”Aye, let’s get this done,” replies Gunnar, preparing to enter.
Vrindel is happy to leave the unnatural laboratory but is little disorientated about the purpose of going downstairs. But, at least it's a direction.
He readies his shield and staff. He would lead but doesn't really know where they are going or what they are looking for.
Scram advanced cautiously, marking a stone with a rub of a candle here, sprinkling a bit of flour there (it could find invisible gas leaks, so he claimed)...at times simply throwing a small stone at suspicious looking bricks and loose mortar.
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"Mmmrmph, pause a moment," Aterro said cautiously. He had been wan in his Grace ever since early this day, and entering so storied and protean a labyrinth with power wanting was not something he cherished.
"If this sojourn is half as dangerous as Britta suggests, should we not first get some good rest? According to all we know, this siege has held for some time. Surely it will hold long enough for us to gather our strength. And we will do no one any good if we find ourselves dead due to overextension."
As much as he did not see himself as the voice of caution, there was more to War than just hitting things.
Refreshed after his research in the room above and no longer suffering from the deleterious effects of the ‘shroom smoke, Gunnar nods at Aterro and says, ”I am prepared to continue, though if a longer rest will give us maximum tactical advantage, we should take it.”
The halflings hand reached slowly towards the doorknob, but he hesitated "Ho, not so fast..."
*knock knock-knock-kncck knock, knock knock*
"...Wizards always have secret knocks." he lied, before finally turning the knob and opening the door.
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Feeling refreshed from helping himself freely to the wizard's winerack and larder (a few choice sandwiches of which were now tucked securely in his sack) Aterro is ready to save the world. He makes sure his dark shield is securing strapped to his arm and hefts DeathMetal.
"Sure, Scramsax. Of course," he nods at the thief.
*BOOM* *BOOM-BOOM-BOOM* *BOOM-BOOM* Something beyond the door responds with an ear rattling, stone shuddering repeat of the Scramsax's rhythm. Each beat rattling the door handle held in the halfling's grip.
But not one to be spooked from potential wealth by simple wizardly tricks, Scramsax shoves the door open.
A shifting rainbow of colors beam through the opening of the door illuminating each of you in soft yellow light, then apple green, which gives way to scarlet and eventually cerulean blue. The light shines forth from the 'sky' overhead. A sky that gazes down upon a bizarre maze scape of fifty foot tall stone passages that twist and wind their way for what must be a mile or more. Within the center of this arcane creation sits a domed gazebo atop a small pyramid of steps. Here is the source of the shifting lights as two streams of pure energy wrap and twine around each other from the top of the dome up and up and up into the haze shrouded above.
Just beyond the door is a small landing topping a narrow open stairway leading down into the maze.
Britta stands before the doorway slack jawed and dumbfounded. "This...this...*ahem*...this was not here before." She says quietly and with no little amount of fear in her eyes.
Vrindel eyes widen even further in the even more unnatural basement. Gripping his staff and shield. He takes a deep breath to recenter himself and takes the lead down the stairs. He calls back, "See that puddle of oozing slime that slowly drips to the steps below? Looks like some kind of footprint. Recent. Belonging to a creature of sizable proportion with three large toes. The prints go all the way down and into the passage beyond. Sound familiar, Britta?"
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"I admit, I did not expect it to be like this," Aterro confeses.
Pausing to take in Vrindel's words and gaze around a bit, the WarCleric points up to the "sky". "And there, in the filmy haze that is above us. Some balloon-like creature with bat-things in orbit.
I wonder if it is the Overseer of this place?"
Scram watched the rainbow light dance on his skin skeptically, before following it to its supposed source, noting the flumph-like creature with a hard raised eyebrow. But when the slime morphed into the tridactyl print of some exotic fiend he shook his head 'NO' "Gotta all be a trick concealing a deception..." mumbling in disbelief.
