Grym is disgusted at seeing the corpse. But rather than go in and inspect the cause of her death, he says Anethra since this is your area of expertise why don't you examine the body and tell us how well the "conversation" went for this poor soul.
Grym leans insolently against the nearest wall not interested in her reply on the virtues of bargaining/consorting/conversing with fiends.
Following the older blood-trail leads you to what can only be described as a cruel parody of a lecture hall: the room is dark, moist, and rank with the smell of sweat, mildew, and iron. Desks sit in even, tiered rows facing the southern end of the room, where thick metal chains hang from the slate-covered wall above a rusted torture rack. Suspended from these chains swings the limp body of Illia Ean, her tunic is soaked in blood and her skin as white as chalk. Gore has gathered below her on the floor, the tips of her boots not quite coming down to meet the crimson pool. Her face is covered by her own hair, which falls lankly over her downcast features.
Viridel is quiet as he steps into the room. He says nothing to the discussion between Anethra, Maginrad, Grymwold, and Laree.
They saved Maginrad from a fate worse than death--but was their attempt in gathering more Key-lights an exercise in futility? Was only one truly necessary?
He observes the gently-swinging corpse of the rogue. Could they have saved her if they were faster? Was this her Destiny?
He then paused.
She is swinging.
There is no wind here.
Viridel looks up. Asniroth's eyes pierce the shadows.
"Oh grow up, Grimwold dear," sighs Anethra as she enters the room and begins descending the steps.
She moves boldly down to the southern end of the room, where she stops before the corpse with a dissatisfied frown. Then, unless prevented from doing so, she reaches out to caress Illia's chin.
"I'll help," the healer jogs after the long-limbed Anethra as she heads toward the dangling rogue. When the cleric's intention of casting a resurrection ritual is seen, Laree will begin to release the body from its temporary prison within the chains and lower her carefully down to the ground.
"Whatever it was, it came up from behind her...these are claw markings. From a hand." She displays this for those there to see with her own hand by hovering over the wound. "The claws being quite long. We should keep our eyes open in here and as we journey. If it snuck up on an attentive person like her, no doubt it was stealthy, if not invisible."
She then goes quiet to allow Anethra to complete her spell without distraction.
Viridel looks up. Asniroth's eyes pierce the shadows.
Despite the ominousness of the scene, there is no apparent danger—discerned through the ever-present orange haze, even mundane sights appear to come alive with malevolent intent. Was the body even swinging in the first place, or was it just a mirage...?
She moves boldly down to the southern end of the room, where she stops before the corpse with a dissatisfied frown. Then, unless prevented from doing so, she reaches out to caress Illia's chin.
"I'll help," the healer jogs after the long-limbed Anethra as she heads toward the dangling rogue. When the cleric's intention of casting a resurrection ritual is seen, Laree will begin to release the body from its temporary prison within the chains and lower her carefully down to the ground.
Illia's stiff body is lowered onto the stone floor, away from the pool of gore. Her face is set into a rictus of fear and surprise, her eyes and cheeks terribly sunken.
Anethra lays a hand on the body and murmurs a prayer, attempting to coax the departed spirit to return. She produces a brilliant diamond, using it as the focus of her rogations. The gem begins cloud with red, as if a drop of blood had been shed into a clear pool—and then abruptly returns to translucence as the unholy energies disperse. Something has gone wrong. Having previously tried to call unwilling souls back from the hereafter, the priestess knows that this is different: it seems as if there simply is no animating essence to reunite with the body. Or perhaps some force is arresting its return...?
As the body is handled, the scroll clutched in its grasp comes loose and rolls open on the floor: it is readily apparent to both Anethra and Laree that this is an infernal contract, written in blood on a sheet of dried human skin. Even at a glance, a few words stand out to those who know the Infernal tongue, either due to their repetition or their relevance to your current situation: "Illia Ean," "soul," "Acadamae," "servant," "eternity," "world," "contract," "blood," "Asmodeus," "willingly," and "Nagxiv."
However, imperceptibly to a lay reader, the wording of the text includes several cunning and mutually exclusive clauses that end up making Illia's own soul the object of the contract, no matter her choice, such as by giving the devil the power to unilaterally decline any replacement soul that he deems inadequate. Notably, despite this purposive captiousness, the promise of safety afforded to Illia does appear to be generally authentic and effectual.
Grym looks on with interest as Anethra and Laree try some spellcasting with the dead body. Not seeing any effect he thinks they may have been trying some divination that may not have worked.
Bayard keeps watch while those better-equipped attempt to help Ilia.
