Tibs fires another bolt of flame at the leader.
Gorn slams into the iron consul's shield in a tremendous blow, the rivets cracking and sending tiny wooden splinters showering into the water. Yig drops the remnants and quickly adjusts to a 2-handed grip on the spear's shaft, obviously having some experience teaching recruits the mastery of such weapons. With a quick flourish deflecting the bolt of fire from Tiberius off his spear point.
But Grim's sacred energy found a weakness in his soul, and what began as a irritating tingle rapidly spread into a roaring combustion bursting at the man's heart, throwing him off balance. Donal sought to capitalize on the distraction and rushed...
...yet the battle hardened veteran had learned to never sacrifice awareness in combat, and stood his ground.
All the while the halfling toyed with his mind, although was finding it difficult to map an incursion into the mental landscape.
Round 5:
Evendur, Malaric, Gorn, Donal, Myl, Tib
The Iron Consul <---
The commander, clearly outnumbered and sensing little options, disengages from the melee, stepping backwards up the stairs towards the shackled captive while deflecting blows. "*huff pant* I'll end this one right now, I swear. Whatever payment his family offered ye, you'll not get it..."
The excitement seems to further torture the bound man, covered in dried blood and tears "Yes, its me, Klim! Klim Jasso! Don't you remember me Tiberius?" he pleads.
"Quiet, you. Now. You turn and rout, I'll let this one follow. You could get out of this with a tidy sum. *coughs up blood* Step closer he's finished, and while ye might just best me, the Death's Head'll find ye...twist yer mind to mush and discover new and interesting places to cut ye for weeks...come on now, use yer heads."
Round 6:
Evendur, Malaric, Gorn, Donal, Myl, Tib <---
The Iron Consul
Too bad, you have misread this situation, Donal says calmly as he heads up the stair.
Evendur trusts in the sacred wrath of his god not to hit the captive...
At the flash of Grim's holy flame, Donal breaks into a run, taking two steps at a time and swings at the spear wielding cultist!
Round 6:
Evendur, Malaric, Gorn, Donal, Myl, Tib <---
The Iron Consul
The mean-looking halfling subtly finds a blind-spot of the Iron Consul and casually drops a dagger into his hand.
When he sees the sudden movement of Donal, he shrugs and moves with 20 feet and throws his dagger.
Round 6:
Evendur, Malaric, Gorn, Donal, Myl, Tib <---
The Iron Consul
As Donal surges forward, Malaric (surely under the favor of the God of Thieves herself) melts into the shadows. The Tormtar's mace knocks Yig's face sideways just enough for the halfling's dagger to find a path through the thousand chain links.
Truly miraculously, at the same time the undying spark of Kelemvor's spirit seeks a nostalgic return to mortal justice, setting the Banite's heart again aflame.
Mylivanni does her best to take down the morally rival commander...
...but the awkwardness of the double-bladed scimitar seems at a disadvantage for this tactical environment.
Round 6:
Evendur, Malaric, Gorn, Donal, Myl, Tib
The Iron Consul <---
"So you believe, man of the Vale." and with that, Yignath the Iron Consul of Bane, thrust his spearpoint deep into the soft and already quite lacerated abdomen of the noble Klim Jhasso. To the dainty man's merit, he held onto life up to the moment Yig twisted the point, dislocating a small section of the tortured man's spinal column. With that final sick *pop* the nobles head sagged...but it was not over.
The evil of Bane went far beyond the simple murderous intent of Bhaal.
Jhasso, or rather his corrupted life essence now flitting between worlds and now eternal captive of Bane, screeched the ear-piercing sound of the damned. In a burst of thick and strangely sweet smelling light this quantum of soul-energy appeared to conduct a great transference. Not to Yig, but to the suit of armor recessed in the north wall!
The suit of armor that was tightly welded together save a pair of ornate black gauntlets.
The Black Hands of Bane.
These possessed gauntlets detached from their mundane host, taking flight and seeking to pummel the intruders to a similar fate.
"Now you can be certain, you will know death this day. For it is our Lord of Darkness to choose to rule for all eternity as the ultimate tyrant. The Black One, who can induce hatred and strife at whim, and all will bow down before Him while in His kingdom." the gauntlets surge with power and strike again...