Cautiously he approached the slime, sprinkling a handful of crushed peppercorns across its surface...if sentient (and not illusory) there would be a telltale reaction to the irritating agent, he wagered.
Gunnar tries to make sense of the strange vista before him.
With a slight breeze blowing upon his face and the shifting colors of the sky gleaming upon his pale skin, Scramsax steps forward with a look of determined disbelief upon his face. The sharp, nose tickling smell of acidic bilge water is merely perceived as theatrical overkill as he kneels next to the nearest pool of ooze. The thin filaments of steam curling from the surface only give the slightest of pauses to the empirical mind of the Barsellan. The "creatures" overhead are duly noted but otherwise ignored while he sprinkles the peppercorns upon the impossible goo.
A few seconds pass and nothing happens. Nodding with assured triumph at outwitting yet another wizard's poor attempt at security Scramsax rises and starts to turn only to abruptly swing back around when his dried peppers start to hiss.
*pop*....*pop*...*poppoppoppoppoppop*
The little corns pop and crackle and bounce about on the slime. The wisps of smoke grow is size and stench while several of the peppers zip past with a high pitched whine screaming of their ill treatment.
Definitely not an illusion
From a safer distance, Gunnar studies arch, doorway, and the halfling's test. The more arcane minded dwarf, having recently encountered the rebirth of a minor goddess, a shadowgate in a mud plain, and a hefty dose of caterpillar weed is much more convinced that the seen before him is quite real. Or as real as anything upon the mortal plane can be. But now is not the time for philosophical debates. No. For the moment, the nature of reality is not what concerns the dwarf. Instead the intermingling of the two ley lines, the direct connection to the wizard's mind (both conscious and unconscious if Scramsax's psychic scouting is to be trusted), and the encroachment of this nightmare realm into Midgard, that concern Gunnar most.
Still completely in shock at the sight before her. Britta merely shakes her head at Vrindel's question. "Uhhhh...no. No. Nononono. None of this was here a week ago. Nothing. It was just a stairway...with walls...leading down into what used to be a simple set of underground tunnels that ended in a simple room with some of Radovan's equipment." Another shudder and shake of her head. "I thought the shifting tunnels and corridors were just another illusion or trick, Radovan set up. He always was a bit paranoid of thieves and competitors trying to steal his works. But this is...bloody hells...this is way beyond his abilities!"
This is the kind of mistake or folly or hubris that led to the wastelands out west. Fortunately it seems to be contained within the confines of the tower. Or at least that is what you think until you notice a bit of stone crumble from the arch of the doorway. Little more than a blade thin shard. Yet it draws you closer and you notice a few hairline cracks webbing through the stones of the arch. You recall the periodic quaking of the tower. Perhaps it wasn't all in relation to the shadow fae. What if this new realm is not contained but slowly expanding. How far? How quickly? How to stop it? Surely the key must lie in whatever apparatus exists at the realm's core.
::Not again...:: the halfling thought as his eyes began to water. The thief was no stranger to odd bodily urgencies encroaching on his clandestine abilities. Beans were of course to be avoided in the days leading up to a heist. Hiccups scrubbed entire operations. Bad hair days were a nightmare during information gathering operations.
So the moment the tears were about to overflow and make a run for his cheek, Scram was ready. He directed all his focus and concentration to control what was popularly conceived of as 'involuntary'...throwing up the little bandana he still had on him from the pollen fields, his body still trembled from the effort.
"Slime's acidic. That's a problem." he considered, tapping his vest pocket for a pipe that was not there. ::Damn, left it with Illarya...:: he'd have to try thinking without it, this time.
"We might be able to avoid it going down, but if we don't clear it, and have to run back this way...it'll be quite the obstacle, eh?" emphasizing the 'TAC' syllable in his strange, somewhat inconsistent Barsellan accent.
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Seeing the halfling whip out a bandanana and tie it across his face, Aterro laughs. "Ha! Ha ha! Yes! To keep out poisons. Ah, that is good, Scram! Leastways you seemed to have learned."
