[5e] Descent into Avernus

Game Master mishima


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Female, Human, Rogue (Swashbuckler) 3/ Warlock (Hexblade) 2 AC: 15(16) | HP: 30/30 | PP: 14 | PI: 14 | Init: +7 | Inspiration: Yes

Syrina watches the tall stranger slip from cover point to cover point. She saw the sword hanging from his belt, the dirty armor, the determined, cautious look in his eye. Not a stranger to sheddin' a bit of blood. She thought. The woman with him, well, she looked about as well off as Miss Molly who Syrina made sure was still safely hunkered down a few feet behind her. She watches the two a moment longer. Scenarios play out in her mind. Too many possibilities. Was the woman just a ploy to put folk at their ease, while the killer gets in close? Was he scoutin' fer them bandits at the market Two Fingers mentioned? Was he really what he said? He didn't look like one of the Rose clan. Her crossbow held steady on the two as they slipped a bit closer. Her face gnarled up with internal debate.

"Whaddya think Cat?" She asks the feline, who oddly enough, was peeking over the low stone barrier, three eyes tracking the two potential allies. His striped tail slowly swished back and forth like a snake swayin' to a Bard's lullaby.

"Meow."

"Could get ugly if'n that fellers lookin' fer trouble."

"Meow...mew."

Her eyes flip to Cat who looked back at her, three yes blinking innocently almost in unison. For whatever reason the slight delay in Cat's eye coordination made her stomach lurch so she refocused on the strangers.

"Huh...well...can't argue that I'd look a might bit better with a bath and a bit o' laundry soap. But that weren't my point. Hells...nevermind." She says, coming to a decision, the only one she really could under the cursed circumstances.

"Aye. We're all alive and breathin' right enough." Syrina shouts back. "You've the right of it. We're stronger together than fightin'." Another pause. "That's as long as yer not lookin' to steal or harm me an' those under my protection."

She eases the tension on her crossbow. Makes a show of dropping her aim. She'd of been watching for such a gesture, so she figured this fella would be looking for something similar.

"Come on through. We'll find us all place off the streets together, then have a proper talk."


Human Male Ranger (Gloom Stalker) 5 | HP 44/44 | AC 19 | Init: +4 w/ Adv. | Spells: 1st - 1/4; 2nd - 1/2 | Favored Foe: 3/3 | Passive Percept: 18 | Saves: STR: +7 DEX: +6 CON: +3 INT: +2 WIS: +3 CHA: +1 | HD: 2/5 | Conditions: None
Spells:
1st: Cure Wounds, Disguise Self, Hunter's Mark, Speak with Animals, Zephyr Strike; 2nd: Beast Sense, Protection from Poison, Rope Trick
Skills:
Insight + 5, Nature +4, Perception +8, Persuasion +3, Stealth +5, Survival +8

Lucian nods in acknowledgement of the woman's invitation.

"Come on, Harkina, this isn't ideal, but I suspect this is as close to that as we are to find for moment. Be on your guard." he says as the pair move toward the cover enjoyed by the woman and whoever her charges may have been.

Sheathing his blade and slinging his shield across his back to show there is now hostile intent on his part, Lucian tells Harkina, "Stay behind me. There is a bit of inherent risk to this. I would not see you hurt should thing go poorly."

Entering the seemingly protected area, the brushes his dark hair from his face. "Hello. Thank you for the invitation. I am Lucian and this..." he says gesturing to the woman behind him, "...is Harkina."

Every part of the man was cover in a layer of grime and dirt, but upon closer inspection the armor the designs of the Elturel Guard - the Hellriders - was evident.


Female, Human, Rogue (Swashbuckler) 3/ Warlock (Hexblade) 2 AC: 15(16) | HP: 30/30 | PP: 14 | PI: 14 | Init: +7 | Inspiration: Yes

Syrina stays low as the man, Lucian, and Harkina duck into the little rough patch of cover. Putting fingers to her grim coated hat, she nods in greeting.

"Syrina du Shay." She says. A battered, filthy long coat hangs about her lanky frame, made more so by a her limited diet over the past several weeks. Layers of mud, ash, and blood cover her from head to foot, with the notable exception of silver handled rapier and small hand crossbow hanging at her side. Both are clean, oiled, and in perfect working condition.

Of course much more unsettling are the two other items hanging from her belt. One is a simple noose of rope with more than a half dozen long, silky black raven feathers attached to the end. The feathers flutter and ruffle with even the slightest movement. The second is the battered, rotting remains of a man's head. The face locked in a pleading 'help me' look as the empty eye sockets stare hopefully at the newcomers.

"This here is Cat." She says, pointing out the oversized, three-eyed alley cat who scrutinizes Lucian and Harkina in an effort to discover who would be the most willing to part with a bit of their rations.

"And this here's Miss Molly and Two Fingers." Gesturing toward her other two recently met allies. Who nervously nod and mutter their own frightened greeting.

Syrina scans the sky for any sign of the bat demon. Finding none at the moment, she removes her hat to flick off the gathered moisture, a sickly red damp that only begrudgingly dislodges itself after several forceful flicks of her wrist. "A least the Chadrain has stopped. But best we move outta here before that demon gets hungry again."

"Are you folks heading anyplace particular?"


AvernusArt 2Grid

Flight of the Griffons

Reya seemed rather vexed that the Eltan had (after all) decided to join, but ultimately held her tongue. The tiny daggers being continuously ejected from her eye-sockets did little to hide the answer to the noble's question: she was hoping it would be him.

Simon for his part was too busy inspecting the various mounts available, reading their little brass name placards: Darkstar Annihilator, Mutant Knife, Crysops leucoscepus, Caramel Drawers. Caramel Drawers? Meh, that sounded pretty tame...that one was probably safe.

About that time Malaric's griffon leapt spectacularly from the tower. Its wings spread and stayed stiff, catching an updraft and rocketing upwards even higher into the sun...the rush of exciting new g-force multiples contorted the halfling's face in interesting ways. The other griffons quickly followed setting up a triangular formation, the leader on point doing the most work. The surface of the Sea of Swords thousands of feet below was soon replaced with a bright cloudtop churning new mountain ranges of mist every minute.

