With the cloaked figure's quick demise, Syrina focuses the raven's curse upon the closest fiend and then unleashes another barrage of eldritch power. The first blast slams directly into the devil's midsection. The second goes wrong as the runes glowing beneath her feet seem to interact with her pact magic. A brief flash is followed by a raven's startled cackle as the energy dissipates in a burst of zebra striped raven feathers that swirl around the bounty hunter before drifting off into the chasm.
Bonus Hide: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (6) + 9 = 15
Mal steps out and snaps off another crossbow bolt which sails into the distance.
Lucian readies his bow and fires off two shots at the orange clad devil.
The slightly hesitant aristocrat nevertheless begins his dark sorcery and two projectiles of energy rush into the devil.
Grim lines up the hooded man for a Guiding bolt...
or for
He then moves forward to draw any attacks to him.
Reya's battlecry proves you can pack a lot of sound in a tiny box, the halfling charging forward for the pride of the Hellriders, the vengeance of Elturel...
...the silver blade bursting rainbow sparks against the infernal iron of the barbazu's glaive. Dropping her grip a split second, the swordpoint swung a rapid arc finding a meaty, artery filled chunk of flesh to bleed.
The Lord of the Dead hungered for justice with a zeal that bordered lust, the snake-bearded warriors evading a true death for nearly a millennia. His champion rushed forward, following the light of his example.
The Sharran, offended by the light but unwilling to pass up a combat opportunity, shed his cold bolt and struck true...dropping the devil to the white-hot marble of the bridge.
Lucian adjusted his aim, taking the longer shot...and was rewarded with a satisfying yelp of pain. However, the Raven had other plans...a programme quite lacking in patience. Syrina's blast took the fiend at the shoulder, shearing it off at the bone joint. Simon stepped in for the glory of the final shot, offering no mercy to the last of the bridge force...fallen in an instant to the First Hope of Hell.
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The devil's corpses are quickly burnt away from the lingering radiance of Torm, leaving behind their weapons, jewelry, and leather clothing. On closer analysis, the jewelry and clothing appears to be a sure winner of the Satan's Choice fashion awards, being an affront to good taste and unabashedly offering a finger to practicality.
The cloaked figure does not burn away in the holy fire of the runes however. Turning him over, its clear why...its a blue-eyed survivor neither devil, demon, or undead.
A foul-smelling liquid undulates in a bucket at his feet, near the dropped brush. Daring a look, it appears to be a gallon of aborted kitten fetuses mixed with the feces of some forbidden, interplanar acquaintance...each one marked with a hellish sigil of corruption upon its face and neck. This cultist was painting the obscure substance over the runes of Torm, for gods know what purpose. Defilement seems a safe bet.
Among his possessions is a spellbook, featuring an embroidered depiction of an unlucky guy getting his entrails pulled out of his mouth by a large goat-like figure.
Level 1 Spell: Find Familiar
Level 1 Spell: Fog Cloud
Level 1 Spell: Alarm
Level 1 Spell: Burning Hands
Level 1 Spell: Charm Person
Level 1 Spell: Chromatic Orb
Level 2 Spell: Cloud of Daggers
Level 2 Spell: Flaming Sphere
Level 2 Spell: Alter Self
Level 2 Spell: Arcane Lock
Level 2 Spell: Blindness / Deafness
Level 2 Spell: Blur
Level 3 Spell: Sleet Storm
Level 3 Spell: Stinking Cloud
Level 3 Spell: Animate Dead
Level 3 Spell: Bestow Curse
Level 4 Spell: Conjure Minor Elementals
Level 4 Spell: Dimension Door
Level 4 Spell: Arcane Eye
Level 4 Spell: Banishment
Level 4 Spell: Blight
Level 4 Spell: Confusion
Level 5 Spell: Cloudkill
Level 5 Spell: Conjure Elemental
Level 5 Spell: Animate Objects
Level 5 Spell: Bigby's Hand
Level 5 Spell: Cone of Cold
Malaric scooped up the Cultist's book. "Eww. I'll take this. Too dangerous for you guys." He thumbs through the book noting all the new arcane spells that he doesn't have or doesn't understand yet. "Magnificent." He truly believes that Shar placed this spellbook in his path to reward him and aid him in his mission.