The thought line of flower-pollen and the bees that fed on him was a path he would not travel down this time, so he left it alone.
"Betimes things that are not-water can be flamable. I'll try to burn the acid away."
That said, Aterro chooses a shining pool quite a pace away and burns it with several applications of Sacred Flame. It wasn't a good plan, but it was all he could think off. Clearing away vast pools of magical acid was not really something he was trained for.
Gunnar gives a low whistle and says, ”We see here the nexus of two ley lines, intertwined by Radovan’s magic which siphons their power to protect his castle…Yet at the junction has been created a gateway to an unknown realm—and it expands as the mage draws upon its power. If we do not stop it, this warp in the fabric of reality will expand and threaten all we hold dear.”
Resolved, he says, ”We must penetrate to the core of this realm and stop its expansion into our own before untold devastation wracks our home,” as he starts moving forward, trying to pick a clear path to the ley line nexus.
Aterro concentrates on the nearest residual puddle of acid. A moment later it is engulfed with holy fire. The liquid pops and crackles and hisses but within a half a minute most of the stuff is burned clear of the step. It'll take a bit of time but Thor's holy flame is inexhaustible so time is the only factor to be considered. Time and the lurking things in that ever changing kaleidoscopic sky. Each burst of holy white fire shines like a beacon upon the steps drawing the attention of the watchers above.
With half of the steps cleared two of the winged creatures from on high begin a spiraling descent. With each lowering loop, their size becomes more evident and their grotesque forms more clear. Each has a body as long as Aterro is tall and a batlike wingspan twice as wide. Two clawed feet drape from the back half of a muscular body covered in oily black fur. The bulbous head is similar to that of a fly. Twin glittering eye orbs gaze down upon you while a pair of long proboscises wriggle in anticipation of a potential meal.
The stairway ends fifty feet further down in a landing at the entrance to a narrow tunnel. This opening appears to be the only ingress to pierce the outer wall and provide entry to the twisting maze beyond.
Seeing what Brother Aterro is doing, Gunnar uses his own supply of magic to attempt to destroy some puddles of acid, using ‘Curse of the Frost Giants” () as he advances. As the two creatures from above approach, he continues moving down the steps but readies a spell to drive them away should they attack him.
Casting Absorb Elements to get Resistance to the incoming acid damage and activate his arcane ward.
Casting Thunderwave to drive them back: DC 15 Con save for half, push 10 feet away,
As the flames and frost began the spring cleaning, Scram was quick to put Aterro between himself and the descending creatures. There, in the shadow of the hulking meat shield, he dropped his trusty sling into the palm of his open hand...but found it was not so trusty after all.
The sap from his earlier tree stride had over time soaked into the leather fibers of the straps, making it a brittle piece of trash that crinkled and cracked in his hands! ::Mumblecrusts...:: he cursed to himself, for a halfing curse that severe should rarely be said aloud.
His mind flashed back to the heist of Illarya's great sapphire orb. He was able to take it because (as he came to convince himself) location did not exist there in the psychic realm, being wholly void of physical reality...yet possession could.
Right, ideas are not required to move through space the way matter does. Yet they can still travel, and be exchanged like coins...or sling stones.
Meanwhile, the Admiral's battle galleon raised anchor there on the white sandy shores of Scram's psionic nexus. "Ready the cannon." were the words some echo of his subconscious was trying to convey, as a surge of adrenaline oozed down his spine. The crew had extracted a fragment of the sapphire orb and fashioned it into some kind of weapon.
Back in reality, a glistening ovoid of light, hot pink with motes of pure white, suddenly apparated in the halflings palm! It rotated rapidly and unpredictably, like a rugby ball during a failed spiral throw. Slithering around his wrist and palm like a snake
before perching tip down on his fingertip at an impossible angle...indeed the apparation was beyond something as mundane as gravitational force. It danced here and there always in motion, impossible to hold because it did not exist. Yet it could still travel.
