DM - Tareth's page

The war news was flying fast and furious through the Dryad's Respite. Tongue's were wagging like a pack of hounds on hunting day. Where were the latest fronts. Who was in retreat, who forging ahead? Most importantly what were the latest odds? The suburban tavern and B&B buzzed about the ongoing strife between The Ice Maiden and Grizzled Brew Industries.

"Haha! You should'a seen that bard race toward the jakes." A grizzled gray beard laughs into his pint of Magdar Dark. "You'd a'thought he was being chased by a pack of husbands."

"That were nothing." Hollers a brunette doxy taking a well earned break. "Why, the guard must have busted up half of Britta's common room when they captured the Scarlet Hood." A snort fit for a hog's den bursts from her nose. "You can't tell me that halfling hooch hustler didn't put the finger on poor Robbie."

"Pffftt...the daft lad had no business running around the woods robbing folk and stealing kisses from young ladies."

"Ahhh...he were harmless enough. He only stole from them wealthy out-of-towners and you can't steal what's freely offered. Hahaha*snort*"

"Say anyone heard about how's the Queen's retaliation against the ghouls is going?" An earnest young lad, barely able to grow hair on his chin asks. The room crashes into silence. Eyes suddenly discover fascinating patterns in their ale foam or a loose thread on a sleeve or wait...was that a familiar face crossing the room? No? Ah well, could'a been.

Young Rose passes by the youth. Just down from the mines, she'd wager judging by his clothes and the grit lining his fingernails. She slides another pint in front of him, leans down a offers him a bit of quiet advice.

"Politics is verboten in the Respite." She says with a smile. "Folk are here to forget about all the troubles surrounding us. So no talk of reavers, legions, dragonkin armies an such unless you've a bonafide emergency to report." She gives him a quick searching look. "Course, if you did, you wouldn't be here drinking your fill, you'd be hustling into town to see the Captain now wouldn't you."

The you man's face flushes as he quietly nods. Rose gives his arm a soft pat, then gathers up his empty mug.

"Course, the way I hear it is that the Guild showed up at Grizzled last night." Rose says dropping the little bomb she'd been saving up all afternoon.

Shouts, murmurs and curses erupt across the big common room. Old Man Hemfritter passed out into his hydra-stew. News of the Brewer's Guild always brought panic to a small community. After all, nearly everyone had themselves a few jugs brewing in a cellar, backroom, or kitchen cabinet somewhere. Just for personal consumption, don't ya know. Course, them Ironcrag bastards didn't care. Brewing was brewing, and if they caught someone operating an unlicensed still or set of fermentation jugs, why it was a fine and banishment from every pub within a fortnight's walk.

"By Thor's broad backside, who called those bearded cave scroats in?" The gray-beard splutters. He'd a batch in the still just about ready to pour. Only yesterday it barely curled the paint from his testing board. "Why they'll have us all forking over gold and playing Tami Teatotaller fer the next month."

Numerous grumbling "Aye's" and "That's the truth's" filled the hall.

"I blame the halfling." The brunette again. "Trouble finds her like flies find sh..."

"Course it weren't the halfling." Cedric Butterburr interrupts. "You're daft for even saying so. Elsewise, why the Guild hit the brewery first? Nah...had to've been Britta." The comment generates more than a few murmurs of agreement.

"And you're just as deft Cedric, that's why you lost your old man's inn." Replies Jenni Honeysuckle, tucking a stray wisp of golden hair behind her ear. She'd gone out with Cedric exactly three times before realizing the man was going nowhere fast and constantly blamed the loss of the Pony goblins and bad luck rather than his own poor business skills. "Britta knows how to play hard ball, sure, but she wouldn't call in the Guild. Everyone knows once the Guild's in town, they don't just stick their beards into one pub's accounts." Blonde tresses flutter as her head moves back and forth. "She's just as likely to get raked over the coals as the bear and her stubby partner."

Wiping stew from his face, Hemlock squints over at Jenni. "You reckon there's a third player in the game."

The blue-eyed blond nods and taps the side of her nose with a delicate finger that Cedric still hoped he lasso with a ring some day.

"Who the hell's is it then?" Someone asks from the back of the room.

The question fires off a flurry of speculation, wagers, side wagers, and plain gossip that keep the ale, wine, and whiskey flowing well into the night.

Sitting at his table the young boy concerned about ghouls in the area eventually passes out having gathered nothing that might help him figure out who might have taken his father from their camp a week ago.

Okay, taking care of a little housekeeping...

First up, no, we aren't switching to 2024. Sorry to those who prefer the new rules, but I'm just really not interested in the update.

Scramsax: Sure, you can trade your ring for another rare item. Given your ability to teleport, going to Zobeck is certainly possible.

Gunnar: You made your rolls to upgrade your hammer, what did you finally land on for the actual mechanical upgrade?

Raseri: For the crafting a new weapon it is Smith's Tools DC15. Failure results in a poor quality weapon.

Ingryd: Downtown length is approximately 14 days to one month max. You can set up a new business. You cannot gain a new Rogue level via downtime, nor can you gain the Sneak Attack ability. However, you can gain proficiency in Stealth or Thieves Tools or another skill.

Luthael: Yes, you can gain proficiency with the longsword.

For investigation activities it looks like we have Gunnar checking into any developments with the Undead Empire's forces. Ingryd is keeping an ear out for rumors or signs of big, nasty monsters in the area. Raseri is maybe trying to track down Arianna and Zove along with the other former companions or friends. Scramsax, might pick up some interesting news/rumors while in Zobeck. Luthael sees his family back home and maybe hears a rumor or some gossip through them. If I've missed anything, let me know.

Drinks are served. Stories told. Greeting offered and given. Most importantly, bathing is encouraged as the blood, gore, mud, smoke, and dirt of days, weeks, of travel fighting and heroic endeavors quickly ferments and spreads its aroma through the densely packed and warm confines of the Ice Maiden Inn.

Over the course of the next few couple of weeks acquaintances are renewed or made, businesses established, projects undertaken with grand enthusiasm and hope. Luthael's parents are escorted home with the help Scramsax and his magic ring. Gunnar freely offers his aid and services to those working the forge. Unfortunately the wizard's particular variety of dwarf-splaining ruffles more than a few feathers and in the spirit of maintaining comradely relations, all those involved simply agree to disagree about the proper care and storage of one's tools when working in the forge.

