Ingryd leaps forward and strikes at one of the Driders. Rage floods her as she will not loose a friend here.
then swings again
He clicks his heels attempting to activate his Winged Boots to see if their magic remains and then draws Thorn. Blade of the First Storm from its sheath and tries to detect if it remains connected to the First Storm. "I might get more practice with this sword."
Drawing his other sword, the prophet of Khors concentrates for a few seconds. Soon enough he can feel the hum of magic still thrumming within the blade. Can feel its connection to the First Storm.
How about me? Inquires the Other, other sword carried by the Prophet. Do you want to make sure I'm safe?
They very fact the Inquisition's Blade is still communicating, gives the prophet all of the information he needs to determine the magic coursing through that particular item is still quite present and strong.
Raseri quietly follows Luthael's lead. Tests her own items of magic. Each seems in tact and just as potent as they were back in Midgard.
"Raseri, I can call forth a storm of vengeance from Thorn. Would it be better to unleash against that mechanical monster down there, or can you use it to power a way back to Midgard?" He looks to her with hope.
He ignores the artifact in the box but gives it a little hope by thinking to himself, well, this is probably one place where it would be the least bad to release and use that terrible blade.
Gunnar's arcane fist continues to hold the struggling eldritch chipmunk in place. Th woodland rodent's eyes blaze with hate and power, but buried beneath that layer of revenge-fueled malevolence is a desire for rest, peace. It emits a harsh squeak as ribs bend, begin to pop and lungs struggle to pull in air. For just a whisper of a moment, the dwarven wizard can see the creature setting aside its quest. Can see the desire to return to a life of simpler pleasures and routines. Then its gaze catches sight of another.
A potent, fury of chittering and chaos laced muck-speech fills the room as a certain halfling emerges from the fading shadows to plant a dagger in the drider nearest the doorway. A halfling that smells of a dryad's glade, magic beans, and callous greed. The One had come. It was as the old crone had predicted. A madness grin of hate and vengeance crosses his puffy-cheeked face. A word of pure chaos is uttered which causes the stone in the room to tremble. Vision blurs and ears ring upon hearing the entropic syllables.
The chipmunk disappears it a puff of shadow and spite. Reappears again across the room. It's eyes blaze in the direction of the One. The source of its hatred and fury. The roaring bearkin means nothing to him as she pummels one of the hag's creatures with her ancient hammer rending armor and flesh all the same.
Its cheeks puff, lips snarl and twist. It sucks in a breath then spits a seed across the room with the deftness and accuracy of a dockside regular hitting a spittoon.
The empowered offspring of the ancient forest explodes a few inches from where the halfling had emerged to stab the drider and unleashes the stored power of chaos upon all those nearby. Driders, bearkin, dwarf and hidden halfling. The blast of unmaking washes across the room once again tearing at the very fabrics of reality and creation.
Muck: 176/200
D1: 68/123
D2: 83/123
The magical power overwhelms Gunnar’s shield and renders him insensate, only allowing him to recover after he has spent his whole turn shaking his head.
Gunnar loses concentration on the high level spell he was using to try and restrain the oversized chipmunk.
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Ingryd shakes it off and rushes the Hag in bad disguise. She lets her hammer lead. A strike multiple strikes and the bees swarming the Hag.
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Mid-backflip in the cacophonous waves of force rippling through space, the thief had a funny feeling. No, not her nervous system liquifying from the intense entropic death spiral...something else. The chittering chipper's oozy mouth had a familiar sheen, as if belaquered on the inside with some kind of ectoplasmic goo. A goo unseen since the incident at the Ice Hyena's cave...
One thing was certain, if good chips buried their nuts for the winter, this saggy faced spitter was bad to the tiny forest bone.
Watching Gunnar go stiff was also not a good sign. The thief had no time to fool around, she had to find this thing's main weakness like yesterday.
The cheeks were obviously heavily defended, and may include the dreaded Self-Destruct Nut as a crazy last option. The tail was a good guess, twisted rapidly it may possibly grant the power of flight or some sort of weather control over sunny breezes. This one liked to stand on its haunches like a man, perhaps Scram could execute an ego-strike on the muscular haunches and bring it back down to eye level.
But no, in the end, there was really only one option.
That chittering vocal box responsible for spewing such incessant and indecipherable jeremiad. The rapidly oscillating chords which could only generate defeatism and cynicism...never jokes or love. The nattering nabobs of negativity. Yes, this was it...the weak spot, the helm command ordering the ship to shift her rudder to the jack stands!