::Fire at will.::
A soft hum followed the psionic energy as it moved to strike its target, but of course it wasn't making a real sound...just the echo of awareness of some mental disturbance.
It was an astonishing sight he'd never seen, that no one had ever seen...because it was in mind, breaking all the rules and limitations of reality. Should the creature come to possess this chaotic idea, every synaptic pathway would be twisted and killed.
It all felt like a dream...no, a distant memory. The puddles barely registered to him as he was perplexing himself with this latest episode...
...but the soft soled leather wraps on his feet nimbly found the path for him.
Vrindel summons Tee from his pocket dimension and follows the crew down the stairs. The unnatural flora and fauna make him cringe. He catches himself unconsciously holding his breath.
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Aterro nods in appreciation of the hobbit's new trick--high praise from a WarCleric. With such a whithering fire, he knew the creatures would either willingly come to the slaughter, or stand and be killed where they were. Either was good.
So too, as he sees his brother's magic added to his own, together they sing a Song of Ice and Fire.
This is doubly well done, as Aterro has no intention of setting foot within 3 span of a pool of acid until the lot are burned away or frozen to impotence. It appeared that nimble feet would be needed to avoid them, and that was something the WarCleric had never had in great store.
Finally figuring out what his companions are doing, the druid applies real fire, instead of holy fire to ice and flame mixture on the pools of acid.
Leaping and pirouetting down the steps, Gunnar displays the sudden skill and grace of a dancer at Madam Mesmer's House of Comforts and Exotic Entertainments. Tiptoeing and twirling among the acid pools he covers the entire distance down the steps in one dazzling display. Arriving unscathed upon the landing he turns his watchful arcane gaze back to the skies and the rapidly approaching aerial threat.
Meanwhile Vrindel moves cautiously through the pools. Less a picture of grace and more a lesson in steady, slow caution. Reaching the midway point, the trollkin puts the nearest untouched pool to the flame before readying himself to move on.
Acknowledging he is more likely to tumble down the steps like a dropped barrel rather than an Mesmer Maid, Aterro concentrates on simply burning his way down the troublesome path step by puddle covered step.
Tucked behind the tall, broad shouldered Aterro, a slightly glazed look fills Scramsax's eyes. Standing upon the prow of the Barsellan Free Ship Scallywag, the halfling engages the oncoming raptors over the open waters off the famed western coastline. The zap and hum of the psychic cannonade tingles within the halflings skull and it lances forth toward the closest diving demon.
Having only crawled forth from whatever plane of the abyss and the wizards own twisted subconscious, the diving creature is completely unprepared for the attack upon its newly created mortal form. The first sound it ever makes upon Midgard is a high frequency screech of pain when the psychic waves of Scramsax burrow into it's still new and tender consciousness. For a moment it wavers in its flight. Then another concept fills its mind driving away the pain and initial fright. Revenge. The need for it burns white hot, driven even hotter by its ever present companion Rage.
Folding its wings, the creature turns its slow looping descent into a manic dive. Seeking the source of its sudden headache, it focuses on the only potential causes before it, that of the intruders with their bright flashing lights and magics. The tallest, biggest one must be the source and so it directs the diving strafe upon Aterro.
Yet, Scramsax's mental energies still crackle within the demon's own mind. It unleashes an ear piercing, flesh rending screech intending to liquefy the meaty threat. But it does so too soon. The harsh soundwaves dissipate quickly so that instead of rending bone they merely remind Aterro of his bee queen's screeching when he was late feeding the larvae. A sound to which he is quite immune.
As the demon swoops past, it reaches out with it's grasping claws, but they slip off Aterro's metal armor causing no harm before the flying beast is past, wings flapping to regain altitude.
The second of the two, continues its slower descent. Preferring to see how its overly rash brother fares against the intruders. Its eyes calculating and taking in dangers, weaknesses, methods of attack and defense.
