The mix of emotions that cross Raseri's face as she listens to Scramsax's tale is interesting, to say the least.
Skepticism.
Confusion.
Disbelief.
Frustration.
Resignation.
She pinches the bridge of her nose and tries not to let her fatigue get the better of her temper and drive her into an unfortunate, if satisfying, response.
"Scramsax," she says wearily, "I believe either you are cursed, or one of us is and you're just the manifestation of it. Are you certain that Loki isn't somewhere in your bloodline?"
"I think scram is some strange embodiment of luck, both good and bad!" She says as she laughs.
"Evil Chipmunks that's funny"
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"If Loki is in fact in my bloodline, he's certainly not being low-key about it." the rogue deadpanned.
Somewhere a cat completely freaked out for no apparent reason, crashing fuzzy-forehead-first into a percussionist's cymbals.
After the fancy fine dining had filled the wild-woman's belly like never before, she proceeded to doff her exquisite new clothing and gloves...handing them over to the mule packs for safe-keeping. "Time for a little wet work, isn't it?" for a moment putting back on the same smelly britches she wore when she was a man, along with the tattered and blood-stained 'Perfect Pucker' t-shirt which barely resembled an article of clothing.
Ingryd had already hauled the tails over along with a bunch of other wyvern body parts, and all that was left was for the doctor to probe the posteriors. "Heh. This one's a singer, see that shimmer?" Sure enough, for any who dared to behold, there was a definite stripe of loaded malice weighing down the bulbous stinger of the fallen spa relocator. "Just gotta be careful not to splorch when I shoulda sliced...and..."
"...ahoy. Pure poison."
Raseri lets out surprised laugh at Scram's bit of wordplay. Perhaps she enjoys a good pun. Perhaps she's just that tired, but either way, the bit of levity seems to have lifted her spirits.
After the noon meal, she finds a nicely shaded spot and passes out from sheer exhaustion, not waking up until the next morning.
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Ingryd Assists Scram even if its just holding up the weighty bits.
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The image of the villainous conference slowly begins to fade from view. However, just a everyone ponders the scene just viewed, Luthael glances back into the bowl only to see an ugly, bloodshot, eldritch purple eye with putrid yellow flecks blinking back at him.
"EEEEE! heeheeheeheeeeEEEEEEE!" A chilling cackle full of wicked gleefulness echoes out from the now dark as a cloud covered moonless night water despite the sun blazing overhead. "Naughty, naughty." Scratches a haggish voice. "Don't you know it isn't nice to eavesdrop on other people's conversations. Heeeheeeheeeheee!
The eye pulls back revealing a wart stricken beak of a nose and an equally ugly companion eye to the original. A crooked gap-toothed smile grins maliciously, but it doesn't really draw attention away from the trio of long black hairs that jut from the long, pointy chin like a couple of jagged dead trees perched upon a desert cliff. A few strands of greasy gray hair flop stick out from beneath a jaunty wide-brimmed felt hat. A dry dead shriveled pair of roses are tucked in a leather hat band that looks suspiciously like tanned flesh.
Another cackle echoes across the aether. "Little sneaky snoopers trying to feast your beady eyes upon me while I change no doubt." The hideous face fades back to uncover an even more disturbing fleshy sight. Dressed in little more than a harlot's negligee, the gangly limbed witch pirouette's to let the flimsy silk undergarment reveal the most mind disturbingly horrid wart bejeweled, bulbous yet saggy skinned, secrets of the multiverse.
"Still quite a looker, wouldn't you say sunshine boy! Get a good look while you can. First one's free, next time it'll cost you! Heeehehehehee!" She says moving in a swooning slithery dance seen a various dimly lit dockside taverns up and down the western and southern coasts of Midgard. Often meant to tantalize, here, now, it just sets eyes to watering and stomachs to churning.
The eyes flick to the side, taking in Ingryd and Scramsax. "Ahh...now who have we here. Wait...wait...don't tell me. Oh yes. Missing a couple of kiddo's are you? Tsk. Tsk. That drink won't bring them back. Tasted like chicken, although I think cousin Pim should have added more salt." She says, the ugly eyes staring straight at Ingryd. [b]"And who's that upon your shoulder. A replacment? Oh! No. Hahahaha!" The witch cackles and slaps a long, grimy fingered hand upon her knobby knee. "If it isn't the half-pint stew pot morsel. The one that got away. Oh my! That's a clever disguise." She points quickly to her own evil eye. "But the give away behind the lovely locks and rather limited feminine features is the greed I spy within your little eye."
