[color=red]"Lefdam! Do as I say this gods-forsaken time and PICK UP THE SHARD!"[/color] Still struggling against the tentacles, there is nothing for him to do but keep firing.
Lefdam looks on in horror as Speck, someone he called a friend, is murdered in front if his eyes. Only for a moment though as he hears Nightshade yell for him to pick up the dagger.
He moves past the Heart attempting to not take a hit as he does so
Once he reaches the other side he quickly reaches down and picks up the dagger. He hopes that Rupert can hold on for a little while longer...
The Heart lashes out with its free tentacle at Lefdam as he moves to pick up the shard...
... but is unable to make contact.
The Heart is not very smart. It tries (and auto-succeeds) to swallow Speck. Now Rupert has some company. Then it strikes Lefdam again with its other tentacle.
And misses again!
Rupert continues to take acid damage.
All that is left of Rupert is a puddle of gore in some heavy armor.
Round 5:
Rupert (dead)
Speck (dead)
Lefdam (5 damage, 1 point bleed)
Nightshade (11 damage, grappled)
The Heart (101 damage, but it appears to have healed some quite a bit of that)
Bold may act.
Lefdam, in a rage, swings at the Heart with the glass shard.
That shrieking voice in the back of his head has stopped. Nightshade enjoys the momentary silence as he reloads and takes aim, but pauses. Is he... humming? No. It's too off-key and lilting.
He has no time to speculate. He fires again at the creature.
He realizes, as his firearm erupts into shards in his hands, what the sound is.
Rogan is laughing hysterically.
CRACKED:Your weapon (not ammunition) takes 1d6 points of damage, ignoring hardness.
Lefdam is barely clinging to life
Round 6:
Rupert (dead)
Speck (dead)
Lefdam (39 damage, 1 point bleed, grappled)
Nightshade (11 damage, grappled)
The Heart (101 damage, but it appears to have healed [s]some[s] quite a bit of that)
Bold may act.
With nothing left, Nightshade draws his kukri and hacks at the tentacle holding him.
Lefdam, in a last ditch effort to do SOMETHING to this f$#%ing thing, takes a big swipe at the creature with the glass shard...
Lefdam, in a last (futile) effort, manages to stab the Heart one last time. Unfortunately, it's going to be too little, too late.
As Lefdam slides down the Heart's gullet, he conveniently drops the shard so that some future party (or Nicasor) may have a chance.
Round 7:
Rupert (dead)
Speck (dead)
Lefdam (dead)
Nightshade (11 damage, grappled)
The Heart (120 damage, but it appears to have healed some quite a bit of that)
Bold may act.
A strange thing begins to occur as Nightshade hacks away at the tentacle. The laughter behind the Veil in his mind begins to push against the slick, ichor-laden membrane, stretching it to a pinpoint that ruptures, oozing sickly green-black fluid into the Crimson Nightshade's mind, bubbling spastically, and each bubble that pops releases a maddening titter.
After a few moments, anyone who was still alive in the room could hear the laughter in Nightshade's head, because now it spills out his mouth. None have ever seen him in such a state before. And because his companions are dead, none ever will.
The blood-red scarf slips from his mouth, revealing cracked skin and the tell-tale bluish-gray bruising of rigor mortis. This time... maybe this time... he will be allowed to rest.
The creature opens its maw once more, and Nightshade's cosmetics melt away from its vile saliva sliding across his face and removing his makeup; steadily, the half-rotted visage of Rogan Grath is revealed once more.
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As he slides down into the paralyzing acids of the beast's gullet, lying amongst the half-digested corpses of people who were the closest he'd had to friends in decades, Rogan wonders what will be next. He has died so many times, and Pharasma seems to refuse to take him. It has made him bitter, and fueled his fear. Something that the Nightshade fed upon ceaselessly. He finds it darkly humorous that the mighty survivor, the Crimson Nightshade, died before him.
He can barely feel anything anymore--physically at least--so he hardly even flinches as the acid devours his slick, rubbery skin and begins to destroy his internal organs. It is, above all things, a relief.