Demon Bat 1: 42/60
Demon Bat 2: 60/60
Down at the bottom of the steps with a long angle towards the attacking fiend and it’s more reluctant partner, Gunnar moves about on the landing trying to line up both creatures for a lightning bolt. If he is unable to do so (including having no allies in the line), he bides his time by eliminating another acid puddle with his cold magic.
This time the halfling would exploit the height of his druid ally (the one he affectionately [?] called 'Paws') to scramble his location prior to the next volley...
Again the shimmering pink blade manifested in his palm, or rather some placeholder image was installed into your mind giving it an illusory location. The spinning bloom, those nascent thoughts Scram now wielded as a weapon, streaked again towards the wounded fiend...its path was a mathematically perfect straight line. It experienced no arc in its trajectory the way an arrow or real sling stone would, existing wholly apart from gravity.
...before attempting to bound through the remaining puddles.
The first step crumbled beneath his toes and Scram went tumbling clumsily end over end to his doom... Astonishingly, the little ball of energy seemed to course-correct mid-air and land on his feet at the bottom no worse for wear.
Vrindel pauses on his step waiting for Aterro to catch up with him. He barks a guttural phrase in Giant and summons a host of fey defenders. They bring their own hunting horns and prepare to attack the flying creatures if the near the cleric and druid.
He joins Aterro if he steps down.
When you cast this spell, you can designate any number of creatures you can see to be unaffected by it. An affected creature's speed is halved in the area, and when the creature enters the area for the first time on a turn or starts its turn there, it must make a Wisdom saving throw DC 15. On a failed save, the creature takes 3d8 radiant damage (if you are good or neutral) or 3d8 necrotic damage (if you are evil). On a successful save, the creature takes half as much damage.
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'As it should be.' Aterro thinks as the creature's claws scrape harshly against his new found shield.
He stalks unhurriedly down the freshly cleared steps as far as he can before pausing. He takes in the tactical situation; the halfling and the trollkin using him as a tactical distraction, the various spells summoned and tossed. Gunnar is throwing lightning because of course he is.
And I play the lightning rod? Indeed, and why not?
"To me!" Aterro yells at the flying monster. "To me, dog!" He clangs DeathMetal on his shield and makes a great clamor. "You nattering nag! I have seen bees of the field that would dance on your corpse! I have seen fish that would eat you without bread or salt! To me, you withering insect, and bring all the battle you can!"
Aterro prepares to receive the charge, and be the anvil upon which it breaks.
Like a mason studying where to make the all important first tap of the chisel, Gunnar watches the two enemies. One circling, the other turning and swooping back toward Aterro. The calculations whirl in his mind. Distance, velocity, conjuration time. Calling the power forth he waits...waits...waits...his eyes gleam a crook of a smile curls upon one lip. Lightning cracks and streaks forth catching the first beast. Wings singe, it screeches in pain and veers to the side. Being farther away and with more time to react does the other beast little good. The bolt hits it as well, searing skin and illuminating its bone structure for several seconds.
Ancient spirits of wood and glen rise up around Vrindel as the druid calls forth the ghosts of nature to protect himself and the sturdy cleric who prepares for another swooping attack from the beast.
Vrindel's nature spirits are a surprise to Scramsax. Having not seen such a conjuration from any of his companions, their sudden appearance throws off his mental aim. The spinning pink swirl of psychic doom headed for the diving demon misses its mark and fades off into the green sky.
Aterro stands firm on the stairs. His own gaze tracks the oncoming foe and unlike Scramsax, the cleric is much more used to the swirling presence of protective spirits, even if not maidens of Valhalla. The demon comes flying in, glitter gaze now filled with a abyssal fury. Claws reach and grab. Once. Twice. And each time they find nothing as the cleric leans and ducks and steps just enough to avoid its grasp completely.
