negative consequences as the scoundrel recalled. Certain practicalities came to mind which led to interesting new thoughts, however.
Black Onyx was no Aqueous Hematite, but still at 4 silver per carat the material was nothing to leave lying on the table. Breaking the chain was Step One of collecting the forbidden, demonic wealth for herself. The abyssal saboteur took a beat to consider the best tool for the job: Crimp-snippers? 2-ft triangular double-cut file? 40% orthophosphoric etching acid? Crowbar+bear=crowbear?
Paint a chain-link like a ripe nut, then let the chipmunks tear ass.
Then she had it, an innovative contraption with only a 0.001% chance at failure as her lizard abacus calculated. First a tiny marble would drop onto a seesaw, tipping it and launching a domino onto a toy carriage. The carriage would roll forward, knocking over a row of books, which in turn would pull a string attached to an anteater's tail. The astonished anteater would scream through its nozzle-focused nostrils, blowing a paper sailboat across a small pool, triggering a lever that would release a naval standard 18-pound cannon ball rolling down a long ramp. This would then hit a rock hammer, knocked free to swing and smash a watermelon, sending juicy fruit spilling forth onto a merchant's scale. The sudden weight shift would activate a pully, lifting a bucket of water that could spill onto an awaiting candle, extinguishing it instantly. The loss of heat would shrink the Darrel-balloon, finally dropping onto a magic rune that would snap the chain asunder.
But there was one flaw with the design: Darrel was no longer a balloon. Suddenly it seemed the thief was back to square f*cking one!
Were it your everyday black onyx chain, the additive sum of crowbar and bear would do the trick as a good enough back-up idea. But demons were full of tricks, so the stories told. Scram had been warned of sugar being mysteriously swapped for salt in certain circumstances, heard angry proselytizers warn of possessed cats that would sit on the low notes of pianos at unfortunate moments. With the thief's luck, the onyx at the end of the day was probably something cheeky like a 'chain of command', existing on some metapsychic level instead of actual solid matter that could be traded for coin.
There was really only one thing sure to work, sure to slice anything meta-real or really-real: adamantine. "Emilee, yer knives! Slash the chain! Captain Bones needs a day off!" she shakily implored, pointing to the sorcerous tether.
The thief would have to provide a distraction, something that would allow Emilee to prance across the scene relatively unnoticed. What could truly capture a demon's attention? Scramsax the Illusionist decided to summon forth a hypothetical situation...
Professor Emeritus of Philosophy Maximillian von Dinglehopper took the afternoon off from his insect cataloguing efforts to stroll into the chamber for an unpaid lecture. Immediately the state of the auditorium rumpled his nose, and in an instant he was having second thoughts about wasting a day of his retirement on such lowly surrounds. But seeing the dark demon above surrounded by lightning and mosquitos, something tilted in his educator's heart: there was indeed potential there...potential perhaps no one but he had ever dreamt of before.
Professor Dinglehopper saw a familiar face in the demon, recalling his work with another troubled student named Scooter. 'My name is Scooter, I'm from the wrong side of the tracks.' Scooter would always say, sending lesser teachers to throw up their arms in anguish. It took unwavering determination to set high expectations for such students while building support through scaffolding.
So it was the professor made his pitch "Hey demon, I get it. You want your minion to quench its blood thirst and earn your boon. That's really nice of you to give gifts like that. But have you ever thought how that might make everyone feeeeeeel? Consider this: suppose he does indeed quench his blood thirst. As promised, you replace one of his crummy 78 bones with a brand-new, polished, offal-covered bone. Now he is 77 original bones and 1 boon-bone." The professor paces, wagging a finger until certain the demon understands.
"Now consider you do the same everyday of the next demonic Season of Corpse Wrath. Every dark day, the blood thirst is quenched and a new boon-bone is given. Now at what point does the death knight cease to be the same death knight, and instead become something new? Should you replace the entirety of your servant, covered in gifts, what have you accomplished but to lose a servant? And how would that make the death knight feel, mmkay?"
As the hypothetical situation was delivered upwards into the demon's dome, the rogue shuffled back to safety...
At the last instant, Gunnar realizes that the necro-fireball incoming is not a spell but something supernatural instead, and he tries to shield himself with Absorb Elements (Fire)!
Between his spell and Arcane Shield, Gunnar blocks some of the incoming damage, but he is hurt—especially from the necrotic damage!
