Astrid stumbles into one of the horde, shouting angrily as a zombie bites into her flesh. She quickly casts shillelagh and takes a swing at the one that bit her.
How dare you! Ahhhh... Ribs...
Simon touches an amulet made of yellow stone or crystal (in fact, the material looks like nothing at all) with red spots like blood inside and something vertical like a pupil in the middle, and then mentally reminding his patron that if he does not get out alive, then his tasks will not be completed... now.
But it seems his patron is busy with something else or wants Simon to deal with it himself. This infuriates the young aristocrat.
I've had enough!
He snaps his fingers, and immediately becomes invisible.
Helping Mal back to his feet, Lucian watches the patterns of the shambling dead, attempting top anticipate their movements and find a clearer path.
Mal struggles to his feet with help. His short visit with his divine mistress was a relief, but he was ready to return to hell to complete his mission. "Uh huh. Thanks for the healing. I'm Malaric Dragonslayer, who are you?"
The Sharite tries to remember if anyone else in history has been successful retreating from a horde of zombies... in hell.
Donal grunts in pain as he shoves at the biting zombie!
"Fu$%^ng damnation!" Syrina swears as Two Fingers falls to the zombie horde. Seeing Molly'e eyes start to go wide with panic, Syrina slams the girl out of the reach of a grasping undead.
"Keep running Molly, else you end up the same." Syrina growls. Her eyes fix on the set of sporty sunglasses worn by the zombie feasting on the head of Two Fingers a bit apart from the crowd of other feasting brutes. Was he a Rose? Her hell addled mind wonders. Hard t' tell 'neath them glasses an' that big dent in his noggin. But he looks ta be meannest o' them bas%$rds. Reckin it'll be right to put him down regardless.
The whisper of steel being drawn somehow breaks through the cacophony of gorging zombies. The rapier is all black steel. Black as the raven feathers that decorate and make up the hilt.
"Klaatu berada gig" She whispers. The words generate a black charge that cackles and circles the fae steel as Syrina ducks and weaves her way through shadow and flailing horde toward the Cool Rose. A few decaying fingers and hands bounce against her protective magic, but most are repelled. She slides and sidesteps up to the smirking zombie, bits of gnome brain still dripping from his grimy mouth.
"Hope ya enjoyed yer feast, cause it was fer sure yer last." She says stepping up feinting to her left, then ducking low to her right jamming her blade up into the zombie's gut and clean through into his upper chest. The black energy siphons quick as a rattler from blade to foe. Her patron's magic sends every undead muscle and bone quivering and twitching.
"Git ready Cat!" She hollers at the three eyed feline standing a few dozen feet away eyeing the whole thing with curiosity.
"Meorw!"
The mindless zombie lurches forward and explodes in a blast of black thunderous energy. Just as it's head departs for the upper atmosphere, Syrina swings her blade and bats it toward cat before she takes off running again.
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Donal's mace flares to life with an unholy light, one that pierces the darkness of hell...indeed has dominion over it, is its owner. A group of zombies' rotten winkers burst aflame instantly, like little flaming coals in their sockets. Driven by burning fury they follow the Tormtar, his False Eye of Zariel the quintessential carrot-on-a-stick.
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The three eyes of Jingersnaps deadlocked on the zombie with the bright future, its legs slowly springloading beneath its body. As the head did a perfect spiral over a demolished cruck house, the silent interceptor was ready...
...in a blur of claw and fur, the deft stray scurried up the chimney stones leaping off the top another few yards into a triple front roll. It's self-motivational power-mewling falling prey to the doppler effect "REEeeerREEeeerREEeeer" as it somersaulted over and over.
It was hard to understand what happened next, for those that dared take their gaze off the pressing horde in that split second. The cat's mouth seemed to widen and gape to an unnatural diameter, and the head of the late Dr. Shambles McShambleton slam-dunked into the mysterious feline-basket. Head and cat alike went crashing through the ceiling on the other side, splinters and shingles flying.
Astrid meanwhile was cleaving a path forward, as the zombies swarmed they decayed insanely rapidly due to the microscopic actions of the spores. Flesh melted from bones, bones rotted and snapped...decomposition that would've taken months was playing out in seconds, and the zombies kept coming for more.