The second creature, having recovered from Gunnar's attack ignores the threat perceived by its fellow and instead turns on the one who struck it. Folding its wings it drops into a rapid descent aimed directly for Gunnar.
Demon Bat 1: 23/60
Demon Bat 2: 45/60
Gunner was short, true. But he couldn't outshort the shortiest...
With the second beast dice bombing him, Gunnar lashes out with his magic, trying to throw off its aim with numbing cold. He readies himself to cast protective magic should the beast resist his spell.
cold damage and disadvantage on next attack, DC 15 Constitution Save negates.
Vrindel continues to slowly descend the stairs, so he can protect the entire crew with his Guardian Spirits. "Aterro, keep moving. Need to reach Gunnar. You aren't the only interesting target of those things."
Arriving at the next pool of acid, he summons fire on his staff and throws it on to the pool.
Scramsax unleashes another cannonade of mental grapeshot against the circling demon. This time his aim is true. Synapses overload, teeth clench and bowels release as the flying creatures brain tries to do something with the additional energy coursing along its neural network. Smoke slips from the things ears as it continues its course back around and for another run.
Meanwhile, Gunnar calls upon winter's cold and the magic of his people's ancient enemy. A wave of bitter, biting snow and ice rolls from his fingertips and stretches out across the second demon's form. But the anger surging through its body following the lightning blast, warms its heart and body tossing the cold aside like so much unwanted debris.
Aterro continues to stand firm drawing the wrath of one creature, while Vrindel clears the path and moves closer toward Gunnar, although he cannot quite reach the dwarf.
The first demon swoops in toward Aterro. This time it is prepared for the spirits. But the halflings mental assault created openings for the spirits. Even though the demon resists their effects, it cannot prevent all of the spirits from slashing and ripping at its already weakened mortal body. A spirit fox leaps. It's narrow jaws snatching at the demon's throat. Blood sprays and hisses like an unruly hose from the mortal wound. Instead of an attack, it crashes continues flying past. Mind dying, body dead and plummeting into the netherverse below the staircase.
The second creature finishes its dive and a claw snatches out over Gunnar. Black ivory fingers puncture armor and flesh and grip upon bone. Feeling his feet lifting off the ground, Gunnar struggles to try and break the grip before it is too late.
Demon Bat 1: 0/60
Demon Bat 2: 45/60
Vrindel continues to slowly descend the stairs, so he can protect Gunnar with his Guardian Spirits. "Aterro, keep moving."
He summons fire on his staff and throws it at the bat if it's range or on to another pool.
Scram planted his feet flat, the great burst of wind from the demon's wings as it tussled with Gunner nearly washing him aside. He closed his eyes briefly, waiting for a pause in the gust to make a precise and unhindered strike...
With a flick of his hand, Gunnar invokes an arcane Shield which repulses the fiend’s attack. The shimmering protection of the abjuration spell lingers in place, a telltale sign of his Arcane Ward.
Responding quickly, Gunnar strikes out with his unusual hammer, attempting to touch to beast. Though his blow has little force behind it, the sparking head of the warhammer’s business end indicates a nasty shock if it connects.
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"I see little profit in moving as there is only one foe, and he has good Gunnar in his clutches!" Aterro states. Though he has few tools to attack an airborne foe, those he does have are often quite useful.
He presents his hammer-adored shield at the grappling beast and a great bolt of purifying white-fire launches from it, homing in on the terrible thing as if drawn to it in a fine silken line.
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Under normal circumstances times passes in its constant never changing way. Marching forward to its unique and unrelenting tune like some juggernaut of imperial legions. However, within pocket dimensions created by the joining of pure natural power, wizards constructs, and the dark corners of said wizard's overloaded mind, time often does odd things.
For an instant all seems as it should. Mighty heroes attacking and defending, seeking to put an end to a potential disaster of epic proportions. A dying creature plummets to its death. It's companion gains an opportunity for revenge as it starts to carry one of the heroes away. But....
