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Donal continues to place himself in the midst of the skeletons and swings away!
Lucian refocuses his primal mark to one of the skeletons and fires off an arrow. While the arrow hits, it only knocks a couple of ribs off the creature. The ranger lines up a second shot before falling back to stay ahead of the zombies.
Astrid takes aim at any one of the remaining skeletons with her moonbeam.
If anything comes close (within 10ft), Astrid's spore colony will ATTACK!
Simon repeats the same trick over and over again, but it seems the emotions from the approaching horde are making themselves felt and the charges of magic are flying less and less accurately...
Simon casually obliterates a skeletal archer far, far across the market space, catching its full frame with the forbidden magic and vaporizing it on the spot. Lucian's arrow gets snagged in another's gut just as Astrid's light ignites the thing in a soft blaze. This time, the soul is not so willing to be taken into the halls of Selune, the cool light dissolving the bones like acid as it screeches in the horror of immortality denied.
The Tormtar executes a perfect double strike maneuver, his footwork as intricate as a dancers as the bones crumble around him. Syrina's bolt saves him the effort of one last swing.
then hightails it back north toward the spot Harkina, Molly, Two Fingers and Cat had hunkered down.
Syrina finds only Cat waiting for her there, a mischievous grin on its face and extra large (really quite unsafely engorged) tubby belly. "Reer?" Surely it didn't...eat the survivors?
Round 5:
Grim, Lulu, Mal, Simon, Reya, Lucian, Donal, Syrina, Astrid <--UP
Zombs & Skellies
Grim has his shield, embossed with the holy symbol of Kelemvor, prepared - ready to channel the power of the Lord in Bones... but sees his companions have, for now, the situation well in hand. The skeletal force falls easily before them.
The incoming zombies MIGHT be another matter of course.
He speaks words of healing and restoration, manifesting the divine...
Reya was alert but keeping it together, until she realized this was NOT the people she came in with. "Survivors!" a tear in her eye, turning to Lucian, Astrid, and Syrina.
The syndicate wall with its flailing and on-fire members. The old fort tower that had its engineering refinements blasted away, but still stood somehow on its original stones. The unfortunate warehouse. Only a hint of collapsed roofs across the red haze, civilization scraped aside.
While the surfacers were perhaps not ready for what they were thrust into, the Elturel survivors had developed a tolerance for chaos...for if demons wanted this place torn to shreds all the better. Each of them had a respite in mind...
Lucian, the hunter who returned, recalls the connection the subterranean tunnels have with the High Garden. If not for the infinite ravine, there would be a straight path to nearly anywhere in the city.
Astrid, warrior of decay, members the dwarven fortress of Stars Seen, Tales Told with its thick stone walls and at least booze. And an imploding community holding to its barest conceptions of morality confronted with the hard truth of hell.
Syrina, the crackerjack shot with some heady issues, at least recalls the somewhat secure Insidious Rat Farm to return to. If nothing else, there were card games, dice, booze, and plenty of protein.
With the skeletons destroyed, Mal sneaks out from his cover to stand next to Grim, just coincidentally putting the others between himself and the zombies. "Um Grim, Don, Simon, Reya, we need to find a place to recover. Plan how to raise Elturel and secure the angel's sword."
He looks around at the others who are not attacking them, hoping for some advice.
"I don't know who any of you are, but I assume you're not with them given...all of this," The spore druid gestures helplessly at the mess and the chaos. She casts a critical eye on the newcomers, noting their lack of filth and the lack of brimstone scent coming off of them. She herself is worse than before: her blonde hair matted with soot, smoke, and decay; her robes tattered and stinking. She is a sorry sight and certainly not one that seemed...welcoming. Her spore colony sparkled slightly in the dim light, giving her a somewhat feverish glow.
"I found shelter in an old printing hall. Big, sturdy walls. Some troubled folks in there, but they're trying to get by..." She glanced over the worst of them, frowning. "And I can probably heal a few of you."
The druid's normally smooth, low voice was gravely from the atmosphere and long disuse, and it cracked here and there as she spoke.
We need to move. Lead us to the hall, Donal turns to regard Grim, We will act as rear guard, but keep the survivors moving!
Syrina scours the little hidey hole with her eyes before dropping her fell gaze back on Cat. She frowns at the bloated picture of feline innocence. She pulls the chewed cigar stub from her mouth and hawks up a wad of dragonbone dust. A raven caws inquisitively over her shoulder.
Was that a bit of dress thread hanging from Cat's lip? She couldn't be sure. But she had her guesses about the suddenly tubby tabby. A glance toward the rushing zombie hoard.