*bzzzzzzTHWACK*
Scramsax smirked, having nailed it with a precision strike before disappearing back around the corner.
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The dissonant syllables of the eldritch chipmunk's void speech and chaos seed completely fracture the logical structures and inner balance of the dwarven wizard. For a brief moment his thoughts flail upon the chaotic tides of uncreation and wild entropy. Stunned until his senses can once again focus and believe in the solid stone beneath his feet, the air filling his lungs, his own bone and tissue of a physical form. Only then, does the lightning spark once again fill his eyes and thunder rumble in his chest.
While Gunnar wrestles with the unexpected brittleness of the multiverse, Ingryd brushes off such esoteric concerns and simply unleashes the burning surety of her hatred upon what she believes to be the hag in disguise. The angry hum of bees accompanies her roar of fury and the whistle of her ancient hammer through the air.
Although unnaturally large, the chipmunk is still quite fast and nimble. The bearkin's first blow strikes nothing but air as her foe slips aside. But the barbarian warrior is no green recruit in the ways of battle. A snarl curls her lip, a gleam glitters in her eye. Dip left, lean low. Then in a display of her own speed and strength, for few could wield such a heavy weapon with such directions shifting speed and accuracy, Ingryd shifts her balance, moves right and centers a blow directly in the chipmunk's midsection. Ennui, completely unphased and unsurprised by the glimpse of world devouring chaos that so staggered the wizard, attempts to drain away the chipmunk's own essence. But the creature's own entropic origin provides a brief protection from the weapon's magic.
But the chipmunk's chaos origins cannot fend off another agent of the wild and uncertain. Cannot in fact, fend off the potent aura of one who's own links to the churning unknowable antithesis to life and order helped uplift the eldritch woodland rodent into its current state of existence. And so, from out of the shadows, Scramsax strikes like a desert rattler. Her blade punches through robes and hide in an instant. The chipmunk only begins to register the pain, notice the sudden weakness, by the time the halfling is already slipping back into the shadows.
Yet, there is a bond between halfling and chipmunk. One forged of hate, grief, revenge and the previously mentioned chaos. So it is, the the chipmunk pivots and through the haze of pain, bees, and flying bear spit, he spots the halfling as she sneaks back into the imperfect shadows just beyond the chamber's entrance. The gleam of a bloody dagger blade. The toe of a mate crushing boot. The leering smirk that peeks back into the room. The beady eyes calculating her next round of death. The chipmunk sees it all. So does one of the hag's arachniod creations.
"Chitter! Squeak chit chit squeak chitter." The chipmunk blurts.
The driders click-clack forward, hands suddenly covering their ears.
A moment later the room fills once again with the world rending dissonance of unguarded void speech. A section of stone suddenly turns into tapioca pudding. The lumpy, sweet mass oozes onto the floor causing the remainder of the wall to suddenly crack, slump, and lean precariously. An old rotted barrel grows arms and legs, lifts up its half bashed lip and runs off screaming through the door on the opposite side of the room. The chipmunk's eyes shine with ebony abandon as a set of curling horns suddenly burst forth atop its furry head.
The words roll across the room like a crashing avalanche of uncertainty. Minds revolt. Blood cells burst. Muscles turn spongy. For a moment all is truly chaotic until the final echoing phrase dissipates down the stairs and into oblivion.
Uncovering their ears, the drider's obey, although the more clever of the two considers the attack upon the halfling a tactical mistake when they could have potentially dealt with the dangerous wizard while the dwarf was under the influence of the munk's earlier void conjuration. But both had served the hag and her allies long enough to know that thinking and acting against the orders of a superior were sure fire ways to loose their pension and end up in one of the experimentation vats. So onward they charged. Theirs but to do and die.
Muck: 119/200
D1: 68/123
D2: 83/123
Before she can truly formulate an answer another ear-rending sound belches forth from the metallic monstrosity.
Before the two observers on the ridge can recover their senses, a shadow suddenly passes across their position. Dropping out of the sky, momentarily blocking the ugly red orb in the sky is another mass of metal horror. This one ponderously moves through the air like some inebriated flying oliphant. The rumble and whir of multiple clockwork engines manages to override the grinding rumble of the ground based machine.
The second monstrosity blasts into the air rattling crystalline shrubs, stone, and puny human teeth equally.
The ground monster replies.
A cloud of drones emerge from the second behemoth and go swirling toward the first machine. Those smaller whirligigs are quickly met by every available drone from below. Even those that had taken an earlier interest in the two fleshy curiosities along the ridge top.