Anethra sits back on her heels and sighs. "Well, this isn't happening."
She slips the diamond back into its pouch and takes up the scroll. "Hmm."
She scans the document, then rereads it more carefully.
She then tosses the scroll atop Illia's corpse. "And there's why. It seems our dear friend here signed a contract with Nagxiv offering a soul in exchange for mortal protection against all fiends inhabiting Belzeragna. From the way this contract's written, however, she was clearly tricked into being forced to deliver her own soul, and - yes. All very tedious. But it does beg the question. How did she know of this pocket realm with such advance notice as to negotiate such a terrible contract, and if she were inured from all physical, mental, and spiritual assaults from fiends, then what manner of non-fiend did this to her?"
Laree looks frustrated as the diamond seems almost rejected. Her first thoughts were that such a diamond was perhaps a fake and Anethra was conned, but then the cleric notices the note. After listening patiently, she sighs, frustrated and enraged at the thought of the trickery used.
"I believe the answer to that may go back to the previous room. Fleshwarping mortals, and if this place slowly bends wills, no doubt someone here has come to do the will of those who are in charge."
Almost mad, she stands and does not voice her concern that it may very well be her own brother.
Viridel silently observes the two ladies (three of Elann) trying to resurrect the dead thief, and sits down, focusing on his own spell. This was supposed to be for the Hall of Wards, but it must do now.
He closes his eyes as Anethra's verbal invocations of resurrection fades from his focus, and he channels the power of divination. A stick of incense burns between two of his fingers, saturating the room.
He spends minutes in focus, mumbling phrases and prayers and invocations--before speaking out, eyes opening.
"Legend Lore," he speaks.
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A stick of incense burns between two of his fingers, saturating the room.
He spends minutes in focus, mumbling phrases and prayers and invocations--before speaking out, eyes opening.
Breathing in the incense, you thumb through the rune-carved ivory chips that serve as the focus for the ritual, closing off everything but the soothing odour of Fierani oleander and the rhythmic clacking of the ivory. Slowly, as you concentrate and peer ever further Beyond, your inner voice starts to form into a spoken narrative. Taking on the style of an old elven legend, the voice intones secrets heretofore unknown to any mortal...
"So it was that the Unraveler lost the favour of his sworn liege, the Erinyes Queen. Forced to retreat before her destructive wrath, he draped himself in forbidden dweomers and thereby fled the Pit, evading the Queen's Furies. With him to exile the Duke brought only his most loyal retainers—those that would have aided him in overthrowing his mistress—as well as a Seed of infernal potential. Torn from the very flesh of Mother Hell, the Seed carried within itself the promise of renewed damnation, of profound blasphemies and unrighteous vengeance. For the power of a lord is his land, and a lord without land is no lord at all."
"In mortal guise the Duke plotted. Having found in the World fertile soil, ground seeped in malfeasance most diabolic, he planted the seed and began to feed it. Decade after decade, soul by soul it grew and blossomed: the Flower of Perdition, a True Daughter to her Mother. And the Unraveler saw what his sorceries had wrought, and bearing witness to its profane glory, he named it Belzeragna, and there he would bide his time and prepare for his triumphant return—"
The story comes to an abrupt end, as if the narrator had been strangled mid-sentence, and the mark of your forehead burns with renewed agony. For a moment, there is another voice, almost overwhelming in its might and near unbearable in its dark irony, a deadly mix of amusement and annoyance:
Grym waits patiently as the casters do their thing
When Viridel begins his casting of Legend Lore, Laree moves near to Maganrad and begins to remake her mutagen, as the one she drank will quickly run out of duration before the end of his casting. During this time, she will inquire more of him, to know of his family, friends, what the school is like, if he feels better, etc. When Viridel's casting is up, she only has a few more minutes herself to finish her mutagenic vial before she is ready. In that time, they can hear what Viridel has learned.
Viridel's intonations stop. His eyes are wide and white, shining with arcane light. He mumbles something under his breath--before choking.
He waves his hand in a warding gesture, severing the story, and falling back. The incense rolls on the floor, extinguished, and the rune-carved stones scatter on the floor chaotically.
Viridel's eyes revert to normal, and a stream of blood trickles from the mark on his forehead.
"I've Seen something," he says slowly and shakily. "I--"
The scattered rune-stones show an ominous pattern: the Wyrm constallation.
"The stones speak of 'The Wyrm': A dragon who guards his hoard--a symbol mostly associated with evil."
He pauses, hoping beyond hope that he is wrong.
"We face a Duke of Hell," he says quietly.