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Donal spits a little blood and ignores the gauntlets, swinging at Yig, I won't kill you right away... I will consecrate you to Torm first, so you will be eternally separated from you beloved god.
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The mean-looking halfling backs out of the way of those animated gauntlets within line of sight to the Iron Consul. We puts his hand in his pocket gripping his crystal and whispers, "Shar."
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How, dare you! You filthy common mongrel! Is all Tibs exclaims at the man performs his sacrifice on his fellow noble. His anger causes electrical currents to erupt and flow over his scales and arcs outward every so often.
He stares the man down before speaking in a cold, threatening voice.
You will know the fury of the storm.
His eyes glow blue with crackling energy as he coalesces the entirety of it into his hand before unleashing it in a thunderous roar. The lightning arcs from Tibs hand into Yignath.
The stroke of lightning causes Donal to jump as it flashes past his shoulder, Tibs, you had to make me a liar, eh?
Donal's promise is punctuated by a thin line of red streaming from the iron consul's nose. And while Malaric's divine jinx wavers its still enough to distract the man from the impending magic of the dragonborn.
Yignath loses control of his muscles ability to contract and expand as tiny blue lines of current writhe across nearly every inch of his body like a swarm of ants. The spear acts like a grounding rod for the energy, but unfortunately this means the electricity must pass fully through the iron consuls chest. His back muscles tighten so extremely that it is enough to break his back, and there is one less servant of Bane in Baldur's Gate.
The gauntlets, for their part, having either lost their conduit to this place with Yig's death or Bane himself perhaps losing interest in his inept servants, flop to the ground.
Donal moves over to the noble and checks to make certain that they are not saveable, deep down knowing the answer...
The dead man's many wounds are ritualistic and precise, his torturers seeking areas to maximize pain while still extending the period of time they might continue their sick torment. The oldest wounds are scabbed with a few days growth, suggesting he's been captive for less than a tenday.
He remains upright in his shackles, and its then you notice Yig was carrying an iron ring with 7 large keys.
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The priest performs last rights over the murdered victim, and uses one of the Coins of Kelemvor as a marker that he is worthy of a righteous funeral - a sign or hint that this man is a victim, not a perpetrator or conspirator with this evil. No doubt his family would pay for a better class of funeral but the fact the coin was used would be a comfort to them... and maybe a hedge against damage to their reputation.
Such is politics. And the Church of Kelemvor, by dint of their purview of faith, struggled to make allies and benefactors.
Once done? He is careful to decapitate each of the evil doers lest they rise again from the dead.
The eyebrows of the mean-looking halfling shoot up when he sees Grim start to hack off the heads. He tries to change the subject, "I've heard a rumor of this Klim Jhasso. With a dead mother and ailing patriar, his three younger siblings constantly squabble over cravings of their inheritance. The trading coster that the family part-owns is well past its glory days. Any ransom or reward was probably pretty unlikely... they're the type that'd prefer splitting the inheritance 3 ways instead of 4..."
He collects his dagger and cleans it on the outfit of the Iron Consul before resheathing it.
As the group recovered a moment from the adrenaline rush of battle, Mylivanni considered some options moving forward. "...that may be, Malaric. Nonetheless the Watch probably wont be happy about losing one of their charges..." She might be right. Honor actually meant something to the Watch of the Upper City, the duty being passed from generation to generation. Rather with the Flaming Fist, 'duty' is nothing more than as a mercenary fishes for coin. Still, the Watch was outnumbered and did not enjoy the wide scope of power the Flaming Fist exploited. Shame and scolding was about the best it could do, and of course the Fist hardly cared about ethics. "I wonder how they let a noble be captured in the first place."
As Klim's blood continues to let down his restraints, you notice that rather than pool and congeal it quickly evaporates upon the stone...
As Grim performs his sacrament, he notes that besides the smooth iron keyring few things of worth lie scattered here. Some chainmail, shields, a few maces, a crossbow...they are outfitted as soldiers, not explorers or guerrillas. Their personal belongings must be stored elsewhere. With the exception of being dead, they also seem both well fed and surprisingly in good hygiene...there must be more to this dungeon hideout than stinkwater and decay.
Grim, this man was sacrificed on an altar to Bane. His soul is likely forfeit to the dark god.