She turns toward Gunnar. Her voice drops deep and low. "Storm god's bearded tool. Bookworm, conjurer, manipulator of the elements. Poot! Poot! Poot!" Flatulent punctuation. Another shift of her gaze. "And of course, our little lost fallen one. Heheeeheeehheeee. One little oopsie moment back home and its a few hundred years on the lam." The face leans in closer, whispers conspiratorially. "Best to give in to that old temptation. Nothing feels better than a bit of bloodshed in the morning. It feels like Victory! Heeeheeeheehaahaha!"
Leaning back. Her features blur for a moment, shift slightly. Refocus into view. "So the big showdown is coming. Scores to be settled. Revenge to be taken. Heehee. Got yourselves a pet dragon and gonna roast lil' ole me once and fer all." She presses her hat forward, reaches back and scratches her backside.
"Since that seems to be the case...let's make things a bit more interesting. Hmmmmmmm...." A snap of her brittle, dry fingers.
The image changes. A circular chamber, the stone is the same as the gryphon knight's tower. That is easy to see. Above is a crystal domed roof, sunlight sparkling through creating a myriad of rainbows and shimmering, dancing light that illuminates a terrible ghastly scene. Centered in the room in a single pale green crystal pulsing with arcane power. It's light turning the sunlight from above a sickly putrid tone as it shines upon the blood splattered tables, cages, and grim tools that fill the terrible chamber. It takes a moment or two for eyes to focus upon the golden barred cages so much like noble ladies use to a their pet canaries. But these are bigger. They hang from chains and hooks secured to the wall. Wires run from the eerie green crystal to each barred jail. But the true difference is that the birds trapped within the confines of those cages are all too familiar.
The first cage holds Luthael's parents. His father, arms around his mother's shoulders tries to look stern while offering comfort to his wife, but fear and frailty and helplessness are written all to clearly upon his mortal face. In the second. Lying in a heap of metal, is Vee. Seen not so very long ago. Somehow now caught within the gruesome spider's web of hate and malice. In the third cage a peasant couple. A host and hostess from Lenovo. Those who once sheltered a dwarf, bearkin, halfling, and prophet beneath their rood. Battered, bruised, and befuddled. They stare glassy eyed upon the horrible witch. A fourth and final cage holds a saintly young girl. Jet black manacles bind her hands and feet while a band of rune scribed lead glowing with eldritch power is placed upon her head. She stares into nothing, tears scrolling slowly down her face.
The witches voice grows cold. Deadly. Vile. Evil. No remorse. No guilt. No shame. Nothing but the desire to inflict pain, spread fear, sorrow and misfortune upon others.
"This chamber, your dragon friend will strike first." The ancient hag growls. "When the cock crows to greet the morn, torn asunder this place will be. Stone will melt. Flesh boil. Smoke will billow into the heavens upon dragon fueled heat and rage. Souls will bake and hearts will break." She twirls about. "A chance you have. The race is on. Can you save them before the dawn?"
Her face cracks into a broken grin as another grating cackles bursts forth from her pulpy lips. Fading slowly along with the image within the bowl until all that remains is the clear water, the brisk breeze blowing across the plain, and the smell of wyvern offal drying upon Scramsax's sleeves. The sun already dipping toward the western horizon, signal's the need for haste and another bit of the witch's trickery as clearly her cursed magic held all entranced for longer than thought.
Pointing directly at the warty moon-crack swishing and sploshing around the divining basin "What in the name of all Eleven Hells, put a damn robe on old woman your janky bits are rambling much too wide!" But it was too late. Scramsax' retinae had disintegrated instantly, causing her golden orbs to spackle with an unchemically favorable and/or physically impossible rapid rusting of reddish splotches.
"Also, its not funny, just unusual. You're an actual wierdo."
On some level Scram had some sympathy, actually. People who were that clueless yet burst into laughter at oddly arranged circumstances had typically had some mysterious diddling in the past, orifices probed which were meant to be kept secret forever.
But on the level of penultimate truth, the halfling's heart had melted seeing Vee (or at least a spectre of Vee) so spellbound and mimed. Scram hoped beyond hope that her companion's mercy would take a nice vacay to the coconut isles for once in their lives...that the hag would smack and lick her lips at the curious medicine about to be administered by the Narg Nasty 6.
That she would reel in pure wonder at the taste: her own flavored.
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Raseri does her best to shield Emilee when she hears the hag's voice, but when the old crone's attention turns to her, she feels terrible small. She should have known the spiteful old witch would have found someway to hurt them. Her family is long dead, so the hag reached for old wounds and insecurities.