Being confident in his invulnerability due to invisibility, Simon moves a little to the side and begins to create noise and uproar to distract the undead from his comrades. However, when too many zombies pay attention to his actions, he suddenly realizes that the horde does not need to see him in order to roll over him in a wave and tear him apart.
After thinking about it, Simon changes tactics and starts running in circles and dropping various objects in different places.
A gentleman will walk but never run - Simon remembers a children's song that all noble children learn in the Gates while they are being taught manners, and only sighs.
Donal scans the field, looking for changes in the geography, or battlefield obstacles (such as fallen zombie corpses) to use to slow the horde of zombies!
It was a good catch. She had to hand it to the feline, he knew his stuff even if she didn't expect the critter to swallow the whole thing in one feel gulp. Still, Syrina knew she'd be seeing that head again, and be able to recover her stylish glasses. Cats, after all, were cats. An extra eye and a hellish paternity didn't change all that much. In fact, she figures most cats were of demonic descent anyway. So, what went down that gullet would more than certainly come back up it a some point. Probably in her best boots...if she had a pair of best boots.
Before the dust and blood and gore could settle following the zombie's thunderous deconstruction, Syrina takes off running, ducking in and out of the shadows of ruined buildings and broken lives. Using every little bit of cover she can to throw off the horde and catch up with the others.
Mal activates his winged boots and follows along the group above the reach of the zombies. From his new vantage, he scouts for the best way forward. "Over here, there's a way through." He encourages them.
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The Doomguide, still fortunately invisible, using his considerable knowledge of the undead and how they move in large numbers (admittedly largely from books because he'd never seen so many undead personally) attempts to puzzle his way through the moving throng.
The treatise of St. Domingo had an entire chapter on zombie hordes and thanks to that, his invisibility and due to Simon throwing bits of pieces around the place while singing off key and shouting bits of gibberish, he's able to predict the movement of the horde, and break out and away...
Taking heed of the now flying Mal's directions to a path through the mass of undead, Lucian crouches low and tries to sneak his way passed the shambling dead.
Astrid continues to swing her quarterstaff, her aura of spores undulating around her menacingly.
Donal plants his feet, frustrated at a seeming dead end. But from his height advantage, Malaric spots a tight alley that seems free of living dead, the crumbled buildings making it a natural bottleneck. Problem is, the few hundred shamblers still lurching and gurgling on the way from here to there.
Grim and Simon, like wise passive spirits, guide the others with a steady hand on their shoulders...turning one after the other towards a gap in the crowd to make a final rush through. Seeing the connection between the gap in the crowd and the alley Mal points out, Lucian squats and tries to get through quick and silent...
*rrrrRRRip*
...but he squats too rapidly causing the inseam of his pants to burst, attracting the attention of the perverted damned. Astrid pays the bare cheeks little mind however, plowing through towards the old dwarven fortress now in sight beyond the alley.
Syrina is the last to arrive, rolling off a roof and crowd-surfing across the zombs wildly before slipping into the gap.
After what seemed like a lifetime, the party squeezes into the alley quite happy to have brick and mortar pressing them from 2 sides instead of snarling undeath all around. Yet the dead follow tenaciously...the dark companion sends a crackling bolt near the center of the mob that sends spidery tendrils of electricity washing over them all.
Huffing and puffing her way down the alley, Syrina pops out the other end and immediately scans the area for any other hordes of shambling dead. Not finding any she turns her attention back down the alley where the mindless mob is slowly squeezing itself into the narrow path.
Sucking at her lower lip, she tries to ponder a way of slowing the horde down a bit or maybe even plugging things up well enough they'll go in search of easier vittles.
Mal finds a nook high up in the alley to relax. He needs a long rest to recuperate. He listens to and watches the newcomers wondering who they are while quietly praying to his divine mistress. He keeps an eye on Reya who he has committed to support.
While Syrina looks about and spies a solution, Evendur turns towards to the zombie horde and forms a choke point, slashing with 'Final Rest', it's blade glowing slightly with a pale grey light, cutting effortlessly through undead flesh.