"Best cough 'em back up, chubby." She says to Cat. "Else you'll never out run them flesh eaters that're comin' fer us. And I'll be damned..." A moments ironic pause as she remembers where exactly she is. "Hmppphh....I'll be further damned if I'm gonna carry your oversized carcass to this printing hall the shroomy cat lady is talkin' about."
"An' they best come out whole and alive. No bits and pieces." She adds giving Cat a stern, squint-eyed look. "We can say you was just keepin' em safe fer a bit while that dragon got reminded he was dead. Else you're gonna have ta deal with them others." She adds nodding toward the ones who just took down the massive undead dragon in a matter of a few moments.
"Be along in a moment!" Syrina shouts back over her shoulder to the others. "Just trackin' em down now."
Grim steps up to stand next to his friend.
If those Zombies get too much closer I should be able to make a good block of them flee The Lord in the Spires presence.
Mal? You look torn up... Make yourself scarce to the enemy and Ill patch you soon
"Lead the way." Lucian says to fungal druid.
While casting a curative spell on himself, he glances to Syrina. "Where are Harkina and the others?"
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Greetings to you. I am Simon of the House of Eltan. The half-elf, shaking off a beautiful expensive doublet, comes forward. Unruly curly dark hair habitually lies in an elegant shock, more suitable for a composer in the process of creating another masterpiece. He presents the audience with a radiant beautiful smile of perfectly white teeth and spreads his hands to the sides, as if to say, "yes, yes, that Simon from those Eltans, imagine such a happy meeting can happen to you." My colleagues and I have come to save this city and all of you. The smile becomes somehow sly, ironic and smug at the same time, and the nose lifts even higher. Now show us how you've settled in here. We'll do a little inspection, and then... He stammers a little, but does not show that he does not know something or is not sure about something. ...we will begin to fulfill our mission! Perhaps, along the way, recruiting the most capable of you. And he makes a gesture, as saying there is no need for applause, let's go already.
Lulu the magical celestial elephant happily applauds Simon as best she can slapping her weird elephant feet together. A squeaking sound accompanies the masterful flight, sounding similar to 'yay'.
Reya's sharp roll of her eyes takes her gaze off towards the large castle on the hill, obviously frustrated but considerate of the team effort. Securing her steel helm "Fine, we recover but then..." her breath is taken away as she regards Lucian. "...I know you. Lieutenant Faucon, wasn't it? I heard you were felled recovering the bounty of Bingo Scar."
Jingersnaps gives Syrina a frumious narrowing of the eye-triad, not in consternation but rather because it has begun its laborious regurgitation efforts. "Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa" it banters in a way most people never hear cats banter. There is a strange rippling in its abdominal muscles, a spreading of its paws and claws as the horking sounds turn to concerned, pitiful and anxious mewling.
*hoRRRK*
Like wet soap in a hot hand, a chunk of meat slipped in a zip from Cat's throat, plopping unceremoniously onto the cobblestones. The decapitated head of Dog, covered in scratches, looked up at you from the steaming pile of hair.
Round 6:
Grim, Lulu, Mal, Simon, Reya, Lucian, Donal, Syrina, Astrid <--UP
Zombie Apocalypse
"Hmph." Syrina snorts giving Cat a nod. Too bad. That dog had grit. She thinks remembering the way it latched onto that dragon's rib and never let go. Still cats and dogs. Ain't nothing goin' to change the hatred 'tween them two.
"Sorry, fer accusin' ya. But I had to check." She says by way of apology to Cat. But then her brow furrows and she looks all about the area. Given the recent downpour of dragon bits any tracks are all scattered and mussed beyond her limited ability to read them. "Then where did the others skedaddle off to?" She asks the relatively innocent feline.
All she can offer Lucian as he steps over to join her is a mystified shrug of her shoulders. "I don't rightly know." She says. "They were hunkered here with Cat as the tussle with the dragon started. But now..." She shrugs again.
Putting her hands to her mouth she shouts across the empty battlescape.
"HARKINA! MOLLY! TWO FINGERS! WE'RE CUTTIN' OUTTA HERE FER A SAFER HIDEOUT. BEST COME OUT NOW CAUSE THEM ZOMBIES AIN'T GONNA WAIT AN' NEITHER CAN WE."
Out of frustration over losing her self appointed charges, Syrina unleashes a quick blast of eldritch power at the closest zombie.