When the vision is gone, Raseri feels exhausted. The weight of lifetimes bows her shoulders as she collapses to sit on the ground.
"She means to kill us by a thousand cuts. She means for us to fail."
"Haha, na, Thorsdottir. That's just bluster. Motherly Bluster. Meant to disarm. Ho, get a grip! She knows we're comin' and she's shakin' in her granny panties. No doubt she dropped a deuce and praise every single actual god (yes all the gods) we were spared the details. She thinks its a race to save the ones we love. She doesn't understand that our hatred of her is stronger." the Barsellan offered, as a moral standpoint.
One to rally behind.
" Craven Cowardice is all I hear. As well as threats masked as fear.' She pauses and then looks around.
" What I wish to know is how did she know all this information?"
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Gunnar focuses intently on the scene in the scrying pool. He doesn’t react to the hag’s taunts, but instead tries to take in every detail of those trapped in the golden cages.
Once the scrying fades, he asks, ”Did anyone see an image or hear a sound that might indicate the scene before us was manufactured instead of real? I wouldn’t put it past the crone to try and read our minds to lay a clever illusory trap for us.”
Luthael steels himself during the hag's entrance and sordid dance and sharply increases when he sees his parents trapped in cages. He finally exhales when the scrying image disappears and the magic dissipates.
After his companions react, the prophet asks, "Scramsax, how far is the slug crossroads and the tower room where the potential prisoners are? And, how quickly is your teleport available? Unless we can prove what we saw were illusions, we need to take the bait, teleport there, and save our families."
"...hmm, that hangy prison place? Er, uh..."
Regarding the teleport, Scram didn't understand magic. But, she had told the lie about the nun's daily butter churning having a cause/effect relationship with the bracelet 's power enough times that she no longer remembered it was a lie. "...well, surely the butter has been churned today, I guess she'll do another batch in the morning."
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'I should give the nun some honey so we can have honey butter, Ooo, then get some fresh bread, for honey butter on oven fresh bread!" Ingryd says with a hungry growl.
A shrub made a sudden movement, and presently a cloaked woman emerged from a flock of blue butterflies and discarded a leafy veil in a burst of pollen "You are the one called 'Scramsax'? The one exiled from the fragile edge of the world, Nimble Tender of Leaf and Bean? The one who walked the north as a dryad, and was birthed anew from Yggdrasil's shadow. Bringer of bountiful stalks to the arid plains? The he/she who culled the stubborn Margreve?"
"Uh...who's askin'?"
The robed woman knelt in some formal, traditional posture from before time, imploring "The Archdruid wishes to invite you as Beastfriend to our circle. To walk with us in our Domain of the Grey for a time, to share your lore, your leafcraft...your contradictions. We would learn from you, and you from us."
"Heh. 'Beastfriend'?"
She nodded solemnly, producing some fresh fruit glowing faintly like dew lanterns "Also, a gift. Please, wear this sacred twinkleberry sprig. It is the symbol of our circle. Focus your secret magics through it, and we will all witness the future splendors of the Nimble Tender. Reflecting. Growing." The woman was dead serious, reverent. Beyond respectful. No one had ever treated the bastard in such a way...and rather rightly so.
Scram gave the little twig a sniff before sticking it in her lapel "er...alright, sure. Thanks."
She stepped closer, breath shallow and deliberate "...if I may..." Closer still, almost belly button to nose with the halfling, her eyes bleached as birch bark trembling as she gazed upon the thief. "...is it true you were once a man?"
The rogue smirked, relaxing into her customary theatrical airs of deception "Ah yes, but what gender is the sun or moon? The northmen call the white orb Mani, but in the east beyond the horseman's plains its a princess called Kaguya. What of dawn's first light, or ocean's wave crashing upon the sandstone of the geomancer's fortress?"
"Then what they say is true. You are both and neither. A liminal fire springing from the faultline between form and essence. The Circle has always spoken of one who would walk the edge of becoming, wearing contradiction like a cloak. 'The laughter of the beast before it learns its name.'" Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, held back by pure awe. "We have waited for one like you. To complicate. To enrich. To remind us that the grove is not only sanctuary but also a question. Won't you help us find the words?"
Scramsax of Barsella, for the first time in a long while, felt like a story worth telling.
Even if it was total bullsh*t.
Luthael welcomes the dawn and personification of his Lord of Light in Midgard. After his ritual veneration to his divine patron, the prophet casts Sending at the dragon: "Lord Dragon. The priest of Khors scryed that the hag has our loved ones imprisoned at the top of the tower. Please check before destroying."