Soon a deadly combat is underway. Flashes of light zip across the smoke-filled sky from drone to drone. Those on the receiving end tend to burst into flame or go tumbling out of control to crash into the rocky earth below.
The deafening calls between the two mighty machines continue and are punctuated by roaring blasts of unbelievable explosive power as heavy gun turrets reveal themselves and begin firing back and forth. Explosions rip first upon the ground based machine as it is slower to bring its weapons to bear. Great geyser of flame and rending armor arise from the metallic beast. One of its twin barreled turrets is shattered before firing a shot.
But even wounded the mining beast is not without teeth. The return blasts from weapons both large and small cut a swath of destruction through the cloud of drones and into the massive flyer. Smoke erupts and the flyer lists to port as several of the whirling engines grind to a screeching halt.
In a moment the two witness unholy levels of firepower that would annihilate a city the size of Zobeck within a few minutes. But before either can contemplate that frightening thought they are forced to flee for cover as a cascade of debris begins to rain down upon the ridge and surrounding area.
The chattering mammal had already been living inside Scramsax' mind for the past year and half, not to mention the halfling had been a pudding of very similar consistency to that which the floor was becoming not long ago. Thus it was all rather expected.
Except for the horns. That suggested a certain mammalian crossbreeding the sages had always labeled as physically impossible. The thief was perplexed, but not wholly overwhelmed.
Alert enough to roll her hips back as one of the metatarsi got a lucky punch. The fit halfling gymnast was somersaulting and volleying herself around leg after leg as they crashed down around her. At times she could really get a good grip on the hairy exoskeletons and whip her body up to fantastic heights.
That dance wouldn't last all night, the thief knew. She needed a way out and pronto. Some kind of barrel thing ran past and dinged her ring on the way out. That was it...Loki's Squall.
A thick, heavy stratus billowed from the Barsellan as if she just took the biggest pipe toke ever taken. The acrobatic halfling vanished in an instant, perhaps becoming the trick of weather itself.
"Raseri! Snap out of it. With the second metal monster, we don't have to fight the other. Can you use Thorn to power a portal to a Shadow Road? We need to get out of here." While he has suffered extremes as a prophet of Khors, this helplessness feels like one of the worst.
Resisting the mutated chipmunk’s spell this time, Gunnar finds himself abandoned by the Driders. ”Bah, we don’t have time for this—the dragon approaches!” he growls at his companions and the world in general.
Raising his hammer, he points it at the spellcaster and attempts to shunt him *Elsewhere*, at least temporarily. His Arcane Ward flickers back into existence, if only faintly.
”If we time this right, he will pop back into that spot just as the dragon brings the mountain down atop him!” Gunnar calls as he moves adroitly towards the exit, hoping for a way out before they are all entombed in the dragon’s wrath!
Ingryd staggers and turns to strike shaking off whatever this was.
As she does she then sets to strike at the weird choice of disguise. Two powerful strikes.
[spoiler=GM rolls]
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Gunnar overcomes the initial pain and confusion brought on by the chipmunk's void speech and castings. In a flurry of arcane retribution the wizard unleashes his own thunderous magic upon the eldritch varmit. Too late does it realize its tactical mistake in attempting to bypass the wizard. A costly lesson as now he finds himself...elsewhere. And surely, by the time he returned his true quarry would once again have slipped away.
With the chipmunk's shunting into another dimension, Ingryd is forced to vent her fury upon the only remaining targets in the area. The pair of driders. She is able to catch a glimpse of the arachnoid abominations stumbling about in the thick gray fog that quickly filled the staircase and entrance into the chamber. Wasting little time, the bearkin charges and slams Ennui into the first drider unfortunate enough to get in her way.
Bones crack. Internal organs liquefy. Blood splatters the surrounding walls, ceiling, floor, ally, and hidden halflings. For a few heartbeats, the hapless drider's mind doesn't realize it is no longer inhabiting a functioning body. Images of the drider's fencing prowess flood its confused mind as it slays the halfling, bearkin, and dwarf is a display of unparalleled derring-do. So after, he receives a promotion and rewards from his superiors. A weeks leave among the temple concubines. Then the pain strikes. With a gasp the already dead drider crumples to the ground, the last imaginary images spilling away faster than his life blood. Moments later sweet blackness and the embrace of death.
Through the haze of fog, the sole remaining drider sees his companion fall. Hears the roar of fury from the raging bearkin. Smells the ozone emanating from the dwarven wizard whose gnashing teeth crackle with sparks of lightning. And somewhere still, the halfling lurked with her lethal blade and greedy eyes.