Perhaps it is all for the best, as the correct formulation for blending mithral with adamantine with the existing sturdy steel of his hammer ends up being more challenging than the dwarf imagined. He is forced to rework his equations more than once before the correct ratios are discovered. But the added effort is not without benefit, the thunderous cursing and lightning blasts that emanated from the forge following the fifth failed pour managed to catch the Thunder God's attention having never encountered that particular expression involving a goat, newt peckers, and hag's sagging arses before. As a parting gift the god left a small tome bound in fine leather with silver embossed scrollwork on the wizard's nightstand. Entitled One Hundred Feast Songs for the Bawdy Warrior. It is a unique insight into the god's essence.

Through sweat, devotion, intellect, and pure dwarven stubbornness, the wizard manages to blend the three metals into a single potent hammerhead. Lighter in weight, well balanced, and packing a nasty punch against many nefarious monsters and beings that often plague Midgard, the weapon maintains a functional simpleness that any warrior might appreciate.

Sorry all. I'm still around. Work has just been a giant creative energy suck over the last couple of weeks. I finally got through our board meeting and have a 2026 budget for the org, so hopefully things will ease up a little.

In the meantime we can say you each get a couple of weeks of official downtime. You can learn a new proficiency. Set up a business. Craft a new item, etc. Feel free to post how you're spending the time and the final result you're trying to achieve. Be sure to include any necessary rolls.

I'll start dropping the threads for a new adventuring opportunity or two in the next day or so.

Gunnar considers who might have been gathering the various components for the witch, but soon realizes the old crone has had plenty of time to so so after their companions decided to go off on their own. Months have passed since the likes of Trevor or Vrindel had traveled with the group. The same is true of Aterro and Ibrox. Even Vee was left back in Nargenstal over a season ago.

Certainly Darrell would have had opportunity to gather such things from Ingryd, Luthael, Raseri, Scramsax or himself, but none of the tokens appeared to come from them, only friends of the past. And while the dwarf could not categorically rule out the halfling during her not so distant capture by the hag or one of her minions, that would also mean she'd been collecting such detritus for a longer period of time. Given there were no gems or coins involved, he didn't imagine the halfling had much interest in paladin toenails or trollkin hairs.

Thus, the puzzle of how the witch acquired her components must go unanswered for the moment. In a similar fashion, not enough essence remains among any of the aspects of the dolls to affect either the victim or the hag herself. The dwarf tries a simple scry using some of the bloody wax. For a brief moment he catches a glimpse of the old crone huddled in a shallow cave. Shrouded by trees and hidden by undergrowth, the geological hideout could be located anywhere within the bounds of the Margreve or any other northern forest. Before he can gather further information, the image fades. Dissolving into a smelly mist. Subsequent attempts result in even less information.

Eventually, it is agreed the best thing to do is return home. With some time left until the Solstice, folk could spend time with family, research the ritual to destroy the sword a little more, or invest in a new business venture.

With the destination set, it takes an hour to break camp, douse the fire, and gather everyone close. Offering food and beverage service, Scramsax announces the imminent departure of flight NN-1 bound for Nargenstal.

BAMF!

In a flash and a heartbeat the mountains of central Midgard are replaced but the bustling activity of the Ice Maiden's Inn in Nargenstal. A crowded night. Several guardsmen sit at a group of tables near the fire while regulars crowd along the bar and play cards or sling dice at other tables. A bard strums a lute in a corner while drink and food heavy trays are bustled too and fro by waitresses adding to the cacophony of voices, music, and clattering mugs and tableware. The air smells of pipeweed, ale, whiskey, and the inn's well known fish chowder.

All in all, it was as close to home as Gunnar, Ingryd, Scramsax, Raseri, or even Luthael really had since they'd set forth on a life of adventure and glory so very long ago.

Okay, so I think I just need to know where you all are heading. Given your ability to teleport, you've got plenty of options. Time-wise, it is early autumn. There are about 8 weeks until Winter Solstice and the first real opportunity to destroy the cursed sword.

I think we've got a couple of votes for a return to Nargenstal and some potential downtime activities. This is also where Scramsax took those that you rescued.

Following Gunnar's research, you have all completed a Long Rest.

While Scramsax tries to determine if the true Luthael emerged from the Shadow Realm and Raseri struggles with her own feelings of guilt and failure Gunnar investigates the dolls discovered within the witch's sanctum to try and determine the nature of the magic involved.

His ritual begins by asking Ingryd to fill a small bowl with some of her honey wine. He drinks the wine.

"Thanks."

Dropping the first wax figure into the once again empty bowl, the dwarf holds the bowl over a candle slowly melting the wax. As the wax melts he notices a sour, filthy smell emerge. Putrid and rotten. His lips purse into a frown. Hag's blood.

The melting figure slowly reveals several small items held within. He plucks out a bit of cloth, a fingernail, a knot of hair. The sympathetic components that could be needed and used to create such life like simulacrums. Buried in the center of the figure is a small black stone. It is cold to the touch. Remains cold even if the dwarf holds it in the flame. In fact the candle flame seems to diminish when the stone is in direct contact. A void pearl. The dwarf grunts with consternation.

Void pearls are extremely rare as those who attempt to harvest the stones are typically unsuccessful in the endeavor. That is due to the fact that the pearls only manifest within the kidneys of an aboleth. A typical adult aboleth usually houses two to three stones within each organ. How or why the stones are created, no scholar or wizard has been able to determine. But the stones appear to maintain some kind of direct connection to the void and the base realm of chaos. The few rare specimens that have been found have often been connected to terrible and chaos fueled magics and rituals.

Dropping the little stone into a small glass vial, the dwarf finishes his analysis of the figure discovering little else. With the physical components of their former allies, likely a bit of her own blood mixed in the wax. Enough to manifest the likeness and control over the fakes. The void stone could certainly provide the additional power to bring them to life so vividly. A dark, dangerous, and disgusting ritual. More importantly, the witch was able to gather those items from their friends and allies. The dwarf can't help but wonder, how did she achieve this. Spies. Scrying. Who could still be in danger?