Before the witch's spell ends along with Luthael's scry. Gunnar does his best to try interpret what he sees. Knowing the witch has utilized potent illusions in the past, he pays particular attention to the little details that usually give such things away. At first, it is all still so startling and overwhelming, the way the old crone commandeered Luthael's magic, the the wizard has trouble focusing.
But the sight of those he knows, care about, has saved or aided in the past is enough to brush aside the questions and concerns over the witch's ability to capture their own magic. Quickly his keen eyes and ears take in the entire scene. Vee, Luthael's parents, Katarina, the welcoming peasant couple.
The dwarf's brow furrows with concentration. He spots the slight droop in Master Invictusol's left eye. The slight, but visible hints of age around his wife's eyes, her hands. Listening closely, he hears beneath the cackling nonsense and capering of the witch, the soft tick*tick*tick*tick of Vee's clockwork heart. Even though her power has been somehow dampened and drained, the saint still gives off a dim aura of light. A sense of warmth despite her cold and dire surroundings. Even the Lenovan's match all that Gunnar can recall of the farm couple. Patched clothes. Muddy boots. Calloused hands and weathered faces. The fear upon their faces, all too real.
It is through this inspection, that the wizard becomes certain those seen in the mystical image are indeed real. Are indeed those they all care about. How they are there, he cannot know. But they are there, within the unwelcome, brutal hands of their wicked and vile enemy.
But certainty is not all he gains. For being ever curious of things of an arcane nature, he can't help but focus a few moments of his attention on the crystal that dominates the center of the villain's hall. The crystal and the long strands of golden wire stretching like metallic cobwebs from the glowing stone to each of the occupied cages. He sucks in a sharp breath as he spots a stray mote of wild magic drifting upon the air, likely a stray bit of runaway energy from the ley line. Suddenly the fluff of power's drifting course changes with a abrupt jerk. Like a bellows gulping air, the crystal sucks up the wandering power. It flares briefly upon touching the glowing surface. A moment later several of the prisoner's jump as if mildly shocked. Vee's tick tick tick skips a tick.
Before he can consider anything further, the image fades.
After much debate and discussion a plan is formulated. The heroes ready themselves for what is to come. Prayers are offered. Mystical formula memorized. Blades sharpened. Drinks drunk. Armor checked and rechecked.
Luthael steps away for a few moments. His face going suddenly slack as his thoughts take him briefly across the plain and into the depths of the forest. It takes several long moments, for the dragon has increased her arcane and mystical defenses. There is a tense moment when the prophet's spiritual mind worries he may night be recognized by the looming, chaotic, primeval magics of the dragon. But finally, it relents, a pathway opens within the maze and Luthael feels a connection with the powerful, bright essence that is the dragon of the Margreve. He feels the boiling rage, the churning need for not only revenge but to cleanse her territory of the witch's threat.
His message is sent...received. There is a grudging but accepting reply. The rage does not wish to delay any further. The fury cries out for swift vengeance before more make their escape. But the thankful mother overrides...for now...those potent and powerful desires. Her appreciation of the heroes aide and understanding of their need allows her to forego her own wants and needs. But she is a dragon. Her ability to suppress who she is, what she desires, all her mind and spirit screech for, is finite.
Luthael returns to himself. The message delivered. He suppresses a shudder, a release of some of the anger and rage absorbed by his brief foray into the alien mind. A hour more, maybe two is his best estimate. That's all they can truly count on the dragon giving before she can no longer hold back her own true nature and need to destroy her enemy.
After he refocuses his emotions on his faith and the situation at hand, Luthael shares his estimate of the timing that they have, an hour maybe two. He looks to his companions finishing on Scramsax, "ready, Teleporter?"
Once everyone is prepared, Scramsax the Conveyer of Nasty bamfs Raseri, Gunnar, Luthael, Ingryd, Emilee, and the thief's newest companion Quincy Celestial-legs the Pack Donkey directly into.....
”I am afraid the dire predicament of our loved ones is no illusory ruse,” says Gunnar sadly. ”I would also counsel not teleporting in too near that crystal—it appears to absorb magic, and the effects of spellcasting in the vicinity may be…unpredictable.”
After getting what rest she can, Raseri wakes and prays to her god for strength. Thor answers, blessing her with a wellspring of power and the knowledge of how to help keep others from slipping off to Valhalla too soon.
Gunnar prepares himself for the teleport, casting See Invisibility just before leaving. He thinks to Sylvia, ”Let us end this deadly threat to our loved ones and the region as a whole. Are you ready for our greatest challenge yet?”
