"So Malaric, I've a new book for your travel to Candlekeep. It's next level esoterics, and I think you're ready for it." Sytia concludes and hands the mean-looking halfling a black leather (of probably not animal skin) tome, two-inches thick with parchment (of probably not animal skin) pages.
"Thank you, master. I don't know when I'll be back. You've been such an enlightening teacher. I will carry the message of Shar." The acolyte repeats his appreciation.
"Oh. I found this for you, too. It's a spell to create a safe place for you that you'll need on the road." She hands him a scroll.
"Perfect." The halfling wraps the scroll within his personal prayer to Shar that he plans on submitting to Candlekeep.
Malaric pets his new mastiff, Corsair. Dressed in woolens and leather traveling gear, the halfling checks the bridle, saddle, and saddlebags. "Fisk, how long is the trip? Do you have inns planned out?"
The formerly dirty, mean-looking halfling looks more like a successful mercenary with two shortswords, crossbow, and rucksack.
"Half a tenday, I wager...if we keep a good pace, and weather permittin'. Keepin' an eye on the skies for wyvern, then there within dark foliage or craggy cliffsides you got your bands of hobgoblins and gnolls making for eager foes. We'll be wise to keep our destination a secret to any passing travelers, thieves have learned that rare books make for an easy take from first timers to the 'Keep. Might do good to come up with some sorta cover story..." he brushes the back of his neck with a slight grin. Then, at the talk of accommodation "Aye, the Friendly Arm Inn will be a welcome respite the second or third day likely. Old converted battle fortress of Bhaal, but none of that evil remains. Good variety on tap...they say the barmaids are iron golems camouflaged as women. *ahem* Well, they may just be b*tches in the final analysis. No other settlements on the way, unless yer on good terms with the druids of the Cloakwood. Or fancy a detour down to Beregost. Suppose we could cozy up with some farmers if we really needed to. Heh, always heard there's an old wizard's tower down the Lion's Way, the High Hedge of Thalantyr the Conjurer...never seen it myself. But yep, I wager we'll bivouac otherwise, lest ye brought tents. Once we're inside Candlekeep proper, of course we'll get a hot meal and good company at the Hearth." he winks. "On me."
Simon savors the thought for a while. But tired of suffering with the box, he decides that the game is worth the candle. Power is not taken without risk.
Listen, Hidden Lord, maybe we could keep each other safe. You ask if I would sell you for a handful of coins. I'm asking if you'll give me a hard time. But what could you offer me in exchange for freeing you from captivity? What if we make a contract - I find a way to get you out of this prison... and you? What would you offer me for that? You seem quite wise and perceptive. What do you suggest?
"Agelessness...not another day of time's slow malaise will effect you. The ability to bend bend time to your will...making everything you do better. Conscription...the ability to summon a powerful ally. Rebuke...a fiery response to rival an archmage. Tongues...speak and understand all languages, and your silvery charms becoming twice as effective. Adamant...bolster your body with my essence, and find yourself immune to many ailments. Heroism, Restoration, Slaying, Vitality..."
"One of these great boons can be yours."
Donal spends a day or two finding some of their old Flaming Fist associates that want to make some money on their days off to help him and Grim train. The agent of Torm gathers wooden weapons to mimic everything from spears to swords and clubs. Then, purchases a couple of Healer's Kits, just in case.
The day that training begins, Donal gathers everyone around, You all are to gang up on me and Grim. Do not stop until either we are face down or you are. Understood?
Don, it takes some effort to filter out the boisterous from the true talent...but you eventually find a few Fist that are nearly your equal in small squad tactics and will provide the adequate challenge to train new techniques. The sparring yard atop Zodge's bastion is cleared for you, and with wooden arms and stern determination you begin to learn to fight as a unit, rather than 2 individuals.
I have a suspicion that you're just suggesting that I become the devil myself? Just don't talk about it directly. Ageless, silver tongue, strong body... Right?
Simon, you've heard of supernatural gifts being bestowed upon mortals before...it was after all one of the things that drew you to Bel. Still, it isn't always devils that extend these so-called 'charms'...stories of celestials, aberrations, and fey granting these boons are just as common.