It was soon clear, these steeds were NOT under your control in the slightest. The reins were more ornamental than anything and suggestions from the rider were met with a quick, judgmental *squwak* as the kettle swooped towards its destination...the Tower of Traxigor.

~~~

The party covers hundreds of feet in mere minutes, perhaps halfway through their journey...that's when it strikes.

The feathers on their necks stand erect as the shadow of the enemy crosses the sun. A horrible buzzing like a giant dragonfly drowns out the serenity of your celestial highway. The stench soon follows, that crisp stink of dead flesh. The thing finally swoops into view, a viscous osyluth...bone devil of hell. Its mummified skin stretches tightly against oversized bones, its scorpion-like taskmaster whip tail eagerly pointed at your neck. Its thin gossamer wings keep it aloft and on pace to strike...

Inits:

Donal: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 2 = 14
Evendur: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (16) + 0 = 16
Malaric: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (16) + 3 = 19Mal, warning: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (19) + 3 = 22
Simon: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (13) + 2 = 15
Reya: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 2 = 7
Griffons: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (9) + 2 = 11
Osyluth: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5

Round 1:
Malaric, Grim, Simon, Donal <--UP
Griffons
Reya
Osyluth

The griffons screech at each other and the threat, acknowledging aerial combat is about to begin...your stomachs lurch as they flip into an attack pattern.

Sorry, I can't pass up the opportunity to battle thousands of feet above the Sea of Swords on griffons. These are independent mounts and have their own actions on their own initiative, but you also have your full actions. The osyluth is within 80 ft of you all, which is a also a single move for your griffons.


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Astrid's Delve

Sami took the spore-whisperer's words to heart. Although impossible to deny their veracity, that sting of realization paralyzed the young newswriter. The 'uh-uh-uh's and teeth-chatterings proved how he now saw (so clearly) that he was projecting his own views, draining the hopes of others instead of bolstering them with empathy. The halfling leapt to an inference which oozed with some remnant of humanity "...then if we fall here, we fight harder in the next life, whatever that is."

Sami and Caskfeet soon followed Astrid to the barred door, leveling their crossbows at the portal as she inspected the bracings. But Astrid heard no groaning of rotting larynxes nor shuffling of black squishy toes. The makeshift barrier on the door was dismantled easily enough, yet it remained that the door was locked by Liam from the inside.

*crSShh tinkle*

A quick elbow pop to the tiny glass window, and the druid felt for the boltlatch on the inside and clicked it free...the sudden on-rush of 100 rotters was only in Astrid's imagination. Beyond was a quiet, orderly graveyard of stacks and stacks of periodicals, the daily editions of the past 50 years arranged chronologically.

Arranged in roughly a cross-shape, the cubbies branched from each other in decades. It was there in the 1430s she found him. Liam was alive, but in shock...the bite wound just under his heart oozed a black liquid as the veins and skin throbbed a sick greenish-purple. "*pant pant pant wheeze* ...ckk..." he could barely speak, gazing slowly upwards with cloudy white eyes "...kkill me..." he pleaded.


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Harkina's Hunt

"My loft...our place was above Mad Phantom's Fletchery. If my boys are still alive, they'll be there." Mrs. Hunt explained.

Two-fingers, who looked completely ridiculous in his top-hat and perfectly clean outfit in the depths of hell added "...that's a big 'if', ma'am, considering who runs the market these days." Reaching into his jacket, he pulled forth a large bottle of some colorless booze, pouring himself a tall goblet right there on the apocalyptic street.

Meanwhile Molly was crying inexplicitly. Not bawling loudly, just tears ever running in another example of unusual volumes of moisture here in this ash-laden hellscape.

The gnome sipped his drink slowly, eyebrow twitching slightly at Molly's distress adding "You ever hear of that uh...what is it..." trailing off as soon as he started. Somewhere far in the distance there was a chorus of screams followed by a massive explosion. "...well, that saying that 'strife makes might'? You know, like goblins and such. Weak and defenseless, but they get attacked so often they've become cunning and ruthless...? So too are the thieves of Elturel." draining the goblet.

"Think bein' a pick-carrying guildsman in the light of the Companion was easy? Without night, without shadows, burglary and such took on a new dimension. It wasn't that Elturel didn't have thieves, its that Elturel had the best thieves of all...they made their own shadows, so to speak. Market was their territory before the fall. Now they've become some kind of syndicate...ruthless and domineering in their quest for survival."

Harkina seemed annoyed at this information "It doesn't matter...I'm not going to leave them alone, they're counting on me."

"Then you'll die together!" Molly suddenly outburst. "...you have no idea what they are capable of..." the scars on her wrist perhaps signaling she could only think of one alternative.

The gnome shrugged, pretty non-committal to any one line of thought, but turning to Syrina and Lucian for thoughts.


Male human ftr 5 | AC 17 (19) | hp 46/47 | 5 HD (1 used) | Saves S +6, D +2, C +6, I +0, W +1, Ch +1 | Second Wind used [ ] | Inspiration [ ] | Action Surge used [ ] | passive Perception 14

Hell and damnation! Donal curses as he summons the mystic shield I am assuming we have gotten our gains and draws his mace, Griffon, I know you are in control, and I don't know if you can understand me, but if you can, get me close to the fiend and I will draw his attention!


AvernusArt 2Grid

Don, you could Ready a melee attack if the griffon gets within range on its turn.


Male human ftr 5 | AC 17 (19) | hp 46/47 | 5 HD (1 used) | Saves S +6, D +2, C +6, I +0, W +1, Ch +1 | Second Wind used [ ] | Inspiration [ ] | Action Surge used [ ] | passive Perception 14

Does it respond at all as a mount? Basically, is there any way to take my Extra Attack? Usually, Readied Actions are for a single attack...


AC18(20) |HP 38/[40]| Str+3 Int+1 Wis+6 Dex+0 Con+2 Cha+2|Init + 0|Percept +6|Insight +6|Invest +4| War Priest Attacks 0/[3] Inspiration [Y] Channel Divinity 1/[1] HD 2/[5] Male Human Doomguide Acolyte of Kelemvor Cleric (War)/5

Are attacks at disadvantage etc?


AvernusArt 2Grid

Don, for melee Extra Attack the griffon would need to hover nearby the monster, which it may or may not do. You could also use a ranged weapon. It does not respond as a controlled mount, it is an independent mount.

Grim, no, no reason for disadvantage.


F Half-Elf Spores Druid 5 | 32/32HP | 14AC | Init: +2 | Wild Shape & Symbiotic Entity: 0/2 | Spells: 1: 4/4; 2: 2/3; 3: 1/2 | PassPerc: 16; Ins: 13; Inv: 10 | Saves: Str+1; Dex+3; Con+2; *Int+4; *Wis+7; Cha+4 | Conditions: Inspiration
GM Infinity wrote:

Arranged in roughly a cross-shape, the cubbies branched from each other in decades. It was there in the 1430s she found him. Liam was alive, but in shock...the bite wound just under his heart oozed a black liquid as the veins and skin throbbed a sick greenish-purple. "*pant pant pant wheeze* ...ckk..." he could barely speak, gazing slowly upwards with cloudy white eyes "...kkill me..." he pleaded.

Astrid moves through the stacks with a careful eye, the weeks spent in hell sharpening her alertness to an almost paranoid focus. The druid runs her fingers along the periodicals as she passes, wishing she had the time to peruse the knowledge. She would have to come back later–maybe there was something on the Companion in these stacks?

When she comes upon Liam, her whole demeanor softens. She kneels near the turning man and looks at him with sympathy, her brown eyes still holding that feverish sort of glow–from hunger, from the fungal colony within her, from the backlight of the hellfires burning outside. She places a warm, gentle hand on his cheek, smiling down at him as a mother would while she lay her babe down to rest.

”Rest,” She says softly, running a thumb along a freezing, rotting cheekbone. ”I will ease your passing back into the cycle and see that you don’t return to torment us,” She promises. She glances behind her–had Sami and Caskfoot followed? If they had followed, the druid would raise her eyebrows meaningfully, offering them a chance to say goodbyes before warning them away from the scene that would play out before them.