The day passes without incident. The sun shines brightly overhead offering a respite of welcome and unexpected autumn warmth to the high mountains along with hearts and minds. In the vales and valleys below, the forest is quiet. It is as if the entire entity known as the Margreve Forest is taking a long awaited and much needed breath of relief and rest. With the destruction of the witch's power and the end to her influence over weather and woods, the ancient forest begins the long slow process of healing.

Not so very far to the south, the newly formed lake along the Grandfather's Tears river still fills, its rising waters burying the bones of thousands of trees and other spirit lives cut short by its creation. Smoke still rises from smoldering fires and dragon-forged stone atop the pinnacle of rock where a fortress once stood. Surrounding that transformed spire, a circle of destruction a mile wide. Trees thousands of years old, broken, uprooted and knocked down like matchsticks dropped from a hand. Thus a power broken does not occur without cost.

High up above the grieving trees, the heroes of Nargenstal rest. No threats appear. No dragons, wyverns, devils, or guild inspectors mar the peaceful respite. Much was witnessed. Much completed. Still other tasks remain and soon the discussion turns to what comes next for these mighty heroes.

Luthael: Just confirming what Scramsax quoted, yes, average or roll whichever is better.

Scramsax: Yes, Inspiration for everyone.

And as for how the hag/witch escaped, yes she shrunk herself down and went down the small tunnel while the eldritch chipmunk enlarged and went toward the hangar. The two teapots contained more shrinking/enlarging potions which would have allowed you all to follow. However, I had kind of figured on Luthael or Raseri being able to relay that information from what they witnessed in the 'time lag' of the Shadow Realm.

Fortunately for the hag, unfortunately for our heroic pursuers, the dice did what dice do with a 1 and a follow up 2 throwing a complete wrench into things. Still, her power is indeed broken in the Margreve.

Heh...I just realized that is kind of similar to the White Council breaking the power of a certain 'necromancer' in Southern Mirkwood. Then the question becomes, which one of you is Saruman. :)

The chipmunk's final phaser blast hits the clockwork beetle like a Blackguard's baton sucker punching drunks during the Midsummer Fair. Gears, springs, belts, and all manner of other really important bits disappear in a flash of horrifying power.

Fortunate the potent weapon didn't do the same thing to her own innards, Scramsax doesn't have much time to relish her short lived luck as the flying beetle instant turns into a plunging pile of beetle dung. With visions of her final moments racing through her mind the halfling is barely aware of the strong grip tugging at her collar and pulling her free of the doomed machine. Moments later she's snug within Ingyrd's familiar furry embrace.

Electing to fly well clear of the dragon's wrath, the Narg Nasty Six, who are really only five, circle around the pillar of stone and find a perch about a mile further into the mountains where they witness the final destruction of the former fortress of the Griffon Knights turned Hag's Hideout.

Those with sharp eyes spot a few survivors scrambling through the rocks and into the cover of the trees. But the handful of terrorized goblins or gnomes aren't a threat to anyone. The tower itself ultimately melts down like a wax candle. The molten stone walls sink in upon themselves filling the numerous tunnels and caverns below. Luthael feels the ancient temple to Khors so recently cleansed of its curse suddenly disappear in a single searing molten moment.

Eventually the dragon fire meets the harnessed natural mana of the manipulated leyline. The subsequent explosion shines like a second sun forcing even the dragon to retreat from her fury. The shockwave rolls across the mountains creating a ring of fallen trees and tumbling rocks for nearly a half mile around the tower. When it rolls across the cliff where Scramsax, Ingryd, Luthael, Raseri, and Gunnar are perched it rattles the stone and pushes each back several steps before slowly weakening as it passes through the remainder of the mountains.

That second glowing sun remains for much of the day. A fireball of swirling green, yellow and orange power hovering atop the sunken remains of the rock pillar that once housed the greatest knights of Midgard.

With a final roar that reverberates across the Margreave, the dragon circles once, twice, and finally deems her revenge complete. With the sun still rising in the eastern sky, its rays glittering off her shimmering brass colored scales, the dragon flies south. South to return to her lair and her recovered eggs.

By early evening the roiling globe of flame and power has dimmed to something nearer a lighthouse lamp warning of dangerous shoals. Perhaps an apt image considering the ruin it sits atop. The still smoking center pouring all manner of foul smelling toxins into the air.

Somewhere in the distance a cackle echoes across the mountains. Shrill and utterly, completely mad. It is a laugh that sends chills of fear down spines and lightning bolt charges of rage through minds and souls. It is a cackle cut short as the old nasty crone chokes on a bite of hard boiled egg. The trail of colorful shell marking her passage deeper into the northern woods. For a moment there is hope. Hope the witch will truly choke upon her own bile and filth. Alas, it is not be be. The bit of egg spews forth from between rotted teeth to hit a passing robin in the eye. The hapless bird tumbles to the ground to be gathered into the hag's pouch. A late supper. Luck's smile graces her wart coated face as she cackles again and slips into the growing twilight.

We'll go ahead and call that Level 11.

Yes, flight should be active unless Gunnar cancelled it for some reason.

"Captain's Log, Stardate 2454.3

The dark haired man sports the gold shirt and pips of a Star Fleet captain. His square-jawed face is covered with a layer of smoke and splattered blood. His emerald eyes have the haunted look of a man who's seen too much death in a short, unexpected period of time. In the background lights blinks on panels while some sort of alarm blares. Sparks cascade from above and releasing a cloud of smoke into the area that briefly rings itself around the haggard figure. S.S. Resolution can be seen labeled across the top of one of the flashing panels. His voice is tired, scratchy, filled with shock and grief.

"The final tally is twelve dead and thirty three wounded." He says staring into the screen. "We still don't have any idea where the alien came from. Sensors do not pick up any warp, impulse or other signs of a ship in the sector. And the planet below still shows as Class D with no signs of life and only a trace atmosphere."

"Warp drive is still off line, having been damaged in the initial skirmish after the alien suddenly appeared in Main Engineering. Standing approximately five feet tall with fur covering its entire being, the creature reminded me of some of the chipmunks we used to see all the time back home in the sierra's. Of course, those didn't run around shooting deadly purple beams into people or summon forth tentacled horror out of some fiction nightmare to rip my crew apart."

There is a pause as the man turns away. Someone else can be heard off screen, but the words are overrun by the alarms and continued burst of electronic static.