Syrina frantically scavenges this leg of the market caravan as Grim forms a one man assault against the endless dead. The Doomguide's arms and armor are clearly superior, easily holding the line...the only threat of course is exhaustion, the dead do not tire. If Syrina's gambit takes too long, his constitution will be put to the test.
Every crate and barrel has been picked through already, making it somewhat easier to inventory them at a glance. Bundles of rusty leatherworking tools. Crates of rainbow glass tiles for mosaics. Plaster festival masks for children in the shape of mythical creatures. A box of brass bells. Finally something closer to what the bounty hunter had in mind: Bronto-fat, freshly imported from Chult. Barrels and barrels of the thick dino-lard.
From Malaric's perch on high, he can see the wisdom of the party's quick rout. Harkina's home, the old military tower guarding the market, is completely surrounded. The walls of the strange thieves who were among the last embers of this civilization gone, eroded by the undead into shallow, rolling hills.
Knowing that time is of the essence, Syrina moves as quick as she can until her eyes alight upon the barrels of Chultan fat. She actually smiles at the load of dino-lard, it is a disconcerting sight that actually causes Cat to suddenly shiver and take a step or two away from the crazy head collector.
She calls out to Lucian to help him drag the wagon and its contents toward the mouth of the alley. "And someone start bustin' up them glass tiles." She says pointing out the charming rainbow hewed art supplies. "We can toss the bits into the alley and these 'ere barrels. Once t'fire gits good and hot, things'll start poppin' and boilin' and that glass'll just add to them zombies misery."
Once they have the wagon lined up and a good bit of glass shards dumped into and over everything, she busts a couple of the barrels open to get the thick fat oozing. Then slips a flask of alchemists fire into her hand and signals Grim that all is ready. With all hands pushing the wagon, she waits until it's in the mouth of the alley before tossing the bottle of liquid hellfire into the waiting fat and bone dry wood of the wagon.
Donal, seeing Syrina spring into action moves to assist her, What do you need?
As asked, Lucian drags the wagon into position.
Afterwards, the ranger approaches Reya. "I'm not sure rank means much of anything anymore, but yes, I am Lucian Faucon."
"As to Scar, he certainly wounded me gravely, but obviously I survived."
Not bad not bad... the voice of the invisible Simon is heard.
Astrid slips through the crowd, seeing the others have things handled, and heads toward the small halfling who seemed quite hurt. She stops in front of his perch, staring up at him with her fevered eyes. The air around her sparkles softly with her spores, and she speaks softly, her voice hoarse and harsh, "You were hurt. Badly. If you would allow it, I will heal you?"
If Mal will let her, she would reach out and tap him twice, her spores washing over the halfling to help the wounds on his body close.
Donal, seeing Syrina spring into action moves to assist her, What do you need?
"Toss some more of those glass shards over those barrels." She says giving the big warrior a grateful nod at his offer. "Then put your shoulder into this old heap of a cart get it in place and relieve you brother in arms."
Donal nods and hefts what glass jugs or glass balls he can find, hurling them high in the air to land on the barrels with a crash. The stout warrior then heaves to get the cart rolling...
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Astrid's spores slowly rise from the heat of hell up, up to the halfling's roost, tickling Malaric's extremely hairy feet. But the spell sours from the influence of infernal evil, the normally warm scent of baked bread following the cure wounds spell coming off as rotten fruit.
"I see...Reya Mantlemorn. I should stop trusting the rumor mill. But you are most welcome, well done felling the bone dragon!" She pauses a moment, heaving another pile of glass shards on top of the dinosaur fat "Rank still matters to me, Lucian Faucon...every increase was an honor, for deeds hard labored..." Gazing about the hellscape "...and rank gives me the duty to broach those hard labors to come." whispering a short prayer.
Grim slaughters zombie after zombie in less a battle than an endurance contest. But Syrina's quick thinking and the Tormtar's sheer strength make plugging the gap getalong rather zippy. Donal gives Grim a headsup, and as soon as the wagon scrapes the alley walls the Doomguide leaps out of the melee.
