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Ideally we'll leave the enemy only a 5-foot wide path (one square) to get to us. That way they can only advance one at a time, while we can hit them with three. Of course there will be much ranged attacks to deal with. The ghouls are known to have good mages, and occasionally bows. Are we certain this is the best plan? Might not we all stick together and rescue who we need to rescue together? I'm never very confident about plans that involve splitting forces, unless we know every step of what will happen. If they fighting force is cut off, they might be overrun. Can we guarantee the flanking force can come to their aid? Who all is the flanking force? Is there any reason it needs to be more than one? If just Arianna can go, then we're still mostly intact.
Puffing, Aterro finally manages to run up to where the last of the melee had ended. "So, Gunnar, you plan for us to have two forces, one to dally with the next attack, and one to circle around and strike the objective, eh? The distracting force can distract in one of two ways. First would be as you say, to use speed and stealth to stay -just- ahead of the forces so they are always in chase but never in contact. I see only one of us that has the capabilities for so doing this merry dance." His close-shaven pate turns to start at the diminutive Scramsax. "Of course how this force could be salvaged once the objective is complete is not entirely known.... Or, the distraction could be one of GLORIOUS COMBAT! To this we can have a stand of stout yeomen, who man a prepared position and force the attackers to lay siege and fight on unfavorable terms. Thus, once the objective is completed, then the second force could turn and catch the besiegers in the rear where they can be crushed in good order! Otherwise we must needs dance to the tune of the Shadow Road as the halfling is going on about, and embrace all the dangers that therein entails." Having been so recently held hostage by the whims of this quasi-magic, he shudders at traveling that way after so recently getting out.
Deathmetal makes a sickened, squelching sounds as the paladin yanks his mace out of the skull of the recently felled ghoul. "We all take our pleasures where we can get them," he states at Arianna. "And are you not a bard? I should think that ANY tale you tell must of course be better than the real thing! I think that did I hear the tale you would tell about this killing right here, upon hearing it I would stand up and cry 'O, if only I had been there!' There is still fighting going on. Perhaps if I hurry I can catch the last glimpses of it." Aterro trots forward toward the fracas, looking for some last fleeting movement that he can hit until it goes away.
"Reinforcements? You mean we get to kill MORE of them? Of glory unto Thor for bringing more of these greyskins to our path to be trampled under our boots of STEEL! Nay, I can not tell how much more glory and honor can be coming for us, and even less so if their runners are caught by our airborne forces and fallen by Death From Above. No matter, they will come to us or we to them. Just like this worthy before us!" Unwilling to spend any of his grace on felling a single ghoul, Aterro focuses on the poetic grace of single combat. As if sensing his master's heightened martial attention, Deathmetal awakens and LEAPS to the attack. Again Aterro feels his hand to be but holding the hilt as the weapon-end dances and advances of its own will, him but the earthly tie that holds the force of death into this material realm.
"And wait for ME!" Aterro yells in powerlessness as the flying trio take off into airy flight. "Oh confound! If ONLY I had a FLYING! CARPET! to keep pace with! Harrumph," he yells after them, harkening back to the recently (to him, at least) lost carpet that was swapped in for an ephemeral cat. A poor trade at twice the price. "I bet he doesn't even still have the cat," Aterro mumbles, turning away from the chase and giving it over to those with less fealty to gravity. Returning to the bard, he is greeted with a satisfactory consolation prize of one ghoul with enough life and heart to return to the battle line. "Oh Thor does shine upon me this day!" he states, hefting again his fellhammer Deathmetal, The Mourning Star, and his shield, The Metal...because you can't kill The Metal. "Here I had thought I'd missed all the excitement! Arianna, I am indebted to you for using yourself as bait just so I could feel included. I will have to repay you sometime and gather a truly horrible foe for you to fight single-handed. It would only be right." Having crossed the distance at a leisurely pace, all the better to take in the battlejoy and to give the ghoul time enough to make ready, once within striking distance he LUNGES to the attack, his weapon rising and falling and rising again while his lungs call out a hearty tune. "The battle rages towards the walls,
Though he mourns his Curse of Loki, apparently so wasted on the fleeing ghoul, its loss leaves him enough mental clarity to follow up his Crushing Star attack with a Falling Mountain follow-up, crashing into the ghoul with shield, seeking to make him lose his balance.