"Come'on Cat." She says to the slightly less bloated, three eyed feline and nodding to Lucian. [b]"Best we git a move on afore those brain eaters turn us all into today's special o' the day.
Harkina emerges from Mad Phantom's Fletchery with a clean new long bow and a quiver of 20 silver-tipped arrows. Bloody Molly and her vengeance blade are close behind sporting some new stained black apocalypse leathers. Two-Fingers likewise waddles out enjoying a quick aperitif. "Uh...guys?" the gnome helpfully points out the seemingly endless swarm of dead which is nearly upon you.
The syndicate wall, essentially a large pile of junk, begins to shudder and shake as more and more zombies filter through the gap...
Mal sidles up to Reya seeing as she has already found friends, "which way, sir knight?" His hair is unkempt, and his resting face is haunted with dark bags of sleeplessness under light violet eyes. Beneath a leather cloak, he shoulders a crossbow, quiver, and backpack, stuffed with all of his possessions. He wears a many-pocketed vest over tailored studded leather armor, fine leather boots, one shortsword on his weapons belt, and half dozen throwing daggers.
He starts looking around for the best pathway through the zombie horde.
Syrina breathes a quick sigh of relief upon seeing Harkina, Molly and Two Fingers. Hollering for them to follow, she grabs the utterly disgusting dog head and takes off after the halfling who might have found an intial path through the maze of destruction and walking death.
As she runs she starts rubbing the partially digested dog's head along her arms and chest. She even sneaks in a few swipes across Cat's back before the hissing creature ducks away giving her a tripled eyed look of pure revulsion.
"Changin' our scent." She growls back at Cat. "If'n we smell dead, then we won't be so appetizin'" The two dead heads dangling from her belt certainly add to her efforts. Especially the increasing odorous rotting Rose, whose frightened look emphasizes his desire to not be eaten by a massive zombie horde.
Satisfied with her efforts, she offers the head to anyone else willing to give it a try.
Never had, in living memory at any rate, a Doomguide been presented with so many undead, so many bodies sheathing corrupted necromantic energy. He breathed deeply then roared...
He raised his holy symbol embossed shield high and poured all his hatred of the Undead, all his fear of those necromancers that destroyed his family and stole his youth, and lastly but not least, all of his faith into it...
The party, shoulder to shoulder, crashed into the endless horde of undead. The unarmed, unarmored bodies were soft but strong...fragile but with an unnatural endurance. Teeth screeched on metal. Fingernails scratched on leather. Skulls busted. Rotted feet were pinned with arrows and bolts to the scorched earth.
Suddenly Harkina stumbled and the crowd surged, sensing an opportunity with its dark hearts...but Grim strode forth, raising his shield...
The crowd was bathed in searing radiance, an intelligent light that seemed to take on form and symbol: a skeletal arm holding scales in balance. One side of the scales suddenly plummetted with a resounding
*DooOOOONG*
of judgement.
Hundreds of bodies hit the floor, hundreds more exploded to bits so eensy-beensy no one saw where they landed. It was a divine reckoning the likes of which historians tried their best to be poetic about.
Kelemvor the God was startled from his morning contemplations. He tried to just brush it aside, as gods do, taking another bite of his high protein breakfast scrapple. Ultimately the master of the Crystal Spire couldn't resist another glimpse into the sphere of influence he had come to know, not as Evendur Greymantle, but rather only 'Grim'. Later that day, brushing down his favorite steed for a afternoon ride, the Judge of the Damned couldn't help but smirk again...knowing his chosen Doomguide had begun the assault against the army of the damned.
As many of the dead fall in their tracks to the power granted the Doomguide by the Judge of the Dead, Lucian looks for a way through the mass of corpses that would be the path of least resistance.
The priest simply bulls his way through.
Astrid casts moonbeam into the crowd again, swinging the beam around to sweep through the undead.
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Simon does exactly what the nobility exists for - takes care of the people and directs them in the right direction. Fight! Fight! Hurry up! Unholy crap! Idlers, go chop them down actively otherwise I will personally order to hang you at gates of Baldur's Gate! Yes, this also applies to you, what are you looking at! Slash! Shoot! Fight! Simon's voice breaks into a squeal at certain moments, but the power of his charisma is hard to underestimate.
Holding his shield before him, Donal lowers his head and joins Grim in pushing through!
The brothers in battle that had been manning the rear suddenly surge forward, Donal's shield of force punching left blowing out eyeballs from rotten faces as Grim's Final Rest slashes right melting spinal columns instantly with its divine edge. Limbs go afloppin', skulls shatter, strange zombie-gurgles are the closest sound to a death cry...their throats rapidly filling with blackened blood as they are decapitated.