"I am indeed ready Gunnar. May the halls of Valhalla long ring with the tales and songs of today's great victory." Sylvia replies to Gunnar.
The initial glow of early morning just begins to light the eastern horizon as final preparations are completed. Spells are cast. Weapons checked. Armor secured. Luthael's message reaches the heroes ally. Her reply is received. There is time, but further delay will surely lead to disaster.
All those making the journey gather around the halfling. Eyes lock. Heads nod. Scramsax begins to visualize the hag's sanctuary. The malevolent crystal, its cages, friends and loved ones trapped within, the filth, the scattered rags, broken crockery, empty wine bottles, ale jugs, and smoldering texts. The moonlight striking the domed ceiling above. It's silver rays filtering through the ice and glass.
*BAMF!*
A cold wind whips across the heights of the Black Hills. Whipped into a frenzy as it careens through the mountains, twisting, and whirling over peaks, down valleys, and across the open cliffs of the high country, the air blasts across the domed pinnacle of the ancient fortress. Once home to the valiant and honorable griffon knights, the Lord Commander's Tower overlooked a vast swath of the ancient Margreve to the north and south. To the west the lords of that order once gazed across to the highest peaks among the Black Hills, their tops covered in snow and ice. Looking east, the blue ribbon of Grandfather's Tears twists and turns, the flood stoked rushing waters sparkling in the moonlight as that silver orb slips toward the horizon giving way to the coming dawn. Farther to the east, the mighty trees of the forest eventually give way to the western edge of the Rothenian Plain, the rolling hills disappearing into the dark horizon.
Although the hag's artificial winter broke just under two days ago, much of the land still glistens with the muted silvery reflection of moonlight upon snow and ice. Torches and lanterns sparkle far below in the old courtyard and along the battlements. Screeching wenches, rattling chains, and shouts of overseers cursing underlings echo through the early morning air. The evacuation continues. Eyes, both living and dead, occasionally gaze eastward to take in the brightening horizon. Already they'd seen a days reprieve. The bookies had made a killing the morning before. Legionnaire's, elf, and gnome alike had bet stacks of coins upon the certainty the dragon would strike that first fateful morning. It would not be the first, nor the last time conventional wisdom proved itself wrong. Having collected their winnings, those with means and ability quickly departed on the first boats and sleds heading north toward the Blood Kingdoms, south along the river, or, for some, down into the depths of the Underdark far beneath the ancient fort.
Those poor wretches left behind, well, now they could add poverty to their growing list of complaints that could be put at the feet of their nebulous mistress. Not that any would dare. Money could be replaced. Even a dragon attack offers a chance for survival. Complaining to the Mistress of the Tower would simply result in a brutal, pain filled destruction no matter if you were living or undying. So instead, those minions of evil hauled, lowered, roped, carried, loaded, unloaded, and otherwise engaged in the gathering of all the bounty stolen during the mistresses incursion into the Margreve.
*BAMF!*
Scramsax, Ingryd, Gunnar, Luthael, Raseri, and Emilee arrive atop the domed roof of the hag's tower. The view is breathtaking. A once-n-a-lifetime opportunity to gaze upon the moonlit splendor of Midgard's most ancient forest. However, there is little time to truly appreciate such natural wonder. The wind immediately slams into the heroes as they land with a mutual set of thuds and thumps upon the still ice covered roof. The ice, slowly melting following days, weeks, of accumulation, is lethally slick. The furious wind adds to the precarious situation. Everyone is immediately forced to grab and scramble for some kind of foot hold or purchase upon the sloping, slime-slick surface to keep from careening over the edge and tumbling to a quick, but messy doom upon the paving stones and rocks far below.
Raseri lands on the dome and plants her feet. She holds Logi in her hands, figuring the spear deserves a chance to drink deep of the hag's blood. First however, is the dome, and it proves to be a treacherous foe as a sudden gust causes Raseri's feet to slip and sends her sliding towards the edge.
Luthael stumbles when they arrive at the pinnacle of the tower and slides twenty feet toward the edge before he gets his wings under him.
He readies to catch anyone nearing the edge.
Thudding heavily on the dome, Gunnar keeps his balance long enough to stomp his foot against the dome with a reverberating roll of thunder.
…but he slips a bit before finishing the incantation, and his foot just clangs uselessly against the dome.