Gunnar uses his action to try and put out the flames on Luthael and calls, “We need healing for the priest!”
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The conflagration released by holy fire and hellfire engulfs the entire chamber. Within moments the ancient temple is filled with a foul smoke and roiling blue tinted flames that continue to burn and swirl all around the room and upon friend and foe alike.
The rumble and flash of thunder and lightning signal to all that Gunnar is still in the fight. The blue-white bolt lances into the insectoid demon partly evaporating upon its fiendish hide but also partly not. The humming swarm of mosquitoes is reduced down to a handful of the swirling, whining insects mostly flying upward through whatever sewage spewing opening exists in the dank dark. Their destruction and escape reveals the demon with its triangular head, long proboscis curling outward. A quartet of extra jointed arms end in similarly probing points clearly designed to draw vast quantities of blood from whatever unfortunate victim finding itself caught within the demon's grip. Filthy rags whirl about at the creature flutters through the air, its flight powered by twin pairs of rapid, wide wings.
After the initial sighting of the creature it is lost within the growing cloud of black smoke. A hindrance to anyone looking to strike out at the creature, but also an equally beneficial screen for those wishing to avoid the demon's searching gaze.
Caught within the whirling flames, Raseri finds herself alight in multiple places. She starts to slap wildly at the fire. The smacking of her hands upon cloth and hair a lighter tone to the heavy blows of Ingryd's hammer as the bearkin continues her assault upon the death knight. The knight deftly parries the barbarian's first blow, knocking her hammer off target with a quick lashing defense. It is not possible against the second blow as a quick feint by the bearkin sends the knight chasing in the wrong direction, surprised by the big barbarians ability to change her attack lines so swiftly.
Halfling taunts fill the smokey air and from somewhere to the rear Raseri hears Darrel and Emilee coughing to clear their lungs of the putrid smoke. Then a chill runs down her spine as she contemplates adding to Gunnar's assault on the lurking demon above. The song of the valkyrie's is silent. Something lands with a meaty thump into the burning sludge and muck. A muttered curse. Suddenly Gunnar's voice echoes through the clogged air.
“We need healing for the priest!”
Ignoring her still burning cloak and hair, Raseri plunges toward the dwarf's rough voice. It is only a few steps before she spots Luthael's head held up on Gunnar's knee, keeping the prophet from drowning in the filth. Somewhere Scramsax shouts about a potion, but the priestess hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing else except the need to save Luthael. Just as he has saved her in times past. She does not think nor hesitate instead dropping into the muck and grabbing Luthael's handsome head from the dwarf. Prayers already streaming through her burnt lips, tears dropping from her eyes to quench the flames smoldering upon his once full head of hair.
Light flows through Luthael's charred and withered frame, restoring the worst of the damaged flesh to pale pink health once again. A relieved smile graces her faces as the prophet's eye flutter open and he once again breathes the air of the mortal realm.
Lost within the miasma of smoke and flame, Ingryd and the death knight known only as Oathbreaker spar. Cursed steel against ancient iron. Burning, hate and hurt fueled rage verses the cold uncaring calculation of undeath. Free mortal flesh challenging enslaved immortality. The death knight responds to Ingryd's assault with a flurry of flesh flensing strikes. Except the ancient knight is not used to fighting a creature of Ingryd's size who also has her quickness. The barbarian laughs as a blow passes wide trailing a hissing stream of black necrotic energy. She grunts with a twisting effort that sends a second blow sliding off of her thick hide. The third is blocked by Ennui who shrugs as yet another notch marks his sturdy handle.
From the back of the room, a feral creature with streaming red-gold hair and pale skin bounds past wizard, prophet and priestess. A throaty growl rumbles from the creature's throat as a pair of gleaming dagger length claws slice into the stone with unnatural ease. A chilling howl bays from within the black cloud of smoke. The form flashes by Ingryd in a blink, slamming into the death knight like a whirlwind of flashing steel and bloody fury. Snarling like a creature possessed, it slashes at the knight and ethereal onyx chains that seem to secure Oathbreaker to the formerly sanctified altar of Khors. Amazingly, the knight is able to recover and fend off the blows of the wild creature Ingryd finally recognizes as the young woman so recently rescued from inside the gemstone.