Astrid raises her quarterstaff, calling forth the fungal reinforcement to harden the weapon, and brings it down–hard--on the dying man. Blessedly, her one hit seems to do the job, putting the man out of his misery. She steels herself, takes another deep breath, and drags the man’s lifeless body to a clearer area, lighting her torch and setting the body aflame to keep him from reanimating to terrorize the poor folks who were living in this place.

”Back into the cycle you go,” She mutters, covering her face with both hands and taking a deep breath.

If the halfling and dwarf followed her in, they would notice her wrap her arms tightly around her chest, hugging herself, while tears poured from her eyes and carved rivulets of clean skin into her sooty cheeks while the body burned.


Female, Human, Rogue (Swashbuckler) 3/ Warlock (Hexblade) 2 AC: 15(16) | HP: 30/30 | PP: 14 | PI: 14 | Init: +7 | Inspiration: Yes

Syrina's ducks, her crossbow leaping into her hands at the sound of the explosion. Her eyes scan the sky, the street, and the rubble while she only half listens to Two Fingers expound on the challenges and adaptability of Elturelian thieves. The cold cigar stub shifted about between her teeth as she considered the situation. Not seeing any immediate threat she lowers the crossbow and turns to face Molly and the others. Her fingers rat-a-tat-a-tat across the top of the head dangling at her side. Fate's pointin' me at the market fer a second time. Her mind whispers while a raven croaks and cackles in an 'I told you so' manner.

"I reckon' that pack o'thieves an' scoundrels ain't the only ones who can be a bit ruthless." She growls, her voice dry and even more scratchy than usual. The drumming of her fingers stops, to the obvious relief of the perturbed head.

"How old are your boys miss Harkina?" She asks. She'd no interest in chasing after a couple of delinquent bandit's in-the-making whose mother still thought her grown-a$$ed darlings were still in swaddling clothes. But if there were a couple of young folk trapped among the cutthroats, maybe with a bit of luck and her own brand of ruthless courage, they could get them out. First...

She walks over to Molly. Puts a calloused hand on her shoulder and looks the girl in her eyes.

"I've a pretty good idea what them bas%$#ds are capable of." She says giving the girl a knowing look. She knew all too well. There were reasons she hunted those she did for a living. "There ain't no place to run to where we are now." She tilts her chin out toward the dying city beneath the ugly red sky. "Dying ain't much of a choice neither, since more'n likely you'll jus' end up comin' back like all t'others."

She slips a dagger from it's sheath tied along her thigh. The steel gleams blood red in the light of hell. "Only way forward is to git back a bit o' your own. Time to take that fear 'n anger 'n hate an' put it t'some good use. We're growin' a pretty good posse 'ere. If we can we'll save Harkina's boys. If'n we can't, well, I reckin' it's time t' start whittlin' away at the deadwood in this city. Carve ourselves out a bit o'safety so's we can stop runnin' all the time an' figure a way back home."

Putting the dagger in Molly's hand, she gives the girls shoulder a firm squeeze of support. "That blade ain't fer takin' your own life. It's fer takin' theirs. It's a vengence blade, ya hear. Keep it close an' it'll see you right when the time comes. We all will." She adds, quirking an eyebrow to the Hellknight to see what one of the cities former guardians has to say.


Male human ftr 5 | AC 17 (19) | hp 46/47 | 5 HD (1 used) | Saves S +6, D +2, C +6, I +0, W +1, Ch +1 | Second Wind used [ ] | Inspiration [ ] | Action Surge used [ ] | passive Perception 14

Okay. Gotcha. Just wanted to be clear.

Unsure of whether or not the beast understood him, Donal readies a swing in case the fiend gets within arm's reach!

+1 mace: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (1) + 7 = 8 Well, that is fun... I shoulda been a halfling! >.<


AC18(20) |HP 38/[40]| Str+3 Int+1 Wis+6 Dex+0 Con+2 Cha+2|Init + 0|Percept +6|Insight +6|Invest +4| War Priest Attacks 0/[3] Inspiration [Y] Channel Divinity 1/[1] HD 2/[5] Male Human Doomguide Acolyte of Kelemvor Cleric (War)/5

guiding bolt: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (20) + 6 = 26

4d6 ⇒ (6, 6, 5, 4) = 21

To the hells you WILL return!!

Advantage there for the taking Donal

Yeah!

Plus! 4d6 ⇒ (3, 3, 3, 1) = 10

Righteous fury converted itself to a white bolt of divine energy which seared deeply into the devil!?


Male human ftr 5 | AC 17 (19) | hp 46/47 | 5 HD (1 used) | Saves S +6, D +2, C +6, I +0, W +1, Ch +1 | Second Wind used [ ] | Inspiration [ ] | Action Surge used [ ] | passive Perception 14

Nice hit! If I am the next to attack it...

1d20 ⇒ 7 That would bring it to a 14.


Human Male Ranger (Gloom Stalker) 5 | HP 44/44 | AC 19 | Init: +4 w/ Adv. | Spells: 1st - 1/4; 2nd - 1/2 | Favored Foe: 3/3 | Passive Percept: 18 | Saves: STR: +7 DEX: +6 CON: +3 INT: +2 WIS: +3 CHA: +1 | HD: 2/5 | Conditions: None
Spells:
1st: Cure Wounds, Disguise Self, Hunter's Mark, Speak with Animals, Zephyr Strike; 2nd: Beast Sense, Protection from Poison, Rope Trick
Skills:
Insight + 5, Nature +4, Perception +8, Persuasion +3, Stealth +5, Survival +8

"That sounds to be a plan at least." Lucian concedes, not explaining further if he thought the plan was a good one or not.

"That is where Miss Hunt and I were trying to get to, prior to making your acquaintance, Miss du Shay." the former - and he assumed again - Hellrider confirmed.

"Like I said earlier, there is strength in numbers. Perhaps we can do something about the few remaining that are not among the walking dead that choose to act as the devils we have seen wandering the streets of the city." he continues, trying to regain some of the composure and resolve he showed in his first life.

"If you are all ready, we should be on our way before the undead hordes gather in strength again. It will be quite some time yet before the runes on the bridge can be activated again." Lucian says matter-of-factly.


Halfling Dragonslayer | HP: 33/34 | 0/1d8 & 0d6 | Disguise 1/1 | Camo 2/3 | Recover 0/3 | Fast Rit 1/1 |1st 3/4 | 2nd 1/3 | Inspiration!
Stats:
AC 15 | Str -1 Dex +6 Con +2 Int +7 Wis +1 Cha -1 | Init +3 | Perc +7, Darkvision 120 ft | Insight +1

"Alright Fallacy! Keep us at this distance. Your claws aren't effective against that devil." Mal shouts at his griffon. He new arcane grimoire and his diamond and says a short prayer to his divine mistress before hurling a 4-inch-diameter sphere of thunder at the devil.

Chromatic Orb thunder: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 253d8 ⇒ (1, 5, 7) = 13


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Griffon Battle

Round 1:
Malaric, Grim, Simon, Donal <--UP
Griffons
Reya
Osyluth


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Twen'y from the Block

A few blocks along (with no sign of any undead detectives around) Lucian, Syrina, and the survivors encounter a horde of at least a score...bulky carpenters, meaty dockworkers, fat old ladies singing their rotten songs of the dead. One had a burning olive log speared through their torso, complete with undead dove a'chirping. Another snagged its beltstrap on some rubble from a collapsed Helluva Hosiers fashion boutique, spilling a chunky waterfall of maggots in a squishy, blood-infused trail. One was mysteriously wearing sunglasses.

"Hold on...I got this..." Two-fingers mentioned casually, dippin' a finger into his long, stylish trenchcoat of interesting things. He pulled out one of those fancy gnomish contraptions, a so-called false-rooster that would wake one up by carefully timed clockworks. It had a cartoony chipmunk face where the clockhands were whiskers...adorable, really. Clicking it to a minute "Hwuaah!!" the gnome pitched it in a hearty toss, sending the device whole-sale arcing over sloughing flesh and dangling bloody jowls to ding-dong off a barrel of fish and finally smack against some discarded footwear.

Harkina furrowed her brow, whispering "Whats that supposed to do?" But the gnome held only a small finger upwards, suggesting patience was required rather than a straightforward answer.

*rrrrriiiinnnnrnngggllinglinglinglingling*

The horde was laser focused instantly as the alarm rang steadily, giving a collective "Wha?" in the clockwork's general direction before shuffling off on the same vector. Some you hadn't even noticed emerged from piles of white ash, given a new motivation to deadwalk.

The gnome merely gave a thumbs-up as the path forward opened before you.