"Quincy! This ice aint gonna break itself! Your hooves, Quincy, your hooves! Caboose-first demolition mode, engage! Rear-hoof blast that chilly barricade back to last season! I mean- *eEEEh! AAAAh! EEEE! *snarl* AAA...aaa.*"
Ingryd Hits and instinct flexs her clawsx to help stablize her. The beauty of simple clothes and no armor or shoes she can extend her claws. She then adjusts and lets her Hammer fly into the Ice
Having grown up in the frozen north, Raseri quickly manages to jam her blade into the thick ice to prevent a quick, slippery slide over the edge. Holding on to the makeshift piton, the northern priestess is unable to find another suitable hand or foothold. Her legs and arm squirm back and forth across the surface searching for any little ridge or crack, but only Loki's ill favored gaze shines upon Raseri and she can't strike a blow to break through the thick ice and glass dome.
At the last moment, Luthael takes the wise precaution of summoning forth the winged spirits inhabiting his trusty boots. When the prophet reappears upon the slick, wind blasted surface of the tower roof, he quickly calls upon those spirits to prevent his sliding over the edge. Instead, they propel him into the cold, windy air where he quickly checks to see how his companions fair.
Khors' prophet spots Gunnar, secure on the ice, but struggling to maintain his footing well enough to unleash a spell. The arcane energy builds, but then quickly dissipates as the dwarf slips a little and is forced to focus all of his attention upon maintaining his hold.
Then there is Scramsax and his donkey companion. Strangely the animal seems to remain fairly calm given the circumstances. Quickly planting its left side hooves into the ice to prevent a fall. One might imagine this wasn't the first time the creature had landed upon a the roof of a tower in the wee early hours of the morning. This theory might be additionally validated when Scramsax quickly sets a grappling hook against the decorative griffon shaped weather vane at the peak of the dome and has both herself and her animal secured in a matter of moments. A few seconds later and the halfling gives a quick command causing the donkey to lift a hoof and slam it down hard into the ice. Cracks zigzag their way outward from the blow several small chunks of ice break free and go tumble-sliding over the edge of the peak.
Ingryd, her claws a perfect substitute for climbers crampons, barely budges from her initial landing point. A moment later she slams her deadly warhammer into the thick ice. Shards go flying. Cracks erupt. The entire sheet shifts slightly, as something can be heard crackling and giving way underneath the icy surface.
Finally, Luthael spots Emilee. The strange girl rescued from the vile experiment's of the hag's servants, is clearly surprised by her sudden appearance on a wind blown, ice covered, surface several hundred feet in the air. With a frightened shout, she tries to find a purchase, but really only succeeds at propelling herself toward the edge. Fortunately, for the young woman, the prophet is there and quick to react. Swooping down, Luthael quickly snatches Emilee in his grasp, lifting her from certain doom as he waits for the others to break through.
Several trumpeting roars erupt from above and below the tower's peak. Familiar calls. Wyverns. Likely waiting for the dragon's arrival, their attention drawn to the flash of magic and the sudden appearance of several mortals, including a potentially tasty donkey atop the tower they'd been commanded to protect.
Raseri's heart leaps into her throat when she sees Emilee slide past her, and she's too far away to help her. Thankfully, Luthael saves her from certain death, and the priestess sends a quick prayer of thanks for the prophet's foresight and quick thinking. Still, there's the issue of the dome. They have to bust through it quickly lest they be swarmed. Thankfully, it seems her companions are already making progress on that front.
"Gunnar! Get ready to slow our fall," she says before trying again to break through.
Ingryd growls and once more gives a good swing. This time standing tall and shield out so she has full motion. With little care for oncoming Wyverns she strikes the tice beneath there feet.
The heroes of Nargenstal waste little time. Having found their purchase upon the dome, Raseri and Ingryd simultaneously focus fierce blows upon the thick ice and glass. A thunderous boom erupt from the priestesses sword as she drives it deep and through the ice into the supporting struck of glass and rod. Ingryd's blow is equally potent. Ennui's mass blasts through the thick barrier.
A great crackling of both ice and glass is heard and then a heartbeat later everything and everyone is falling once again. Part of an sparkling avalanche of broken glass, ice shards, and living flesh that tumbles through the collapsing roof.
A donkey brays. A bear roars. From below, cries of surprise and fright emerge from several cages ringing the chamber. Other shouts of alarm rise up. Growls and catcalls from a hodgepodge of goblins, ghouls, gnomes, and dour uniformed warriors. A cackle erupts that echoes from seemingly everywhere and nowhere.
"Who's that! Who's that, knocking upon my roof!" That screeching, grating voice bounces across the walls, heard above shattering glass and crashing chunks of ice. "My, my, quite an entrance. Very showy! Eeeeeheeeheeeheeee! Let the fun and games begin." The witch cackles and shouts, although she is nowhere to be seen among the filth, offal, and debris of the gruesome and grizzly chamber.