Demon HP: 133/190
DK HP: 129/180
"You get back here, Scooter! Don't you do it, oooh, you're in trouble now, mister...you think you're gonna get off with lunch detention this time? I've got some news for you: this is going on your permanent record!" the pretend angry professor warned his pretend troubled student, as the illusion climbed hand over hand up the wall after the demon. For those below, it was an unfortunate view up the robes of the sweaty, physically strained old man...who had taken to going commando in his latter years as a matter of comfort and financial convenience.
Scramsax watched the explosion of Emilee with a blend of relief and affirmation of dread. The thief had been right (for once) about her capabilities...watching the dancing adamantine blades (each one a king's ransom) pluck the feathers of Rupert's old friend. Scram just hoped her allegiance would stay on the side of the Narg Nasty 6...and quickly drafted an amendment clause to the party contract to include her. Because if one thing was certain, it was that Scramsax' barrister's license to practice was not a forgery.
The maelstrom makes maintaining the smoky screen difficult as it whips around the form of the airborne demon. Buffeting winds damage it even as Gunnar tries to draw a bead on it.
Catching a glimpse of the demon through its smoke, Gunnar sends another Storm Sphere bolt of lightning at it even as he uses a scroll to send Magic Missiles it’s way to try and avoid its apparent resistance to electrical damage.
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Luthael had felt fire and heat before, but now what washed over him was also toxic blacking him out...
... awaking within a smoky inferno laying on the dwarf's knee facing his favorite valkyrie, the prophet struggles to stand and coughs out, "where's that damned demon?"
"There you are, beast. The power of Khors removes you from Midgard!" He calls out attempting to Banish the demon.
He coughs and calls to Darrel, "Darrel! Come extinguish the flames on the Thorsdottir, so she can focus on the evil ones!"
Ingryd smiles as she continues her assaults' on the deadly knight.
Gunnar continues to unleash the power of the storm upon the demon hovering within the dome of the chapel. But the creature's natural resistance to such arcane assault protects it from the worst of the electrical storm. However, such is not the case when the prophet of Khors reenters the battle for his patron's sacred ground. Although still smoking in places, the sun god's chosen one rises to his feet summoning forth the full power and authority of his god. Even though both god and prophet are wounded, weakened within this defiled and cursed temple, the power of light overcomes that of darkness once again. The demon screams a high pitched piercing cry. It's wings hum and it claws at the stone of the dome trying to resist the pull of the gateway summoned forth by Luthael. But the brilliant swirling white portal is too much for the demon to fend off and in another moment it is sucked through the opening. An instant after the demon's last toe slips through, the gate slams closed leaving nothing but a few remaining mosquitoes fleeing the room and the death knight it onyx chains still disappearing into the heart of the former altar to Khors.
Ingryd continues to spar with the unholy warrior. She drives forward with a snarl, but with lightning quickness the ancient knight brings his blade into position to parry the blow. The bearkin pushes off of her plant leg, twists, and in a show of fury fueled strength brings her mighty warhammer back around in a terrible backswing that would have utterly flattened any normal foe as both steel and death magic slam into her enemy. But one who resides in death, does not fear or feel the pain of its touch. The ancient magical steel still cracks bones, but the knight shrugs off the loss, for what cares does Oathbreaker have for a few more bits of bone turned to dust. They are nothing compared to the anger and hatred still fueling his existence in this mortal world.
It is that fuel that his summons forth now along with a pair of black onyx chains similar to those holding him firmly to the altar. Like jungle snakes the aethereal chains swirl and wrap themselves around the bearkin attempting to smother her in place even as he lashes out with his black blade.
Luthael's shouted order break Darrel out of his fear induced stunned. With a silent nod, the bard rushes over to Raseri splashing water from his canteen and using his cloak to pat out any flames still burning upon the priestesses body.
Emilee slashes at the chains linking the knight to the altar, but when her metallic claws strike the hell-forged chains a burst of unholy energy surges up from the very pits of the abyss tossing the girl away. With a startled, pain filled shout, she hits the wall and slumps into a dazed heap of limbs upon the floor. Luthael also shouts in surprise as he feels the shock and pain of the hellish power flow through his connection to Khors. Even the one known as Oathbreaker twitches for a few moments as the power lashes the ancient knight as well. But having known and experienced hell's retribution many times before the warrior is quick to recover and continue his stand.
Demon HP: 111/190 - Banished
DK HP: 116/180
Scram both cursed and salivated at the special properties the black onyx possessed, ensuring the death knight's demonic connection but also further increasing the value of the links.
*rumble*
From the shadows, Scramsax' stomach secretly wished they were sausage links.