"Mortal, your soul is already forfeit...your fate to be reborn in the hells. Should you die at this instant, a new incarnation across the planes would manifest as another fresh scion in Bel's legion, I smell his brand upon you. A devil would have little use for you now as human but to further corrupt new souls across the Material...such is your Pact. Such feeds the devil's War with new fodder. So no, I am not suggesting you become a devil yourself...that is already your guaranteed end. But before you shed this mortal trial, I simply offer a taste of the beyond...one that may well delay this fate." the Hidden Lord's voice steady and calm, its patience eternal as you slowly start to see the entity's perspective.
What if I ask for it all at once? Can you do it?
"Of course they always want it all. See now, your myriad faults can only ever be an engine for greed...a human flaw inseparable from your creation...how could anyone blame you? You yearn to twist your weakness into a thing that matches the immortals...a broken thing yearns to be fixed. Likewise, this creation of the hells binds me to certain restrictions. Were I unbound by this unholy shell, yes I may well sate your lust for power in ways that would make your patron wet with jealously. As it is, only one. Choose or not, it matters little to me."
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-Grim and Donal-
The addition of Flaming Fists that Donal added to the training regime... HURT.
While healing magics mitigated the worst of the bruises and in two case, suspected broken bones, all the trainees were hammered relentlessly. Jhenrel Copperfrost seemed almost gleeful but close to the end of the second week had to admit the four were showing improvement.
Hold!
Switch!
Wheel!
Donal and Evendur wheeled around each other, under each other's strikes and sideways to cover each other with shield or weapon like a choreographed couple. Not yet smooth, not yet polished, but definitely effective. Each yelling out to the other and then moving in synchronised combat manoeuvres.
Strangely, for such a competitive duo, the new Doomguides, Celes and Nix, we're doing even better as they fought off a trio of Flaming Fists and a hired Mercenary. While hardly an old man (in fact Evendur was coming into his prime), the older Doomguide grudgingly credited their superior results down to youthful reflexes. It helped salve his battered body and ego both as the losers on each days training (as judged by Copperfrost) had to buy the first jugs of post training ale.
Training was beginning to pay off.
Unfortunately his efforts to secure an enchanted weapon had not... and it worried him more every day. He knew something big was coming and to fight the forces of hell, only magic could be relied on to cut through otherworldly defenses. He'd spent what time he could making inquiries but his time was limited... and his lack of success was the measure of it.
I want immortality.
Simon's eyes are feverishly bright. He licks his suddenly dry lips and barely restrains himself from wiping his sweaty hands on his doublet.
Come on. Agree. I will deceive you all. You won't get my soul as long as I'm immortal. And then... it will be later. Even the Gods are dying like flies in our time. The history of people like Cyric shows that anything is possible. Who knows where this ladder will take me.
I want to never grow old, or even have some possibility of dying of old age, even theoretically. I want to be immune to all poisons and diseases, and to have my body as strong as adamantium. Yes, it will be a good deal. And in response... I'll find a way to free you...
Donal felt the lessons being learned too slowly. If this were real, we'd be dead.
He looked up at Evendur's face, sweat dripping from the priest's brow. The man's two apprentices had apparently fought alongside each other much longer than the two former Fist Guard had and it showed. They were able to predict each others' movements and work in concert.
We need to know each other better. Understand our perspectives...
Grim... How did you end up one of the Death Keepers?
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Evendur pours a ladle full of water over his stooped head.
The stories never tell you how damned hot fighting in armour gets, he lamented silently.
He straightened with a wince then waved his two new... subordinates... over. No. He didn't like the feel of that term. Aides. Now that was something that seemed to capture his feelings about the two new Doomguides.
He motioned for his aides to approach.
Fair question Donal, and well asked. I'm not the most... well... not very "chatty" at all. How did I become a Doomguide? Hmmm.... He stopped to consider his words then looked to his Instructor.
Please Greymantle. Do you even have to ask?, Jhenrel replied with customary bluntness.
Failure to outperform the new bloods confirmed it was time to pay the penalty.
He sighed and dug his hand into his coin pouch and tossed a gold coin to Thibalt, one of the more trustworthy Flaming Fists. A jug of ale for everyone from the Local, thanks friend Thibalt. I expect to see SOME change make its way back to me, AND the jugs returned back to the tavern afterwards. The Warden of the Gate then sat on the nearest bench in the courtyard, ignoring the appreciative cheers and laughter of those who had been helping the training by beating on the four of them.