"Alright you louts." She growls to the gathered troops. "Time to fight for you lives. Make it count. Or else. Heeeheeeeheeee!"
Ingryd lets her shield lead falling and letting her absorb the blow. Once doen Ingryd springs up hammer in hand and shield in the other. The Bearkin fierce and ready to take on an army. She was not afraid death came for all and she chose this path. Now it was up to her companions to save the others while she played with the dead soldiers before her.
As everyone falls through the roof, Raseri calls upon a spark of power within her and slows everyone's fall, then she looks around for any sorts of fey tricks the hag may try.
With his enhanced vision, Gunnar scans the room for the hag as he floats down, thinking she might be invisible. What he sees will influence his actions…
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Luthael flies through the broken window. After quickly finding a defensible place to set Emilee down, he breathes a prayer to bring his Lord's Daylight within the darkness. "And He said, "Let there be Light!"
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As the heroes tumble, climb, free fall or float into the chamber below, the scene becomes clearer and clearer. Scramsax quickly spots a multitude of hiding locations, whether behind the iron maiden standing in one corner, beneath the surgical table with a set of rather grizzly, rotting remains of what might have been a forest elf, or among a stack of unmarked crates, barrels and jugs.
Those looking less for shadow filled hiding places, quickly see the golden cages, and their occupants. Unfortunately, the vision within the scrying bowl was not an illusion. By the sickly green glow of the massive crystal hovering in the center of the room, all can see Luthael's parents are indeed in one of the cages as are Vee and the others. The startling new additions are the slightly more than two dozen minions of the witch training bows, spells, and blades toward the arriving heroes. Gathered in groups of five, and spread so they are near each of the swinging cages, each squad incorporates a blend of goblin, undead, and gnomish followers of the ancient hag. But the truly surprising and unnerving sight is that of familiar faces, not within the cages, but accompanying the enemy.
Centered in one group, the fiery tempered countenance of Attero stands, eyes gleaming with eldritch power, an uneartly, undying visage overshadowing his proud features.
In another, wrapped in a cloak of leaves and vines, Vrindel gazes upward. His dark trollkin eyes spark purple as vines begin to emerge and twist upward menacingly.
A third group surrounds a smaller figure topped in a familiar red cap sprouting a miniature forest. The stout gnome, Ibrox, dips excitedly from foot to foot, power crackling upon his fingertips.
In the forth group is the sullen faced teenaged face of Trevor. His axe in hand. Anger burns hot within his face. Anger and heartbreak whenever he glances upward toward the shackled saint in her golden cage.
In the final group, a waif of a woman holds a familiar spear. It crackles with electrical power that ancient weapon of a god. Kalisuel's voice is sweet and musical as she sings a soft song of power, surrounding herself in a nimbus of crackling energy.
"Heeeheeeheehee!" Cackles the voice of the witch, who despite Gunnar's magical sight, cannot be seen. Her grating words coming from everywhere and nowhere. "Cursed you have been, cursed you all remain. Your fate is mine oh invaders of my domain. Once friends, now foes, this day I shall delight in your delicious woe. Ahhahahaheeee!"
Ingryd focuses on the Hag. Everything else falling away. She smiles eyes intent.
"Throw all the flesh and bone between, It matters not, I will get you and kill you like I did your sister!" Ingryd proclaims and rushes forward.
She swings at whatever tries ot stop her.
As he floats down still out of range of the foes and not seeing the hag, Gunnar wreaths himself in flames, warming himself against any frigid attacks from the hag (Fire Shield warm).
Landing, he angles in behind Ingryd, trying to electrocute multiple sets of foes without hurting the captives suspended in cages above. Raising his hammer and shield, Gunnar says a short prayer to Thor as he unleashes the long, low lightning bolt.
A trap. It had to be. Juicy bait like that, well...in the thief's mind there would be no other reason than to lure a sucker into it. Still, Scram had to try. She wouldn't let what happened to Trevor happen to her daughter.
From her giant sack of specialty, assorted thieves' tools Scram pulled forth a tiny mechanical canary. After a precursory sniff of the lock and cage door, the thief waited patiently to see if the device would lay the tell-tale egg or no...
Bathed in the Lord of Light's Daylight, Luthael calls for a wall of holy fire to separate as many of the bad guys from caged prisoners.
The hag isn't going to appear until the minions had a chance to wear them down. Unfortunately for the old crone, Raseri likes playing tricks of her own from time to time.