Ingryd in rage seeks to pull herself away from the chains and bindings only to growl. Mid growl she stops frozen in place hammer raised shield slightly off target. She just stops.
Standing and raising his hammer high, Gunnar calls down lightning from the storm sphere onto the death knight. He then centers Shatter spell on the chains lashing the death knight to the altar including the knight himself! Lastly, he pushes forward between Ingryd and the knight, hoping to protect her until she recovers!
Luthael grits his teeth at the hellish power surge crashes over him but is buoyed by the close connection with his divine patron.
When Gunnar steps in front of Ingryd, the prophet steps to the paralyzed bearkin's back. He prays to Khors to release the her from the death knight's hell chains.
"Destroy this Oathbreaker, and release the knight's damned soul from its Midgard prison." He whispers to the bearkin before stepping away to concentrate on holding closed the portal to the demon's dimension.
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Gunnar's lightning bolt misses the unholy knight. It crashes into a nearby pile of ghastly waste sending a spray of offal in every direction that coats friend and foe alike. Ingryd struggles against the encroaching chains but she soon finds herself engulfed by hell's shackles and unable to do anything except anticipate her pending doom.
But such an end is delayed as from out of the smoke the sharp crack of a certain halfling's sling echoes through the chamber. Bone and ancient armor crack and shatter under the onslaught. The knight staggers drops to a knee. The chains yank him back upright like a wayward rag doll. Eldritch eyes flare with unholy hatred. Whether that hate is directed toward his foes or whatever demonic lord cursed him to this end none will ever truly know.
The power of Khors surges again. This time the prophet wields the light of the sun against the bindings holding Ingryd. The onyx black chains dissolve and evaporate like so much smoke in a wind. The bearkin finds herself free once again.
Oathbreaker slams his sword into the stone. The ancient steel blade driving into the marble as if it were nothing more than butter. The helmed head tilts forward as the knight drops to a knee. Memories flit through his mind. A child racing through the streets of Zobeck, watching the griffon's fly over the city. Holding his mother's hand as she gave birth to his brother. Hearing her cries as she died that same night. Feeling the blend of horror, hate, regret, and satisfaction as he looked upon his brother's body six years later. His thin frame lying still against the hearth, blood seeping from where his head struck the stone following Oathbreaker's push. Hiding in the warrens of Zobeck to escape his father's wrath. His acceptance as a stablehand to the Griffon Knight's. The first time he held a true fighting blade in his hand. Training day after day after day along. His oathgiving following his successful initiation and trial. The first flight on a griffon. The freedom. The power. He saw Her. Felt the love, the pain, the jealous rage all over again. Felt her skin against his. The passion of their knights within the chapel. Heard her words denouncing him as she chose the Commander over him. Looked into her eyes as she screamed, her hands desperately reaching for him even as he pulled away and watched her fall into the mist of the clouds. Felt his blade find the Commanders heart as they fought atop the tower. Cursed his god even as Khors cursed him to eternal damnation among the denizens of the Abyss naming him Oathbreaker. Watching as his brothers struck him from the rolls, scoured his name from every record, image, carvings, scroll, and keepsake of the Knighthood. The never ending pain and madness of his banishment to hell, where torment resulted in his return to this place of love, lust, and loss.
Now he witnesses his end. Summoning forth one last surge of power before the inevitable strength of numbers and power should overwhelm and put an end to his reign over this miserable boil upon the world's backside and its supposed God of Light. What good a god who could be hampered so easily by a former warren skulker and that old crone who bargained to put him here? Black power surges along the blade of the sword. From hilt handle to tip the necrotic potency of hell slams into the stone and ripples outward upon a wave of pure hellspawned hatred. The power rolls through the entire chapel create geysers of foul oily filth and crushed stone. All are engulfed within the conflagration as stone rumbles and groans like a thousand tormented souls.
Demon HP: 111/190 - Banished
DK HP: 7/180
Ingryd roars and closes the gap Shield leading
Using the shield to help take the brunt before she sends her hammer in hard and fast.
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Amidst the fury of battle, a gently rattling cobblestone in the patchwork of ancient masonry catches the halfling's attention. It wriggles left. It rotates right. "Ho, what's the matter little brick? Tired of lying down and need a little stretchy-stretch?" she inquired.