It would be good to share. And better for the new Doomguides to hear.
It all started with one man, a travelling merchant. At first it seemed Eziel was just another merchant but he started throwing around money, got involved himself in town matters, stirring up old feuds and re-opening old wounds. Something, an instinct or maybe a distance from grown up affairs, told me something was wrong... and given all the problems started when he showed up? I was sure he was the problem. Sadly none paid much heed a young farm boy.
Then people started going missing.
At first it was thought the missing folk had merely left town, then dread set in - perhaps among the townsfolk there was a murderer? The thought kept people from putting together what was happening to our town and kept them close to home... Then whole farms were wiped out - by what no one could tell. All that remained was signs of violence and blood but no bodies.
He paused to point at the two young men.
It was only much later I found the appeal of our town. It's name forgotten by all except a handful. More than a hundred years ago it had been the site of a large battle and boasted a considerable graveyard and multiple mass graves marked by cairn sites. It must have been for that reason the necromancer came. Mark you this story well - both motive and one of the gambits of evil. Be they vampires or necromancers!
Thibalt returned along with another two and began distributing ale. Evendur waited for the others to be served, and drank before continuing.
Our farm was the fourth to be attacked... by ancient skeletons and fresh zombies. Father and the five farmhands who were there on the day barricaded everyone into the house. It seemed to my young self a desperate battle that lasted hours. It ended badly. One by one the farmers were killed, in some cases torn to pieces. Just before the end Mother locked me in a cabinet and told me to be very still.
The story paused, its teller silent for a long moment.
I could see through the crack in the door as the last people were disembowelled. I sat in that cabinet for two days, long after the undead collected the bodies of family and friends and left the farm. I may well have sat there in my own filth until I died of thirst if it were not for Albus Greymantle - A member of Kelemvors militant clergy and wandering investigator, he came to the area seeking the same necromancer that had destroyed my life.
It was thus that I was bought into the Monastery of Kelemvor at Ormpetarr, and healing could begin. With lack of other prospects and due to my reluctance to be parted from Albus for more than a few hours, I became a squire of sorts to the old Doomguide... and here I am. I never received any inheritance or legacy from my parents. But... I took three things from my adoptive father. His name, his sword and this badge, he said touching the ancient piece of jewellery.
He drained his cup and left both jug and it's remaining ale for the others.
Training seems done for the day... and I've an important matter to attend. I will see you on the morrow.
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A sword, a sword! My kingdom for a sword!, he mused, recalling some playwrights words.
He knew that things were going to get worse. Much worse. Magic has proven critical in hardening sword edges to cut supernatural hide and scale... but these enchantments came at the cost of other blessings that could be bestowed by Kelemvor.
Grim had been seeking word of a sword or similar for sale. One with proven worth against these foes. Sadly rumours had either proven dead ends or their current owners reluctant to part with them. Understandable in the current climate and unsettled times.
He hurried back to the old shrine, now starting to show signs of its former glory.
Any messages or letters Abbott?, he asked Reylen.
One. I have it here Warden, the old man replied. They had taken to using their titles to jest with one another, a hidden joke only shared by the two of them.
The letter was opened by the expectant cleric, but its contents disappointing.
Well... that is that, he said laying the missive dismissing the offer of purchase aside.
Reylan picked it up, frowned as he scanned it. The Abbott looked around carefully to ensure they were alone before cuffing Grim across the back of his head.
You mean to tell me you've been chasing this, he said waving the paper, and other weapons all this time? Where are your wits Warden?!
Owww, was the exaggerated drawn out response.
Have you forgotten entirely what happened when you named me Abbott? Kelemvor Wept!, the retired Doomguide swore before making the sign of The Spire in the air. You were right to do so if this is where your mind is at. Wait here and try not to drool on yourself, before stalking off, muttering in frustration.
Evendur sat in stunned silence until Reylen returned with the blessed Cloak and the aged wooden sword case. Best you put that on before you forget it entirely Warden... and take this. Reylen worked the latches and opened it.