~~~

There was another tense moment when the party reached a long, 40 wagon caravan...apparently overturned with contents scrambled, long since scavenged on its way to the market. The result was a line of patchy, hard cover stretching hundreds of yards.

It came from the emblazoned skies.

*SqurreeEEEeerrchhhhk*

A terrible scream in sharp contrast to the myriad human screams echoed across the hellscape. A gritty, mangled winged creature dive-bombed the line with sharp talons and a cloud of nasty toxic spores. A huddle of archers scattered from their hidden sniping positions, scratching at their faces to the point of tearing their own skin off as the spores started makin' their way down exposed mucus membranes to vulnerable brain matter so closely connected to their sensitive nervous systems.

With each strafe of the devastating demon, Syrina, Lucian and the survivors gained another few yards of ground. Finally a relatively calm sidestreet of a thousand broken bottles presented itself, and the group tiptoed their way around to the outskirts of some kind of makeshift fortification.

~~~

Alleys were piled high with sturdy crates and stacked barrels...and in some places soft bags and leaking bodies. It was a shanty town castle wall, complete with vegetable cart crenellations and an ox-hide drawbridge. The iron armored guards you spot suggest even more in hiding.

Molly was losing her sh*t, even more than usual, as Harkina tried to be strong enough for the both of them. The gnome tapped the ashes off his stiff hat "Eh...we could try sneaking in, or talking to them maybe? They've got a perimeter around the whole market area. Well, Insidious used to trade with 'em...not saying its guaranteed to go to sh*t. What do you think?"


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AvernusArt 2Grid

Meh, will give Simon a bit more...then skip.


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Death of the Thief

Sami and Caskfeet were ultimately too cowardly to approach the spore-caster, as she ritualistically consumed the corrupted tissues with flame. Of course, that didn't stop Liam's eternal soul from being pulled into the River Styx far below, only to emerge as a mindless lemure in the Blood War spanning the outer dimensions...he had sworn the Creed and belonged to Zariel now. Caskfeet was at least looking on with mild reverence...but poor Sami had his back to the wall, struggling hard to not let emotion completely take over.

Back with the others eulogies were spoken, prayers for a lost soul were unanswered. Stomachs rumbled. Dry lips crackled. The reality set in for the survivors...they had lost their best sneak-thief. Getting supplies from the market stores was going to get a lot more complicated. With nothing to barter the syndicate but gallnuts and green vitriol, voices from the dark whispered of shadier deals using other assets. Little snickers from the shadows planted these unspoken moral concessions, promising health in exchange for despair.

Later there was another argument about whether to seal the main entrance with stone or make a brave push for the High Hall...where surely someone was doing something. It was about that time the writers of Stars Seen, Tales Told noticed the half-elven child was missing...


AvernusArt 2Grid
Quote:
"How old are your boys miss Harkina?"

"Twins of seven years..." she informed Syrina, with the pain of regret tinging her creased brows. She certainly didn't intend to leave them alone, having no god bestowed prophecy to foresee the chains of Avernus that would lash her city and drag it into hell that day. Harkina could see this was a fool's errand...she was ready to die trying.

As Syrina passed the cold steel into Molly's hand, the broken shell gripped the blade and kept it close to her heart. She nodded with determination at the bounty hunter's advice.

"Heh! God-d@mnit! Vengeance Blade! That's good...should make that your apocalypse name." the gnome added with an infectious smile.

"...Vengeance Blade..." Molly repeated softly.


F Half-Elf Spores Druid 5 | 32/32HP | 14AC | Init: +2 | Wild Shape & Symbiotic Entity: 0/2 | Spells: 1: 4/4; 2: 2/3; 3: 1/2 | PassPerc: 16; Ins: 13; Inv: 10 | Saves: Str+1; Dex+3; Con+2; *Int+4; *Wis+7; Cha+4 | Conditions: Inspiration
GM Infinity wrote:

Death of the Thief

Sami and Caskfeet were ultimately too cowardly to approach the spore-caster, as she ritualistically consumed the corrupted tissues with flame. Of course, that didn't stop Liam's eternal soul from being pulled into the River Styx far below, only to emerge as a mindless lemure in the Blood War spanning the outer dimensions...he had sworn the Creed and belonged to Zariel now. Caskfeet was at least looking on with mild reverence...but poor Sami had his back to the wall, struggling hard to not let emotion completely take over.

Back with the others eulogies were spoken, prayers for a lost soul were unanswered. Stomachs rumbled. Dry lips crackled. The reality set in for the survivors...they had lost their best sneak-thief. Getting supplies from the market stores was going to get a lot more complicated. With nothing to barter the syndicate but gallnuts and green vitriol, voices from the dark whispered of shadier deals using other assets. Little snickers from the shadows planted these unspoken moral concessions, promising health in exchange for despair.

Later there was another argument about whether to seal the main entrance with stone or make a brave push for the High Hall...where surely someone was doing something. It was about that time the writers of Stars Seen, Tales Told noticed the half-elven child was missing...

Astrid stayed quiet on the outskirts of the mourners. Her part in the play was finished, and she was happy to be in the eaves. She frowned a little at the direction some of the conversations were heading: deals and assets that never should be traded. The half-elf found herself narrowing her eyes at some of the discussion, and then remembered: they're in literal hell. She had a hard time passing moral judgement on these folks, given everything she had done to survive up to this point.

"I am not sneaky, per say, but I am willing to take the risks in exchange for a place to stay...to help with these supplies from the market stores. I can change into animals, into mist..." The druidess shrugs, letting them do with that information what they will.

When the news that the half-elven child is missing broke, Astrid would offer her services again: "Time is of the essence with a missing child. I can become a tracking animal and try to find it..."


m LE half-elf Warlock 5 | HP 47/47, THP 0/8 | AC 14 | Saves: Str 0, Dex +2, Con +2, Int +1, Wis +3, Cha +7 | Perc 10 | Init +2 | DV60' | HD 0/5 | Inspiration - | Talisman 2/3 | Spells 2/2 | Invis -, Spray + | Cloak - | -

I apologize. At the end of the year, I'm just torn in half because of the abundance of work.

Simon prays to his infernal patron - surely incomparably more powerful than the one who sent this devil here. Or it's just Simon Eltan wants to believe that he is protected. But... as his new halfling friend says, "Shar doesn't like fools." Well, they're even less loved in Hell... except as subjects for very bad contracts. According to this, Eltan whispers words in infernal - half prayer, half usual for sorcerers arcane formula - conjures a spell that can save his life. Flight.


Female, Human, Rogue (Swashbuckler) 3/ Warlock (Hexblade) 2 AC: 15(16) | HP: 30/30 | PP: 14 | PI: 14 | Init: +7 | Inspiration: Yes