"Ensign Mayberry just died, bringing the death toll up to thirteen." The man swallows, sets his jaw. "That is the single largest loss of life the ship has suffered since the encounter with the Klingons two years ago."

"Search teams continue to scour the ship for the alien since it killed Lieutenant Tompkins and disappeared. Commander Grock saw the rodent grab Tompkins phaser so it is even more heavily armed than before." He runs a hand through his short cropped hair. "Fortunately we still have impulse power. I've set the Resolution on a course for Starbase 7 and left a beacon here in the Tourmaline system warning off all ships until the alien's origins can be determined. God willing, we'll have the warp drive back online in a month, otherwise it's going to be a damned long ride back home. Captain Randall out."

It is unclear how, why, or even what the image projected onto Ingryd's shield meant. The shield itself does not wish to discuss the casting's origin or anything remotely connected to its sudden appearance and equally sudden disappearance. In fact, when Ingryd and Gunnar attempt to ask further questions, it complains of the smoke and gore covering its lovely metal and acts as if the event never happened at all.

"Oh look!" The shield exclaims. "Isn't that the overgrown rat you were trying to kill earlier?" The wayward spirit adds taking full advantage of the well timed distraction.

And indeed, the eldritch chipmunk comes racing into the hangar steps ahead of a wave of molten rock. For a moment it's eyes focus on the hovering clockwork beetle and the adventurer's flying around its mechanical frame like a school of oversized pilot fish. At the same moment Luthael sends a fireball streaking toward the creature, the creature squeaks with fury and raises a strange looking wand held loosely in its clawed paw. A beam of light instantaneously bores into the flying machine.

A moment later the fireball explodes. The eldritch chipmunk is engulf in a tornado of flame and fury. Its dying screeches echo from the hangar opening for several long seconds before another roar of rage rattle the very foundations of the mountain from above. More stone trembles and shakes. The pillar of flaming rodent bounces wildly among the collapsing columns within the hangar until the entire sight disappears beneath several tons of stone and molten rock. A billowing cloud of smoke spews forth from the collapsing maw.

Inside the clockwork flyer, panels that were only moments ago a pleasant quiet green now beep and blare at the halfling as more than half how flash an ugly shade of red or grim yellow. Smoke fills the pilot's cabin the machine lists hard to starboard sending the machine into a slow downward spiral as it loses momentum and power.

Scramsax: DEX(Piloting Clockwork) vs DC16 to land the beetle without crashing.

A wave of heat ripples through the air. The tower shudders yet again. A slow moving stream of molten rock ripples down the stairwell from above. Giving even the usually stalwart dwarf a momentary start. He keen eyes quickly flick toward the ceiling. He blinks. Blinks again. Sweat beads upon his forehead. There is a definite glow to several of the stones. Somewhere near the far wall there is a soft splat. A molten red glob smolders like a fresh bird dropping.

The gate trembles and flickers. Then with a burst of scurrying feet and pumping arms, Raseri and Luthael crash through the gate. Eerie horns blare upon their heels along with more the more spine chilling calls of things that lurk in the depths of Shadow.

Heeding the priestesses shouted cry, Gunnar slams the gate closed. As hurries toward the narrow descending stairwell.

A flight below the fleeing trio, Ingryd waits. If one could see her knuckles, they would be white with fury as she gripped Ennui and waited for the disguised hag to pop back into existence. The hammer merely sighs as remarks upon the futility of such mortal emotions as anger and hate. For a brief moment, the bearkin ponders the hammer's words. Was her anger holding her here against all better judgement?

As if to punctuate the consideration a large stone suddenly tumbles from the ceiling above and smashes itself into gravel shards just a few paces away.

A odd clackety buzzing sound drifts from the hallway Scramsax disappeared into, while muffled shouts and the smell of molten stone waft down from above.

Suddenly, there is a tension in the air. The soft elemental hum of magic. She turns. Her eyes blaze at the spot where the eldritch chipmunk disappeared into whatever dark, vile dimension Gunnar sent it into. The fur on her neck and arms stands on end while her nose tingled. Surely it was only moments until the creature returned.

A pair of rocks break off and tumble from the ceiling. The sound of running boot steps signal someone is coming from above. Meanwhile the rough clattering from the other archway seems to have steadied itself after a few brief moments of grinding metal and wrenching gears.

It takes a few tries, but Scramsax finds she has a knack for flight. Perhaps it was the fae influence from the dryad. Perhaps it was thinking how much easier it would be to reach the top of Grand Burgher's Tower if one landed on the roof verses attempting to climb the thousand feet from the bottom. Such possibilities drive innovation. Thus with a deft hand and an easy touch, the halfling gets the clockwork flyer off the ground and manages to hold it steady a few feet from the rapidly shrinking tower.

From her vantage just outside, Scramsax sees the dragon hovering only a hundred or so paces above. Her wingspan is enormous. Her roaring, fury filled voice ear shattering. The top of the tower is simply gone. Another burst of dragonfire turns another layer of stone into molten sludge. Great globs of melted or partially melted stone slough away into the morning light. Dropping the thousands of feet to smash into the forest and rocks below. Spot fires erupt for a few minutes, but they are snuffed out before they can set the entire forest ablaze.

Glancing back at the landing area, she sees part of the roof collapse. The entire area is filling with smoke and dust and grit. Landing back on the pad was going to be dangerous. She glances down into the abyss below. More dangerous than missing the leap aboard? She wasn't sure.

OOC: Unless there is a delay, all can reaching the landing area this turn. It is a DEX(Piloting) roll vs DC14 to safely land the flyer back in the landing area. It is a DEX(Acrobatics) or STR(Athletics) check vs DC16 to make the leap from the landing pad and into the flyer's hold if Scramsax doesn't land. No need for this check if you have a flight speed.

The golden flare of Gunnar's firebolt is a beacon of relief and glory to weary eyes of Luthael and Raseri. It is a beacon of danger and hate for most of the other denizens of that dim, gray world known as Shadow. Knowing they didn't have much time, prophet and priestess scramble up the hillside of shattered stone. Screeches, hoot, and howls echo all around from the dark recesses hidden just out of sight. Somewhere drums begin to pound out a steady, bone rumbling beat.