As they land, or have a moment to hover, and take their bearings, Gunnar, Ingryd, Luthael, Scramsax and Raseri get a better understanding of the place they find themselves. The large crystal dominates the center of the chamber. Itself a mass of menacing power measuring twenty feet tall and on average fifteen feet around. It hovers thirty feet off the floor with occasional arcane power crackling around, up and down, and through its crystalline center. Occasionally, one of those bolts of energy is drawn along one of the wires connected to the cages holding the gathered prisoners. The bolt of power races along the wire structure eventually dropping onto the cage where the entire thing flickers with cursed eldritch power causing cries of pain and fear.
The entire chamber itself is one hundred feet in diameter. The now open roof where the wind continues to howl down from the mountains, is sixty feet above, the stars can be seen still shining, although the morning light of dawn continues to slowly emerge.
In addition to the grim instruments of torture and the foul experimental laboratory with its sad remains of an unfortunate victim, the chamber is lined with shelves of haphazardly stored books and scrolls. Crates and barrel of unknown goods have been stacked about providing a variety of cover for those both attacking and defending the hag's lair.
Of those defenders, five groups are seen. Spread almost evenly about the room each near one of the hanging cages. Each busily shifting to take advantage of cover or instead taking aim as their foes land in the midst of the chamber.
As soon as her feet touch the ground, Ingryd charges the nearest group. Her hammer whistling in the air like the piercing call of the gryphons who once inhabited this place. Her first blow strikes a zombie, crushing its head, withering its flesh. The second is defended as a pair of goblins easily duck and dodge the heavy, slow moving weapon.
Countering the crackling energy of the corrupted spear of Thor, Gunnar sends a blast of pure, ice blue lightning searing into the group where Kalisuel stands with the spear. A goblin falls to the ground smoldering, his hand still griping the sparking remnant of a partially melted short sword. A ghoul drops a moment later, its undying flesh blackened into charcoal as it shatters upon hitting the ground. A flare of power erupts around Kalisuel, although whether derived from spear, crystal, or herself it is hard to determine. Regardless of the source, it flashes and prevents the blast of lightning from harming the waiting elf.
Using the rope, Scramsax notes the cage holding Vee. Swings herself closer, grips the bars and begins to carefully look for additional traps that were likely hidden to protect the unwanted opening of those tricky locks. Pulling her cloak tight about her body, the nimble halfling scuttles across the bars before the eyes below can truly spot her. Gunnar's flash of lightning helping immensely as several of the enemy busily rub streaks of red from their watering eyes.
The halfling finds what she expects. A needle trap. Rather crude. Child's play really for one with her skill. Almost insulting. Then she spots the second trap. The thin, nearly invisible wire, more of a hair if she thought about it, running from both lock and needle trap up into the shadow at the top of the cage. Scramsax squints into the darkness, spots a shimmer of light reflecting off of glass as Luthael's wall of fire erupts below, scorching another group of the enemy, a gnome screams, races around like a living torch, then falls over dead, the flames eating hungrily at his mossy, fungal hat. A goblin hisses, cries out for a moment and then is simply incinerated within the raging fire of Khors prophet. But similar to Kalisuel, a nimbus of power surrounds and protects Vrindel as the trollkin slowly turns his eldritch gaze upward toward the hovering prophet.
Turning back to the reflection, the halfling sees the liquid dancing in the globe. Poison, acid, odious cleaning agents, a rust inducing arcane potion perhaps a blend of all four? She couldn't be sure. The only certainty being if she slips while disarming the lock or trap, the outcome would not be good for her adopted daughter.
Floating toward the chaos of the chamber floor, Raseri opens her mind to the arcane flows. Easily sees the rushing flow of the leyline's power as it enters into the massive crystal. She also recognizes the relative ease with which she can conjure an opening into the shadow realm using that very same power. All she need do is focus and concentrate for just a moment.
Group One(Ingryd): 113/150
Group Two(Gunnar): 85/150
Group Three (Scramsax): 150/150
Group Four (Luthael): 90/150
Group Five (Raseri): 150/150
When the mechanical canary laid the fabled siamese egg, Scram knew she had discovered adventure...
The thief smirked, jamming her prosthetic middle finger into the trigger of the needle trap. A tiny deflector on the bronze knuckle presented a perfect bank shot for the deadly projectile. *tink* It struck the glass shower holding the insanity chemicals with a puncturing, not shattering, crack...and like the stream of a fountain slowly the trap up top spewed its nasty gusher in a precise parabola elsewhere.
In one deft movement, both traps were disarmed...but the sucker had left herself wide open in doing so, unable to hide.