For the first time in weeks, the drider makes the right decision. He tosses down his sword and flees. Unfortunately, although the decision to flee is, according to most betting statistitians, the correct one to make and allows for a sixty percent chance of escape, the direction of his flight reduces those chances to zero. For in his haste to escape, and since no one had mentioned that the tower was being assaulted by a very, very furious dragon, the drider elected to head up the stairway.
This ill-fated choice would result in his nearly instant incineration within the next five minutes as another blast of dragon fire melts the entire upper section of the tower into a rippling, oozing, red-hot mass of liquid rock and vapor.
”We have to get out of here before the dragon destroys this whole place,” says Gunnar, ”I will try and hold the Banishment until the last possible moment, letting the wrath of the dragon bury the mutant chipmunk in the collapse,” he adds, already heading through the door the chipmunk had been trying to escape through.
Recalling Luthael’s journey to the shadow realm, he adds, ”Hopefully Luthael and Raseri found their own way out through the shadow paths. If we can get to an outside entrance, I can fly us away, but it will disrupt the Banishment.”
Raseri grabs at her head where a fist sized chunk of metal bounced off helm. The wound is not especially significant, but it leaves the priestess a little woozy as she slumps into the shadow of the overhang. More debris continues to rain down from above. Twenty feet away a drone crashes and explodes with a thunderous boom that shots a geyser of dirt, rock and debris back into the air.
The two mechanical behemoth's continue to woot and bray back and forth as guns blast and smoke fills the sky.
Hearing Luthael's request, the priestess tries to concentrate enough to open a gate, but eventually leans back with frustration as she rubs at overly wide eyes.
"I...I can't." She says groggily. "My head hurts too much."
A moments pause before she turns her eyes back upon the prophet of Khors.
"I could show you what to do. It isn't terribly difficult. It might even work better since you are familiar with the item we will use to power the portal." She looks at him hopefully. "Will you try? I'd rather not stay here any longer than we have to."
After praying silently to Khors (an unpowered Guidance), he concentrates on Thorn, Blade of the First Storm, to power the opening a Shadow Road.
Scram scooped up the Drider's Blade, curious of such a warped centaur's weapon. Soon Gunnar was talking of making an escape.
The Thorsdottir was one thing...but leaving the Prophet behind somehow didn't seem square. If the thief was a stray cat, Invictusol was the reliable back alley milk bowl with no strings attached.
"...damnit, its no good Gunz. They were tryna make it to that mirror room same as us and somethin' happened. If they got waylaid on the shadow path they're gonna come right into that spot after their delay. Or if they need our help we need to get a way to them from there..." The thief struggled against her own survival instincts, feeling the rumbling inferno threatening the old castle.
Loyalty was a ball and chain, a bad investment. But betraying a crew was bad for brand name, and Scram wanted to keep the Narg Nasty 6 shiny and clean.
*snapping her fingers* "I got it. What about that juju tent you pitch all the time? Pitch it right back there, then if the castle falls down it won't get through the juju. And, we can be waitin' there for em or finding a way through the floor into the shadow world to save em..."
”Hmm,” considers Gunnar, ”The dragon will arrive before I can cast that spell—it is not a quick process,” he allows .
Gunnar thinks quickly—where would Luthael and Raseri reappear should they return from the Shadow Realm? He reads the flow of magic and looks into flow of magic, seeking for his missing allies…
"We run for it and leap out into the forest" Ingryd says as she looks to Gunnar.
"Using the safely fall thing"
Scram concedes its the only way, preparing to jump out of the exploding castle in slow motion.
The residual magics from the recent fight with the eldritch chipmunk along with the dragon's attack and the general chaos caused by the recent reorientation of the wild ley line has the entire fabric of the arcane field in disarray. It is difficult for the dwarf to read. Nearly impossible for him to get a solid sense of what happened to Luthael and Raseri or where they might be.
Backtracking up the stairs a short distance, Gunnar is able to detect a narrow thread of shadow and storm magic that mimics the magics the priestess had been casting in the hag's chamber. Worryingly, those same residues appear to the wizard as little more than arcane flotsam. Drifting remnants of a spell, or more likely, a portal, gone terribly wrong.
He glances back up the stairwell where the flash of dragon fire occasionally flickers and the stones of the tower quiver and tremble. If they were lost upon the shadow roads, it was possible they might never return. But the dwarf quickly pushes the worst aside. Assuming they can return, they would most likely try to do so at the easiest point possible, the point where they were attempting to reach in the first place. The Hag's Observation Room.