Seven years. The words hardened Syrina's resolve. Her boy would've been just a year older. If he'd lived. She'd see Harkina's boys back under their mother's care or that they got a proper burial if it came to that sorry circumstance.

She eyes the grim makeshift market barrier from behind the dangling shutter of the burned out warehouse across the way. Saw the guards. Saw the pretense of control and authority. Maybe it was just hell's own influence, but she wanted to instantly burn the entire place to the ground. She gives Molly a confident pat on her shoulder while the young woman turns the dagger over and over in her hand.

Stepping away from the window, she relights her cigar and puffs away quietly. Moments pass. Another silver inked rune burns, the smoke drifting upward with a soft forlorn moan. Syrina's brow furrows in thought.

"We could try tradin' with 'em." She says nodding at Two Finger's suggestion. "Then again, I figure they'd just try to lure us in an' overwhelm us with numbers."

"I'm inclined to cull that herd a bit afore we go steppin' into the hornet's nest." She stops. Draws on the cigar, releases a cloud of smoke that washes up and across her ash coated features. "Meybe we draw a few of 'em out into an ambush. Catch ourselves one to put t'the question. Learn the lay o'the land if'n we can."

"Lucian and I slip out, do a bit o'scoutin'. Find us a good ambush spot meybe around a backside entrance if'n there is one. Then the real fun'll start." She says giving the head on her belt a soft pat on the cheek causing a few bits of flesh to drop away.

"What d'you think Lucian?" She asks to turning the Elturan Knight.

Cat busily licks himself like any normal hell born feline with a moment's opportunity.


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Griffon Battle

Mal rose his tiny hand like a sail, catching the rushing wind in a pocket vortex as he held a diamond between the tips of his fingers. The Shadow Weave mirrored the movement of these material molecules, building a reflected arcane vortex slowly filling like a bladder in his palm. The mystic turquoise chroma finally asserted itself over the oranges, blacks and violets...and Malaric wielded thunder itself. His other hand brushed the archmage's grimoire, and a softly glowing script brushed off like dust rapidly assembling itself like planetary orbitals around the magic sphere. The entire package was delivered across the sky...and struck the horror true...

*whOOMP*

...blasting a few bony spines from the white devil.

Not to be outdone, the Doomguide scraped a long line of light in the sky as his griffon steed swooped downwards. A thousand tiny motes of divinity spilled from the minor planar fissure, coalescing into a terrible lance that seemed to magnetically seek the heart of the devil, spearing it straight through. The scream of the beast carried in the wind, but it was louder from some place deep in your mind...its scream was from within you. Kelemvor's radiance had illuminated the devil's sneaky encroach into your surface thoughts, not to mention bursting the thing aglow in physical reality.

Meanwhile Simon plucked a feather from Caramel Drawers, whispering into the shiny brown blade and feeling himself somehow more comfortably light in the saddle.

Donal flicked his wrist, and an energetic disc was conjured from a long forgotten extradimensional space. Emblazoned with the emblen of Torm, he held his mace upwards as his steed started its bombing run.

1d5 ⇒ 2

The griffons aligned nearly wingtip to wingtip, mere inches from each other. The bone devil in pursuit of Grim was lured right into their Thach Weave maneuver...the devil being torn apart by the other 4 griffons. The highly organized attack pattern caught Donal off-guard, his mace catching wind.

Attack Beak, Don grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (11) + 6 = 17
Attack Claw, Don grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (7) + 6 = 13

Attack Beak, Mal grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (17) + 6 = 23
Dmg: 1d8 + 4 ⇒ (1) + 4 = 5
Attack Claw, Mal grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (16) + 6 = 22
Dmg: 2d6 + 4 ⇒ (3, 6) + 4 = 13

Attack Beak, Reya grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (6) + 6 = 12
Attack Claw, Reya grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (13) + 6 = 19
Dmg: 2d6 + 4 ⇒ (5, 2) + 4 = 11

Attack Beak, Simon grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8
Attack Claw, Simon grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (5) + 6 = 11

Living up to its reputation, it was Malaric's Fallacy that tore the gossamer wings into shreds, ripping the infernally enchanted skin. Reya's steed also gave an impassioned lion slash, pawing the thing midair with a terrible *crack*...the Hellrider cheering and readying her silvered sword to catch the full light of the sun. Still, it was clear (confirming Malaric's book learning) the griffon's attacks were not as effective as they could have been...some hellish enchantment was guarding the osyluth on this plane.

Round 1:
Malaric, Grim, Simon, Donal
Griffons
Reya
Osyluth <--UP

Party and griffons took 57 hp from the devil, the mounts swooping past and not staying within melee. However they are all still within 80 ft, with Grim slightly closer at 40.

Osyluth 85/142 hp, 19 AC


Human Male Ranger (Gloom Stalker) 5 | HP 44/44 | AC 19 | Init: +4 w/ Adv. | Spells: 1st - 1/4; 2nd - 1/2 | Favored Foe: 3/3 | Passive Percept: 18 | Saves: STR: +7 DEX: +6 CON: +3 INT: +2 WIS: +3 CHA: +1 | HD: 2/5 | Conditions: None
Spells:
1st: Cure Wounds, Disguise Self, Hunter's Mark, Speak with Animals, Zephyr Strike; 2nd: Beast Sense, Protection from Poison, Rope Trick
Skills:
Insight + 5, Nature +4, Perception +8, Persuasion +3, Stealth +5, Survival +8

"Sounds like a plan." Lucian responds.

"What sort of numbers are up against? Beyond the obvious guards that is." the Hellrider asks, trying to get a better idea of numbers.

What are we looking at for terrain/level of light?


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Griffon Battle

Donal's griffon is the first to flyby the osyluth during their aerial manuever, drawing its sweeping riposte...

OA Sting vs Don Griffon: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (1) + 8 = 9

...but the little bone tail zips awkwardly erect in a totally incorrect direction, the thing going cross-eyed as the griffon kettle swarms its mark.

Flustered, the stinky buzzer works overtime to catch up on the heels of the Doomguide...

Grim or Steed: 1d2 ⇒ 2
Claw: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (11) + 8 = 19
Slashing: 1d8 + 4 ⇒ (5) + 4 = 9
Sting: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (20) + 8 = 28
Crit Piercing: 4d8 + 4 ⇒ (2, 6, 1, 8) + 4 = 21
Crit Poison...: 10d6 ⇒ (4, 1, 4, 4, 3, 1, 4, 5, 1, 1) = 28
Griffon save vs Poison 14: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (16) + 3 = 19

The devil's claw snags onto the back of the lion haunch, as the whipping tail finally finds purchase in the flying buttcheek...injecting eons of ancient devil ichor into the majestic creature, bringing it to death's door.

Oooooooooooh, dang man. You lucky SOB! Grim, your griffon takes 58 damage. Guess how much hp a griffon has? 59. Your griffon is at 1 hp. It shrugged off the poison effect though. You (and griffon) are also now within melee attack range.

Round 2:
Malaric, Grim, Simon, Donal <--UP
Griffons
Reya
Osyluth


