Bump just to remind everyone I'm still alive...
Aaaaaandddd.... I'm back. Long days of trying to get internet reconnected... I live in Australia, not Tatooine! Surely it can't be that difficult!
The dagger-wielding cultists lunge at Riven in amateur moves, but their blades are razor-sharp. One slithers off his chain shirt, grazing his ribs, while another whistles past his face, severing a finger's length of hair from his ponytail. They are driven and fanatical, and seem to be muttering the word "Chanarax" as some kind of mantra as they attack.
Hague's blade slashes in a few times, scoring creases across the creature's skin that, disturbingly, don't bleed. The flesh peels back, but the zombie doesn't even seem to be slowed down by the blows. For its part, it rains down blows mercilessly, making Hague's task of dodging very difficult indeed.
Hellard, buried under the zombies, struggles and kicks with the strength of desperation. From somewhere, he finds a dagger, and lays about with it, showering himself in rotten ichor, but having little effect on the undead.
Brother Thomas' spiritual hammer strikes at the cult leader, who jumps aside, concentrates, and makes a gesture, causing the hammer to fade from sight. He gestures with his other hand, sending a blood-red bolt of crackling energy hurtling across the room towards the priest.
The grand melee is chaotic and brutal- Hague and Riven chop their way through the crowd with vicious power, leaving a wake behind them. Hague crunches and smashes several of the horrid undead, and Brother Thomas follows quickly, his hurried incantations keeping any of the corpses from rising again.
One of the chanting figures completes his portion of the ritual and turns to deal with the intruders, his hands raised and crackling with barely-restrained magical power. He opens his mouth to spit a word of power, and, as if by magic, his left eye sprouts the hilt of a dagger. Hellard's fine blade whizzes across the room, piercing the man's brain, and he topples, his spell incinerating one of his companions (who perishes with a horrific wail). The noble flashes a quick grin, his left hand already reaching for the corpse being his blade-caddy- only to find it grasping his left arm! The zombie tears at Hellard's upper arm, grasping with rotten fingernails at him, gnashing teeth ridden with grave-dirt. His momentum halted, the big noble wheels to hack it apart, and another zombie hurtles into him. Within moments, the noble is downed, grappled by at least half a dozen of the monsters and with no room to swing his long blade. The offensive drive grinds to a halt.
Riven, leading the charge, crashes through the zombies' lines without noticing his companion's stumble, quickly planting his blade squarely in the chest of another of the robed figures. Blood fountains forth from the wound and his mouth, and he gasps out his last breath before being rudely kicked from the Northman's blade. The other four cultists turn on the warrior, hands raised and words ready, and curses split the air with a hissing sound and a smell not unlike burning sulfur. A blast of energy hisses from one towards the big man as another draws a long, straight-bladed knife from his sleeve and gestures in an odd, lithe, perhaps Southern, gesture as he approaches.
Hague slashes out and severs the limb of the first zombie to touch him, kicking backwards and shattering the skull of another with his tough foot. He wheels, coming face-to-hideous-face with the 'living zombie' who snarls and roars a wordless challenge before thundering forth, marble-strong fists raised. He strikes with inhuman strength, the first b low (blocked by Hague's upraised arm) nearly shattering bone, and stunning the limb for a few moments. His agility is astounding, faster than an average human, and definitely on par with the stinker's own reflexes.
Brother Thomas swings about with his silver mace and holy symbol, keeping the dead at bay. His faith is strong but wavering in the face of such obvious unholy power, and the seeming manifestation of... of... something unexplainable. The lead figure continues in his chants, calling out even louder as he gestures with what Brother Thomas now recognises as the Orb of Elwar. It seems to be part of some kind of summoning ritual. And then, an opening comes up- Hellard's collapse, and Riven's cometary collision with the cultists allows a small path to open between the combatants- a dangerous path through the melee that might allow the scholar to close with the head worshipper.
Sorry for the big post, I'm moving into a new house tomorrow and I'll be offline for 4-14 days (AAGH!!!). Hopefully by the time I'm back on, everyone will have posted and we won't even notice the difference, but I'm trying to 'section off' the combat to a small extent, letting everyone get a bit of a focus moment.