Simon nods. Let's not waste time, otherwise we will have guests. Forward.
Syrina hurries across the bridge. She pauses only for a moment. Just long enough to grab the pot of foul goop that the cultist was painting upon the runes and drop it over the side of the bridge. Not looking or waiting to see the result, she dashes fast as her feet will carry her to the nearest bit of cover on the other side.
"Agreed. The runes will not last much longer and once they have died out, they can not be reactivated for another hour."
Lets move!!!, he says running for cover on the other side as well.
When his companions get going, Malaric quickly stows his new toy/spellbook and dashes off behind them. He uses his new leathery wings to make long jumps but never too to attract unwarranted attention and never over open air, in case, well he didn't know, but he didn't fully trust his new wings yet.
Slater Slitherins the Nupperibo was having a bad millennium.
Magically compelled to pluck devil-lice from the asshairs of a flatulent night hag, the tormented was then ordered to fold the bugs into perfect origami frogs (with a clever flap on the back to actually make it jump). If there was even the slightest mistake with his folding, it was a redo. The pile of nearly 30,000 origami frogs paled in comparison to the millions of lice still jumping about the rump of the lazy hag.
"Wot's that?! Do you see it, ass picker?" the hag inquired, spotting a plummeting shadow in the sky quickly coming their way.
Depressed and apathetic, Slitherins still made a show of attempting to answer the revolting woman-not-woman "...I don't know, the sky...? Oh, looks like a helmet? No. It's a Pumhart von Steyr."
"Hee hee hee. Well it better move, cause I sure as hell aint." firing an eldritch blast of some force only an insane criminal could understand. Striking true, the mystery projectile began to tumble, spilling its contents in a much larger swath. "Hee hee...oh sh*t."
The aborted kitten fetuses signed with the mark of corruption and drenched in incomprehensible feces from beyond the void scored a direct hit, and somewhere the master of torment licked his lips...tasting the magnitude of grotesque suffering bestowed upon his charge.
Leaving Torm's Blade behind, the slayers of devils and dead find the most direct route up the steep, artificial hill overlooking the fearsome chasm into hell. What was once an inspiring, verdant orchard is now another gravestone of the bright civilization once flourishing here. The wealthy would give their second born daughters for a plot right next to the so-called 'Winter Garden', which carried fresh springwater from High Hall all the way down.
It's now a hot lava flow, and the trees and exotic plant species are either on fire or rotten. It doesn't take hours of debate for the party to decide on an alternate path through the ruins...ruins of mansions. Ruins of noble estates and the finest of shops. Were the wealthy able to buy their salvation from this horror, you wonder...
*BLAM*
The dark orb lingering above the High Hall reminds you of its presence, casting a random bolt of lightning feet from your position in an explosive scattering of stone. Don't look down, keep your eyes up...the Betrayer is not yet finished casting its net of annihilation. Those with metal gear feel the hairs on their neck energize every few moments, just before another rip-crack of light arcs across the scorched landscape.
"Oh gods..." Harkina mumbles "Are we too late? What's happening to it..." It doesn't take long to see what she's talking about. From this vantage, it appears certain parts of the castle parapets are floating in pieces...almost as if magnetically suspended between castle and companion. Not to mention the main courtyard is either on fire or smoldering given the rapidly churning column of smoke.
Reya has a doubt in her voice "What if whatever we were supposed to find is just blasted away by meteors or lightning, or stolen by those snake-beards...wait! that banner..." Fluttering in the droplets of sulfuric acid and bone powder constituting hells atmosphere was a long standard of red fabric...the emblem?
A clenched hand on fire. Even from this distance, it was unmistakable.
"The Fist...? Ravengard?" a hint of hope clawing its way back to the dark warrior.