Within lay a steel bastard sword, etched with silver and inlaid with cold iron, iconography of Kelemvor was worked along its length. The heavy blade was an older design, maybe popular a century ago, but the feel was surprisingly light in the hand as Evendur took it by its ivory hilt.
I gave it to you when you arrived. Then you went and ruined my retirement by making me Abbott. You must have forgotten about it. Reylen pulled at his short beard. Then again, you have been working pretty hard since then, the old priest considered grudgingly.
But... how is it that you had this?, Grim asked, both surprised and happy about how natural the sword fit his hand, how easily it moved.
Belonged to Father Alby, my predecessor. After... well... after, I had it polished, oiled then, well... stored it with the other relics of the shrine. I didn't have the heart to take it up after my failure, was the slow reply, thick with emotion. But I believe you are fit to take it up.
Reylen reached out and touched the hilt.
This is called 'Final Rest'. It has quite the history if you care to dig through the archives to read up on it. If you're worried about needing an enchanted weapon, then this is the end of your worries. It's especially potent against the undead, and Father Alby told me on a few occasions the sword could detect them. I imagine you'll need to work with it a bit first before you get the knack of it.
Reylen gave Grim a gentle pat on the shoulders in contrast to his earlier blow.
Well... you can at least rest easy on that one score warden. That only leaves you with a dozen others. Including, I might add, a visit tomorrow from Master Gryffith of the Cellarers' and Plumbers' Guild. Rest well Warden, the old man said before heading off for duties of his own.
The contract, when fully manifested before you, was remarkably different in form from your previous pact with Bel. Perhaps the Hidden Lord altered its form to further conceal its devilish nature, or perhaps the entity truly was something beyond the infernal after all as it claimed. Whichever the case, the scroll was not a hellish legal document at all...but rather a piece of sheet music.
It unfurled on its own on a small side-table near the fireplace, for your inspection.
The time signature had a beat not commonly used in modern song, with a repetitive tempo and melody that was infectiously catchy. As you scanned the notes bobbing up and down in each measure, you heard them within your mind. And just as great music can paint visceral daydreams, you began to see a future where the Hidden Lord was set free, and in consequence the gift of Agelessness surged through your veins.
The song repeated in your head, and despite your best attempts to ignore it, was always playing there in the back of your psyche. Something told you it would continue to play until the conditions of the deal were completed...
"Once we sing this duet together, the multiverse and its essence of Law will hold us to its conscription...and punish us for any breech." the shield explained.
Simon is whistling a different rhythm. Hard and cold, infernal as someone versed in this could understand. The aristocrat concentrates on this sound so as not to lose himself and the thread of his thoughts, exploring the notes.
At first Simon seems to twist the delightful song into something darker and more serious, but the sheer force of personality the Hidden Lord brings to the performance is overwhelming. The mental landscape expands as the repetitive melody strikes again and again at the strands of the multiverse...and you begin to see an image of the Lord. Standing nearly 8 ft tall, the handsome mustached dwarven man is of that indeterminable age that an elusive, kind sort of maturity brings. He sings with a voice deep and low, at times the baritone falling to bass and even dipping into sub-audible vibrations...hollow whispers of an almost reptilian quality.
Meanwhile the vision dancing to the beat in your head was dressed with the flair of a noble bard. Curiously it seemed to be of ancient dwarven custom...but a vague cultural tradition with only a hint of the northern clans. It was strange to see such a gigantic dwarf with swash-topped boots, jerkin with slit and capriciously puffed sleeves, red velvet-lined cloak spotted with Dalmatian lapel, and other intricate finery like pendants, a huge golden belt buckle, and fat knuckle gemstone rings.
You actually came to love the song, and the promised future it heralded.
When the last stanza finally came to a close, the parchment alit with a hot pink glow that turned the finalized agreement to dissolved embers that fluttered about the chamber.
...but the tune remained, on infinite loop repeat within.
Simon begins to sing along. How can such a powerful being deceive, why would he do that? (Wrong) Simon will do his part of the deal honestly and well, and the Hidden Lord will fulfill his. (Run) What can there be doubts about? (Something's wrong, something's wrong, don't believe, escape, don't believe, run!) Simon dismissed this thought as if he had shooed away a bee with his hand and continued to sing along...
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Donal nodded. His life was not so hard, in fact he never knew his parents. Having an understanding of the Doomguide's motivations helped the warrior understand his choices.