For lack of a more ..planned... plan, here we go
Riven breaks the eerie silence, hurtling into the chamber with his sword shearing wide arcs through the zombies. Nearly half a dozen are destroyed before they react. Following him quickly are Hague, fists, elbows, and knees at the ready, Brother Thomas, with his silver mace and holy symbol held high, and Hellard Byzenkampf, a pair of lethal shortswords in his hands.
The zombies turn as one, their strange, moaning chant interrupted by the primal need to eat brains. The robed figures continue their ritual, but most look over their shoulders or through the crowd to see the intruders. With a short, chopped command, the 'living zombie' springs to action, bounding through the crowd with inhuman agility, a snarl on his rotted face.
All good, I'm encouraging a certain amount of "make it up yourself" to allow us to just get on with it.
The chamber is immense, its domed ceiling perhaps fifty feet above, and circular, perhaps sixty or seventy feet across. The outsides of the chamber are lit by little clusters of candles melted into the join 'twixt floor and wall, but the main illumination comes from a few large (wagon-sized) wooden racks with candles melted to every surface. After travelling so long in dim light, the dazzle of hundreds of candle-frames almost blinds you all.
Scattered around the chamber are a horde of shambling corpses, the odd chanting coming from their dead throats. In the middle of the chamber, seven robed shapes caper and dance about two central figures- a robed figure, difficult to see due to distance and dazzle, and a tough, lean-looking zombie, stripped to the waist, but with tight, animal-like muscles. The robed one seems to be leading the chanting, and is holding a glass ball in one hand, alight with yellowish-green colour. The zombie is glaring about the room with hate-filled eyes, and occasionally grimaces or sneers at one of the worshippers.
Above, most threatening of all, is a reddish, misty substance forming in the air. For now, it swirls harmlessly, but it appears to be taking nightmarish shape.
Hellard:
Brother Thomas:
Riven:
Hague:
And I have a map, as well. That's just for a rough tactical idea of how the place is laid out.
The choice made, the path is clear: the group heads down the long passageway, walking carefully to make sure they keep their feet. The little stalagmites, though useful, crunch underfoot, and are uncomfortably reminiscent of teeth, as if the group were walking into the maw of some monstrous beast.
Brother Thomas' spell dims as it moves into the passageway, leaving only the tips of the protrusions showing. The floor and roof both fade away into the dark.
An hour later; the intrepid band has passed through passages and chambers alike, all cloaked in filth and eerily reminiscent of some ancient temple. Blocks of cut stone lie fallen on the ground, and thick pillars support the roof, far out of sight. Finally, a trail of burnt-out candles provide a trail, and ahead, you can hear an odd chanting in some thick, forbidden tongue.
Brother Thomas:
Hague navigates the group through the eerie, deserted sewers for another half hour, before coming to a large chamber that seems much like a hall, with vaulted ceiling and pillars supporting the roof. The group passes through, warily looking about, but nothing seems to threaten them except a foul stench and a constant dripping.
There, in one wall, is a great section that seems to have been blasted away- into the room. Through the breach is a long, hand-dug passageway, which leads downwards in a long, slow dip. The roof of the passage has small stalactite deposits, matched by the rough and slightly spiked floor.
OHS warning: Watch your step! Hardhats required. Evil working zone!
The remainder of the journey takes almost an hour, crossing from wet sewers to dry ones (still wet, in this weather, though) and passing through cramped, claustrophobic tunnels and large shafts with narrow ledges around them.
Besides Hague, none of you knew such a vast space existed beneath Refuge, and the facts of its dark and dripping existence creep you out, to put it mildly. You do not encounter anything living as you make your way to the areas you are seeking- nothing larger than several large, terrier-sized rats, anyway.
Hague:
Sorry for being offline for a few days, guys- my dog ate the cable on my wireless keyboard/mouse receiver.
Riven fetches the carpet-wrapped corpse of the sage from upstairs and carefully brings it before the hungry otyugh, which howls "Mmmnnnfooood!" Before letting its spawn tuck in and begin tearing at the body. The mother keeps its eye-tentacle on the group, but shuffles over, allowing the party to pass.
Moving through its threatened area, but it's not hostile at the moment- just behave...
"Mmmmnnnnoottt Fooooddddd!" The angry creature howls. "mmmnnnnnggggoo 'wwwwaaaaay!" It seems the monster isn't hungry enough to want to fight all of you.