The sensation is a strange one. Very different from the warm and bright energy that flows from Khors. The ancient energy of the war blade is cold as frost rimed steel, hot as forge-fire, and as slick and syrupy as drying blood. Ferocity, honor, and death all flow from the blade and into his being. For a moment, the prophet feels lost in a vortex of power and emotion. But like a beacon in the storm, Raseri's voice cuts through the swirling whirlwind. Guides his mind. Directs him on how to take control, harness the power and bend it to his will.
Gritting his teeth against the internal flaying of his skin and bones, the prophet persists. Slowly he manages to grasp the power, force it into submission. A small part of his mind observes with relief that he did not choose to use that Other Blade. To wrestle that strong willed entity into submission would have been much, much more difficult.
"That's it." Raseri whispers, her breath soft in his ear. "Now as I told you, begin to work the power into a simple foundation." Her hand squeezes Luthael's shoulder, gentle encouragement.
With a nod, the prophet continues. Concentrates. Again slowly, frustratingly slow, he summons forth the gathered power. Begins to weave it into the underlying frame for the gateway. All goes well until he notices some of the knots beginning to fray. He shores them up, thinking his own skill, or lack of, is at fault. But a moment later he gasps. It is the world they inhabit. Starved of such magic, the very air, earth, plants, all grasp at the power.
He hisses a warning to Raseri. She sees the trouble. Does what she can to help bolster the weave. Worse, several drones suddenly peel away from the still raging conflict. Within moments they are on a direct course for where the two lay hidden beneath the narrow overhang. Angry red dots start to whirl on the stone.
"Hurry! Our time has run out." Raseri says.
Luthael presses harder. Weaves the threads faster. He heart beats hard. His mind whirls. He feels the power lessening. Feels it nearly gone.
A flare of golden light. A whoosh of air and the portal opens. Opens back into the gray filled gloom of Shadow.
Raseri clasps her hand upon his. "You did it!" She says happily.
”If they can get back out, they will likely return to the material plane at the hags observation room. I will go there and hold for as long as I can, trying to give them an anchor to grab onto,” decides Gunnar.
”Scram, scout a way out the way the Chipmunk was going. Assuming this works, we will need a clear path to the exit,” requests Gunnar.
”Ingryd, remain here and pulverize that chipmunk if I lose my concentration and it reappears,” he asks.
Running back up the way they came, Gunnar races to the Hag’s observation room and reaches into the shadow realm, projecting a thread of Thor’s power along the fading residue of his allies’ aura. ”I really hope this works,” he mutters.
Knowing exactly which route the chipmunk was planning to take took some serious sleuthing...
He continues moving into the Realm to remove the line of sight of their hunters. As his eyes adjust to the dim light, he attempts to feel the reconnection to his Sun Lord and if Thorn, Blade of the First Storm, has been permanently affected.
Ingryd smiles."Sure thing," She says setting her self up right behind where the Squirrel was and readying herself grapple the Squirrel and rip it appart by her bare hands
The return to the Shadow Realm is met with both trepidation and vast relief as once again, the two god followers feel the connections with their deities restored. Gone is the vast emptiness and darkness where Khors and Thor dwell within each of their followers. Even shrouded within the dim, colorless monochrome of Shadow, those connections are like bright rainbow hued lifelines of faith and power.
With Khors once again at his side, Luthael turns to the blade sacrificed to allow their escape from that awful, godless world. At first glance nothing appears to be wrong, yet, as the prophet delves deeper into the heart of the blade, he notices all it not as it was. Indeed, some of the blade's power is no more. Drawn forth and sacrificed to fuel the gateway. No more will the Blade of the First Storm summon forth mighty, ship savaging gales. But despite that loss, other power still remains within that ancient blade.
Ingryd waits. The bearkin grips Ennui in her grasp, her lips curled into a resolute snarl. Seconds tick past slowly. The rage boiling within her veins begins to ebb as she sees Scramsax slip through the opposite door while Gunnar seeks the prophet and priestess within the Shadow Realm.
Gunnar forces open a window into Shadow's gray land. The realm ripples and trembles with the recent comings and goings and bursts of powerful magics just the other side of the thin fabrics that both separate and hold together the weave of space and time. It is like looking through a jar of muddy water, that window into Shadow. Stirred sediments block the view making it difficult for him to see anything, better yet the minor specks that might be Luthael and Raseri. Still the dwarf continues, steadfast that he will not leave anyone behind amidst the coming conflagration of the dragon's anger.