I... I never knew my parents, Donal hesitates briefly, The church was my home. Father Axol raised me with discipline and purpose. I am an instrument of the church... to do what they cannot. I have no friends, I have no family. My team is all I have.
--
The training is brutal, but this new understanding, as small as it is, seems to work somewhat. Being a split second faster in recognizing where his partner moved, Donal was able to take advantage of an opening an opponent left as he intended to strike at Grim, knocking the assailant back a step as Grim laid into an attacker sneaking to stab Donal, himself in the back!
--
At the end of each day, after paying off each of the days' training partners, Donal takes Evendur and his junior Doomguides out to eat a good meal and then spends the evening getting a bath and a massage to be ready for the following day's work...
EDIT:
You find Zodge double checking the straps on the mule's bridle, with a few other zit-faced Fist rolling barrels of water, ale, and rations into the back of the small two-wheeled cart. It's almost humorous to see Zodge performing such menial tasks...his ambitions towards the top of leadership obviously thwarted in full by Lenia's return.
A small group of Fist still maintain a perimeter separating the staging area from the wide eyed, hopeless gazes of the encamped Elturel refugees. You do note a few other supplies have been included to make your camping experience a bit more comfortable...with good iron tools for woodcraft and cart-wheel repair, extra milled oats for the mounts, sharp knives for the butchery of wild animals, and even a block and tackle for dealing with heavy obstacles.
The horses, not mere draft horses but strong destriers, stand arrayed on the hitch complete with saddle and hearty leather packs awaiting your burdens. The pure muscle of their chestnut haunches seem loaded with elemental thunder. Feel free to describe your horse as befits the glory of a hero. A mastiff was also provided for Reya, but Fisk will take the mule-cart (unless one of you would rather trade him places).
Fisk remarks, with more than a little excitement in his voice "Just a quick first stop at my place in lil' Calimshan in the outskirts...I don't intend to ride the Coast Way with naught but a dagger and these ridiculous golden pantaloons." the second hand clothes he was able to rustle up were indeed quite tasteless. "Everyone remember to grab their offering for the sages?"
Malaric pets his new mastiff, Corsair. Dressed in woolens and leather traveling gear, the halfling checks the bridle, saddle, and saddlebags. "Fisk, how long is the trip? Do you have inns planned out?"
The formerly dirty, mean-looking halfling looks more like a successful mercenary with two shortswords, crossbow, and rucksack.
"Half a tenday, I wager...if we keep a good pace, and weather permittin'. Keepin' an eye on the skies for wyvern, then there within dark foliage or craggy cliffsides you got your bands of hobgoblins and gnolls making for eager foes. We'll be wise to keep our destination a secret to any passing travelers, thieves have learned that rare books make for an easy take from first timers to the 'Keep. Might do good to come up with some sorta cover story..." he brushes the back of his neck with a slight grin. Then, at the talk of accommodation "Aye, the Friendly Arm Inn will be a welcome respite the second or third day likely. Old converted battle fortress of Bhaal, but none of that evil remains. Good variety on tap...they say the barmaids are iron golems camouflaged as women. *ahem* Well, they may just be b*tches in the final analysis. No other settlements on the way, unless yer on good terms with the druids of the Cloakwood. Or fancy a detour down to Beregost. Suppose we could cozy up with some farmers if we really needed to. Heh, always heard there's an old wizard's tower down the Lion's Way, the High Hedge of Thalantyr the Conjurer...never seen it myself. But yep, I wager we'll bivouac otherwise, lest ye brought tents. Once we're inside Candlekeep proper, of course we'll get a hot meal and good company at the Hearth." he winks. "On me."
Donal: Elturel Refugee Hymns
Mal: Essay Concerning Shar
Fisk: (picking up from house on the way)
Simon: ?
Grim: ?
Reya: spell scroll of Create Water
The gates swing wide but soon the gap is filled with people bustling about in the mid-morning rush. Your horses, mastiffs and cart become swarmed on all sides by burdened travelers, refugees struggling to hold their place in the order, hawkers with roast meat on sticks...within it all the Fist content to allow some modicum of chaos to make their work easier.