You have the option here, you can still go kill it, or you could try to get around it without combat. Up to you.
A terrible sucking noise can be heard as the mother beast wrenches itself free of the sewage, with the accompanying rivulets of ?water? running from its back. In the light of Brother Thomas' holy symbol, the disgusting enormity of the beast can be seen.
(News just in: Call of Cthulhu now not the only RPG where making your Spot check isn't always a good thing!)
The creature has a body like an ovoid sack, covered in filth, with three stumpy legs the thickness of a man's gut holding it up. A gaping maw issues a bellow of warning, with a foetid gust of its breath washing forth- more awful than the creature's outside scent, if possible. From its back protrude two- no, three stalks, each a good eight inches thick. Two end a man's length later in great fleshy pads with surrounding spines, while the third gleams with a trio of wide-open eyes, almost humanlike if not for their vertical arrangement.
At its side crouches another of the creatures, closer to the size of a small crate (maybe the size of a kitchen dishwasher?), mouth snapping and tentacles waving.
"Gggnnnnrrrhhhhhh!" The abominable chorus of their voices rises to a claustrophobic level as they prepare to defend themselves.
Oh cool, I was hoping this wouldn't just be a 'ho-hum' encounter. That's made my night!
"Mmmnnnnnooooooaaaaa!" Howls the hungry Otyugh, joined by a higher pitched "Mnaaaa!" from somewhere nearby. As the waste is disturbed, the stench becomes chokingly strong- Brother Thomas, Riven and Hellard are almost immobilized with foulness, while even Hague must blink back tears.
"Mmmnnnoooott fooooddd!!!"
Hague:
The group makes its way to the bottom of the shaft, dirty rainwater sloshing around their feet. Tunnels seem to stretch in two directions, both vanishing into pitch blackness within a few short feet. The small amount of light from the dungeon overhead illuminates a circle about three feet wide, dropping off alarmingly quickly.
For all those but Hague, a myriad of unfamiliar sounds (and, dear Gods, smells!) barrage you- drips, creaks, squeaks, scurries, and splashes. The alien feel of your surrounds is suddenly very claustrophobic. Hague feels right at home, now no longer threatened from all directions- only feeling what immediately matters.
OK, you need two things: directions, and light. Well, maybe three- great big gumboots.
The grate leading from the dungeon down to the sewers is hard to remove- it's been rusted in place for at least a few years, and there's an odd crusty substance on the bottom. Riven and Hellard's muscles soon shift it, though, and the narrow shaft vanishes into the darkness. After the first 4 feet are set iron rungs into the stone, providing slippery hand- and foot-holds.
The smell is awful, stirred up by all the recent rain.
and one Bigby's Retroactive Action later
The guardhouse is as you left it, with a lingering smell of sewer on the door, where Hague was leaning. Rain is still pelting down outside, and time is beginning to run short.
You return to the Watch Post, splashing through the greasy rain. The sky has darkened to the colour of day-old dishwater, and smells just as bad.
Then you realize, standing in front of the Watch Post, there is a rag-clad figure huddled in the doorway... and the smell might just be him.
Enter stage right, Hague, our resident sewer-dweller.
"Ah yes, but reports may lie, and even true reports may become false. Witness this: My hand is empty." and indeed it is, as he displays his empty right hand.
"And yet: I fill my hand once more." He flicks his fingers, and a coin is revealed in his palm. "Cheap charlatanry, I know, but this illustrates reality- catacombs which were once emptied can be used to store things which it is desired not be looked upon. Be mindful of the power of mundane illusion as you battle sorcery. You had best be swift..." he looks upwards at the darkening sky and gazes levelly at each of the three assembled.
"...For time is running short. Brother Thomas, Riven Golarsson, Hellard Byzenkampf, go forth in light and do what must be done."
"So, zombies which run and talk, a missing Orb, limited time before the barriers between the realms of life and death break down ntirelly, your only lead has gone missing, a black magic ritual," here his eyebrow perks up, "failed and caused some kind of possessing spirit to attack you, and you're without any kind of clue. Hmm."
He turns and walks away a moment, tending to his storm-ravaged garden, then turns back with raised eyebrows.