Grym puts his hand on his friend's shoulder. We've faced many challenges together and lived to tell the tales.....I for one am looking forward to telling this one at the Drunken Smith tavern back home..."Ya see it all started when this Duke of Hell made a big mistake...."
Bayard spends their waiting time with simple exercises with his axe. Nothing tiring, not putting much power into it. The big half-ofc is surprisingly graceful, given that he’s wearing fullplate and wielding a greataxe. That doesn’t mean anyone’s going to mistake him for a duelist, though. When Maganrad reveals the nature of their enemy, he brings his axe down in a sudden, mighty strike, burying it a convenient piece of furniture. ”May he meet this fate as well.”
after giving the group time to discuss the ramifications of Viridels revelation, Hell Duke(not to be confused with Hell Boy), Grym will lead the group out of the room with Ilia's corpse to a single door (see map)
and then will open the door and see what's beyond it
Dread stretches over Laree's face as Viridel speaks about the foe they are to face. Her eyes travel over to Anethra for her insight. Would she support them or seek to gain favor from this entity?
She is mostly silent as she finishes up her concoction, only stating, "I am here for my brother or knowledge of what happened to him. If we can come out of this alive, whether it is by crushing this Duke of Hell with your ax or by the wise words of someone accustomed to dealing with such a foe, then so be it."
Would she be easily drawn by the temptations herein to find out this information about her brother? Only time will tell. She continues in step, lingering behind Grymwold as he continues on.
Viridel is quiet for a moment.
"I see no eyes of the enemy in this room," he says slowly, enchanted eyes viewing the surroundings. "In truth, I fear he might be a foe beyond any of us. Your determination and focus on your goal is wise; we need only to deliver those robbed from us, and bring peace to the rest."
He does not give life to his dounbt they can dethrone a Duke of Hell, current status as a fugitive from the lower realms nonwithstanding.
"Whoever took out our thief here must have employed a great amount of negative energy," he says, looking to Anethra. "Can you ward us from this power?
Anethra's eyes light up at Viridel's words, and then she rises to her feet, hand going to her chest to clutch at her magnificent choker, and she stumbles back, her alarm and fear obvious.
"A duke, you say?" For a moment she just stares at Viridel, and then she laughs, the sound low and with undertones of hysteria. "Then we are both blessed beyond measure and cursed without end. What can we mere mortals accomplish against such a fiend? Less than nothing, and only what it wills. Viridel is correct in one thing, however: we can but seek to win through without overtly rousing its ire. Only by being as cockroaches may we win through... and only if it deigns to allow us passage."
For a long moment she stares off at nothing, eyes darting back and forth, and then Viridel's question brings her back to the present.
"Ward you from negative energy? Of course. But I would need time to prepare those spells. Time... yes. We should stay here, restore our strength, and recover our powers. I must change my approach if we are to hope to survive in this realm."
When Viridel begins his casting of Legend Lore, Laree moves near to Maganrad and begins to remake her mutagen, as the one she drank will quickly run out of duration before the end of his casting. During this time, she will inquire more of him, to know of his family, friends, what the school is like, if he feels better, etc.
Maganrad is happy to make small-talk, and given the circumstances, does not shy away from personal topics. The young Ulfen has little to say about his family, save that his father was a useless drunkard and that he never knew his mother. Though he is popular with his peers, he does not have many 'true' friends, meaning that he treasures such genuine connections all the more. As an enchanter, he is always worried about the authenticity of people's feelings, both his own and others'. He has sworn to use his powers responsibly, but at the Acadamae—and the Hall of Charms especially—he is always surrounded by people without similar compunctions. Due to his success, Dean Heresta Tarlan has taken him under her wing, somewhat against his will. She hopes to further her own reputation through association with such a bright pupil, but her constant meddling and scheming makes the private apprenticeship just barely worth the hassle.
Somewhat undecided on what to do after he finishes his studies, Maganrad has been thinking of travelling further south to seek his fortune. Ever since he stowed away to Korvosa, he has pined for the open waves—a tour around the Inner Sea might just be enough to satisfy that longing.
Also known as Lords of Hell, the Dukes of Perdition, and the Princes of Damnation, infernal dukes are just that—high nobility, each of them swearing fealty to one of nine Kings (the archdevils) who in turn pay tribute to a sovereign Emperor (Asmodeus). They constitute a land-holding elite, watching over a section of their liege's domain, and contribute a tithe of souls for their privilege. They often have additional duties based on their particular interests and talents, such as commanding legions of devils in battle or guarding hell-mouths and infernal treasuries. Each duke's personal might varies greatly, but all hold power greater than the greatest pit fiends, enough to be considered demi-gods, though still far beneath the primordial strength of their archdevil overlords.