Brother Aterro:
"Oh conFOUND!" The armored saint shouts at the stinking, mucky-muck that he finds himself in. IS this not always the way? Of course one merely wants to find one's self surrounded with perpetual GLORIOUS COMBAT, but then, upon the brink of entering some mystical portal in search of such, instead one is surrounded by...what is this? Bodies already killed and the stinking, mucky, swamp filled with a century of filth and stench. The stench seems eternal in this bog. After getting properly covered in muck and grime that will take some time to clean...heh, well, not now. Aterro waves a hand and snaps his fingers, the muck disappearing as if he had spent an hour of hard work at cleaning and polishing and rubbing sand about to cleanse the METAL. Ha! For a moment he feels pride in his Thor granted abilit-- *WHOMP* Only for him to -again- fall flat into another particularly succulent pond of swamp scum. Humph. Teach him to try the easy way instead of facing things the hard. Thus is his path. He is made of steel, and steel, of course, is meant to bear weight. He picked up his pace, perhaps Ingryd will not have killed them all by the time battle is joined, but soft! What is this? Perhaps Thor has had his jest and is now ready to send him into-- Aterro cries as he steps lightly from a sudden portal. Like a air elemental sent from the hoary mountains of Asgard itself, Brother Aterro Dominatus all but dances out of another chaos portal that flashes and fades again.
All he had heard was the last of the bard's sentence. "Ha! And good to see you as well! Kill the runners? So, I see you have not killed them all and saved at least a few for me. But they are COWARDS, running away while they yet have un-life, or what passes for it, pumping in their evil, heartless shells. Ha! But whatever. I have no longer pride enough to turn my nose up at such leavings. You want them fallen, master? So let it be said so let it be done!" True to his word, Aterro trots forward to keep pace with the fleeing cowards. First he calls upon Loki, Embodiment of Mischief, to curse their steps and fill their futures full of sad tidings. Then he extends a mailed fist and losses two bolts, one the emerald green of fading hope, the other a blazing crimson of wrath and ruin and the crimson dawn!
Aterro went wordlessly along with the Death From Above plan. He had nothing to add and never saw any need to fill the air with useless talk on even the best of ocasions. As the group glides down, he gazes with a mix of reverence and awe at the bursting acorn. So this was surely the point of the ritual, was it not? He had seen some malevolent things in his day, surely, but was this not the penultimate amongst them? Taking something as good and natural as a treant and forcing it to produce--what? What would someone call those things? Able-bodied acorn-zombies? Abercrombies? "Gunner, Luthael, see you that thing that has emerged from the exploding acorn? Have you ever seen its like before? Are the ghouls making some mockery of a harvest and forcing the tree to produce offspring that so closely resembles themselves? This is magicks of a most foul nature that even I had not thought the greyskins capable of."
Aterro hefts the shortsword and gives it a few practice swings. It's not something he would ever wield, but he could recognize that it would prove serviceable enough for those looking for something smaller and more nimble. Approaching the place where the bard and the barbarian are holding palaver, he glances at the handaxe smiles tightly. Barbarians. They know their own craft quite well, but always lack the big picture that comes to the true students of war. "I think you will find this more to your liking, Arianna," Aterro says, holding out the blade hilt-first. "I have no doubt that the hand axe is a fine weapon, and in another's hands would be quite suitable. For someone so, ah, nimble, as yourself, Arianna, methinks this shorter blade will be all that and more."
Aterro blanches as Ingryd describes her culinary opinion on the greyskins. "Hrmm. That seems wise, Ingryd. Yes, do not eat anything that has animated by foul enchantments. Mental note." As he sees Ingryd's interest in the axe that drank deep of his own blood, he motions at his brother Thorson. "Gunnar. Are you able to Detect Magic? Methinks some of these Xeno-type Greyskins wielded implements that were assisted by magicks. It would bring a smile to my face to see more of their tools brought to assist the side that destroys them." He grins and gives Deathmetal a flourish for his point. "Gratitude, Arianna. You...have no other weapon than a bow? Well this is something we shall have to remedy. Surely one of these gutterly monsters has a short sword that will be better than nothing." Aterro gives over his attention to find a blade the bard might use, as recompense for the healing magicks.
"Gratitude, Luthael," Aterro calls as he lands awkwardly, suddenly shifted between standing on a balconing, to not standing on anything, to again having feet on solid ground. The whole experience leaves him with a sense of vertigo as he takes pause a moment and gets his bearings, willing his head to stop spinning with all speed. When at last all the world makes sense again, he finds the half-flight afforded him by the cleric's wings as him still amongst the spell-casters. So he allows his battle-heart to carry him forward, ever on. The Asgard-fueled spite he allows to flow unto the poor unfortunate soul to his van, and Deathmetal follows soon after.