The sense of urgency somewhat lost on the chatty ladies was not forgotten by the slayers, again submerging themselves among fallen stone and shattered spruce splinters as they begin the trek upwards. Just from an initial survey, it seems the dead are somewhat less frequent than back across the bridge. The scouts report only single zombies lumbering around, and certainly no dragons made of bone. Cutting a path through the crumbling mansions is almost mechanical at this point. Wait. Listen. Know, never gamble.
But then, about halfway to the castle, some new temptation: a corpse in the middle of the street clutching a longblade and seemingly well-equipped. The body is completely blackened, burnt to a crisp.
Hold... looks like a suckers bet. Give me a moment.
He casts protection from Evil on himself and closes gingerly on the site.
Keep your eyes and any magical senses you have on the corpse. Blast it if it twitches.
Syrina casts her gaze up and down the street, but between the smoke from the constant fires and the after flash still crawling along her eyes from the latest blast of the Betrayer she doesn't see much. Even so, the single lone body just lying out there in the street looked suspicious.
"Not a bit of nibbled flesh. Not dismembered in any way. Head still attached." She mutters to Cat who crouched nearby examining the fundamental nature of his inner thigh. "Sure he's a bit overcooked, but where's the real trap and trickery? Just layin' there all on his lonesome. Looks like bait t'me an' nothin' more." She adds sliding the raven blade free just in case some devil or demon pounces from the surrounding shadow filled rubble.
Bad idea. Simon looks anxiously around the street. After a little thought, Simon decides to conduct an experiment, and before anyone approaches the corpse, he creates an illusion... a child, fearfully looking around with his eyes and carefully approaching the deceased.
ft
Grim, armored with the cancelling veil of morality-made-force, strides into the intersection...but keeping his distance from the odd charred corpse. Meanwhile, Syrina is wholly amped, meticulously scanning every nook, crouch hole, and awning for sights and sounds of an undead ambuscade or devilish skirmish.
Ultimately the bounty hunter finds none, although she does wonder what's with all that bubbling and churning noises coming from the corpse. You call that a corpse?
Simon finds his patron's 'great arcane gift' isn't as great as the contract suggested, feeling a bit conned.
Mal hides from the sucker's bet.
Sticking to the survivor's creed of not taking any chances, the slayers opt to give the scorched and undulating fallen warrior a wide berth, dashing quickly to the next open path among the collapsed remnants of civilization.
Turning the corner, it is immediately blocked.
Rubble from the destroyed mansions and multi-level shops of the wealthy neighborhood has created a new, hilly terrain of demolition waste. Barbs of wood splinters, sheared and torn steel, concrete blocks dusted with gypsum powders...roads and sidewalks are buried deep, it has to be climbed.
At last mounting the summit of Elturel, you feel the vibrations from the dark Betrayer above...closer than ever before to Kreeg's mysterious artifact. It grips every hair on your body and slowly pulls it from the root, directly towards the center of the swallowing black sphere. Yet, at the same time you feel a strong empathic connection to the hovering darkstar, a powerful emotional sense of sadness and shame seems to be drawn out of you as well.
Sound likewise seems unable to escape the grasp of the turned Companion. From below echoes are muted or drawn into bizarre pitch changes as the arcs of electricity ozonify the acoustic medium. Light too, seems unable to escape...the sphere covered with something akin to magical darkness, solid black void without texture.
Reya can't bear to think upon it, focusing on the surviving fortifications here instead. Of course the clifftop castle was once the crowning architectural jewel of Elturel. Now only three of its five watchtowers towers still stand, though they appear abandoned save the one oddly flying the Flaming Fist banner. The wooden gates that once led into the castle grounds have been shattered, leaving a convenient gaping hole in the wall. Glancing behind you, you see Elturel as these masters of the realm would have in the past, a pristine view of a bustling port now a disgusting view of boiling mud and festering chaos. Indeed the whole eastern district was now a nightmarket of ghosts and bone, overrun by countless undead...slowly consuming every last Creed-keeper citizen of the cursed capital. The lesser-explored western residential expanse seems to have faired little better, the cemetery on the distant hill promising even more bodies for the army of dead.