Whereas the archdevils often receive ancillary veneration from Asmodeans as saintly figures and exemplars of diabolic virtues, the Dukes of Hell more often cultivate small cults or make deals with mortals on an individual basis. Whilst their constant in-fighting and scheming is well constrained by layers upon layers of draconian etiquette and unwritten rules of propriety, the dukes are generally regarded by church authorities with some caution. Knowledge of their hierarchies is still considered important for any aspiring diabolist, lest they be entangled in the Dukes' millennia-long rivalries and endlessly intricate conspiracies.
Viridel's grim estimation of your chances is realistic, at least when it comes to open combat: the greatest mortal heroes, armed with potent magicks and god-forged artifacts, might just be able to face a Duke of Hell and live to tell the tale. Even then, victory would be far from assured.
Dread stretches over Laree's face as Viridel speaks about the foe they are to face. Her eyes travel over to Anethra for her insight.
She is mostly silent as she finishes up her concoction, only stating, "I am here for my brother or knowledge of what happened to him. If we can come out of this alive, whether it is by crushing this Duke of Hell with your ax or by the wise words of someone accustomed to dealing with such a foe, then so be it."
Viridel is quiet for a moment.
"I see no eyes of the enemy in this room," he says slowly, enchanted eyes viewing the surroundings. "In truth, I fear he might be a foe beyond any of us. Your determination and focus on your goal is wise; we need only to deliver those robbed from us, and bring peace to the rest."
Anethra's eyes light up at Viridel's words, and then she rises to her feet, hand going to her chest to clutch at her magnificent choker, and she stumbles back, her alarm and fear obvious.
"A duke, you say?" For a moment she just stares at Viridel, and then she laughs, the sound low and with undertones of hysteria. "Then we are both blessed beyond measure and cursed without end. What can we mere mortals accomplish against such a fiend? Less than nothing, and only what it wills. Viridel is correct in one thing, however: we can but seek to win through without overtly rousing its ire. Only by being as cockroaches may we win through... and only if it deigns to allow us passage."
Maganrad, already fair of complexion, looks noticeably pale at Viridel's declaration.
"Well," he says in a tone of forced levity, "for whatever my opinion is worth, count me firmly amongst those in opposition to fisticuffs with a demi-god."
Unless anyone objects, the enchanter takes Illia's contract and stows it away. "Just in case we find the devil's copy—to destroy both; that is the only way to annul the contract and free her soul. That is assuming it is still under this Nagxiv's control, in any case..."
If it were not for the fresh scent of gore and blood in the room, she'd actually enjoy speaking to Maganrad. Were they in a field on an autumn day having a picnic under the sun, she'd be all smiles. Instead, she just tries to keep her thoughts off the doom reaching over them. He is a pleasant distraction, and not bad to look at either. Though the subject of his oppression brings her down a little bit, she will return giving him hope.
"I have travled south. It is beautiful being on the sea. Dangerous, but beautiful."
She would tell that she left her studies here and headed into her own study, not defined by anyone else, but free. That perhaps once he is finished, he can go his own course and not let others tell him what he must be?
-----------
Upon Viridel's revelation, she sours and looks around them.
"Perhaps we should rest. Who knows how deadly this realm will be. I can rework my extracts to be better fitting I suppose. Can we go elsewhere though? I also want to spend as little time here as possible."
She doesn't say as much, but she doesn't particularly feel like working to free Illia's soul.
Grym doesn't like the idea of sleeping in the same room with Ilia's corpse either I'll move Ilia's body into the other room with the she-devil corpse. Hope ya don't mind but I don't like sleeping in a room with a corpse whose soul has been sold. Feels like whoever owns the soul could watch through her eyes maybe.
if there are no objections Grym moves the corpse and then returns to take the first watch
"I'm not sure that can be done. But there's no reason to take chances.
I'll help if you need it." Bayard says.
Viridel asks, "Do you feel well after breaking free of the devil's hold? Do you fear that she has some lingering power over you?"
"My spells are likewise best employed against creatures not from Hell. I will need time to prepare my mnemonics as well," he says, drifting to a student's chair, and crossing his legs. "Call for me if you need me...I will be half-present."
He soon enters into an elven trance.
Viridel asks, "Do you feel well after breaking free of the devil's hold? Do you fear that she has some lingering power over you?"