"The zombies must be lairing somewhere out of sight, otherwise people would have fled the area. Somewhere where this person wouldn't be noticed, and wouldn't be bothered. Hmf, I hate to say it so plainly, but have you tried the sewers? There are enormous structures there which could be holding these foul monsters. In fact, didn't I hear that you had a, what do you call them, a stinker in the Hell Squad?"
Brother Matthias gives a tiny smile at Riven's warning, and glances across at Hellard, then back at Brother Thomas.
"Death threats, I can handle. But that name...Chanarax. Hmm... Chanarax, Chanarax? It doesn't sound familiar to me, but I can investigate the records further. Tell me of your journey to this point, and perhaps I can shed light on the matters."
"Hmm. I had heard that you had been accepted into the Hell Squad. Well done, my boy. You would not have come back to me unless you needed aid- your own skill is admirable. Now, what is it I can advise you on?"
A quick trip through the rain-soaked streets of Refuge leads you to the great cathedral of Ebishmon, adorned with vicious-looking gargoyles, graven images of the adventurer-saint's travels and famous battles, and radiant-sunburst images. Brother Thomas' explanation leads the group to an audience with Assistant Chief Librarian Brother Matthias.
The elderly man is, surprisingly, still tending to his garden in the driving rain, straightening vines and trying to shield them from the weather. He looks up kindly, clasps his hands together, and then splays each of them to face away from the other in Ebishmon's sunburst symbol.
"Thomas, my boy, how are you?" The old man's voice is still vital, despite his age (he must be in his sixties), and his eyes sparkle with warmth, pleased to see his protege.
The armoury and dungeon are, unfortunately, empty of your compatriots. But your efforts in searching the watch post do not go unrewarded- the blood on the doorknob is smeared oddly- enough to make you think that it was left there as someone was leaving, rather than entering.
The body is beginning to smell... rather rapidly. As you look, it starts sagging inwards (rather like a balloon deflating after being left in the heat for three days). It sags to one side, tearing open and spilling a thick, rancid goo on the floor, with the consistency of warm custard and the stench of a hundred dead troglodytes left in the sun for a week.
Brother Thomas:
...Aaaaand welcome back Hellard, as well! Wow. The gang's all here again. Let's call it a Christmas break, shall we.
Welcome back Riven! Congratulations on parenthood, job well done. Great to have you back.
Hmmm... I can see I'm going to have to give you someone to talk to, else you'll wind up looking a right prat, talking to yourself. Maybe this will turn from a supernatural action/thriller into a supernatural procedural drama... maybe not. In any case, let me think about this idea... should I resurrect some of the 'fallen' characters (Hellard, Riven, etc - in which case, is it proper netiquette to ask permission from their creator players?) or come up with someone new?
With a hideous screech, the corpse recoils, staggering into the nearby table before dropping, lifeless. Rolling the corpse onto its back, Brother Thomas can see that the body's eye sockets are dry and empty- burned out. The eyeballs are nothing more than withered, scorched pools, dribbled onto the body's cheeks. Its tongue is nowhere to be seen inside the sagging mouth.
The corpse tightens its grip with crushing intensity, and reaches down with one hand to throw a chair aside. The grip loosens with the loss of one hand, allowing Brother Thomas to gasp a choked breath.
The corpse's eyes glow with a red intensity, and it bares its teeth to a manic grin. A final word issues from its clenched teeth, lips still unmoving. "Chanarax....." (the word is unfamiliar in any language you know)
The body lurches to a sitting position, its head lolling lifelessly. It gulps silently for a few moments before its mouth opens and a deathly voice emanates from the very depths of its sagging orifice.
"A-a-a-r-rival. Death is coming. Best be dead now." The voice increases in intensity, finally coming to a shriek. "LET ME LIIEE!" Then, without warning, the hands of the body shoot out, fastening with unnatural strength about the priest's throat.
If we keep this going, anyone who's interested can join in, so long as they're willing to stick it out. Snorter, thanks for the effort.
Thanks, Brother Thomas. OK, I'll give it a shot. after all, it's only as dead as it needs to be, before being animated.
The book has no discernable reaction (it's a book) but something about holding it feels... wrong. (And then you say the magic words, and everyone turns into a zombie. Game over!)