It's a snails pace to push through the crowds overflowing at the Garynmor Stables, the main travelers junction of the east-side. You note a number of exotic horse breeds from both the tundra of the north and sands beyond Amn to the south...even a priest of Gond on their mechanical steed.
Although the road stays jammed, you pass into Norchapel and experience a relative peace compared to the swarms near the gate. Of course thats because this is Guild territory, and the provisions for safety and security are big business for the shady figures giving you the stink eye under the awnings of small cafes and apartment balconies. You find your way out of the con-trap as soon as possible.
The tall minarets of Little Calimshan rise up from that walled community well before you reach the gates, and Fisk pulls forward to deal with the guard waiting there. Generations ago, a fleet of Calishite refugees fleeing war in the south came sailing into Gray Harbor. Of course, rather than opening their doors to the foreigners, they were hustled out of the city and taxed for the privilege. What had been a caravanserai stationed there soon grew to this new home, a traditional Calishite settlement in every way.
With passage through the gated community secured, you soon hoof it through a zig-zagging warren of far-southern-styled bazaars full of silks, beautiful curved blades, and books of magical lore. Fisk, being the only one to produce proof of his marriage into a Calishite family, is allowed to branch off the merchant strip and secure a number of items from his home. He returns a new man, armed with a pair of exquisite hand crossbows nestled at the hilts of two ornate gladius...covering a sandy hued leather with a light green traveler's cloak.
Finally you angle towards the east-side of Duskhawk Hill, still barely removed from Baldur's Gate. There the community of Whitkeep gives you a wide berth, this centuries old all-gnome commune seeming totally consumed by its own surrealist parties and and other offbeat art happenings. More eye-catching just beyond is the commotion at the Hamhocks Slaughterhouse, were a large cage containing a rather angry pair of velociraptors has had a wheel edge off the loading ramp. The terrified crew apply leverage with their 10 ft poles as the beasts jostle their prison defiantly.
Soon along the way it seems another cage is blocking traffic further up the way, this time a much larger one containing a tyrannosaurus rex. From the rumors that are coming back from that central portion of the bridge, the two metal braced wheels have broken and repairs are underway. The incident has left your final lurch across the great Chionthar (the bridge-city known as Wyrm's Crossing ) nearly at a total standstill...you can count to 50 before the line moves forward a single step.
This neighborhood is actually two enormous bridges, each spanning half the Chionthar and meeting at a tall rocky islet in the center...Wyrm's Rock. The Flaming Fist maintain a fortress there to tax travelers and control city access, but the bridges are fair game for squatters. Quite a few ramshackle wooden tenements, taverns, and shops crowd both sides of the arched stone spans...leading out over the narrow congested road between them. Even more cling to the sides of the bridges with curious anchors and cantilevers suspending them above the rushing waters below. The reputation of these folks as rakes and riffraff is well known to Malaric.
Everyone but Simon and Reya see a clean faced, cloaked figure slowly relieve the Hellrider of the silvered dagger at her side...
Donal snatches the hand of the light-fingered thief.
Mal rides Corsair to a position to cutoff the thief's obvious exit plan. "Reya. Hey, cloak, please return her dagger. We'll give you two gold to return it, and they won't kick your a$$." The serious looking halfling motions to Don and Grim.
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Donal ploughs through the crowd on horseback, knocking some off their feet to quickly snatch at the thief's arm...
...but the slimy cliff-dweller was too nimble, wriggling out of his open-faced sleeved shirt and leaving it in the Tormtar's hands, soon getting soaked up in the bustle of bodies.
*KRUUUM clang clang clang*
The top of the T-rex's cage suddenly bursts off and tumbles in flight, smacking a crenellation before bouncing off the side of the Fist's garrison and tumbling down to the river. Time stops. A flicker of movement. You see a dwarf in Fist robes running across the second floor of the garrison raising both hands with a crazy look on his face. A wave of silence propagates through the people in a split second, reaching you about the time Malaric informs Reya and finishes his offer...
Grim wheels his mount away from the dinosaur and through the crowd yelling Go back! Death comes! Go back!, hoping to move the crowd away from the future carnage.
Cutting through the silence is Grim's powerful voice "Go back! Death comes! Go back!" sending the people scattering in both directions...before getting locked in a solid mob wall.