"Gratitude, Luthael. Perhaps I can return the favor by making your life easier and less danger-filled," Aterro grunts out, feeling himself much restored having been filled with a healing light, and no longer under constant harassment.
Gladened that at last the Leader is showing signs of the FEAR that is Aterro's stock-in-trade, the paladin allows the spiritual avatar of Mjolnir to continue harassing the Hex-blessed warrior.
"Whoooooffff," Aterro grunts as the sword slices into him deeply. 'Squad broken!' his brain calls within him. 'Thor is no Black Templar.' Mentally agreeing with his own mind's assessment that indeed Thor is not so single-minded as to relish last stands, Aterro decides that an advance to the rear is now called for. Breaking contact, Aterro moves with purpose toward the protective dome the 2 errant spellcasters have put up, while using a moment of concentration to send a parting shot at the sword-wielding leader.
"Have you any healing left to you?" he calls at Gunnar and Luthael.
"Ah HA! So ends this magical slave!" the paladin of THOR shouts as the spell-slinger at last falls to his furious attack. "So too shall all grey-skinned servents of evil who seek to-- ---Ooof!" Aterro grunts as he's simultaneously hit by bolt and axe. In a moment he recovers his breath and regains his ever-lasting smile. He throws back his head and lets out a triumphant yelp. "Ha! You think because my repertoire is so useful at slaying your kind I am unable to support my own advance? Ha! I shall show you all your efforts are as naught before Thor's guidance." At that Aterro lays hands on the most grievous of his wounds. His body is bathed in a healing golden glow, and of a sudden the worst are removed as though having never been.
While thus occupied, Thor's hammer maintains its single-minded assault on the skilled but harried leader.
My comrade Scramsax did not agree with me on this. He played a thief simply because he didn't have to track spell slots or a limited number of use of things. I however LOVE having a bag full of tricks and things to use and pull out. Of course as soon as I write that I forget my Hex damage and have to go back and re-re-re edit my dice. ^_^
"Oh ho! It looks like these paper-people have a champion in their ranks! Oh, do not fear, swordweilder, I shall deal with you in good time," Aterro taunts as the commander gets in a brace of good blows, wreaking much damage. Eager to put down the spellcaster so he make take more GLORY by dealing with the champion, Aterro calls for forth Thor's Hammer to aid him in this mighty combat.
"Aye on that, Arianna!" Aterro shouts as the bard edges him onward. Having shouted out his breath, he replenishes nature with a big gulp, which happens to be when the could us upon them. However, having already filled his lungs, Aterro is able to hold his breath until the stench has abated. whew.
'Oh dash it all,' Aterro thinks, seeing the one flee through the portal. If they are carrying a message, then one can deliver it just as well as two, so there was no point in stopping the second when the first is damage done. That left a lower priority target. The caster in the back that is causing all the fuss? He can hear Gunnar swearing from hear in effort and angst to keep that thing from causing too much mischief, so he must needs be best put down before he causes too much damage. Aterro never had great respect for the fighting prowess of the grey-skin Xenos, and, despite their impressive shellacking of the not-yet-raging bearkin, he saw no need to start now. Negating caution in this instance, Aterro rolls off the current engagement and zips around the flank of the shieldwall to its juicy backside. "No no, we'll have none of your mischief. At least, not without a bit of mine." Aterro calls upon Loki to curse the being with misfortune before launching an attack on the now less-protected caster.
"Yes, Ingryd, I think we really, really should go rattle them," Attero states, nodding his head and hefting Deathmetal. Upon hearing the show start with fire and light he says, "The hall is rented, the band is struck. Time to see if they can dance." Aterro prepares for the GLORIOUS COMBAT by assuming is now familiar Aspect of War. He didn't know if these ghouls felt fear. But he was going to find out.
Aterro nods at the question. "That was just as I was thinking, Luthael! If the bard here were to pop up and pepper them with arrows from some distance away, I despair at their ability to retaliate in good effect. Hence, they would need to send out a party to slay her. Thence she could retreat and the party would find all of us instead. This we could do until they come out in force, and we could reduce them upon ground of our choosing. Or at least that is my first plan, rough as it may be."