Light had been brazenly, boldly, foolishly displayed within Shadow's domain. Such a challenge could not go unanswered. Such an affront could not go unpunished. And although time has no real meaning within a realm where neither sun, moon, stars, or anything else truly mark its passage, it is the first time in the memories of the realms youngest denizens that those drums have sounded. Even the oldest struggle to recall when the drums sounded last. A few did recall. Golden eyes glance at an elf head mounted upon a wall, another pulls a human crafted trinket from a drawer stuffed with various baubles. Memories of long ago. It had been a long time since a Hunt was called.

Raseri is the first to spot Gunnar standing silhouetted in the narrow gateway. The drums continue to beat. Somewhere in the distance a low mournful horn blows. The sound echoes like the wailing cries of a thousand widows across a blood soaked field. The prophet of light and priestess of thunder hurry onward toward the gleaming oval of flickering power. Their muffled cries drowned by the growing cacophony of Shadow's stirring.

Within the ancient tower, Scramsax struggles to understand the complicated array of levers, buttons, pedals, and other controls of the clockwork contraption. She also gains instant insight into the dragon's progress in her revenge as a massive chunk of stone and debris littered with a sprinkling of goblins and ghouls goes tumbling past the hanger opening. Moments later a thick crack opens in the ceiling as the entire tower shudders and tilts ominously toward the sheer edge of the several thousand foot drop.

She shouts back up the stairs. Ingryd curses the lack of final bloodshed, while Gunnar searches the shadow filled wasteland for some sign of his companions. An egg rolls out of the small archway, now packed with sticks, feathers, and bits of string. The dwarf couldn't recall that being there before. Before he can investigate the brightly colored egg, a stone drops from a growing series of cracks in the ceiling and crushes the potential breakfast delight with a sickening final thud.

The narrow door leading back into the hag's chamber shudders. There is a flash of fire light. Heat billows through the opening followed by thick black smoke and the rumble of collapsing stone. Cracks erupt in the walls, ceiling and floor of the chamber. The arcane gateway flickers, but remains thanks to Gunnar's focused effort.

Scramsax's shouts echo from below. The urgency clear in the halfling's high pitched shouts. He starts to turn away knowing his companions could take care of themselves. But the booming drums and echoing eerie horn has him concerned. Another stone falls, misses by only a few inches. The wizard starts to pull back from the gateway. Then he spots the haggard, hurrying figures racing through the gloom.

Scramsax: INT check vs DC13 to properly understand the flight controls.

Gunnar: DEX check vs DC13 to avoid falling stone and maintain the gateway. On a fail take 3d6 ⇒ (2, 3, 5) = 10 crushing damage.

Luthael and Raseri: CON check vs DC13 to increase your pace fast enough to make the gateway in the next round. Fail and it'll take a second round to reach the gate.

Ingryd waits. The bearkin grips Ennui in her grasp, her lips curled into a resolute snarl. Seconds tick past slowly. The rage boiling within her veins begins to ebb as she sees Scramsax slip through the opposite door while Gunnar seeks the prophet and priestess within the Shadow Realm.

Gunnar forces open a window into Shadow's gray land. The realm ripples and trembles with the recent comings and goings and bursts of powerful magics just the other side of the thin fabrics that both separate and hold together the weave of space and time. It is like looking through a jar of muddy water, that window into Shadow. Stirred sediments block the view making it difficult for him to see anything, better yet the minor specks that might be Luthael and Raseri. Still the dwarf continues, steadfast that he will not leave anyone behind amidst the coming conflagration of the dragon's anger.

Gunnar searches. Ingryd waits. Scramsax scouts. The halfling hurries through the other door. Passes down a hall lined with narrow doors. A peek here and poke there and it appears to be the hall where the hag's most potent allies might spend their time within the tower. Posh beds, gilt mirrors, handcrafted dressers, and individual washbasins and water closets. Rooms better than even many of the finest Barsallen inns.

Alas, all have already been pilfered and ransacked by their fleeing occupants. Drawer's line open, bedding unmade, closets are simply tiny dark rooms with a hangar or two rocking back and forth with each concussive expression of a dragon's revenge battering the tower.

Another open doorway exists at the end of the hall. Another stairway leading down. Flickering sconces light the way. Spiraling down and down until the halfling comes to another landing and another archway. This opens onto a large open area where most of the far wall stands open to the outside. An occasional piece of stone drops past that opening. The wide chamber itself is practically empty with the exception of a few scattered barrels, crates, or torn sacks spilling their contents like gutted deer.

Looking to the far end of the chamber, Scramsax spots what may have been the chipmunk's final objective. Sitting in the corner, a large insectoid clockwork contraption. Winged with what the halfling can only guess is a small two person cockpit and perhaps some kind of cargo area in the midsection, she supposes this to be how the eldrtich rodent planned to escape the tower and the region altogether. For certainly there is nothing else here save a long drop into the river valley far below.

Happy 2026 everyone. Hope you all have a great year this year.

The residual magics from the recent fight with the eldritch chipmunk along with the dragon's attack and the general chaos caused by the recent reorientation of the wild ley line has the entire fabric of the arcane field in disarray. It is difficult for the dwarf to read. Nearly impossible for him to get a solid sense of what happened to Luthael and Raseri or where they might be.

Backtracking up the stairs a short distance, Gunnar is able to detect a narrow thread of shadow and storm magic that mimics the magics the priestess had been casting in the hag's chamber. Worryingly, those same residues appear to the wizard as little more than arcane flotsam. Drifting remnants of a spell, or more likely, a portal, gone terribly wrong.

He glances back up the stairwell where the flash of dragon fire occasionally flickers and the stones of the tower quiver and tremble. If they were lost upon the shadow roads, it was possible they might never return. But the dwarf quickly pushes the worst aside. Assuming they can return, they would most likely try to do so at the easiest point possible, the point where they were attempting to reach in the first place. The Hag's Observation Room.

Gunnar overcomes the initial pain and confusion brought on by the chipmunk's void speech and castings. In a flurry of arcane retribution the wizard unleashes his own thunderous magic upon the eldritch varmit. Too late does it realize its tactical mistake in attempting to bypass the wizard. A costly lesson as now he finds himself...elsewhere. And surely, by the time he returned his true quarry would once again have slipped away.