AC18(20) |HP 38/[40]| Str+3 Int+1 Wis+6 Dex+0 Con+2 Cha+2|Init + 0|Percept +6|Insight +6|Invest +4| War Priest Attacks 0/[3] Inspiration [Y] Channel Divinity 1/[1] HD 2/[5] Male Human Doomguide Acolyte of Kelemvor Cleric (War)/5

Bonus Action: Warpriest attack
1d20 + 7 ⇒ (15) + 7 = 22 for 1d8 + 4 ⇒ (8) + 4 = 12

It was the first time he'd used Final Rest in actual combat against a supernatural foe.

It did not disappoint.

The blackened silver edged steel felt like an extension of his arm, and moved as naturally as if he'd used in a hundred battles. The enchantments bound to the weapon opened up the devil's unnaturally hardened flesh as easily as a knife would open up a ham.

Action/Move: Withdrawl.
He wheels his griffin away through its herd mates hoping to avoid the next round of attacks, noting that the heavy gash in it flanks froths with an diabolical poison.


Halfling Dragonslayer | HP: 33/34 | 0/1d8 & 0d6 | Disguise 1/1 | Camo 2/3 | Recover 0/3 | Fast Rit 1/1 |1st 3/4 | 2nd 1/3 | Inspiration!
Stats:
AC 15 | Str -1 Dex +6 Con +2 Int +7 Wis +1 Cha -1 | Init +3 | Perc +7, Darkvision 120 ft | Insight +1

"Fallacy! You're fearless!" Mal shouts at his griffon. Caressing his arcane grimoire, he points his diamond again and repeats his short prayer to his divine mistress before hurling a 4-inch-diameter sphere of thunder at the devil, which rolls wide.

Chromatic Orb thunder: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (9) + 8 = 173d8 ⇒ (8, 6, 1) = 15


Male human ftr 5 | AC 17 (19) | hp 46/47 | 5 HD (1 used) | Saves S +6, D +2, C +6, I +0, W +1, Ch +1 | Second Wind used [ ] | Inspiration [ ] | Action Surge used [ ] | passive Perception 14

Good, let us see if we can draw its attention away from your brethren... Donal calls out, readying another swing.

+1 mace: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (9) + 7 = 16 Another nope.


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@Lucian, this market circle was once a sort of open dirt yard with a bunch of merchant stalls and visiting wagons/caravans. This was nestled in a busy/establish part of town with 4-6 story buildings and such...think like Arabian Nights market after being struck by earthquake/fire. Then, on the ruins, a group of thieves have built a large fortification. The wall making a rough oval shape is at its lowest 10 ft, and 20 ft at most. There are plenty of places to hide, but not total darkness everywhere. 'Open air' here in Elturel is dim light, meaning normal shadows (which are normally merely dim light) are darkness. I'll update bird's eye on the map. Feel free to create a cool, creative way inside that works for you. Hope that helps.

Two-fingers again well-noted Syrina's curious brand of smoke "...eh, can I bum one of those, cowgirl?" before turning to Lucian "There's really only about 10 or so you need to worry about...the skilled ones. Experts. Leaders. Rest of em are brute enforcers, psychopaths, eh...probably some of 'em were right insane even before the fall. Maybe 20 or 30 of them worker-bees last I seen it. They got the arms, armor...hell, all the spoils of the Sword Coast I wager."


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Round 2:
Malaric, Grim, Simon, Donal <--UP
Griffons
Reya
Osyluth


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Hunting Humanoids

As the others turn to fortifications and dark talk, Astrid plays the altruistic heroine...offering herself up for another risky task. The others don't seem especially confident but Caskfeet holds onto the notion that protecting one of their own is still important, and 'right' whatever connotation that word still has in this place. "Sprog's a good lad...fighter at heart. Dunno what made him run off like that, but he was smart enough to take his boomerang at least." he smirked.

It was easy enough to find the kid's trail outside, even without nature magic. The flaky cinders slowly burying everything cut smooth footprints, clear as day. There was a moment when a backdraft from an erupting pub cellar had swept the ash clean down to the cobbles, but some kind of undead minotaur nearby quickly captured your attention. Its head was crushed with a large arch's keystone, and you spotted the print shop's stamp letters spelling out 'gravity' in the blood. The tracks picked up again nearby.

It carried on a few blocks until you started to notice more and more bodies, all undead that had been killed by arrow, sling, and spellfire. The prints seem to playfully tip-toe around the fallen. Turning a sharp corner you spot the wall, and realize you're within range of its defenses...

Same general description of the market area, you are on the opposite side as the others.


AC18(20) |HP 38/[40]| Str+3 Int+1 Wis+6 Dex+0 Con+2 Cha+2|Init + 0|Percept +6|Insight +6|Invest +4| War Priest Attacks 0/[3] Inspiration [Y] Channel Divinity 1/[1] HD 2/[5] Male Human Doomguide Acolyte of Kelemvor Cleric (War)/5

DM said roll a regular attack too

Final Rest: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (9) + 7 = 16 for 1d8 + 4 ⇒ (2) + 4 = 6

As the winged mount screams and wheels, wings beating laboriously a secondary cut swung by Grim is awkward and mistimed.


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m LE half-elf Warlock 5 | HP 47/47, THP 0/8 | AC 14 | Saves: Str 0, Dex +2, Con +2, Int +1, Wis +3, Cha +7 | Perc 10 | Init +2 | DV60' | HD 0/5 | Inspiration - | Talisman 2/3 | Spells 2/2 | Invis -, Spray + | Cloak - | -

A mournful infernal chant begins to spread over the clouds along with the way the nobleman from Baldur's Gate begins to strike out in the air instantly disappearing purple-black runes that gather in two streams of force energy...

Eldritch Blast + Hex: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (14) + 8 = 221d10 + 4 + 1d6 ⇒ (3) + 4 + (3) = 10 + STR DISADV
Eldritch Blast + Hex: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (12) + 8 = 201d10 + 4 + 1d6 ⇒ (8) + 4 + (2) = 14


AC18(20) |HP 38/[40]| Str+3 Int+1 Wis+6 Dex+0 Con+2 Cha+2|Init + 0|Percept +6|Insight +6|Invest +4| War Priest Attacks 0/[3] Inspiration [Y] Channel Divinity 1/[1] HD 2/[5] Male Human Doomguide Acolyte of Kelemvor Cleric (War)/5

Daaaayum!!!


Male human ftr 5 | AC 17 (19) | hp 46/47 | 5 HD (1 used) | Saves S +6, D +2, C +6, I +0, W +1, Ch +1 | Second Wind used [ ] | Inspiration [ ] | Action Surge used [ ] | passive Perception 14

Nice hits!


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Female, Human, Rogue (Swashbuckler) 3/ Warlock (Hexblade) 2 AC: 15(16) | HP: 30/30 | PP: 14 | PI: 14 | Init: +7 | Inspiration: Yes

Peering through the gloom of the burned out warehouse, Syrina nods with satisfaction. In a reasonably short time, the five of them had managed to turn the place into a veritable death maze. Two Finger's put his knack for clockwork designs and mechanisms to good use, creating a trio of simple spring traps while Lucian added a variety of snares and other deadly diversions. Using her newly acquired knife, Molly whittled more than a dozen short spears or wooden darts for feeding one of the gnomes traps and for filling the base of a simple pit trap created by busting through a damaged section of flooring to the cellar below. Harkina set about sewing up a few dummy decoys useful for drawing the unwary into one of the waiting traps or someone's waiting line of fire.