"Raise the drawbridges!" a Fist takes the opportunity to command, twisting his helmet into line with his nose.
The thief had stopped in his tracks to take in Donal and Mal a moment, but he suddenly turned his head as a humongous figure emerged from the cage...
*RCHEIRRRCHEIIRR*
The t-rex boomed, sending the already panicked crowd into an even more chaotic body pile.
The would-be thief promptly dropped the dagger (and his lunch), leaping onto a random half-orc's back and executing a perfect 5131D dive off the side of the bridge...Reya pulling in quick to scoop it back into hand.
*BOOM*
A huge tridactyl foot slammed into the rock, a body the size of a farm house and 100% muscle. This king of the tyrants is nearly all jaws, but also lashes its massive tail like a giant's Zweihander.
Round 1:
Simon <--UP
T-rex
Fisk, Grim, Reya
Mob
Mal, Donal, Fist
Simon's mount gets pushed from all sides by the dense and terrified mob, screaming for their lives. The noble rips the Shield of the Hidden Lord from his back, securing the barrier and working up his nerve. The T-Rex catches movement on the balcony with its enormous predator's eyes, opens its mouth wide and lunges at the guard...
...ripping the man's chainmailed torso from its legs, showering Simon's shield and a good fraction of the crowd in a warm red bath of aortic blood and entrails. Absentmindedly, the massive tail whipcracks inches from Grim's mount...the 1/8th inch leather flap blinders the only thing keeping the beast from being frightened.
Round 1:
Simon
T-rex
Fisk, Grim, Reya <--UP
Mob
Mal, Donal, Fist
Fisk takes a deep breath, drawing his hand crossbows and diving off the mule's ass onto the cart.
The nimble agent pops back up a moment later, unleashing a quick *clack clack* as the mechanical latches release tension...
A terrible screech nearly deafens you as the massive monster flinches at the anatomical strikes of Falaster Fisk.
Round 1:
Simon
T-rex
Fisk, Grim, Reya <--UP
Mob
Mal, Donal, Fist
By Torm's hairy backside! Donal curses under his breath. Spurring his horse forward, the warrior leaps at the T-Rex!
Flying through the air, Donal snatches a handful of hide and scrambles up the beast's back!
Seeing Donal whack the MASSIVE dragon like creature, the priest calls down the black cursing of Kelemvor.
Toll the Dead
*dong*
The deep note bewilders the tyrannosaurus briefly, but the king of lizards answers with a defiant ear-splitting roar of its own deafening out the effect.
Reya wriggles her mastiff free of the crowd and the heavy paws click across the cobbles, silver sword raised high...
...clanging hard on the heavy ankle bone before the mounted combatant zips back towards the rushing crowd, as if she could do anything to shield them from 16,000 lbs of dino-muscle.
Meanwhile the worst of humanity is on display, as the terrified folk trample each other, acting with only their own selfish survival instincts in mind...they make little progress, slipping and blundering in their escape.
Donal, feeling the slightest hesitation in the reins, angles towards the towering behemoth...the Fist's hardened military destrier gallops at full speed, the full frightful visage hidden behind a thin leather blinker. The Tormtar squeezes into a crouch on the saddle, and at the last second springs upwards in a powerful lunge gripping a hardened ridge on the creatures back and climbing rapidly upwards as if it were natural stone. The Eye pulses brightly in hand as he comes down hard on the titanic skull.
Round 1:
Simon
T-rex
Fisk, Grim, Reya
Mob
Mal, Donal, Fist <--UP
Devils didn't bother him, dinosaurs that could SWALLOW him whole bothered him. He maneuvered Corsair well out of the way of that beast and unholstered his new crossbow. He loaded and zipped a magic bolt into the creature, but it probably wouldn't even notice the sting.
The dwarven spellcaster blasts a cone of flame from the second level, searing the meat on the side of the beast's face inches from Donal's perch...
...turning the enormous head in a brief wince. "Pour it out!" he commanded to his ally along the way, who threw a large bronze lever down to the floor. Promptly, a waterfall of bubbling pitch streamed downwards from a trapdoor in the ceiling...
...the sticky tar adhering to the scales, promising to scorch the expensive meat for a long time. The rest poured into a wide rivulet on the ground, pooling at the creature's feet.