With the chipmunk's shunting into another dimension, Ingryd is forced to vent her fury upon the only remaining targets in the area. The pair of driders. She is able to catch a glimpse of the arachnoid abominations stumbling about in the thick gray fog that quickly filled the staircase and entrance into the chamber. Wasting little time, the bearkin charges and slams Ennui into the first drider unfortunate enough to get in her way.

Bones crack. Internal organs liquefy. Blood splatters the surrounding walls, ceiling, floor, ally, and hidden halflings. For a few heartbeats, the hapless drider's mind doesn't realize it is no longer inhabiting a functioning body. Images of the drider's fencing prowess flood its confused mind as it slays the halfling, bearkin, and dwarf is a display of unparalleled derring-do. So after, he receives a promotion and rewards from his superiors. A weeks leave among the temple concubines. Then the pain strikes. With a gasp the already dead drider crumples to the ground, the last imaginary images spilling away faster than his life blood. Moments later sweet blackness and the embrace of death.

Through the haze of fog, the sole remaining drider sees his companion fall. Hears the roar of fury from the raging bearkin. Smells the ozone emanating from the dwarven wizard whose gnashing teeth crackle with sparks of lightning. And somewhere still, the halfling lurked with her lethal blade and greedy eyes.

For the first time in weeks, the drider makes the right decision. He tosses down his sword and flees. Unfortunately, although the decision to flee is, according to most betting statistitians, the correct one to make and allows for a sixty percent chance of escape, the direction of his flight reduces those chances to zero. For in his haste to escape, and since no one had mentioned that the tower was being assaulted by a very, very furious dragon, the drider elected to head up the stairway.

This ill-fated choice would result in his nearly instant incineration within the next five minutes as another blast of dragon fire melts the entire upper section of the tower into a rippling, oozing, red-hot mass of liquid rock and vapor.

Combat over. Chipmunk is banished. Drider 1 is dead. Drider 2 Disengages and flees toward his own doom.

Party is up.

[spoiler=GM rolls]

CHA Save vs DC17: 1d20 ⇒ 16

You are still inside the castle itself, although it is certainly a section you have not been before.

Sorry for the slow posting rate. Holidays and work have been kicking my backside this last couple of weeks.

Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and have a Happy New Year. Cheers all.

The dissonant syllables of the eldritch chipmunk's void speech and chaos seed completely fracture the logical structures and inner balance of the dwarven wizard. For a brief moment his thoughts flail upon the chaotic tides of uncreation and wild entropy. Stunned until his senses can once again focus and believe in the solid stone beneath his feet, the air filling his lungs, his own bone and tissue of a physical form. Only then, does the lightning spark once again fill his eyes and thunder rumble in his chest.

While Gunnar wrestles with the unexpected brittleness of the multiverse, Ingryd brushes off such esoteric concerns and simply unleashes the burning surety of her hatred upon what she believes to be the hag in disguise. The angry hum of bees accompanies her roar of fury and the whistle of her ancient hammer through the air.

Although unnaturally large, the chipmunk is still quite fast and nimble. The bearkin's first blow strikes nothing but air as her foe slips aside. But the barbarian warrior is no green recruit in the ways of battle. A snarl curls her lip, a gleam glitters in her eye. Dip left, lean low. Then in a display of her own speed and strength, for few could wield such a heavy weapon with such directions shifting speed and accuracy, Ingryd shifts her balance, moves right and centers a blow directly in the chipmunk's midsection. Ennui, completely unphased and unsurprised by the glimpse of world devouring chaos that so staggered the wizard, attempts to drain away the chipmunk's own essence. But the creature's own entropic origin provides a brief protection from the weapon's magic.

But the chipmunk's chaos origins cannot fend off another agent of the wild and uncertain. Cannot in fact, fend off the potent aura of one who's own links to the churning unknowable antithesis to life and order helped uplift the eldritch woodland rodent into its current state of existence. And so, from out of the shadows, Scramsax strikes like a desert rattler. Her blade punches through robes and hide in an instant. The chipmunk only begins to register the pain, notice the sudden weakness, by the time the halfling is already slipping back into the shadows.

Yet, there is a bond between halfling and chipmunk. One forged of hate, grief, revenge and the previously mentioned chaos. So it is, the the chipmunk pivots and through the haze of pain, bees, and flying bear spit, he spots the halfling as she sneaks back into the imperfect shadows just beyond the chamber's entrance. The gleam of a bloody dagger blade. The toe of a mate crushing boot. The leering smirk that peeks back into the room. The beady eyes calculating her next round of death. The chipmunk sees it all. So does one of the hag's arachniod creations.

"Chitter! Squeak chit chit squeak chitter." The chipmunk blurts.

The driders click-clack forward, hands suddenly covering their ears.

A moment later the room fills once again with the world rending dissonance of unguarded void speech. A section of stone suddenly turns into tapioca pudding. The lumpy, sweet mass oozes onto the floor causing the remainder of the wall to suddenly crack, slump, and lean precariously. An old rotted barrel grows arms and legs, lifts up its half bashed lip and runs off screaming through the door on the opposite side of the room. The chipmunk's eyes shine with ebony abandon as a set of curling horns suddenly burst forth atop its furry head.

The words roll across the room like a crashing avalanche of uncertainty. Minds revolt. Blood cells burst. Muscles turn spongy. For a moment all is truly chaotic until the final echoing phrase dissipates down the stairs and into oblivion.

Uncovering their ears, the drider's obey, although the more clever of the two considers the attack upon the halfling a tactical mistake when they could have potentially dealt with the dangerous wizard while the dwarf was under the influence of the munk's earlier void conjuration. But both had served the hag and her allies long enough to know that thinking and acting against the orders of a superior were sure fire ways to loose their pension and end up in one of the experimentation vats. So onward they charged. Theirs but to do and die.

All: WIS save vs DC15 or take 15 psychic damage and no reactions. Half on a success and still can react.

Scramsax: Take 10 damage from one hit.

Party is up.

Gunnar: No. It is a magic item, so not subject to counterspell. Judging by the puffiness of his cheeks, he probably has more of them stashed in there.

Ugh. My fault, I should have gone back and rechecked. Forgot you were using the sling. I'll switch the damage to the chipmuck next turn. Doesn't really change anything else, just gives him more reason to attack in Scram's direction.

And also, Happy Solstice all.