Being previously owned by the sage Zelluyan, it is in good condition- the pages are dry and clean. You quickly find the marked page- a navy silk ribbon lies in it- and you read the ritual contained within. The dread words evoke a feeling of disgust and horror- imploring the greater powers of the Underworld to allow the spirit to speak its last- but the effect seems relatively benign - there are no warnings, like so many of the other pages, about "releasing spirits of the damned" or "calling up entities".
The book probably contains the instructions for performing the ritual to speak with the dead sage. Likewise, the bag probably contains the materials necessary for such a ritual, excepting those which you gathered personally. Brother Thomas has the necessary training (if perhaps not lack of morals) to perform such a black magic ritual, if the desire and need should so arise.
The book and bag are not magical in themselves, but the book has traces of unclean and unmistakeably evil magic. The contents of the bag seem to be ritual components, probably for use in one of the spells detailed within.
Sorry to have been offline for a little while guys, my computer and desk are currently being stored in the spare room, and I'm on my wife's notebook. I will try to post more often- just email me a prod if necessary!
After a quick check, you determine that there are no signs of any kind of struggle. The body is undisturbed, the only thing that has changed is the hessian sack on the table, with the book and a few black candles, with some odd-looking herbs.
Yep, the body has been left (out of sight) on a table, still mostly wrapped in a curtain.
You avoid the notice of the patrolling constables long enough to gather a handful of dust from the young lass's grave, and hurry back to the Hell Squad headquarters. Zelluyan (and Malcolm, it seems) don't seem to be there. A thorough search reveals a small smear of blood on the front door, and a small hessian sack is lying on a table. Inside is a book bound in black leather, with an odd, blasphemous figure inscribed on the cover. It seems perhaps Zelluyan has been here...
That was a terrible joke, but you get +50 experience for it. [/groan] OK, so... any actions?
At this time of night, the graveyard is quiet, for a change. An early mist has crept into the dell to the West of the city, and eddies around at knee height. The moon is high, but only a quarter-circle, providing a little cold, blue light. It is a very cold night, and finding your way in the dark could be hazardous. However, a pair of guards have been patrolling near the Lichgate, watching for lanterns, torches, and other obvious giveaway signs of grave-robbing.
Does anyone in this city actually know a maiden? Even a dead one?
"Hrm, yes. Unfortunately, yes." He shudders slightly, and heads off to find his things.
Zelluyan humms and herms for a minute, but shakes his head gravely. "No, the necromantic energies involved in raising the dead would nullify any virtue inherent in the remains... I think. You may need one more... fresh." His eyes are downcast at this.
"That's a good idea... urm, here...." Zelluyan ferrets around in several books, and quickly jots down a list of required ingredients. It is slightly disturbing, but "dust from a maiden's grave" is hardly the worst. He saved that for last: "the tongue of the deceased".
Zelluyan hurries around, gets dressed, and prepares to be escorted to his home, in order to pick up the (illegal) tome.
"Well, um, perhaps if we were to perform it together, it might have a higher chance of success. I-I've performed a black magic ritual before, I won't lie." The elderly, portly man looks shamefaced about this confession.
"We should fetch the supplies... I will gather the tome which details the, hum, spell, and if we send the competent Corporal to gather the requisite, hum, components." He looks over at Malcolm quickly.
"If you'd be alright with that, lad?"
"I...I..." Zelluyan sighs heavily, eyes downcast. "...I do know of a spell which would accomplish something like this, yes. I've read of particular black magics which can communicate with those who have passed to the realm of the dead. Perhaps this conjucntion will aid us in the effort. I-I'll need some things... and the assistance of Brother Thomas, if you would be so kind?"
He seems to be greatly distressed by having to perform a black magic ritual, as well as the death of his colleague.
Master Zelluyan is groggy and slightly disoriented after being woken, and doesn't understand why he's being taken down to the cells. When he comes face-to-corpse with the body of Talvan, he stops, and his eyes goggle.
"Oh m-m-my." <gulp>
He seems genuinely saddened to see the body.
"Erm, I recognise this man- er- this was Talvan, a sage of high quality. We had a debate just a month ago on the relative nat- erm. And you want me to what?" His face snaps around to glare at Hellard, showing an emotion close to anger for the first time.
Hellard staggers back in to the Hell Squad Watch Post, burdened by a large bundle, wrapped in his cloak. Brother Thomas walks at his side, giving him sidelong curious glances. They are greeted by Malcolm, his cheek bandaged, and Riven, bloodied but mostly unhurt.