"I feel about as well as one can," answers Maganrad, "after such an unpleasant experience. Thank you for your concern. Of course, I have been enchanted before, though not, uh... extracurricularly. The irony of it all does sting a bit, though I am certain my self-esteem can weather the blow."
The Ulfen politely declines Viridel's offer, electing to spend his limited time on deciphering Wolfe's spellbook.
Even without the ghastly remains of Illia Ean, the lecture hall is hardly an inviting place to rest in: the chains on the far wall rattle without any perceptible draft, the shadows of the desks and chairs loom and writhe in the orange haze, and the temperature is never quite cool or warm enough to be comfortable for mortal habitation. The pool of gore left behind by the dead burglar proves unnaturally resilient to any attempts to clean it or cover it up, further limiting the already cramped quarters. However, the iron door seems durable enough once barricaded, and as short as the day has been, you have undergone some considerable labours since the beginning of the Breaching Festival mere hours earlier—enough to make the prospect of an extended nap more than a little enticing.
After chatting with Laree for a few more moments, equally happy for the distraction, Maganrad settles down for an hour or so and goes through Wolfe's spellbook. Finally, the enchanter gives in to his exhaustion and dozes off at one of the desks, his arms curled protectively around the precious grimoire.
All of you—save for Anethra—sleep fitfully, tormented by sights of hellish tortures and maddening otherwordly landscapes filled with deserts of rust, seas of boiling blood, and infinite cities of iron spires stretching for miles towards a black void above. For her part, Anethra sees much of the same, though she feels nothing but rapturous delight. Most of your watches are quiet, though filled with nervous paranoia and the lingering terror of your somnolent envisionings.
You are just about to alert your companions, but as the bone devils notice you watching them back, they immediately teleport away.
If nothing else, she will attempt to conceal the smell of the gore with a chemical concoction. At its resilience, she submits, resigning it to be the evil of this realm keeping such an offending presence in their mind. This is further evidenced when Laree moves next to Elann and the two find comfort to sleep for a little. Laree wakes with a jolt, almost scaring the simulacrum, who did not likely struggle so greatly, or at all in her dreams (assuming they have any).
The youth tries to play it off and brings out some food for others who do not have any. She offers bread, butter, and salt. Water flavored with a refreshing rasberry "fruit punch" chemical flavoring would greet their parched lips if they so wanted, or she would allow them to drink from her canteen that contains wine. Those who drink from the wine (tears to wine) will find their mental compacity and abilities more resilient. Laree partakes of both, one for enjoyment, the other for the benefits.
Eventually, she sets out making some potions, extracts, and sets Elann to the task as well.
Anethra moves about the lecture hall, humming odes to Asmodeus under her breath, reaching out to ghost her fingertips over different surfaces, or simply to gaze abstractedly at the stage. She seems quite at peace, if even energized by their surroundings, and it's with relief that she relinquishes her vigil to kneel before the stage and perform her ablutions, praising Asmodeus and his many aspects as she replenishes her reservoir of spells.
When she is done, she accepts Laree's offer of bread, butter, and salt, and chews leisurely, washing the repast down with wine. She compliments the alchemist for her beverage of choice, and otherwise awaits the resumption of their quest with languid amusement.
Grym can eat a ton but he holds back this time making sure the others can get a fair share of the food. And while he prefers ale, magic wine is perfectly acceptable.
"I feel about as well as one can," answers Maganrad, "after such an unpleasant experience. Thank you for your concern. Of course, I have been enchanted before, though not, uh... extracurricularly. The irony of it all does sting a bit, though I am certain my self-esteem can weather the blow."Viridel asks, "Do you feel well after breaking free of the devil's hold? Do you fear that she has some lingering power over you?"
Viridel nods, and retreats to his pew. In his trance, he faintly notices Laree performing her alchemical recipes.
He gives a small smile, recognizing her recipe, confident in her abilities.
Later on, he partakes in her wine, if only to bolster his resilience in this hellish realm. He also weaves added taste to the food with his magic.
While eating, he speaks up.
"We had visitors during our rest."
"And they didn't attack?" she asks, curiously. Perhaps her elder is speaking of a vision he had? She didn't sleep well, but she certainly doesn't recall hearing or seeing anything alarming. The doors are still sealed as well...
Viridel shook his head.
"They were spies, and disappeared the moment I noticed them," he answered. "I would not be fast enough to catch both even had I tried, even with the Prison of Light."
Laree can't grasp the details of the spell, but understands the basics.
"Well, I think we can assume the master of this realm knows we are here then. I think our dangers may increase here on out..."