*glOOORSH*
The response was a rapid micro-fountain of pus, quenched from the solid stone like fart-cocoa from the candy hag's bath sponge. The nasty gush struck each one of Scramsax' exposed mucus membranes sequentially: left eye, right eye, left nostil, right nostril, upper lip, lower lip, right eustachian tube, left eustachian tube, throat, and finally the respiratory tract before the pattern was reborn afresh with a different color pus. Once various hues of the rainbow were cycled through, the brick had a series of certain shades and saturations also in store.
"...whew, gross. Guess that's the last of it..." the vague pile of fluids remarked, checking her vest pocket for a handkerchief.
Never was Scramsax so wrong.
For after the all those various puses came an iteration of bile, and after various biles came congealed bloods. It was hard to identify the remaining splashes, but if the offal was any clue it was likely some wacky combo of chyme and synovial fluids.
The final curse of the destructive wave was that the thief was left alive, living only to suffer beneath the multiple coatings of such bio-waste.
Gunnar sees an actual attack spell being cast and attempts to counter it!
Luthael is overwhelmed by the devastating hellish wave. As he drops and loses consciousness, his concentration releases the demon back into Midgard.
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The rippling wave of destruction erupts from the kneeling unholy knight, but almost as soon as its rumbling power begins to spread forth into the chamber there is another thunder of power. Gunnar slams the hilt of his hammer into the muck covered floor of the defiled temple. There is another rumble as another power ripples through the earth. This second power is perfectly timed and attuned to the first causing a cancellation of hell's final fury and likely saving the lives of the dwarf's companions as Luthael catches his balance and remains conscious enough to maintain his hold on the spell keeping the demon from returning.
Oathbreaker laughs and curses as hammer and sling stone converge upon his waiting form. Bone and ancient armor shatter and scatter across the room.
BONG!
The tolling of a ghostly bell echoes through the chamber. What little remains of the death knight is dragged back into the murk and muck of the ancient altar as the abyssal chains retreat into the depths of chaos and evil from which they were spawned.
BONG!
The bell tolls again. The ghastly muck and sewage coating the temple follows the path of the chains and fallen knight. The foul effluent swirls around and around the altar until it is sucked away into the abyss to land in the dining room of Prince Orcus along with a string of curses from those attending the never ending feast of souls. Elsewhere in the multiverse, a Sun God smiles.
BONG!
A final tolling of that earth jarring bell. A blast of brilliant white power washes through the temple. Luthael gasps with surprise and relief as the pain he'd been suffering is completely gone. His connection with Khors completely restored. The prophet feels both the relief and thanks of his holy patron even as his eyes gaze upon the restored and pristine Temple of Khors.
Emilee and Darrel both gasp in surprise and wide-eyed wonder as the foul, stinking chamber is transformed into a yellow and white polished sanctuary of peace and light. Windows within the domed ceiling, long covered with filth, dirt and debris suddenly let the light of day shine through. Similarly the eastern wall provides a spectacular view overlooking the vast expanse of the Margreve from high upon the great pillar of stone where the ancient fortress of the Griffon Knights sits.
The scarred sun symbols so no signs of their torment and instead gleam with renewed vigor and harmony as if having never experienced the vile touch of the Abyss for so very, very long.
As the temple is restored and recovered, so to are the wounds of those who drove away the ancient curse and evil. Burned flesh, withered limbs, cuts, bruises, abrasions, all is made whole. Poisons, arcane maledictions, or unholy curses are just as quickly placed into the bin of history leaving the entire party of heroes feeling rested, renewed, and reinvigorated for the final push to their destination.
Luthael drops to his knees and prays to Khors rejoicing in his restoration. After quite a few celebratory prayers, he starts wondering where are the hag and dragon eggs. While a wonderful interlude, restoring the temple was not their primary mission.
Corporeally restored but psychologically scarred, the thief took a moment to gargle with 100 proof liquor as she inventoried various cracks and crevices for lingering sludge. Glancing at the windowed, domed ceiling the halfling remarked "Whew...I was about to become a maggot retirement home. You know, I always thought it seemed easy to go down into hell...night and day the gates of the ol' dark death stand wiiiiiide open. No security at all. Climbing back up again though, to retrace one's steps to the open air...an impossible task for that knight anyways."
"...you think little griffon skeletons are about to break through the ceiling? I bet the roost was up there, eh? The old aerial stables, I mean. Maybe worth a look?"
Gunnar smiles at the change and claps Luthael on the back, saying, "We've done a good work here, my friend. Surely your deity smiles upon us now."