Gunnar searches. Ingryd waits. Scramsax scouts. The halfling hurries through the other door. Passes down a hall lined with narrow doors. A peek here and poke there and it appears to be the hall where the hag's most potent allies might spend their time within the tower. Posh beds, gilt mirrors, handcrafted dressers, and individual washbasins and water closets. Rooms better than even many of the finest Barsallen inns.
Alas, all have already been pilfered and ransacked by their fleeing occupants. Drawer's line open, bedding unmade, closets are simply tiny dark rooms with a hangar or two rocking back and forth with each concussive expression of a dragon's revenge battering the tower.
Another open doorway exists at the end of the hall. Another stairway leading down. Flickering sconces light the way. Spiraling down and down until the halfling comes to another landing and another archway. This opens onto a large open area where most of the far wall stands open to the outside. An occasional piece of stone drops past that opening. The wide chamber itself is practically empty with the exception of a few scattered barrels, crates, or torn sacks spilling their contents like gutted deer.
Looking to the far end of the chamber, Scramsax spots what may have been the chipmunk's final objective. Sitting in the corner, a large insectoid clockwork contraption. Winged with what the halfling can only guess is a small two person cockpit and perhaps some kind of cargo area in the midsection, she supposes this to be how the eldrtich rodent planned to escape the tower and the region altogether. For certainly there is nothing else here save a long drop into the river valley far below.
Feeling that the daily power of the Storm of Vengeance gone from Thorn, he shrugs and rationalizes breaking an ancient weapon as a good trade. At least, he did not need to dance with the devil-artifact in the box. He pauses for a snide remark from the nullbox.
Luthael turns to face Raseri and asks, "now where?"
⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
Scramsax grabbed the two central yokes. Felt stiff. Less
like rust and more like a mechanical stop. A pedal got
stomped. The machine shuddered. That was it.
⠀⠀A hiss of steam scented with burning oil vented from
somewhere. The beetle lurched forward clumsily.
⠀⠀Vee was always better at this stuff.
⠀⠀A yank of the right yoke. The horizon tilted violently.
The machine's right legs collapsed, sending the whole thing
sliding toward the abyss.
⠀⠀Wrong lever.
⠀⠀She slammed it forward and hauled back the left. The
beetle corrected, retracting one set of metal feet while the
other sparked on crumbling stone.
⠀⠀A shadow fell over the cockpit.
⠀⠀Scramsax stopped thinking. She grabbed the heavy iron bar
between her knees, the only thing left to try, and wrenched
it up to her chest like an arbalast.
⠀⠀Canvas wings, stiff with age, snapped open with the sound
of a cannon blast. A clockwork heart jolted the thing's
spine awake.
⠀⠀"Griz! Gunz! Time to go!"
"The spell he learned in the temple of Kohrs during their respite--that will lead them back if they are lost!" thinks Gunnar. He projects "Flame of the Sun God" into the shadow realm, fighting the oppressive gloom inherent in the shadow plane with the power of divine fire!
Although he knows this will attract unwanted attention from the plane's denizens, he can only hope it will also lead his allies back from the shadow!
"Just a few seconds more!" shouts Gunnar in response to Scramsax's distant call, a fraction of his attention cataloging the direction of the sound and the likely path to what he can only hope is an escape his resourceful companion has found.
"Seriously I was hoping the hag would pop back in in its ridiculous ROdent Disquise" She says as she then sighs and nods.
"We can seek her out later, besides the dragon will get them" She says and waits just incase.
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The golden flare of Gunnar's firebolt is a beacon of relief and glory to weary eyes of Luthael and Raseri. It is a beacon of danger and hate for most of the other denizens of that dim, gray world known as Shadow. Knowing they didn't have much time, prophet and priestess scramble up the hillside of shattered stone. Screeches, hoot, and howls echo all around from the dark recesses hidden just out of sight. Somewhere drums begin to pound out a steady, bone rumbling beat.
Light had been brazenly, boldly, foolishly displayed within Shadow's domain. Such a challenge could not go unanswered. Such an affront could not go unpunished. And although time has no real meaning within a realm where neither sun, moon, stars, or anything else truly mark its passage, it is the first time in the memories of the realms youngest denizens that those drums have sounded. Even the oldest struggle to recall when the drums sounded last. A few did recall. Golden eyes glance at an elf head mounted upon a wall, another pulls a human crafted trinket from a drawer stuffed with various baubles. Memories of long ago. It had been a long time since a Hunt was called.