She readies herself and stows all of her gear while a bemused smile is upon her face. A short moment later, it fades and she slings her pack onto her back. With a nod, she signals she is ready to head out. With everyone having finished their meal, she accepts any compliments with a smile and nod, and then stows it as well. She readies her mutagen in hand, just in case there is something nasty on the other side of the door.
Having managed to steal a few hours of sleep and a bite to eat, the group sets out once more to explore the many horrors of Belzeragna...
Pushing open the double doors opposite the laboratory brings you to what appears to be a well-stocked academic library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves cover the walls of this dimly lit room, housing thousands of bound volumes and scrolls, with shorter stacks creating small dividers in the space interior. The air is aflutter with pages: books rearrange themselves constantly, flying through the orange-tinged haze and shifting about haphazardly. A reading table sits empty and unused in the library's centre, its surface marred by dark stains and countless tiny scratches, while a swivelling chair lies splintered on the floor.
At one of the bookshelves stands the ruin of a man. He is lanky and tall, with a shaggy mop of long dark hair and an equally dishevelled sparse beard. Though his thin features might once have been considered handsome, they have been ravaged by years of intense stress, and his naturally dusky complexion has turned pallid from an extended lack of sunlight. Haunted blue eyes stare from deep within their dark-limned sockets; thin lips have been drawn into a perpetual grimace. The man clearly has some elven blood, making it hard to judge his age, though by human reckoning he must be somewhere in his thirties or forties. He is dressed in the tattered rags of a once-fine robe, seemingly the height of last year's wizardly couture, and still carries on his person the likewise threadbare paraphernalia of a learned mage.
The shabby half-elf busies himself with tearing out books and scrolls seemingly at random, barely stopping to look at any of them before he moves on to the next. As soon as he tosses one aside, it flies across the room and shelves itself elsewhere. Distracted as he is by his task, it takes him a few moments to notice your appearance. As he does, he is momentarily shocked out of his frenzied hurry, staring wild-eyed at Laree.
"Laree?" he exclaims hoarsely, his confusion quickly turning into naked terror. "No, no, you're not supposed to be here...!"
He convulses violently, dark veins bulging across his face and neck. Suddenly he leaps up, impossibly high for an ordinary mortal, his body contorting weirdly as he latches onto the shelf and clambers up onto it like a spider. Clearly in pain, he lets out an near-inhuman screech: "LEAVE, NOW! GET AWAY FROM ME!"
This is undoubtedly Wolfe Everglow, though he looks decades older than he did when you last saw him—not merely wearied or worn out by exhaustion and mental stress (which he certainly is), but literally aged beyond what he should be. He looks older than Laree!
The library is swarming with imps—hundreds of them. They flit invisibly between the shelves, carefully retrieving and shelving the books tossed aside by the half-elf. Others lounge on the desk and shelves, as if waiting for their shift at the rearranging. All of the little devils turn to look at the intruders, poking and shoving each other into watchfulness. They do not immediately cease their clerkly duties or attack, but look ready and eager to do so.
Obviously, a single imp would not prove an issue for you or your companions, but a hundred of poisonous stings at once might be a cause for concern...
This man is possessed. While there are many ways a devil might seize bodily control of a living mortal, this is most often the work of beings known as gidim, or possession devils. Once the souls of unabashedly depraved and hateful mortals sentenced to Hell in punishment for lives of sin—especially the sin of envy—they occasionally find themselves plucked from their torments and reforged in infernal crucibles, etched with bindings of hellish magic, then set loose upon the living. These evil souls bear many of the powers of devils, but fall outside the normal infernal hierarchies, not being considered true devils by their fiendish peers.
More than mere souls yet less than fiends, gidims find themselves barred from the mortal plane by the laws of existence. Their minds and memories linger on half-forgotten lives, however, and upon long-lost emotions and sensations. Driven by this obsession, they endlessly seek ways to infiltrate the paths of the living. Travelling to the Ethereal Plane, they peer into the Material Plane, seeking out hapless mortals and drawing power from their hatred, their violence, their sorrow, and especially their fears. Continued feeding upon and encouragement of such emotions grants them greater ability to invade the mortal realm and potentially steal new bodies, through which their foulness might live again. In their natural forms they are little more than bodiless impressions of unnatural evil and malevolence.
Gidims have many supernatural powers that allow them to to sow fear, torment innocents, spread mistrust, and ruin lives. Most often these are relatively petty tricks, but they are used with endless ingenuity, most often on those with no defence against such magicks—the ignorant and the superstitious.