Casting Detect Magic, Gunnar looks for anything that Kohrs may have decided to bless them with for their upcoming battle with the hag. Afterwards, he capitalizes on the surge of renewing power surging through him to reach the next plateau of spellcasting capability (time for a short rest would be good if possible).
In particular, he finds that the blessing of the Sun God has given him some power with flame in addition to his typical lightning and thunder (Fire Bolt).
Ingryd looks around the room for anything from the Knight, She then looks over towards Scram."You have booze? At least give some to the gods. We are in there house and its rude otherwise"
Ingryd also will check and see if she has any honey to give to her companions. She was still good as the bearkin can last a bit longer.
Scram smiled at getting caught, comfortable with the secret that she had much more liquor in store "You know what? You're right, Griz. Spirits for the Spirit, eh?" splashing the altar with a classic Old Fashioned first, moving onto an easy Highball before changing it up with a Mint Julep. Of course, the thief only had whiskey, not the ingredients to make any of the cocktails. But gods could make imagination become reality, so the halfling had been led to believe.
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Scramsax climbs up the wall and cautiously a little further up the dome to get a closer look at the ceiling above. Just like the rest of the temple below, the dome is now cleansed of hundreds of years worth of soot, grime, and damage. A massive painting depicting Khors, the courtship of the Moon and the chaining of the seven princes of the Abyss to their eternal hellish realm adorns the dome. A dozen angelic guardians line the base of the dome, each representing the twelve different months of the year.
The halfling spies the opening that released its near constant flow of offal upon the altar below. It is sealed with a golden sun, the arms radiating outward toward each of the angelic guardians. Whatever opening existed is now closed and the natural thieving sense of the halfling tells her to attempt to breach the seal would not sit well with Luthael and may not even be possible.
A climb back down reveals little else within the scoured and restored temple. That is until Ingryd happens to spot a loose stone near the back wall. Calling over the thief, the pair take a few more moments and reveal a small hidden nook containing a pair of potions, five hundred ancient gold coins stamped with the sun god's symbol on one side and the profile of an ancient pontiff on the other. There is also a small pouch containing an assortment of small gemstones easily equal in value to the coins.
Celebrating the find Scramsax and Ingryd make an offering to Khors. Unexpectedly, the alcoholic gesture results in the curious transformation of the potions. Quickly identified as being potent remedies for wounds and ailments, the two potions now taste of the finest whiskey either bearkin or halfling have tasted. Unfortunately, Luthael his connection to Khors being much stronger than any other present, especially within this sacred chamber finds himself suddenly suffering from the effect of having drunk several strong drinks within quick succession. This causes the normally reserved and proper prophet several hiccup infused moments of embarrassment as he attempts to shake off the offerings effects and regain his composure.
Standing up from his studies, Gunnar stretches in the radiance of the Sun God. ”First time I’ve been truly warm in what seems like ages,” he mutters as he pulls himself together.
”We ready to move on?” he asks. Looking to Luthael, he asks, ”Can you locate a path to the Dragon Eggs, or should we try and find this hag next?”
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Luthael smiles when he hears his companions find a reward for their actions and describe the taste of the potions reflecting his Sun Lord's sense of humor.
His head spins, similar to when he started to see Raseri as she really is. When Gunnar asks him to the locate the path to the eggs, he shakes off his overwhelming emotions and returns to the present. "Let me see if I can Locate the Eggs."
]b]"You should grow a thick fur like my golden ones"[/b] She says with a chuckle.
After his frustration with not being able to heal the priest last time, Gunnar asks to have one of the superior healing potions.
Distracted by a maze of colorful geometric optics at the bottom of the small velvet pouch "...huh? Oh sure Gunz, sure...you hang on to that..." tucking the score of small gemstones away.
"You sure Scram, you kind of are a walking glass jaw" She says looking at her a bit puzzled.
"Besides I can take a beating, I'd be dead already if I couldn't" Laughed the matronly bear.
The thief shrugged "...yeah, yeah...I trained for knives, lightning and fire blasts not all this candy farting and unprocessed braunschweiger. Just need to adjust tactics a bit."
"I could train you a bit. Though.." she pokes your arms and then shrugs."It may be in vain. Ooo,I know we can get you a deadlier weapon like a...sword, starts with an r. The thin one that stabs deep. Took one right here." She points to a place above her hip, then laughs.
"Also took a few more thrusts to my legs. I was fighting some Gnome Ghouls long ago. Hurt like hell"