At one point, Syrina and Lucian had to clear out a pair of hellishly large spiders hunkered down in the cellar. The beasts had taken up residence in the sheltered space. It was an easy enough job. The only down side to the short skirmish being when Cat decided it would be a good idea to roll around in one of the creature's poison sacks. Now the damned beast stank like something as foul as...well...as foul as something born from the depths of hell. Which, upon a bit of reflection, Syrina couldn't really argue against. Cat just gave her a smug look, those three-eyes blinking innocently before he started lapping up a bit of spider gore.

Syrina herself set out her own hunter's trap and checked through some of the other bits and bobs she'd gathered both before and after the city's unplanned descent into hell. Caltrops. Ball bearings. Couple of acid vials.

Finally, everyone agreed everything was as ready as they could make it without spending more time that they didn't really have. They had a place to lure the scoundrels into, now it was time to dangle the bait.

Puffing on the short stub of her cigar, Syrina hunkered down behind a busted wagon, the mostly eaten and scattered remains of the poor horses covered with a few fat flies to lazy and sated to give a damn about her proximity. She figured by now the guards would have spotted her if they were alert. But just to make sure she fluttered her hat in the air as if carelessly shooing away the bloated insects as if they'd had the energy to actually bother her.

"Hey there! Hey which one o' you big ugly cowards is gonna be man enough to keep me company tonight." She hollers as she stands up.

"Hey yourself, little lady. Why don't you come on in. Plenty a company to be hand over here."

Syrina whistles. "Nah...I figure it ain't no fun without a bit of a'chase to get the blood pumpin'. If'n ya'll are to yeller to come out, I unerstan'. Heard the thieves of Elturel were tough, but guessin' I heard wrong.

"Who the hell's telling you that ya screechin' harpy?" Another man shouts. Her eyes flick from side to side. Movement. Both left and right. She smiles. They were nibbling at the line. "We'ze the tuffest left in the city. Even the devils an' the demons are too afraid to come knockin' on our door."

She pats the head dangling at her belt. Holds it up for any to see. "Well, I say this here head is more of a man than any o't lot o' ya. Bunch o' dag gum cowards who probably need an 'struction book to know his way aroun' a woman."

"We'll see about that. Git her boys!"

The two pair that had been sneakin' up from the sides leaped out at her. But by the time they'd moved Syrina was already making tracks for the slim dark, gloom filled door of the warehouse side entrance. She'd hooked 'em. Now the chase was on.


F Half-Elf Spores Druid 5 | 32/32HP | 14AC | Init: +2 | Wild Shape & Symbiotic Entity: 0/2 | Spells: 1: 4/4; 2: 2/3; 3: 1/2 | PassPerc: 16; Ins: 13; Inv: 10 | Saves: Str+1; Dex+3; Con+2; *Int+4; *Wis+7; Cha+4 | Conditions: Inspiration

Astrid looks curiously out at the carnage before her, the body destroyed by able hands. At least Sprog's steps seemed to take him here after the fighting...but more was ahead, as she stepped to the edge of the marketplace where Sprog's footprints had disappeared to.

She moves to the edge, staying in the shadow and out of sight, following the footprints as carefully as possible.

Suddenly, shouting. She hears a woman's voice yelling, men responding. Good, a distraction for her...

It wasn't long until she caught sight of the small boy, hiding amidst some crates and traps, trying to avoid the gaze of those who had taken up residence in the marketplace. Between her position and his were more traps, and she heard more yelling nearby. She pulls out her quarterstaff, trying to slink closer to the half-elven boy to capture him and bring him back. Her spores sparkle just slightly when dim light catches them, and they retract against her skin protectively.

Brain is kinda fried today, really long day. Not my usual quality.


Human Male Ranger (Gloom Stalker) 5 | HP 44/44 | AC 19 | Init: +4 w/ Adv. | Spells: 1st - 1/4; 2nd - 1/2 | Favored Foe: 3/3 | Passive Percept: 18 | Saves: STR: +7 DEX: +6 CON: +3 INT: +2 WIS: +3 CHA: +1 | HD: 2/5 | Conditions: None
Spells:
1st: Cure Wounds, Disguise Self, Hunter's Mark, Speak with Animals, Zephyr Strike; 2nd: Beast Sense, Protection from Poison, Rope Trick
Skills:
Insight + 5, Nature +4, Perception +8, Persuasion +3, Stealth +5, Survival +8

Preach on Astrid, feeling the brain fry today...

Lucian smirks as Syrina's odd combination of bravado and something akin to flirtation is more than enough to draw the attention of the guards. He glances back toward Syrina and nods before casting a spell to disguise himself in a manner similar to style of dress of the guards before stealthing off to look for Harkina's boys, betraying the man's training to be more suited to this kind of work than that of a traditional knight of Elturel.

Lucian would wait until both guards had passed in search of Syrina - a woman Lucian had very few doubts the pair would regret finding - before skulking into a breach in the makeshift wall created by the thieves of Elturel.

Once inside, the ranger keeps to the edges and tries to stay directly out of line of sight of too many of the gathered rogues, on the off chance that any of them could see through the ranger's illusionary disguise. Alright, now to find the Mad Phantom's Fletchery...

Pausing there in case the DM would like to throw an obstacle in the way.


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Griff Squadron

Malaric's turqoise orb streamed overhead as Grim took up his black-mirror blade, a tangible conduit to the gods. Final Rest was hungry for wrongly animated bones, but had to settle for the razed and battle-scarred carcass of an outer planes warrior. The Doomguide directed this force of the gods across the osyluth's steel-frame ribs, disenchanting the infernal runes as it slashed like popping a line of studs on leather.

Suddenly the foul music of the damned echoed across the sky, and for a moment the scholars of devils thought perhaps the osyluth was summoning some ally. But no, it was Simon Eltan. A terrible double blast of some foul imitation of magic slipped from his fingers, that raw destructive magic peddled like snake oil by the seekers of human souls. The obscenity of the incantation made it no less effective, quite the opposite. Piercing the lumbering, aeril juggernaut just below the wing joint the osyluth tumbled in flight struggling to keep aloft from the pain punishing its extraplanar muscles.

Grim's griffon circled the battlesky, sending droplets of monster blood adrift for miles above the sea. As its allies coallesed underneath, it pulled its wings in suddenly plunging Grim into a near total freefall rapidly escaping the melee. At the same time, the others flocked upwards in a targeted geyser of eagle beak snappings and lion claw rips.

Beak, Don Grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (6) + 6 = 12
Claw, Don Grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (4) + 6 = 10

The Tormtar finds it hard to balance in the saddle with shield and mace in hand with the griffon at such a sharp incline.

Beak, Mal Grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8
Claw, Mal Grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (20) + 6 = 26
Crit Dmg: 4d6 + 4 ⇒ (6, 2, 1, 3) + 4 = 16

Fallacy with unbelievable tenacity nearly devours an entire bone.

Beak, Reya Grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (7) + 6 = 13
Claw, Reya Grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (10) + 6 = 16