Maybe this time...? Maybe he can finally... finally be with Red again...
The darkness of the beast's stomach becomes absolute, and Rogan Grath sinks into the oblivion of death.
Rogan opened his eyes. Despite the fact that he couldn’t see his own face, he somehow… knew, that they were no longer rheumy and dull. They were the sharp green eyes of his youth. And despite taking no more breaths, despite the fact that his lungs would never again draw air into them, he knew the wound on his throat was gone. All the wounds on his throat were gone.
He looked up, to see dark, brooding clouds overhead, swirling with fierce storms, but no lightning would strike. He stood atop a hill, coated in dead, patchy grass. Down the hill, in a sprawling valley, stood the imposing façade of the Boneyard, and at its center, the Palace of Pharasma. A pale, rippling river of ectoplasmic forces doidn’t so much flow through the vast necropolis, as ooze through it.
Rogan turned to a dead, withered tree several feet away. A creature sat perched atop one of the leafless branches. It appeared, at first glance, to be a raven, but the head was covered in bony plates, and its eyes were bright red spots that watched him with an intelligence that, despite its ominous appearance, seemed to be curious rather than malevolent. It opened its mouth and spoke in a language Rogan didn’t know, yet somehow understood. Its voice was high, raspy, and somewhat playful.
”Oh. You again. Pfft.” Rogan had no idea how the bird could make that sound with no lips. ”I was told there was an unexpected arrival. Shouldn’t be surprised it was you. What is this, your fifth time here?”
Rogan scowled irritably. ”Third,” he corrected. ”Don’t exaggerate, Polly.”
The beady dot in its eye socket rolled back. ”Oh, yeah, good one. Never heard that one before. Stop, my friggin’ sides.” It cocked its head as if listening, then bobbed its head at Rogan. ”Huh. That’s interesting. Before I take you to the River of Souls, someone wants to see you.”
Rogan frowned. ”Who?”
The creature snorted. ”You mortals and your damn questions. Just follow me, dingus.” With that, it took wing, heading away from the necropolis known as the Boneyard. Rogan took one long, tentative look at the many spires and mausoleums where countless souls were even now being judged, and followed the creature down the opposite side of the hill.
Days passed and--
Days? Hours? Minutes? Centuries? Time was a concept for the living, and it was impossible to gauge in this unchanging place. The only thing that seemed to change, aside from the terrain as he walked, was the huge, misshapen moon above him, with craters and pocks that he could swear made a mad, leering face. Every so often he would look up and--he couldn’t be sure, but he felt like the moon was just a fraction closer with each passing rotation.
The creature, whom he eventually learned was a nosoi that introduced itself as “Bob” (a name Rogan was fairly certain was meant to be a joke at his expense, but he was unable to suss out just how), sometimes kept to the wing ahead of him and sometimes sat on his shoulder chatting idly. Rogan found that, despite himself, he rather liked it. Bob was clever, sarcastic, and took no s&!+ from Rogan. He couldn’t help but like it.
After an utterly interminable amount of time, they arrived at a small cabin in a dead forest. The wood the cabin was made from was as twisted and warped as the trees around it, but the light that flickered within looked warm and inviting. Bob, perched on Rogan's shoulder, looked at him with an inscrutable expression. "This is where I leave you," it said. "The last steps are yours alone." It paused, then lightly pecked Rogan's hair in what he could swear was an affectionate gesture. "Good luck." With that, Bob took wing and quickly vanished into the permanent twilight. Rogan felt a tight apprehension squeeze his chest as he turned back toward the twisted little home and walked toward it.
With each step toward the cabin, a pressure seemed to build in the air against his skin. Each step, the pressure was harder and firmer against every inch of him. It didn’t slow his progress in any way, but it was deeply uncomfortable, bordering on painful. Within a step of the front door, the pressure was so hard that it felt as if his bones would pulverize under its pressure. He whimpered and groaned as he slowly stretched a shaking hand to the knob, pushing with all his will just to twist the knob a fraction of an inch and, with a final agonized cry, he threw it open.