Peering inside the remnants of the courtyard, it is clear the west side of the castle has been reduced to yet another pile of smashed brick and broken wood. The surviving buildings are blackened by soot, and licked by the still flapping flames of a giant meteoric crater crackling with heat nearby. Yet, at the center of the castle grounds, the High Hall cathedral stands defiant...a testament to the power of faith in Torm, perhaps some divine protective wards still burn within offering respite from the brutal and unforgiving trials of hell. Or perhaps it was just another deal High Observer Kreeg made with the devil to spare his residence...
Syrina had cursed more in the last few weeks than she'd had her entire life prior. Her prim and proper mother would have been quite disappointed. Of course, the woman would have also tried to frighten her with damnation to the burning pits of hell if Syrina continued such forbidden behavior. The thought causes an even more improper snort to erupt from the bounty hunter. A snort that is immediately followed by a string of curses to make a sailor blush as she hurries around the corner to spot the looming mountain of garbage. Stopping cold she eyeballs the gigantic pile of broken dreams and wasted gold.
Her first steps up the side cause a mini-landslide of delicate china and indelicate body parts. Pondering the odds of making up the morass of poor purchasing choices, she grabs her length of rope and hands it to the halfling Mal.
"If we tie a couple lengths together, and you lot tie it to somethin' solid up above, it should give the rest of us a better chance o' makin' the climb without tumblin' onto are arses half a dozen times." She says looking to see if anyone else was willing to give up their length of rope to the endeavor.
Mal provides a helping hand to Reya and anyone who needs it to negotiate ruins, like Syrina. His new leathery wings are already becoming useful. Hail Shar!
"Here Syrina, let me give you a flying hand."
Climbing up the rope after Syrina, Simon gloomily looks around the neighborhood. Remind me please, what exactly do we want to save? Ruins and a horde of zombies? I'm afraid by the time we're done, there won't be anything else left.
Best of a crappy situation is what we need here... and what we are saving? For now, it's our strength... we need to get to the next safe pace and rest up.
.
He too climbs the rope, hoping for a flying push for time to time.
Athletics
Sweat pours from Syrina's face as she finally struggles up onto the summit of Rubble Ridge. Whitened knuckles grip the rope until she stomps her feet upon the solid stone of the castle courtyard. The added vibration and draw of the black malevolent mass of the Betrayer is certainly no balm for her unease and growing paranoia.
"Save?!" She glances toward Simon. "I can't reckin what's savable of the city, but I'm sorely sure my own hide worth savin'. It's a way out that I'm lookin' fer. Escape. Escape for myself, Molly, Harkina, Cat, an any others with the grit and guts to hang on this long." She glances back and down toward the fallen remnant of a city below. "As fer the rest of it, well...." The words just trail off into the oblivion of the crackling orb as she turns and starts walking towards the High Hall.
It seems that Simon finally realized that nothing good awaits in hell, despite the patronage of an influential person... Finally, looking around the destroyed city, he realized that he is up to his ears in the quagmire into which he himself climbed. Voluntarily. Saving yourself is always a good idea. The nobleman swallows nervously, looking at another "lightning" from the Betrayer.
Standing guard until the others are up the rope, Lucian eventually follows.
At last mounting the summit of Elturel, you feel the vibrations from the dark Betrayer above...closer than ever before to Kreeg's mysterious artifact. It grips every hair on your body and slowly pulls it from the root, directly towards the center of the swallowing black sphere. Yet, at the same time you feel a strong empathic connection to the hovering darkstar, a powerful emotional sense of sadness and shame seems to be drawn out of you as well.
Sound likewise seems unable to escape the grasp of the turned Companion. From below echoes are muted or drawn into bizarre pitch changes as the arcs of electricity ozonify the acoustic medium. Light too, seems unable to escape...the sphere covered with something akin to magical darkness, solid black void without texture.