Once the cleric had mentioned finding a safe place to rest, Aterro felt an overwhelming exhaustion fall on him like a felled tree. He was vaguely aware that the bard had discovered some kind of mixture of survivors and hangers-on, but so long as they were neither screaming in pain, nor on fire, the prospect of rest undeterred by imminent danger was siren's song against which he had no defense. That there were far-off howls was simply noise that he had become accustomed too, and did not hold enough coin to disturb his slumbers. So too, that the bard skulks off on her onesies bothered him not either. When one develops a way it does no good to dissuade them. He scavenged in his rations and found the dry meat and nuts that he was least sick of and waited. "Guards? In that place? Surely they must be brain-rotted to toss bones in that charnel house. Ha! Aye, how many? Beseems we might set up outside and worry them with arrows and spellfire--now that the place is well ventilated with windows and bear-sized holes there would be little cover for them. Aye, Gunnar, so long as we stay within support range, I see no cost to presenting ourselves as fewer and having a bit of sport with them."
"Gratitude, Gunnar," Aterro says, following him through the portal and sitting down heavily across from him. "I feel this as well, but that tree was in no hurry and nor were the ghouls. So too, we help no one by dying." Aterro unlaced a boot and looked around. "Where has everyone got to? Are they still looking for our wanderlust bard? Confound she does enjoy the long walks. So great are her exploits that I would not be surprised did she come flying in here, mounted on some odd jumping mechanical Wasp. By Thor's Hammer I can not abide some habits." He takes out a whetted multitool and starts to repair his armor.
"I am of the same mind, Brother. Were we upon the same level, we would be engaging in glorious combat upon this very instant." Aterro scratches his chin and pauses in ulfish thought. "Think you ever how this happens to us? When I awoke, I knew not of spitted treants, or demon-queens that slaughtered villages and stole magical hearts for fell rites. But now? Now we are on the other side of an arcane portal contemplating more glory through conquest. We must truly by Thor's Chosen, for he lacks no tasks to put in front of us." Aterro shakes his head, banishing the contemplative reverie and re-focusing on the coming dance of STEEL. "We must needs first find a way down from here. Ah! We could but use a magical carpet of flight..." He pauses to chuckle. "Oh that's right. We no more have such a thing. I can not recall what we got in its stead but I hope it was worth it. No matter. Surely if we go left or right betimes we will come to level ground, and thence we can circle back. Those woods are so dense, and the cries of that treant so great, that even my stomping bulk will not be quickly noticed. Now that we know the tactical scenario--and that is going nowhere upon the instant, we can know how to prepare."
As the titanic she-demon slumps bonelessly to the ground, Aterro is only a heartbeat behind her, his knees buckling and the Aspect of War fading away, leaving only the man, panting and gasping for breath, having given every effort on the battle against evil, and having been a vessel for something not-quite-mortal. He breathes heavily for some moments, putting his weapon in front of him and leaning his head against it heavily. He catches his breath and spends time to offer up thanks for success in battle. He always considers it cheap as Odin had to lose an eye for such grace, and he must needs only follow in foot steps. When breath and wind again are known to him he rises and makes a straight line for the cleric, lost in high prayer. "We stand high in their eyes, brother. I have been spared much wrath, so accept the grace of Thor."
The immediate taken care of, Aterro wanders over to where Gunnar is deep in some arcane detection. "Aye, you have the right of it. Let us put down this mystery."
The over-stuffed demoness opens its unearthly maw and spouts a torrent of acid at our intrepid heroes. Just as the cascading deluge reaches forth to clutch dissolving hands at the Paladin of THOR, Aterro's left arm, driving on some instinctual level, or perhaps now guided by a force truly independent of any human thought, LEAPS up to interpose the shield Amboss into the way of the belching green tide. The acid CLASHES against the shield, wasting the whole of its strength against an unyielding force that will truck no further damage to its master. Aterro looks 'round in amazement and takes a moment to look at the reverse side of the shield, astounded that through all that its face, far from pitted or gouged as another device might be, has been scoured clean and shines with a polished light. He grins. "You can't kill The Metal!" he cries in glee. Overtaken by Joy Without Peer he LEAPS to the attack, recklessly swinging his weapon high and rushing to meet the fallen demon in GLORIOUS COMBAT. As if inspired, or, perhaps jealous of his defensively-minded counterpart, Deathmetal seems determined to not relenquish the spotlight and attacks heartily. It, too, moves with ease and quickness that belies conscious thought. With the initial move, there spawns an alchemy of deathly metal and holy MIGHT as Aterro, howling with lust and fury, pours ALL of his Paladin's strength into the first blow. A beam of light in every color, no doubt a fraction of the Rainbow Bridge itself, breaks forth and lights the demon in the glow of true conquest. The remaining attacks carry on in the wake of the strength just seen, but though Paladin and weapon move as one, the resultant effects seem almost disappointing in comparison.
Aterro struggles mightily against the ensnaring chains, but his recently acquired chasm-metal hinder his movements ever so much, and in this case it makes a crucial difference.