Light washed over him, bright and hot and burning into his eyes, blinding him. With a roaring crash, the pressure vanished, the light softened, and everything was gone. Everywhere, a soft white. No land, no sky, no river, no trees. Just… soft white. And standing not ten feet away, a familiar face smiled at him.
He looked like he couldn’t be older than thirteen, but Rogan knew he was actually seventeen. Bright orange curly hair topped his head, and freckles dotted the long, lean features of his smiling face. Full red lips grinned at him. The last time Rogan saw that face, its entire left side had been caved in by the maces of the young man’s father’s hired thugs. Rogan had struggled to recognize the face beneath. But none of that damage was present now.
Rogan’s eyes burned and his throat seized up. ”R…R…” he croaked.
The young man strode forward over the nothingness, threw his arms around Rogan, and nuzzled his head into his neck. ”Hey love,” he said softly.
Rogan held onto him almost painfully tight, squeezing tears out as he clenched his eyes shut and smelled the boy's flowery scent again for the first time in twenty years. ”Hey, Red,” he whispered hoarsely.
Red looked up to him, his eyes mischievous and kind. ”I’ve missed you. Are you ready to come home?”
Rogan sobbed, his chest hitching hard. ”Y-yeah, babe. Let’s… let’s go home.”
Red took his hand, and gently led Rogan into the Light.
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In the last moments of his life, Speck relishes the chaos of combat, he feels at home with it. It was so much of a distraction that he misjudged how close the creature was and as it's teeth started to tear into his flesh, but before the pain could sink in, he simple thought to himself: This reminds me of that time my uncle Sir Speck El-Boddom the fifth stepped .... Suddenly his world goes dark.
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Lefdam feels the last string of his life force pull tight…and then snap…the next thing he expected to happen…was…well…nothing at all. It was a surprise to him when moments after the last string let loose…he was standing again.
He did not need to investigate his surroundings at all to know what had just happened. He is dead and this is the Pharasmas domain. The Boneyard.
Lefdam has read much about this place. It is said that you see a representation of something/someone important to you and that they will lead you on to your soul’s final resting place. Lefdam wonders who or what this might be for him.
He waits…for a long…time…though, he knows that time does not flow here the same way it does in the living world…and nothing or no one appears before him. Nothing flashes in the distance to signal which way he was supposed to go. So, he sits…and waits.
Worry starts to creep in. Worry that he had distanced himself from everyone for so long…that everyone that was important to him…no longer cared.
Then it hit him. It hit him like a ton of bricks. Truthful…painful bricks…
His loneliness…is his guide.
Yes, he had family…but he cut ties with them the moment he learned that they were as evil as anything that he had fought throughout his time with his companions. He had no friends…no lovers…no children. He was alone…and he had always been alone…and now…he will spend eternity alone.
It is fitting, Lefdam supposes. He never really cared to be around people much anyway. He cared immensely for every living thing…but that didn’t mean he had to like them...or enjoy their company. That dichotomy made him chuckle...if a dead man can chuckle.
With a sigh…Lefdam Odum stands and begins to walk. He had nowhere he planned to go…he just decided that walking was the best thing at this moment.
The last thing that the soul of Lefdam remembers before it was finally taken away into oblivion is the faces of his companions. The only people that seemed to really care about him. This makes him smiles as he drifts off into nothingness.
With an almost satisfying sounding gulp, the Heart swallowed the last of the combatants. It didn't need them for sustenance; instead, it feeds off the ennui, suffering, and despair of the residents of its dimension. But it knows existential threats when it encounters them and it did what needed to be done to continue its existence.
Less than 30 seconds after Rogan disappeared into the Heart's gullet, its wounds had healed completely. Less than an hour later, the hole the party had created in the ichor-covered wall had closed up and sealed. The only evidence that anything had happened here was the small black shard of magical glass on the ground next to the Heart.