Reya can't bear to think upon it, focusing on the surviving fortifications here instead. Of course the clifftop castle was once the crowning architectural jewel of Elturel. Now only three of its five watchtowers towers still stand, though they appear abandoned save the one oddly flying the Flaming Fist banner. The wooden gates that once led into the castle grounds have been shattered, leaving a convenient gaping hole in the wall. Glancing behind you, you see Elturel as these masters of the realm would have in the past, a pristine view of a bustling port now a disgusting view of boiling mud and festering chaos. Indeed the whole eastern district was now a nightmarket of ghosts and bone, overrun by countless undead...slowly consuming every last Creed-keeper citizen of the cursed capital. The lesser-explored western residential expanse seems to have faired little better, the cemetery on the distant hill promising even more bodies for the army of dead.
Peering inside the remnants of the courtyard, it is clear the west side of the castle has been reduced to yet another pile of smashed brick and broken wood. The surviving buildings are blackened by soot, and licked by the still flapping flames of a giant meteoric crater crackling with heat nearby. Yet, at the center of the castle grounds, the High Hall cathedral stands defiant...a testament to the power of faith in Torm, perhaps some divine protective wards still burn within offering respite from the brutal and unforgiving trials of hell. Or perhaps it was just another deal High Observer Kreeg made with the devil to spare his residence...
At Simon's analysis Reya mumbled something about invitations and how the Eltan wasn't included before snapping "All of it. We're gonna save all of it." a crazy, undefeatable look in her eyes. Lulu gave a supportive toot, but the sour looks from the others put the halfling veteran in a boat of her own. True, she had brought everyone here...but now the overwhelming hopelessness and despair of the hells had fractured the mission. She wondered if that rat-bastard Traxigor suddenly sprang back into their lives with a portal leading to Neverwinter, how many would abandon her here for the exotic fermented Troll Sh*t shots of the Driftwood Tavern. Seemed like a step up, she couldn't deny it.
Unsheathing her sword and pointing to one of the cathedral towers "We raise this city from the dead or we die in hell. Your choice." the skull that replaced the Companion on her Hellrider armor seeming to laugh, knowing it was no choice at all.
"I choose to raise the city. Let's get to it." Mal answers the rhetorical choice. We also need to find that crazy angel's sword.
Simon snorts and shakes his head, much like old people do when a teenager expresses maximalistic stupidity in their presence, but an adult knows that these thoughts will go away from a young person, just like youth itself. No need to explain, just have to wait. And of course, provided that the teenager will not torn apart by zombies, devils and other foul creatures.
I choose glory, profit, my damn shield and my damn soul back.
Simon doesn't say any of this out loud and just heads forward.
Seeing no immediate threats and nothing else but the cathedral worth investigating, Syrina climbs the remainder of the steps and skulks toward the only apparently habitable building left in Elturel.
Syrina's altered gait does much to conceal the sound of her footfalls as she climbs the tall stack of alabaster steps leading to the great cathedral of Torm. But the rotten heads at her waist. The armpits that haven't felt soapy water for tendays. The crotch-musk that long ago learned the escape route from that hot and hidden chamber. All that probably would have been enough...but then mix those scents with the dander laden cat hairs dusting her duster and making her sliced tomato preserves less appetizing (because of the hairs).
It would have been a stench to wrangle any mere mutt from their slumber. But lumbering out of the rubble were no mere mutts. A trio of hell hounds, those dreaded fire-breathing fiends taking the form of dogs, were the sentinels on guard at the ornate entrance.
Syrina noted their ears turned exactly in her direction, and the sniffing at the air likewise tracked every step...sniffing that quickly turned to lip-curling growls. She was made.
,
Round 1:
Syrina, Malaric, Grim, Reya, Simon, Lucian, Lulu <-- UP
Hell Hounds Trio
"Syrina, watch out for their fiery breath!" He calls out.