There is a moment where the tension, already high, skyrockets again as the party somehow gets forced into a corner of a few brick buildings. Lucian the outskirts warden quietly grits his teeth unable to find a path.
However Malaric soon makes a quick, but rather quite rational breakdown of the immediate vicinity, shouting out a hidden path the resourceful wizard discovered. What had looked like just another zombie in the wall of zombies turned out to be some kind of halfling-sized scarecrow woven of bean-vines and wearing a highly stylish outfit only someone with perfect taste would select (lord knows where that came from). Just behind the strange simulacrum was a long awninged porch that guarded the party's advance on a few sides for quite a few paces.
Simon eloquently delivers his ultimatum to the unholy crap, who instantly comply. As if on command, or perhaps just by chance, Astrid's vaporizing beam atomizes the zombies to their tiniest indivisible particles...no larger than spores. The beam continues to trace a path of annihilation, paving a new road of human ash the party follows.
Syrina scrambles the resources she has at hand. The result? Odeur de Mort Marcheuse, a new addition to an iconic collection of hell inspired fragrances. With notes of Chultan leather, Waterdavian muskmelon, and your actual ass, the creation is simultaneously spicy and cool. The hints of leather buzz like a Maybug, creating the framework and general external outlines of a slightly stinky northern fur trader waiting for a stage carriage on a hot day. The framework is filled, decorated even, with the ripe echoes of a muskmelon turned from green to orange combining enigmatically with your actual ass to paint an earthy velvet. After a fleeting citrus dream, the hubbub of notes merge into one vibrant color in the palette of the parfumier creating this illusion of death. The mirage of scent is enough to deceive the hungry followers chasing the party deeper into the city...
The priest tries to identify the path of least resistance, and thinking he had found a 'safe' route through the undead found instead his path led him into an unexpected knot of zombies...
Donal, watching the surge of zombies, tries to time the ebbs and flows, hitting the weak spots at just the right times!
>.<
His eyes having failed him before, Lucian attempts a brute force approach to making his path.
From his vantage behind the smash brothers, the Sharite halfling studies the current of infernal arcane flows and how they could be optimized.
"Klaatu berada aganot." Syrina rasps. Upon finishing the final word, she is suddenly surrounded by a swirl of shadow black raven feathers that rapidly stick themselves to her skin like she was covered in warm tar. A raven cackles and the feathers are slowly absorbed into her very being as she races along just ahead of the zombie horde.
Following the others into the dead end, she curses and raises her small crossbow to snap off a quick shot at the lead zombie. Unfortunately at that very same moment, Molly stumbles on the gooey, grasping remains of a former gang enforcer. The brittle skull snaps beneath the girls black leather boots causing her to stagger against Syrina just as she pulls the trigger. The bolt goes sailing off into the distance.
Cat hisses and swats Syrina on the leg, while both Cuddles and the Rose watch Dog with suspicion as the mutts hollow eyes peek out from her tattered coat pocket.
The priest tries to identify the path of least resistance, and thinking he had found a 'safe' route through the undead found instead his path led him into an unexpected knot of zombies...
Luckily his invisibility to the undead meant that while he was standing dangerously close to the thick packed group, they were unable to see him, allowing him a reprieve.
The shambling undead collective presses from all sides, like the withering rot that wholly devours a once beautiful rosebush, the rapid initial progress of the party is halted. "Damnit! We're not moving!" Reya shouts, fending off a bloated corpse.
Sword strikes and spell bursts are but scratches on the sea of infinite dead. The pressure of the trampling mob threatens to pin you in...with dire consequences...you press together like a box of cigars until you can barely move your arms anymore.
"Huh...? Wha-whaaaa!!!" a sickening crunch turns your stomachs as suddenly Two-fingers is pulled down, a trio of undead tearing his throat apart in a gushing spray of arterial blood. His torso hits the floor before his head, his skull still dangling from a zombie's mouth who is mysteriously wearing sunglasses...as it fingers out morsels of brains through the nostrils. The fallen torso is ripped to shreds and the unfortunate gnome's intestines flop everywhere like tossed sausages. A small crowd of zombies eagerly sets to the task of devouring every inch of him.
And the Sharite halfling is down!
Lucian lowers his stance to power against the trampling mob, just in time to see the halfling go down. Despite dwindling resources, the ranger calls upon primal energies to tend to the least of the halfling's wounds before trying to pull him to his feet. "You've come too far to go out like that. On your feet!"