Regarding Desecration in the Realms. It is widely spread, by novice users of the divine Powers in their overtheoretical first sermons, that encountering an essence of one energy you must present its opposing energy in equal measure...a 'beam on a balance' in simpler terms. Thus the undead tip to expiration in the presence of positive energy, and the living wither and break exposed to the negative.
Tales of humans with this power to render holy altars no longer effective sweep as far to the south as Calimshan and beyond the eastern plateau of the Red Wizards. It is one of things that makes atheism so rare on the Coast, being such clear evidence of the gods touching our souls even when not in sight.
But just as many warn of the perils of desecrating a shrine. Few explain it so simply as 'bad luck' or 'misfortune'...rather the heretic is burdened with a sinister geas, a forced service at the whim of the mocked Power.
Still, many a drunk have misplaced the behind-the-tavern stone with a golden nude without consequence.
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Gorn was clearly out of his league. A man of simple taste and few true needs, he took a dim view of all this talk of sacrifice and victims and dark tales. To roist and slaughter was his calling; just as he might slaughter more than most, so too his revels were special events. To be caught down in the pits made him uneasy.
While the more religious minded did what they felt they needed to, Gorn did the same, which was to collect what valuable bits could be had. Weapons, armor, it made no difference. They go into a sack to be pawned off at some later time.
That the armor was a solid piece might make carrying it actually easier. Hopefully someone could salvage it properly later.
"Shall we try to the East first?" he asks, obviously uncomfortable with the dark, dank room.
Mm, what's that smell?
Gorn, as you approach the waterlogged door (the wood swelled in its frame and clearly needing a good whack to get open) the unmistakable odor of traditional northern Surströmming (fermented herring) tickles your olfactory pallete. A high-class feast indeed must lie beyond this door.
For others with less culinary experience, its the stench of repugnant rotten eggs and the vomit rising in the back of your mouth will surely taste better.
It's also something that must be responsibly dealt with in the effluent waters of leathercraft, being the most common cause of fires and explosions in metropolitan tanneries.
I will have my elder colleague from the shrine we visited earlier assist with the cleansing of the altar... assuming we live. Alas, I am out of ability to draw on anything other than basic power until I rest and pray.
He sniffs, makes a face... then his expression lights up with comprehension, albeit tinged with worry... we need to leave. And right now at that. We Doomguide's hunt evil in many places, including Mines. Some of our writings speak of bad air in mines that explodes when flames draw too near. Let us go[/b].
Donal nods, That seems wise. Are we sure that there are no more hiding here?
He grimaces when he catches the foul stench, ready to be done with this place, but understands his duty if the commander tells them to finish.
EDIT: One more door to the South, let us at least check it... Gorn! Anything through that one?
Mal sniffs at the air and cautions the team. "The air is flammable. Avoid using any open flames while we can smell it."
Taking his turn listening to the south door, the mean-looking halfling whispers, "sounds like lots rats or insects behind the door. And some chick is singing in Infernal. Can't be good."
He stands back, way back. How they would combat swarms without fire greatly concerns him.
Donal shakes his head, Without flame, I will be blind in there and of no use. Grim, Tiberius, do we have any supernatural light that we can use?
I do indeed... it's one of the few things besides my skill with a sword I can offer at the moment.
Earlier-
Tibs will move to inspect his, friend was a strong word, but perhaps the truth of it. He will aid in tending to the man.
Present.
Hmmm. A bit of infernal, though I also hear draconic, mostly the old form of it, but its there...
At the request of life, he seems to harrumph a bit.
Can I make light? Of course I can. I dare say... He rambles on about the slight insult to his abilities, but does cast light for the group during his ramblings.
Also, I've still much of my magical strength remaining, though I... do admit, my injuries are starting to wear on me.
With the torches extinguished, the party breaches the seal...wading into the cesspit at the dungeon's heart. Its revolting, its gagging, its your dead grandpa's farts times a thousand. Luckily the thickest layer hovers gently on the water's surface in a greenish haze, a few feet below the nose you struggle to keep covered (or so it was for the tall-folk).
You pass more rickety supports...this chamber has certainly been heavily braced on both the left and right sides. And those pillars of rotted planks would be the perfect hiding spot for a nightblood...but as the party rounds the next corner, it seems clear only a few oddly fattened rats nocturne in the dank edges of this hell-hole.
Mal scouts ahead.