With a dramatic thump! Hellard unrolls his cloak, revealing a body soaked in blood. It is dressed in scholar's robes, with a neat stab wound in the chest.
Someone had better shut the door, don't want passers-by spotting this!
At Talvan's Tower...
Brother Thomas pants after the zombie, but it flees too quickly for him, hoisting itself up a drainpipe and leaping away over rooftops. A simple spell closes the bystander's gushing wounds long enough to bandage him, and nearby Watchmen are on hand to carry him to the nearest healer.
Hellard, ignoring the pain of his wounded arm, copies down the signal on a sheet of parchment with some of the spilled ink nearby. It looks vaguely like a series of images in line- a bow, broken forwards with no string; a pair of circles, one atop the other; a line with three lines sticking out perpendicularly from it; and a squiggle with a triangle on the end.
(Image found here. Sorry for image quality, I just made it on Paint Shop Pro in 5 minutes)
From there, the Watch take over, and you can head back to the Hell Squad headquarters quickly.
Riven and Malcolm...
Riven and Malcolm head back the the Hell Squad headquarters, eager to bandage their wounds and discuss strategy with the others, if they've returned.
At Talvan's Tower...
Upstairs, Hellard examines the old man's body. He has been stabbed cleanly in the chest, and the wound has been his end, perhaps within the last five minutes. No other orbs are in sight, but there seems to be some sort of scrawl made in the pool of blood beside the body. The man's fingers are bloody as well- perhaps he drew the symbol himself?
Outside in the street, Brother Thomas charges outside, attempting to catch the fleeing undead. It glances back and bares its teeth in a snarl as it bounds away (like the zombies in I Am Legend), pausing to grab a shocked onlooker and tear his arm off at the shoulder. The man lets out a terrible scream, his blood gushing away, and collapses on the street, face rapidly whitening. With magical help, he might stand a chance of survival, but left alone, he will surely perish within moments.
At the Watch Post...
Only the two Watchmen seems to have perished in the assault, and while there are several lesser wounds, none will be life-threatening. The crowd cheer you energetically. One merchant even presses fresh melons into your arms (selling for 3 nobles apiece in ordinary times). As you look around, you see that Darius seems to have vanished in the press.
The Watch Bell has ceased ringing- perhaps you should head back to the Hell Squad headquarters and consult with the other members of the squad (and seek bandaging for your wounds)?
At Talvan's Tower...
The zombie closes on Brother Thomas, snapping its teeth and growling (very odd behaviour... the undead are traditionally soul-less, thus without any kind of thinking behaviour). He raises his holy symbol, but the big zombie bats it away one-handed and lunges forwards, teeth wide.
Hellard's surge carries him through the doorway into the upper room, which bears a comfortable bed, a large bookcase, a desk, and a display case of relics and artefacts- all torn apart and hurled about. An older man lies on the floor, his blood pooled about him. The blood still looks wet, and may have been spilled only recently.
At the desk, a tall figure, clad in robes of deep burgundy, turns. In its hand is a crystal orb, glowing with a greenish-yellow radiance. The figure's head is covered in a deep hood, and with a gesture and a few guttural words from the figure, the room's lantern is snuffed out momentarily.
"Anwu tjanfe!
Hellard's reflexes carry him unerringly through the room, his blades extended, but they meet no resistance. The light resumes after a moment, leaving the room dim but visible. No figure- orb or otherwise- is to be seen within, only a gaping window.
Downstairs, the zombie's head goes to one side like a dog as it hears the words, and roughly hurls the priest aside into a wall, leaping out the doorway and racing down the street in a display of decidedly un-zombielike energy.
At the Watch Post...
Riven swing shears one of the creatures in half, leaving him a handful of moments to catch his breath. The other Watchman bobs his head in acknowledgement, then springs forwards to bludgeon his opponent to the ground, and begins kicking with heavy boots. Brave onlookers dive forwards to lay a boot in until one young lad, a stonemason by the looks of him, brings forward a flagstone the size of a man's chest, and they withdraw. The flagstone pulps the monster, leading a cheer from the crowd.
Malcolm's struggle is nearing desperation now. The creature's unflagging strength is slowly overwhelming his tired muscles, and its jaws are snapping ever closer to his face.
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