Reya finds her chance to strike as her mount flys by, the Hellrider's blade hungry for devil flesh...

Reya: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (16) + 5 = 21
Dmg: 1d8 + 3 ⇒ (3) + 3 = 6

Beak, Simon Grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8
Claw, Simon Grif: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (13) + 6 = 19
Dmg: 2d6 + 4 ⇒ (6, 4) + 4 = 14

Osyluth 23/142 hp, 19 AC [Hex, Strength]

Round 2:
Malaric, Grim, Simon, Donal
Griffons
Reya
Osyluth <--UP

I love how Fallacy is actually kicking ass, that was totally random. XD


AvernusArt 2Grid

The Devil in Flight

Donal's griffon, Apojax of golden feather, this time did not quickly rescind after its strikes...staying in melee with the foe to protect its wingman. Fallacy and Malaric then drew the devil's counterattack...

Mal, Fal: 1d2 ⇒ 1
Sting, OA Fallacy: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (19) + 8 = 27
Piercing: 2d8 + 4 ⇒ (3, 1) + 4 = 8
Poison: 5d6 ⇒ (2, 2, 4, 3, 3) = 14
Mal, 22 dmg and DC 14 Con vs poison condition

The whip-lashing scorpion stinger thrashes and Fallacy ducks, seemingly uncaring of it's rider's fate. Tearing across the halfling's face, the gash drips with a mixture of blood and effluent smelling, black, infernal poison as the duo swoops across the cloudtops.

Turning to Apojax and Donal, the devil rights itself and unleashes...

Don, Apo: 1d2 ⇒ 2
Claw: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (5) + 8 = 13
Sting: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (13) + 8 = 21
Piercing: 2d8 + 4 ⇒ (1, 3) + 4 = 8
Poison: 5d6 ⇒ (1, 1, 6, 4, 4) = 16
Con save vs Poison: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5

The tail broke the sound barrier as it lashed around again, Donal rolling in the saddle to avoid the lethal clothesline as Apojax reached upwards and caught the stinger with its talons. It was a struggle of beast strength vs a trained soldier of hell, and the warmongering invader ultimately pressed inwards...catching the griffon in the jugular vein and pumping in 23 pints of toxic stench.

Apojax takes 24, near wounded and poisoned. Don/Apojax are in melee range. All others are at 80.

Round 3:
Malaric, Grim, Simon, Donal <--UP
Griffons
Reya
Osyluth


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Lucian...

Under the primally gifted guise of a Nitro Syndicate enforcer, the Companion's star on your chest blurs into a hodge-podge of screws and wired together plates...all the fears of an ancient woodsman spirit made manifest in stereotype. Whatever stately, ghostly visage you presented in your risen-from-the-dead form is totally swapped with a malnutritioned (save protein), hygiene ignoring (save women's makeup, especially eyeshadow), indulgent and self-serving lump of a man. You easily penetrate the den of thieves, to the extent that one girly-faced man offers you a sumptuous cut of human thigh as an enticing snack.

You find yourself free to wander the old market circle, noting a strange repetitive pattern of bones among the stores of wares. Even when you dash out of darkness, there are few with the presence of mind to even think about doubting you as one of their own...and besides...I mean the bones. You aren't sure if the bones have been piled there on purpose, or excavated from the surface...but the bleached white bars tower at maybe 3 or 4 stories and are alight with fire which stream into the endless blaze of dusk. Scores of men and women bow to these burning bones in total supplication, chanting some indecipherable nonsense as paragons of b*tchery.

It is easy enough to scan the remnants of whatever shops and franchises were once attempting to forge forth with a business plan on this Chionthar fiduciary. Skindependent Leathers, Wish you Wash Here laundry, the Common Berry Apothecary...ah yes, Mad Phantom's Fletchery. Still standing! And quite well guarded.

It seems to be a repurposed battlement, long past its prime as a practical, defensible location. Perhaps an early watchtower or checkpoint that has stood the test of time...bought out in peaceful times and repurposed as a central feature of the new market. Circular at its base, it tapers slowly as it rises some 50 or 60 ft into the air...at its tip a southern styled minaret of reflective white.

The fletcher's shop on the ground floor, or what plundered bits remain of it, stand before you. A deuce of mean looking crossbowmen raise an eyebrow at your approach. They level mechanical, gear-infused weapons in your direction sighting down green-tinted fluorite lensed sniper scopes "Whatcha want, fetcher?" is the depth of their inquiry.


AvernusArt 2Grid

Syrina...

"Yeah!" all of a sudden, dropping from the ceiling was a middle aged, good-looks besmirched, red-lips stained undead creature wearing a tan trenchcoat and holding a three-eyed dog underarm. Why he said 'Yeah!' instead of literally anything else is one of those mysteries of the hells that will perplex specialists for centuries.

Regardless, the sheer body-weight of the detective crushed to a pancake the sexually curious one on the left...leaving little but a juicy smear to tickle the spear tips and triplines of Syrina's ingenious trap array. Pointing a rotten finger authoritatively while standing up awkwardly without grace "The jig is up, Two-fingers...AKA Bright-bottom boy, AKA Dixie-cup-got-wrecked, AKA *hoRRK*" a massive sledgehammer trap pinpointed the former inspector's unbeating heart, creating an interesting new pendulum with interesting new physics counting out sinusoidal oscillations like a metronome. The three-eyed dog took little notice as his master swayed to-and-fro, panting with a happy-go-lucky look to its face before licking its balls.

The one on the right got through, however. Genuinely interested in this so-called company keeper, the man had actually read the instruction booklet twice and scored an 80% or above on all the included self-assessments. Little did he know he was walking right into the next stage of the bounty-hunter's snare...


m LE half-elf Warlock 5 | HP 47/47, THP 0/8 | AC 14 | Saves: Str 0, Dex +2, Con +2, Int +1, Wis +3, Cha +7 | Perc 10 | Init +2 | DV60' | HD 0/5 | Inspiration - | Talisman 2/3 | Spells 2/2 | Invis -, Spray + | Cloak - | -

Clearly feeling his power, Simon grins and loudly pronounces words in the infernal, understandable only to those who know the language of devils: Say hi to Zariel in Hell, you piece of s@*@. Tell her the owner is coming.

Eldritch Blast + Hex: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 251d10 + 4 + 1d6 ⇒ (7) + 4 + (1) = 12 
Eldritch Blast + Hex: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (20) + 8 = 281d10 + 4 + 1d6 ⇒ (4) + 4 + (6) = 14 
Crit: 1d10 + 1d6 ⇒ (2) + (1) = 3 


AC18(20) |HP 38/[40]| Str+3 Int+1 Wis+6 Dex+0 Con+2 Cha+2|Init + 0|Percept +6|Insight +6|Invest +4| War Priest Attacks 0/[3] Inspiration [Y] Channel Divinity 1/[1] HD 2/[5] Male Human Doomguide Acolyte of Kelemvor Cleric (War)/5

Weeelllllll... that'll do it :)


AvernusArt 2Grid

Not quite, still 4 hp on the enemy after Simon if someone wants the killshot.


AC18(20) |HP 38/[40]| Str+3 Int+1 Wis+6 Dex+0 Con+2 Cha+2|Init + 0|Percept +6|Insight +6|Invest +4| War Priest Attacks 0/[3] Inspiration [Y] Channel Divinity 1/[1] HD 2/[5] Male Human Doomguide Acolyte of Kelemvor Cleric (War)/5

Evendur points at the unholy beast and shouts for Kelemvor to take him!

Toll the Dead Wis DC14/Necrotic: 2d12 ⇒ (3, 2) = 5

Kelemvor really hates wasted damage it appears...

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