Gunnar's arcane fist continues to hold the struggling eldritch chipmunk in place. Th woodland rodent's eyes blaze with hate and power, but buried beneath that layer of revenge-fueled malevolence is a desire for rest, peace. It emits a harsh squeak as ribs bend, begin to pop and lungs struggle to pull in air. For just a whisper of a moment, the dwarven wizard can see the creature setting aside its quest. Can see the desire to return to a life of simpler pleasures and routines. Then its gaze catches sight of another.

A potent, fury of chittering and chaos laced muck-speech fills the room as a certain halfling emerges from the fading shadows to plant a dagger in the drider nearest the doorway. A halfling that smells of a dryad's glade, magic beans, and callous greed. The One had come. It was as the old crone had predicted. A madness grin of hate and vengeance crosses his puffy-cheeked face. A word of pure chaos is uttered which causes the stone in the room to tremble. Vision blurs and ears ring upon hearing the entropic syllables.

The chipmunk disappears it a puff of shadow and spite. Reappears again across the room. It's eyes blaze in the direction of the One. The source of its hatred and fury. The roaring bearkin means nothing to him as she pummels one of the hag's creatures with her ancient hammer rending armor and flesh all the same.

Its cheeks puff, lips snarl and twist. It sucks in a breath then spits a seed across the room with the deftness and accuracy of a dockside regular hitting a spittoon.

The empowered offspring of the ancient forest explodes a few inches from where the halfling had emerged to stab the drider and unleashes the stored power of chaos upon all those nearby. Driders, bearkin, dwarf and hidden halfling. The blast of unmaking washes across the room once again tearing at the very fabrics of reality and creation.

Ingryd takes 6,9, and 8 points of slashing damage from three drider hits.

All: Dex Save vs DC15 or take 32 points of force damage. Half on save. Also CON Save vs DC12 or gain Stunned until the end of your next turn.

Both Driders are stunned by the seed's magic.

Party is up.

Gunnar's magical hand reaches out and grasps the cloaked figure firmly by the shoulder. With a jerk it spins the creature around to reveal a furry-faced, puffy-cheeked, oversized chipmunk with glowing eldritch eyes and a feral snarl permanently manifested upon its thin lips. It struggles for a moment against the pull of the magical hand then suddenly laughs upon seeing the surprise etched across the dwarf's face.

"Chitterchitter squeak click chitter chitter chitter." It prattles off in its own high pitched native tongue.

The driders respond by surging toward the dwarf, longswords in hand. Their arachnid legs click-clacking upon the stone. The first moves in on Gunnar's left a flurry of steel slashing at the wizard. Using the distraction of it's partner, the second scuttles to the right managing to break through the wizard's guard to score a pair of hits.

Gunnar takes two hits for 11 and 7 slashing.

Party is up.

Scramsax tosses her prepared bean through the tiny door. She can hear the little legume bounce back and forth among several stone surfaces before it seems to settle. After a short waits later the prickle of something magical taking place tingles in the air. The door suddenly fills with a hodgepodge of twigs, small sticks, dry grass, and leaves. The panicked clucking of a caged chicken echos through what remains of the opening. After a flurry of squawks and begawkes an egg rolls slowly through the door. Its pastel red, blue, and yellow striped shell a bright contrast to the dreary gray and brown of the stone room.

Of course, the halfling sees none of this, having quickly marked the way for her two wayward companions to follow and then scampered off after Gunnar and Ingryd.

Seventy paces down the descending corridor steps, Gunnar's voice rings out strong and fierce. The wizard swipes away the darkness as it if were nothing more than a nat bothering his nose. Able to see once again, both bearkin and dwarf easily spot the approaching pair of driders. The arachnid legs click-clacking across the stone, black blades poised to strike, eyes suddenly blinking in surprise as they are forced to readjust to the infusion of dim sconce light.

Beyond the pair of driders, a cloaked and hooded figure ducks through another open doorway. It moves with a strange, almost hopping gait. Gunnar catches a flash of brown fur, then the figure disappears through the room beyond.

Combat begins. Ingryd and Gunnar are up. Scramsax arrives at the top of next round.

Hi all. I'm traveling today, so likely won't be able to update until tomorrow or Friday. Sorry for the delay.

"POP! CLANG!" The final bolt finally breaks free giving Scramsax a knuckle crack she won't soon forget. But at last with a solid five point six seconds to spare she has the stool well in hand, its grease coated center swivel disappearing into the thieves stash. Fully expecting Luthael and Raseri to arrive upon a wave of sour looks and the usual 'what have you done now' questions, the halfling is met by an eerie silence as far as those two companions are concerned. Silence of course being relative given the unmistakable roar of the dragon outside which stills causes the walls to ripple and grit to leap from the tower heights to the much safer and solid resting places on the floor.

Then there is the other roar. That of Ingryd followed quickly by Gunnar's racing boot steps. Those two eagerly after the old cackling crone of the pendulous chest and frumpy gams. Before she can finish storing all the wrenches...why is it always the last one of the pile that you try...that bearkin's roar is cut short.

Ingryd fidgets back and forth eager to be after the hag while Gunnar checks around the chamber for other clues as to the direction she may have departed.

A moment later Scramsax pulls herself through the small door, her second story experience allowing her to squeeze through the narrow opening...barely. But any concerns about flexibility or waist size are quickly tossed aside upon spotting the old witch's spinning stool. Perfect for nearly every occasion and any room.

Realizing she had time since Raseri and Luthael clearly are yet to return from their rendezvous in the Shadow Realm, she quickly pulls out her tools and works to unbolt the chair from the floor.

Scramsax: Yes, I think you've got everything correct.

The Shadow Realm. A realm of mystery. A realm of doom. A realm of wonders and all to often death. Over the centuries many have theorized about the colorless origins of this blighted world nestled within a fabric's width of the bright hued world of life and mortality. Some scholars and wizards say the world was born out of war. The constant struggle between Light and Dark creating a third nether realm where neither truly exists at all. Among the religious classes there are as many myths of its creation as there are sects and followers. One might say such is the case among any of the gods and their associated realms of power. One would like be correct.

Among the fae and elven nobility, Shadow is a place forbidden and best forgotten by most. A realm born of betrayal and treachery by their own kind. A corruption of that which was once glorious, bright and fair now dull, gray, and treacherous, much like their lost kin.