As the chains wrap around, he stops trying to evade and resorts to brute force to simply break his way out. The chains prove to be made of weaker stuff and and can not restrain his Thor-graced bulk.
Having done all he can mortally do, Aterro's flying Spirit-Hammer moves toward the demon-insect. Unconcerned with either mortal shell or mental hinderance, it attacks with great abandon and single purpose.
Brother Aterro sets his feet firmly on the odd wood-floor in anticipation of answering his fellow Thorson. "Fly? Ha! I but barely need both arms to slay this chaff-field of demon spawn. Yes, by all means take thy arcane focus as thy will. Let us practice mercy in bringing them a swift death!" Aterro lays about with with Deathmetal before sparing attention enough to call for Aid from Thor's own armory. The familiar spirit-hammer, glowing an ephemeral blue and a mirror image of Mjolnir itself appears to begin harrowing any still left on the harried cleric. To a mortal eye it might seem that their is growing legion of spirit-warriors surrounding Luthael and hammering any foolish to come close.
Aterro calmly watches the destruction. He nods in approval. He listens to the bards words of warning. He nods in understanding. He stoically watches the mouth-tipped tentacles emerge and utter the demon-spawn tongue. He cares not what it says, simply that it confirms all his suspicions. "Perfect," he finally utters, going into action.
"Huh," Aterro grunts, as if words alone would fail to do the scene before them justice. "I thought it would be bad, but this...this is much worse. Gunnar, Luthael, light it up. Any Rites of Cleansing or search to give survivors succor would be a bad jest at this point. Even glorious combat, invigorating as it is, seems to pale knowing that what fuels the enemy is the very lifeblood of the recently slain. Purging fire is the only balm here. I trust the two of you can provide such a dish best served warm?" Aterro takes a moment to heal himself, gaining vigor to put down any survivors of the coming purge.
"Well if they're bees then I certainly agree with you about needin' to kill them," Aterro mumbles in hearty agreement, but not too loudly, out of habit in case she might hear. Hearing the cork pop he turns his head back. Did the bearkin just finish saying they shouldn't stop to drink -while- she is popping a cork and trying out new clothes?!? 'Confound. Is she a bear-folk or a cat-folk?' he thinks. "Ahem! Ingryd, if you would be so kind as to join me in the van, we can find and kill the queen together, I should think," he suggests as suggestively as he might get with the she-bear. That done, and hoping that the berserker is by his side, Aterro marches steady on into the fog.
"GAH!" Aterro exclaims in surprise and alarm as Ingryd's offensive proves successful. "Well, that's one way to do it," he notes. The Paladin casts Light on his shield and looks about the place. Meade. Of course there is. Still, he made a mental note to take a cup before leaving. Perhaps it would prove at least different. "Let us see about the place. I maintain that if the beasts have a queem it would be here. So let us make this place secure, and then we can hold it against whatever assault the remainder are preparing. And if they do not attack, then we can use our combined efforts and pick them off at will." Aterro moves into the dark hallway.
Aterro doesn't even look at the nearest demon as his last swing bursts through it. His momentum swings him about, looking for more foes. He lets the acid burst meet the carapace of his armor. The magic-infused splint, specially hardened against all acids, finds this one to be no great power and negates it handily. Aterro sees only one foe, and that having made the poor, poor choice of tangling alone with the bear-folk. He almost feels sorry for it. Almost. "I continue to think that there is something central to the struggle within that main charnel house. I shall go and peer into it and we can either burn it to the ground, or invade and purify it with fire and steel. As nothing else is coming from it, I begin to think that we should all make our way toward it. If we are attacked again, it would make good shelter. Else, out here we are exposed to the flying beasts. I will burst through the wall and tell you what I see." Aterro takes off for the main building. True to his word, he does what he had wanted to do from the start. He sends twin bolts of eldritch fire at the nearest wall, daring the twig-and-mottle walls to resist his righteousness.
With so many foes abounding, and so much carnage lain bare before the uncaring air, Aterro is too slow in bringing up Amboss and the death-acid lands true. It eats away the whole of the ephemeral vitality brought upon by his Aspect of War and singes his person. Though slow to protect himself from the far-off death throes, as the wretched things close and try to bring him in to a more intimate embrace, Aterro us more adept at keeping away the demon than he was at other, more honey-making creatures. Looking with disdain at the foeman attacking him, Aterro spits at it, calling it weak in the eyes of whatever powers it thinks on. Turning his back on it spitefully, he lays hold of the Inspiration sent upon him by Arianna, and lays on to the twins attacking the cleric.
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