Raseri is the first to spot Gunnar standing silhouetted in the narrow gateway. The drums continue to beat. Somewhere in the distance a low mournful horn blows. The sound echoes like the wailing cries of a thousand widows across a blood soaked field. The prophet of light and priestess of thunder hurry onward toward the gleaming oval of flickering power. Their muffled cries drowned by the growing cacophony of Shadow's stirring.
Within the ancient tower, Scramsax struggles to understand the complicated array of levers, buttons, pedals, and other controls of the clockwork contraption. She also gains instant insight into the dragon's progress in her revenge as a massive chunk of stone and debris littered with a sprinkling of goblins and ghouls goes tumbling past the hanger opening. Moments later a thick crack opens in the ceiling as the entire tower shudders and tilts ominously toward the sheer edge of the several thousand foot drop.
She shouts back up the stairs. Ingryd curses the lack of final bloodshed, while Gunnar searches the shadow filled wasteland for some sign of his companions. An egg rolls out of the small archway, now packed with sticks, feathers, and bits of string. The dwarf couldn't recall that being there before. Before he can investigate the brightly colored egg, a stone drops from a growing series of cracks in the ceiling and crushes the potential breakfast delight with a sickening final thud.
The narrow door leading back into the hag's chamber shudders. There is a flash of fire light. Heat billows through the opening followed by thick black smoke and the rumble of collapsing stone. Cracks erupt in the walls, ceiling and floor of the chamber. The arcane gateway flickers, but remains thanks to Gunnar's focused effort.
Scramsax's shouts echo from below. The urgency clear in the halfling's high pitched shouts. He starts to turn away knowing his companions could take care of themselves. But the booming drums and echoing eerie horn has him concerned. Another stone falls, misses by only a few inches. The wizard starts to pull back from the gateway. Then he spots the haggard, hurrying figures racing through the gloom.
With his arm under Raseri's arm, Luthael helps the Thorsdottir toward the portal to Midgard, his Winged Boots pushing them faster. "Almost there, Raseri. Keep moving."
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The landing was crumbling down. The halfling was going up.
⠀⠀Scramsax got lucky with the beetle's inscrutable flight
controls. The lizard abacus would later verify that the
correct sequence of inputs could be replicated by a blind
man with a 40% margin of error.
⠀⠀Scram was hardly blind.
⠀⠀His daughter was made of the same craftwoods and drop-
forged brass. Besides, it wasn't that different from a
three-point tuck-n'-saddle flip, except born aloft in a
clumsy bug body.
⠀⠀A pigeon holed up on the stones outside squawked warnings
of the apocalypse. It was spraying enough tail-feathers to
fill a king's comforter, scattered by the staccato of the
beetle's beating sails. The afternoon roost was now totally
foiled.
⠀⠀Scram's tummy rumbled for poultry.
⠀⠀Winky the Sage gave its own muffled warnings, half-wrapped
around a yoke and face crushed by tiny white knuckles.
⠀⠀"*mff-ffmphl umf. Fmm-rmpl mmhm!*" the wrist-muppet said.
⠀⠀"Excellent point, Winky," Scram shouted over the roar of
the wings and draconic devastation. "Dragon sight relies on
only the most sudden movements! If we hover casually, his attention
will stay where it should."
⠀⠀"*Grmg-hrr, rmpfl.*"
⠀⠀"No, no. No need to engage the cloaking device." Scramsax
lowered the throttle to near idle, keeping a holding pattern
10-20 ft from the gaping castle. "We'll hide in plain sight,
act natural."
Her lungs burn, her whole body aches, and her head throbs from where debris from an explosion had rattled her nearly senseless. Still, she hadn't worked long hours at a forge for nothing. She growls away the pain and the doubts that had filled her heart and mind. She has a goal, and she will reach it with Luthael. She sees Gunnar and feels herself grow lighter as Luthael's boots help speed them forward. With a last rush of adrenaline, she bursts through the gate, her arm around Luthael's shoulders just as his was under hers.
"Close the gate! If you value our lives, close it," she pleads almost before the two clerics' heels are clear.
Stepping sideways at just the right instant as rock comes crashing down, Gunnar sees sparks fly from his weakened Arcane Shield at the near miss.
As soon as his friends clear the shadow gate, he immediately closes it and starts running back towards Ingryd and the sound of Scramsax doing…something mechanical?
”We can only hope there is a way out ahead,” grunts Gunnar as he lumbers along, adding under his breath, ”Took you long enough…”
A wave of heat ripples through the air. The tower shudders yet again. A slow moving stream of molten rock ripples down the stairwell from above. Giving even the usually stalwart dwarf a momentary start. He keen eyes quickly flick toward the ceiling. He blinks. Blinks again. Sweat beads upon his forehead. There is a definite glow to several of the stones. Somewhere near the far wall there is a soft splat. A molten red glob smolders like a fresh bird dropping.