*ZzzzzT!*
At the moment of the bat demon's attack upon Gunnar, everything flickers. A nova of energy releases from the twisted lines of power at the center of this small universe. Time bifurcates. In essence the very world and universe itself is duplicates.
In the first universe, the dwarf is dragged aloft. His companions rally but the doomed arcanist falls to his doom after having his heart picked out by the demon's sucking snouts. His other companions fall soon after. One by one to a series of calamities that result in death, or in one halfling's case, becoming a bowl of vanilla pudding with an over generous amount of cinnamon sprinkled on top. These deaths unleash a new tyrant god upon an unsuspecting and wholly unprepared world. His rein would last for millennia and result in the complete devastation of all Midgard except for one small fact. The unstoppable tyrant has a bottomless love of pudding but having just arrived, does not realize it has a severe allergy to cinnamon. Scram-Pudding is eaten. The god-tyrant's head swells to epic size and then explodes like an over inflated balloon. This causes a tremendous energetic feedback loop that obliterates the pocket dimension, the wizard's tower, the entire Courlandian peninsula. The shockwaves unleash devastation from Vidim to Zobeck, across the Wolfmark and throughout the northlands. This in turn, leads to further cataclysms and ultimately the entire destruction of the universe and the timeline.
*Zzzzzt!*
In the second universe, now really the only truly existing universe, Gunnar's quick reaction and use of defensive magics result in the demon's attack having no effect. Having its claw slapped away by the arcane ward, the demon passes overhead only to find itself under assault from psychic blades and holy fire. Both cause the creature enormous amounts of discomfort and provide it an opportunity to rethink its rather poorly planned and executed attack. Not wishing to plummet into the unknown like its companion, it turns instead and flees upward, its wings flapping furiously to gain both speed and altitude.
Bat Demon 2: 11/60
Discombobulated by the sudden and irrational bifurcation, Gunnar mumbles something about ‘cinnamon pudding’ and ‘wibbly-wobbly’. By the time he regains his senses, the flying fiend is beyond the range of much of his magic. Shrugging, he calls down frost on the next pool in their way, clearing a path for his companions..
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Under the infinite stars of Scram's psionic nexus, the Barsellan battlecruiser Footpad's Jinx lazily executed procedures which (under the productive if not inspiring leadership of First Mate Brown) were starting to become second nature. A hardy deck-hand eagerly reported the demon's movements with a firm salute "...A route, sir. Shall we begin the maintenance spotcheck?" Illarya's sapphire orb, warped and molded into cannon form, seemed no worse for wear...but the experienced sailor knew sometimes microfractures in the bore could lay hidden up to the very moment of an unfortunate misfire.
"No. Prepare a final salvo. The Admiral won't settle for escape, not this time..."
*ZzzzzT!*
"...time...time...time..." the words echoed out of Brown's mouth as the expanse of the nexus became less like an infinite sea and more like a collapsing cavern. The clean white sands began to float upwards, one grain at a time, with a sound not unlike rain. The waters became turbulent, turning the mighty battlecruiser adrift, and the crew hastened to get her under control.
From the reverse waterfall of the sands, an obstinate Brown was the first to spot a menacing shadow becoming more and more opaque. A sinister figure emerged from the other side...one whose appearance was so forbidding and heavy, the First Mate struggled to keep his lunch down.
"Hey-o!! Hi guys!" waved the little rosey-cheeked halfling girl. She had an eggbeater in one hand, and a large wooden mixing bowl concealing her secret recipe in the other. Her eyes glowed a dark red, like the bowels of the Abyss. "Ima cooking up something special just for you!" she promised.
"What in the actual f#~%?" an undisciplined sailor exclaimed.
But Brown was quick to take command "Look alive men. That harpy's well known...Karley Rumblemuffin, Chef de Cuisine, she be! Destroyer of worlds." ::Damnit, where the hell is the Admiral...::
Incredulously "...uh sir? What's she got there, custard?"