-------
Nicasor had been trapped in The House of Night for nearly a thousand years. He knew essentially everything there was to know about this place and the futility of attempting to escape. He had lost many of his kayal compatriots trying to kill the Heart. He had been close to his own death several times. So, when these newcomers claimed to have a way of destroying the Heart for good, he harbored an automatic and involuntary skepticism. As they entered the courtyard, heading to their doom, it was a simple decision to simply walk away and leave them to their fates. Best case, they actually succeed and he finally escapes this hellish prison with no further risk to himself; worst case, they die and nothing changes.
So he left, climbing the stairs with the fading sounds of battle behind him. He returned to his room and tried to focus on a book, one of the few books remaining that hadn't completely disintegrated. He had read it probably a hundred and fifty times, but he didn't think that was the reason he was unable to focus on it. His mind kept returning to the unusual party. What if they really did have a way out? Shouldn't he have at least remained long enough to see if this fight was any different than the countless others? Had he made a terrible mistake?
He shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts, and returned to his book. After two more minutes of reading the same sentence over and over without comprehending it, he slammed the book shut, threw it on his bed, and left his room. He gathered his family -- Atamin, his brother; Corys, his uncle; and Manar, his niece. He went downstairs and summoned Elenuta and her apprentice, Trakis. He went to the kennels to retrieve the only dog left (it had killed and eaten all of the others), only to find it dead, its favorite chew toys stolen. Dammit, they killed him.
He led the group into the dining room and drew his swords. Turning to his constant companions for the past millennium, he said, "Those new people claimed to have a way to kill the Heart and escape from this prison. I was skeptical, but now I am having second thoughts. We have been here nearly a thousand years, and how many other opportunities have we had to potentially escape? None! No opportunities. I did not trust them because they came here at Boroi's request, but I was a fool for leaving them to fight the Heart. I should have summoned all of you and we should have fought it together. Once we were out, we would have been free to kill those four and Stepan alike."
"So now I am correcting my mistake. They may already be dead, but perhaps whatever means they had to destroy the Heart still remains. Are you with me?" The others all nod and grip their weapons tighter. He nods back. "Then let's do this. Freedom or death."
-------
As Nicasor drove the shard home into the center of the Heart's mass, acid spraying over his hand, his arm, and his mask, the Heart spasmed violently; its tentacles shot out straight in a ring around it, releasing Elenuta and Manar, the only other survivors. All three of them fell to the ground, exhausted and gravely injured, while the Heart endured its death throes. Its final moments were strangely silent, for how violently it was thrashing around. Finally, its tentacles started to blacken and rot, the blight traveling with incredible speed down each tentacle towards the Heart's heart. In the end, all that was left was a blackened, rotted husk.
A moment of utter silence passed while Nicasor caught his breath. Then The House of Night shuddered. At first he thought it was his imagination, an aftereffect of coming so close to death. Then another shudder, louder and more insistent than the first. By the time the walls and ceiling started crumbling around them, it became clear that this demiplane was collapsing with them in it.
"The mirror!", Nicasor shouted. He scooped up Manar over his shoulder since she was still recovering from the Heart's paralysis and scrambled out of the room and towards the stairs to the cellar.
-------
Nicasor emerged from the manor cellar stairs onto the main floor of the manor. An old man wearing the Boroi colors in the form of servant's garb tried to talk to him; Nicasor slashed him across the throat without a word. He ascended the stairs to the second floor, feeling an almost preternatural guidance towards Stepan; he knew where Stepan would be.
-------
Nicasor stood on the platform in the town square, addressing the Karpad populace. "... is a shae and kayal town now. Others will not be harmed and you are welcome to stay, but any bigotry on your part will be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. If you decide to leave, you may do so unmolested. Your baron brought the tallowthroat scourge on you with his dishonor, and I have freed you from it. I bear you no ill will. Furthermore, ..."
-------
With the baron dead and his wife and child exiled back to Nisroch, Nicasor installed Sorin as the new baron. The 8-year-old kayal boy was Iozif Boroi's son, born in the mirror, and the rightful heir to the throne. Of course, with the boy so young, he would require ample guidance and advice, and Nicasor was more than happy to fill the role of advisor.
-------
Standing in the baron's old study, looking at a map of Nidal on the wall, Nicasor smiles to himself.