A zombie who is only intestines from the waist down quickly squeezes underneath. A weird amputated hand flops out of the mob from nowhere onto the top of the explosive package. Others jam flesh-stripped fingers into the smallest cracks, slowly digging...the tireless advance of the dead, surrounding the slippery glass shards.
*crzzZZZZ*
The little chemical fuse whistled as the gnome-sized flask spun end over end out of Syrina's hand. The sticky flames clung greedily to the glistening grease, which immediately started to burn with a think, black smoke. You have just about enough time to get your head out around the corner before...
*CROOOSH BOOOM*
A thousand razors scatter like glitter, piercing skulls and slicing the Achilles' tendons of Reya, Molly, Lucian, and Harkina's ex-friends and family. Any quantitative damage assessment was cut short, however, as the mortar of the adjacent buildings superheated and failed...an avalanche of bricks quickly piling upon the bloody splorch-pile of the nearest zombie regiment.
It would seem the danger of the massive horde is held off, at least temporarily...the only other open paths being a few blocks north and south. Certainly safe enough to cross the street, or so it seems.
Mal flies down from his perch to accept Astrid's offer. The wings of his boots melding into stylized swooshes when he deactivates their magic.
"Thank you, kind ma'am. I didn't expect to find allies so quickly in hell. I'm Malaric Dragonslayer. Not so successful with undead ones yet. Who are you? And did you get brought here when Elturel sank?"
Astrid watches the halfling descend and skittishly takes a step away from him as he lands to put a bit of distance between them. "Astrid Morchella," She says in her low, husky voice. "I was here when Elturel sank. Studying The Companion, in a way..." She glances up at the orb, a disgusted expression on her face, before looking back down at him. "You all look too fresh," She says, drawing out the 's' sound with a hiss, a wry grin crossing her face. She longed for a bath, to get the pervasive smell of sulfur and soot and death off of her skin. "You come here voluntarily?"
Yes, yes, yes. I introduced myself earlier. Simon Eltan and the rescue team. The voice comes from somewhere where there is no one - obviously, Simon is invisible and is in no hurry to remove this effect from himself. We need one contract, according to which this city moved here to Hell on quite legitimate grounds, no matter how it sounds. But when it's in our hands... the city will be saved. Everything is simple. Here he can't stand it and takes off his invisibility to appear in all its glory. Simon Eltan at your service, Mademoiselle. Despite the whole situation, you are still beautiful. He nods in response to the absent curtsy as if it had been made. By the way, of the two halflings, spend your healing magic only on the one you have now healed. He's a very smart and useful guy. But the second one is absolutely - I assure you - absolutely useless. Don't waste your mystical powers on her. He says it in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning a little closer.
Is that the print shop over there? Let us get into cover first, then we can talk, Donal says gruffly before looking over his shoulder to see how slowed the horde was by their shenanigans. Let's keep you folk alive.
Astrid jumped slightly as Simon appeared near her, regarding the fellow half-elf through narrowed eyes. "This morning, I beat the brains of an already-dead man in with my staff," She began conversationally, a dangerous look on her face. The druid picked off a bit of viscera from her robe and flicked it outward, watching the arc of its descent as it landed on the ground without a sound before continuing. "I mercy-killed a man who was going to turn undead and burned his body to protect the print shop folks. Then...all of this. That was just today." She leans in to whisper back to Simon, her red-rimmed eyes catching his, and she grinned toothily. "It is never that simple, Simon Eltan. But I hope that you all can help."
She nods to Donal, slipping ahead of them to enter the print shop and make sure the survivors weren't alarmed by the sudden entrance of many people.
Yes, yes, yes. I introduced myself earlier. Simon Eltan and the rescue team.
The Doomguide nods to Donal, then moves cover the flank, allowing Donal to lead the ragtag group. Words and greetings can wait until safety. The sheer number of the undead also have the priest inwardly seething, and his expression is stony as he goes about the business of protecting the group from surprise break outs from the side.
A flaming finger plops to the ground at Syrina's feet as the roar of the flames and collapsing building rumble in her ears. Thick dust and smoke smelling of dino fat and burning zombie flesh fill the air. The stench of it all is enough to curl a skunk's hide, but it doesn't seem to bother the woman as she bends down and grabs the burning finger. Eyeballing it for a second, Syrina swings the stub of chewed cigar from one side of her mouth to the other bringing into contact with the finger-flame. Sucking the fire into the cigar, she generates a secondary cloud of steel gray smoke that wraps around her head. With smoke billowing well enough to smother a moose, she chucks the finger over her shoulder and starts walking across the street.