"Nay, ye salt. It's much, much worse. You gotta--Damnit! Eyes off the whisk, son! Don't taunt the bitc-" but it was too late. Rumblemuffin had started her fiendish mix, and with it a tremendous vortex ensnared everything that was left of Scram's isolated retreat...the beach, ocean, stars, everything was swallowed into the eye of the spinning whisk. The Jinx buckled in two under the tremendous forces, and the crew was wholly lost (along with the sapphire orb) as every identifiable particle and thought was transformed into a rich, fairly homogeneous dairy-based dessert.
One reviewer would later claim 'Much better than the stuff you regularly get in the grocery store. I was a bit piqued at first because I didn't know if it was instant (it wasn't, to my delight). At a first taste, it was a bit bland. However, I guessed adding a half cup of sugar, would suit my specific needs. After refrigerated, it was so cool, with a smooth and creamy texture my whole family could enjoy. Much less of a 'skin' problem forming on the top, also. It's expensive, but worth it. Don't let Rumblemuffin's latest mix pass you by!' 4/5 stars (verified purchase).
Back in the reality of that bifurcated timeline, Scram watched in shock as his legs buckled (pudding was a poor choice for structural support), turned cool and white, and began to be served into a handsome little bowl with a silver spoon. "Ho-ho-ho, don't mind if I do..." he resigned, shrugging his shoulders. At least he was being dealt the fate of a good last meal "...but wait, what the hell? This won't do."
With every last ounce of his strength he padded his knapsack, eager to produce his favored spice...a good dusting of cinnamon, he thought, added an interesting layer to the taste while simultaneously adding a formality to the presentation he had learned to appreciate. But at the moment the cork was unstoppered, the final proteins of his finger muscles went through the same strange culinary transformation, and the entire bottle was spilled haphazardly onto himself.
He would never know that last-second fumble would mean the end of a tyrant-god.
*ZzzzzT!*
Scram wiped his nose with his bandana, which had started to bleed lightly, watching the demon bat ascend. "Gah, nosebleed. Dangit." And why did he suddenly have an urge for spotted dick? Well, such personal explorations would have to be set aside. The demon wouldn't get back to its tentacle-laden overlord if the plucky young halfling had anything to say about it.
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"Gah!" Aterro exclaimed, apropos of nothing. His hands quickly clapped to his chest where he was certain, certain, that a cruel rock, long fallen unto, had pierced his chest. But no. He is here, in the thick of battle, sending his enemies to route. As it should be.
He is left with a feeling that Scramsax would be -delicious-.
Seeing the thing fly away beyond the range of his grace, he joins Gunnar in clearing the path downward, consciously not-speaking about what almost but not quite transpired.
And why did he suddenly have an urge for spotted dick?
Vrindel first watches his death, because he couldn't save his companions. Then, Gunnar saves himself. He wonders if the banquet served by the wizard contained too many Wormwood mushrooms. The gnomes with whom he grew up tortured their visitors that way. He had not felt this unnatural since his last encounter with those 'shrooms.
Determined, he puts one foot in front of the other to descend the stairs and burning away any pools of acid in his way.
About the same moment Vrindel burns away the last of the acid upon the stairs, Scramsax slides another burst of psychic energy into the lobes of the fleeing demon's mind. The creatures dying scream is cut abruptly short when the energy of attack overheats the brain. Within moments liquid and tissue boil. Pressure builds to the point where the skull can no longer contain it. Already plummeting toward the fog shrouded unknown below the demonic head explodes with a simple *POP* and disappears into the depths.
Far above, the large tentacled creature still circles casually, seemingly unaware or uncaring about its lost parasitic children. Ahead the tunnel entrance to the maze looms. The dark maw beckoning.
"It would seem our path lies open before us," says Gunnar, pulling out quill and paper. "Is it worth trying to map this maze so as to better traverse it, or is its form too mutable for such mundane remedies?" he asks.