Two breeds of gidim exist, known to diabolists as lesser and greater possession devils. Both appear nearly identical—insofar as there is anything to perceive—but greater possession devils are created from spirits of extraordinary, near-legendary evil beings. These foulest of souls are granted even more powerful diabolical abilities and are often loosed by their infernal masters to torment, unhinge, and ultimately destroy the mortal enemies of Hell.
Whereas lesser possession devils are cowardly parasites, relatively easy to vanquish by any halfway competent exorcist, the greater breed has more outright destructive powers. Moreover, they have full control over the abilities of their host body, making them capable of using the most stalwart champions of goodness to wreak their evil on the world. Even if they are driven out of their hosts, they are more likely to possess another body out of spite rather than flee to the Ether.
Viridel drifts into the room behind the rest after finishing his breakfast, fingers crushing (and burning) a single bean of coffee to bestow upon him heightened awareness for the coming challenges.
What was unseen to the others was the first to be noticed by the wizard. A veritable cloud of imps. He turns from them to the lanky figure--who must be a cursed soul doomed to--
Viridel stops in mid-air, recognizing the man from a distance as he tore off pages in what appeared as his personal hell.
"...Wolfe?" he spoke aloud.
"LEAVE, NOW! GET AWAY FROM ME!"
Viridel narrowed his eyes.
"Wolfe...you have fallen into shadow," His calm voice is betrayed by his sad eyes, as he says to his companions, "He is possessed. I can see it."
He then adds in an undertone, "Be wary--the books are not animated, but carried; there are enough imps flying here to rival the skies of Korvosa at the most unholy nights--I see at least a hundred."
"I can isolate us," Anethra whispers quietly. "A wall of stone or whirling blades, to keep the imps at bay while you focus on Wolfe?"
Laree's eyes strain over the contents and happenings of the room as the doors first open. Immediately they settle on the figure; half expecting a devil of some kind. His body language, frustrations, and wild tearing out of books are alien to her, yet as he spins, there is something in his eyes still familiar to her. His voice is not the same, but she recognizes her dear sweet brother after the potential decades of ravages within this demiplane.
Despite the peace in her heart in not finding him some horrid abomination of fleshwarping experimentation, she crumbles at his words and convulsions. His appearance, like a wild version of her father in likeness, sets her still.
She takes charge of speaking to him while her companions plan behind her. Her brother's screech tears at her soul as tears fill her eyes.
"Dearest, Wolfe. Did you really think your sister would not come for you? You have long since wanted to shed that lesser gidim..." she states, more an insult to what she suspects is a greater Gidim within him, "...for some time now I suspect. His torture and destruction are over, but you have to resist him now! Fortify your soul and fight!" Weakly she begs him, "Please..."
Grym waits to see how this all plays out. Not wanting to light the powder-keg by making the wrong move, but more than eager to smash some imps no matter how numerous they may be
Bayard nods when Viridel speaks of possession. The signs are clear. What is less clear to the executioner is how to fix it. As the mage tells of imps, the paladin grows still. He does his best to appear casual, but follows the movement of the books with his eyes.
She takes charge of speaking to him while her companions plan behind her. Her brother's screech tears at her soul as tears fill her eyes.
"Dearest, Wolfe. Did you really think your sister would not come for you? You have long since wanted to shed that lesser gidim..." she states, more an insult to what she suspects is a greater Gidim within him, "...for some time now I suspect. His torture and destruction are over, but you have to resist him now! Fortify your soul and fight!" Weakly she begs him, "Please..."
Wolfe stumbles and wavers on top of the bookshelf—as if momentarily confused about how he got up there—and begins to tear at his hair and clothes in anguish. He also starts to cry, tears drawing swaths of clean skin through his dirt-encrusted face.
"I'm sorry," he mutters half-coherently. "There's... there's no fighting it. I don't know how long it's been. This place... it's changing me. I fear... it's too late..."
Suddenly the half-elf's sobs turn into hysterical laughter. "TOO LATE! TOO LATE! GO NOW, OR I WILL TEAR OUT HIS EYES AND MAKE HIM EAT THEM!"
The books have stopped their constant movement, but the fluttering sounds have not ceased—Viridel can see that the imps are flocking together near the ceiling.
In a droll tone, most likely to throw the screaming entity off its guard, she replies, "No doubt it has changed you. Surely you noticed the plane's qualities when you arrived. Just because you are changed, doesn't mean you can't change back," she argues. "Anyway! We'll leave you to your work then."
She turns to her companions.