Her filthy, blood stained long coat flutters like a pair of grimy raven's wings as the wide brim of her hat flutters in the wind generated by the inferno. Syrina gives Molly a gentle nudge toward the print shop with her callused hand, breaks the young woman's wide eyed stare at the seemingly unending death and destruction that is Elturel.
"The big feller's right." Her voice is sandpaper rough. "Best we get a'move on. Won't be long a'fore the others find away around."
Once safely across the street and inside the confines of the print shop she reaches out her dirty hand to the big warrior who helped her push the wagon and the priest who held back the horde.
"Welcome to hell." She says. "Can't say I know why anybody'd be comin' here willingly, but I'm much obliged fer yer aide back there." She tilts her head back toward the roaring fire. The motion reveals the dark red and black scar around her neck. A scar eerily similar in width and shape as the feathered noose hanging from her belt opposite from the two heads that clop together with each hard step across the floor.
"Name's Syrina du Shay, not that names matter much here." She adds thinking of the less than fortunate Chad, a.k.a Insidious Prime, a.k.a. Chad-rain.
"I see...Reya Mantlemorn. I should stop trusting the rumor mill. But you are most welcome, well done felling the bone dragon!" She pauses a moment, heaving another pile of glass shards on top of the dinosaur fat "Rank still matters to me, Lucian Faucon...every increase was an honor, for deeds hard labored..." Gazing about the hellscape "...and rank gives me the duty to broach those hard labors to come." whispering a short prayer.
"Well met, Reya, good to see a friendly face...even if the circumstances are far less than ideal. As far as the skeletal dragon goes, I believe that was a group effort...just managed to strike the killing blow. It would seem the others are heading for what's left of the print shop." the ranger says. "Gods know we could use the rest after that."
"Aye, we voluntarily came to hell with a mission." Mal flatly replies to Astrid before Simon introduces himself.
The halfling nods at the consensus to chat when they were more secure. He pushed his matted hair from his face and readies to reactivate his winged boots to stay above the threats chasing them.
He reflects a bit on his decision to enter hell based on his dedication to his divine Mistress. And concludes the correctness of his commitment, which ensures him immortality in the afterlife in Her Darkness.
About halfway across the relatively clear street, the ground gives way beneath your feet and you plunge into a free fall. You quickly realize this is not some cunning trapdoor or murder chute, but in fact the entire chunk of rock beneath this section of the city just dropped 2 or 3 yards. While new to Reya's volunteers, hell's residents were accustomed to such earthquakes. Still, it was odd to hear such a loud thunderclap coming from the earth instead of the sky...rather foreboding.
Astrid springs ahead racing up the large stone steps of Stars Seen, Tales Told as the others take cover and share names and brief stories...all the while convinced that hell does not care. Some part of their humanity was not yet wholly corrupted, the hopeful might have mused.
"Yer alive!" Sami smiles at Astrid from across the barricade "...but no sign of lil' Sprog? Others you say?"
From their position nearby, the group can see a dwarf and a halfling quite comfortable behind a large barricade leveling crossbows in your general direction...but also up and down the street in turn. "Who're they?! Oh...lookin mighty dangerous. Specially that harfoot, there's an ill look in his eye...and is that a chicken wing on his ankle, wha-the-hell..." Caskfeet mentioned to Sami.
Sami peered out at the party conducting research of his own before "Aye. And what was all that rattling and moaning? Sounded like someone was playing the xylophone with a pregnant dog. Tickled me imagination something fierce, can't shake that sound I tell you." he confided, looking as scared as a halfling could.
Caskfeet's eyeballs sprouted wings and nearly took flight from their sockets "Wha-? And what is tha???" gazing at Lulu the wooly elephant "A flying beard?!"
*toot*
...was the chipper reply.
The duo de sentinelle seemed hesitant to let such a large party inside, even with the presence of Astrid.