The gate trembles and flickers. Then with a burst of scurrying feet and pumping arms, Raseri and Luthael crash through the gate. Eerie horns blare upon their heels along with more the more spine chilling calls of things that lurk in the depths of Shadow.
Heeding the priestesses shouted cry, Gunnar slams the gate closed. As hurries toward the narrow descending stairwell.
A flight below the fleeing trio, Ingryd waits. If one could see her knuckles, they would be white with fury as she gripped Ennui and waited for the disguised hag to pop back into existence. The hammer merely sighs as remarks upon the futility of such mortal emotions as anger and hate. For a brief moment, the bearkin ponders the hammer's words. Was her anger holding her here against all better judgement?
As if to punctuate the consideration a large stone suddenly tumbles from the ceiling above and smashes itself into gravel shards just a few paces away.
A odd clackety buzzing sound drifts from the hallway Scramsax disappeared into, while muffled shouts and the smell of molten stone waft down from above.
Suddenly, there is a tension in the air. The soft elemental hum of magic. She turns. Her eyes blaze at the spot where the eldritch chipmunk disappeared into whatever dark, vile dimension Gunnar sent it into. The fur on her neck and arms stands on end while her nose tingled. Surely it was only moments until the creature returned.
A pair of rocks break off and tumble from the ceiling. The sound of running boot steps signal someone is coming from above. Meanwhile the rough clattering from the other archway seems to have steadied itself after a few brief moments of grinding metal and wrenching gears.
It takes a few tries, but Scramsax finds she has a knack for flight. Perhaps it was the fae influence from the dryad. Perhaps it was thinking how much easier it would be to reach the top of Grand Burgher's Tower if one landed on the roof verses attempting to climb the thousand feet from the bottom. Such possibilities drive innovation. Thus with a deft hand and an easy touch, the halfling gets the clockwork flyer off the ground and manages to hold it steady a few feet from the rapidly shrinking tower.
From her vantage just outside, Scramsax sees the dragon hovering only a hundred or so paces above. Her wingspan is enormous. Her roaring, fury filled voice ear shattering. The top of the tower is simply gone. Another burst of dragonfire turns another layer of stone into molten sludge. Great globs of melted or partially melted stone slough away into the morning light. Dropping the thousands of feet to smash into the forest and rocks below. Spot fires erupt for a few minutes, but they are snuffed out before they can set the entire forest ablaze.
Glancing back at the landing area, she sees part of the roof collapse. The entire area is filling with smoke and dust and grit. Landing back on the pad was going to be dangerous. She glances down into the abyss below. More dangerous than missing the leap aboard? She wasn't sure.
Scramsax couldn't find the wisdom of landing on a melting candle. She would share the skies with the dragon a little longer...
”If you land that thing we can scramble in and I can seal the sorcerer chipmunk inside!” calls Gunnar to Scramsax, hoping to avoid having to release the Banishment spell just yet.
"Jump! Jump and I will catch you!" came a small promise from within the roar of wings.
Gunnar scans the gap to the flying contraption in a split second, realizing that this would be no easy hop. His studious mind quickly comes to a conclusion as he runs alongside Ingryd and Raseri while the flying Luthael paces them.
Casting Fly with his most powerful remaining magics, Gunnar enables the three land-bound friends to fly along the priest, saying as they burst out into the open air, ”Let us fly but watch the exit against the possibility of the sorcerous chipmunk emerging!”
Landing in the hold but keeping his concentration on the spell of flight, Gunnar realizes that his hold on the Banishment spell has evaporated. He can only hope his timing is good enough for their plan to work!
Luthael takes a heartbeat to realize the change in situation. His parents and other prisoners are gone. The dragon had arrived and is destroying the tower. And, his friends are flying out of the tower.
Focusing on the priority with his arms still around her shoulders, the prophet continues to fly Raseri toward the contraption where his friends appear to be heading. When he gets the Thorsdottir safe in the clockwork, he asks with more emotion than he would wish, 'where are my parents? Where is the hag?"
Ingryd moves and begins to leap about.
As she runs, she leaps to get to the Spacecaster. As she does, she puts away her warhammer, and shield. She was still deadly without it!
”Your parents have been teleported to safety and we have a chipmunk sorcerer who may be the hag in disguise right behind us!” responds Gunnar.