"Wall of stone to isolate us from the imps," she quickly communicates to Anethra in a whisper. To her two hulking protectors, she requests quickly, also in a whisper, "You two rush him and grapple him, drag him out, and we shut the doors behind us. With him subdued from self-harm, the entity may come out by its own will to fight us and we tear it down out in the hall." Although she is trying to be brave and well-put-together, there is a tremble in her voice at the thought of her brother going through this. It is only because of her hatred for the possessing gidim that she has not crumpled.
As soon as Grym hears the maniacal laughter and the bit about eating eyes he says a quick prayer to Torag beseeching his wisdom and without any outward display Gryms mighty shield is now blessed with the Liberating ability
Grym remains stoic and unthreatening. With no outer display to give away that anything has changed.
He'll try knocking the possessing devil out of Wolfe (+5save) and failing that will knock him unconscious with non-lethal damage
Maganrad moves into the hallway, attempting to stay out of the devils' sight. He crouches down, sprinkling around his feet a small circle of powdered silver, and proceeds to recite the formulae necessary to shield the group against possession. All of this is done with well-practised alacrity and precision.
"Be careful," he warns anyone who tries to push forward. "The spell does not extend all the way into the room."
While her companions move forward to grab hold of her brother, Laree also will aid them by trying to grab his feet so that they may be able to drag him back to the circle and out of the room.
Bayard charges into the room, attempting to bowl the possessed wizard over and lock him up in a grapple.
Grym sees his Bayard and Laree start to rush forward to grapple the possessed man and decides to join in.
Grym charges forward smashing his shield into the possessed man
Melee, 2handed PA(-4 +12)
Bull Rush +4 vs CMD
after Grym charges forward smacking the man with his shield, his head swivels about readying himself for an onslaught of invisible imps, not knowing if they'll turn visible after attacking like many creatures do or stay invisible.
He closes his eyes letting his senses expand
An invisible attacker gets no advantages related to hitting you in melee. That is, you don’t lose your Dexterity bonus to Armor Class, and the attacker doesn’t get the usual +2 bonus for being invisible. The invisible attacker’s bonuses do still apply for ranged attacks, however.
You do not need to make Acrobatics skill checks to move at full speed while blinded.
Normal: Regular attack roll modifiers for invisible attackers trying to hit you apply, and you lose your Dexterity bonus to AC. The speed reduction for darkness and poor visibility also applies.
Special: The Blind-Fight feat is of no use against a character who is the subject of a blink spell.
and says a quick prayer to Torag preparing himself to fight a multitude of tiny foes
Benefit(s): You gain a +1 dodge bonus against attacks made by creatures at least two size categories smaller than yourself, and gain a +1 bonus to attack and damage rolls against such creatures. Additionally, you take only half damage from swarm attacks, and as a full-round action can make a single attack with a natural or bludgeoning weapon against an adjacent swarm. If the attack hits, you deal half damage to the target, even if the swarm is small enough to normally be immune to such attacks.
Viridel, readies himself to execute their plan. He makes a casual gesture, as if wiping a wall from left to right, and a shimmering translucent wall manifests to sever their party and Wolfe from the hundreds of imps.
As he speaks the words of power, he also speaks a premonition.
"You shall yield, devil," he says. It is not a threat nor a prediction. It is a fact.
Bayard grabs onto Wolfe's ankle while Laree hangs on the other, yanking him down from the shelf and into the paladin's firm embrace. The possessed wizards bites and kicks feebly but with spiteful ferociousness, until he is smashed in the face by Grymwold's shield. The devil lets out a screech as the shield's magic attempts to oust it from its host, but it yet manages to cling onto the half-elf's ravaged mind.
Anethra and Viridel likewise work in concert to shield the others from attack: on the left, a wall of black obsidian comes into being, while the right side of the library is secured by a glimmering rampart of magical energy. You can hear the sounds of hundreds of little claws scrabbling on the other side of the stone wall, and Viridel can see the imps on the other side of his barrier bumping against it fruitlessly.
Wolfe lets out a maniacal laugh, accompanied by words of power. Even as he is squeezed by Bayard and battered by Grymwold, the possessed wizard manages to contort his arm enough to form the necessary gestures for a spell. A glimmery globe of energy, similar to Viridel's abjuration, springs up around him, separating him from Bayard's hold in an instant. He gets back up on his feet and knocks triumphantly on the inside of the barrier.
"Useless!" gloats the devil. "Do you think Master would let him leave so easily? Until his task is finished, there is no way of removing Wolfe from this room..."
The half-elf raises a dirty fingernail to its brow, turning his bloodshot gaze on Laree. "Now, which one should I pop first...? I'll let you choose, sister! Left or right?"