After the inspiration of Reya, Mal, in an unexpected rush of bravery, dashes toward the hell hounds flapping his leathery wings to rise just out of their potential bite. He reaches into his pocket grasping his precious diamond from his pocket and then shouts, "Thunder!" as if it's the beginning of a song hurling four-inch sphere, which bounces off a hound's nose without detonating.
"Stupid hell." The halfling mumbles to himself hoping Reya gives him points for trying.
Move 30 then guiding bolt as level 2.
for
I'm nearly out of magic here!
"Ah....nice doggies." Syrina says as sweat breaks out across her brow. She risks a backward glance to see the others still near the bottom of the steps. Swallows.
"Klatuu Verada Bonebreaker" She growls pointing finger at the nearest hell hound expecting a blast of eldritch energy to shoot forth.
*Pffffbbbbttttt* The eldritch raspberry drifts gently toward the puzzled hell hound whose head tips to one side at the odd and unexpected sound. A raven cackles.
Suppressing her own sudden urge to cry, Syrina points her other finger at the momentary bemused pup and sends a second blast streaking toward the menacing beast before she turns and scampers as fast as she can back down the steps.
Lucian rushes forward, pulling his bow as he moves and fires off three arrows into one of the hellhounds.
What cute little dogs. Simon is extremely satisfied to be away from them, so he does not rush forward, but simply starts firing at the fiends from afar, starting with the most wounded.
Syrina had a bad combo: a parched throat and a dust-encrusted tongue. With such instruments, the delicate sonic pleasures of rasp, jingle, twinkle and other berries were most harshly produced. The performance seemed to herald a wild crack of intense emotive force made physical, the blast skipping off the steps and leaving behind a curious purple hue on the white stone.
The bounty hunter didn't miss a beat, adjusting her stance and this time funneling the massive fountain of endless energy in a more controlled manner. Imagine punching a campfire. The hound's skin burst in fulminations like coals beneath plates of some char-black organic metal. The beast whimpered in surprise from the force, before glaring his attacker down with a soul-twisting evil doggy-glare...seeming to pull out and categorize Syrina's every weaknesses in some fiendish tactical calculus.
It gave a sniff in Molly's direction, triggering Syrina's retraction.
Grim and Malaric patch her retreat, advancing in a crisscrossing covering maneuver...both slayers with glowing fists raised.
The priest carried light, but it was more than light. It was balance, it was adjudication. A strand of the divine that ever clashed with mortal hands. It may as well be 100 naked babes on fire for how shocking and out of place Kelemvor's essence, His deific signature, seems in hell.
The wizard carried sound, that irresistible boom from the darkest cloud lost in a black sky. The crystal lattice of diamond was the only known focus for the spell, other materials lacking the correct modulus of elasticity required to stabilize the intense vibrations.
Grim's bolt struck true as Malaric's orb bounced off the dog's nose like a silly circus trick. But when the priest's radiant projectile ignited, it created a pressure differential that altered Malaric's sonic orb...pulling it in and crashing in an explosion of light and sound.
Simon tried starting a relatively neutral conversation with Reya, preparing to further detail the quality of their coats, slenderness of their muzzles, thickness of their whiskers and general cuddle-ness.
Reya ran off instantly.
Comfortable alone, the wealthy planar explorer exploited the nuances of his contract with Bel to wrangle up another pair of preternatural weapons...gleaming with rich artifice the strange magic tumbled up the steps, pummeling the dogs of hell again and again. Tasty bits of charcoal dog flesh spiced with the epidermal parasites of hell sprinkled the stately steps of the cathedral.
But it was Lucian's bow that stunned everyone. The Arisen Guard who once wandered the shadow orchards of Celestia had an uncanny skill with marksmanship...fate unquestionably had sent the warrior here to defend the capital during this critical juncture.
*toot toot toot* Of course Lulu ruined it by tooting during each of the three shots.
When the dust had settled, only one of the hell hounds stood back up.
Round 1:
Syrina, Malaric, Grim, Reya, Simon, Lucian, Lulu
Hell Hounds Mono <-- UP