The dragons might know. Born of the stars and entropy as they are believed to be. But who is willing to force a dragon to talk? Who survives long enough to write it down or turn it into a song that others might remember. Too few.

A few whisper that Shadow was where it all started. Light, Dark. Good, Evil. Life, Death and all in between. All of it born of a condensed primordial gray ooze that was nothing, yet something. An entire universe compacted into little more than a colorless glob no bigger than a giant's nasal boulder. Somewhere within that dense beyond dense mass a spark was born. This single snippet of wonder multiplied itself faster than a horde of goblins. A cascading chain reaction unleashed itself in the mere blink of an eye and in a cataclysmic explosion wel beyond mythic proportions, the multiverse was born.

It is about this point in any standard academy class or temple tutorial that most acolytes or apprentices might ask...so what? Who cares, when do we get to learn how to throw fireballs? Those on the opposite side of this query, after assigning an additional week's worth of busy work regarding why the offender and all of his, or her, although the perpetrators of such questions are well documented as being eighty percent male, will never inquire about fireballs again, most often reply. Because you're going to end up there one day and if you don't understand something's beginning, you likely won't understand how to deal with its now.

Thus the lesson would continue, shifting in perspective to more practical matters. For despite the wide disagreement for how, why, or when the Shadow Realm came into being. There is a broader sense of agreement on what it is now and how it often affects those who journey into its dreary grasp.

First and foremost among the effects of the Shadow Realm is that Time functions differently, if at all, within the boundaries of Shadow. Moments spent within its gray halls can equate to years within the mortal realm or quite the reverse. It is theorized that many of those who have disappeared into the mists of Shadow's grip will emerge at some point in the future thinking they have only been gone for a few days or years only to discover their homes and loved ones long since buried and gone. Therefore, extended journeys within the realm are discouraged by most sensible authorities, unless they are made within well mapped and cataloged portions of the realm where time anomalies are chronicled and can be accounted for.

Second, power within the realm is unstable. Arcane, holy, demonic, psychic, it doesn't really matter what form or source from which one's power originates. When exposed to the realm of shadow for any period of time, it is a near certainty some form of instability, mutation, or anomaly is likely to occur. Thus most journals will recommend limiting any such uses of arcane or other powers be kept to a minimum when visiting the Shadow Realm.

The above ties directly to the third known quality of the Shadow Realm. Those native denizens that exist within its bounds are inevitably drawn to any non-native energy or life force. Both Light and Darkness are keen attractants, honey to the proverbial bear so to speak. If one wishes to draw the attention of an Elder Stygian Entropy Beast, then by all means go wandering along a Shadow Road brandishing you Sword of Daylight's Glory or conjuring up clouds of Perpetual Darkness. Just be sure you've made proper arrangements for your next of kin.

Finally, it is well known that the Shadow Realm tends to shape itself similar to the mortal realm, but also remains starkly different in both small and large ways. Why this is, is still very much a mystery. But as already mentioned, the why's of the Shadow Realm are of little concern. The fact is, that while the surroundings one might find themselves in will have a look of familiarity, perhaps even exact outside of the utter colorlessness, there will be many differences. Some subtle, some less so. Always beware when journeying in the realm of Shadow because what or where you think you are may, in whatever reality exists within that primordial aether, may be someplace entirely different.

These along with several other known facts written in many basic tomes cover the known knowledge and recorded facts regarding the Shadow Realm. Information gleaned over centuries at the expense of many lives and lost souls. Unfortunately, neither Luthael or Raseri recall any of these particular lessons from their younger days. The latter because she chose instead to stay late working in the forge to earn extra credit toward her Forging Obscure Weapons of the Far Northern Realms class. While young Luthael was busy writing "I will not ask about fireball again" on the High Priest's chalk board.

Thus as the two busily burrowed their way through the putty soft door and crawled through to the other side, they were quite surprised to see a pair of shadowy images moving around the room.

One of those shadows was quite small. Rodent like in shape and form, a long tail the flipped about. Round ears standing out prominently atop a rodent sized head. A squirrel, or more likely a chipmunk. A quite diabolical and nefarious chipmunk judging from the spite and hate filled menace emanating from the eldritch infused shadow.

The second dark, flat image clicks her heels and swings around on a revolving stool. Bulbous nose, pointed hat, snaggle tooth, knobby knees and pendulous breast that seem to almost take orbit around that revolving form.

The rodent drops the smoldering shadows of some strange purple-flamed effigies it had been manipulating. Cursing in a muffled staccato chatter that passes too quickly to understand.

A muffled cackle, like laughter into a pillow escapes shadow witch lips until suddenly the image reaches a twisted hand up to cover a bulging eye. Muffled words are exchanged. Arms, both long and short, gesture wildly. Somewhere a rumble roars and the entire plaster of paris tower rattles disconcertingly. Shadow witch drinks from a tiny shadow teapot and suddenly shrinks down to a pint sized hag-mare. While the rodent drinks from a larger pot and suddenly chitters with a deep rumbling, bullock sized tone. Each nods to the other then dashes out their respective doors small and large. A moment later a dwarf size shadow appears with an odious belch of sulfuric magic. A bearkin shadow at the wizard's side.

Luthael turns to Raseri, is about to suggest they depart when the pained moans of his gathered spirits suddenly change and then go silent completely. Turning his head he quickly spots the cause of such a silence. The storm of holy knights of light has slowed and stopped. The spirits gathered around one of their own suddenly gone completely gray, eyes filled with an empty gray light rather than radiating golden glory. Hissing and writhing it turns upon its fellows. Three quickly dissipate in a flurry of surprise induced weakness. Before the others can rally, a fourth of their number succumbs to traitors soul sucking power. It's eyes already turning toward the more luscious prizes of the two mortals only a shadow's reach away.

Back in the realm of mortals known as Midgard, Gunnar and Ingryd struggle to determine which path the hag may have taken. Gunnar gathers the doll remains for later study. Eventually Ingryd points down the corridor beyond the full sized door. Boot prints are freshest going that direction, she's sure. Well kind of sure. Actually it's hard to tell, but that's her guess.

On the other side of the door, Scramsax dons her gardening hat, pushing bean to soil and flask poised to water before she scampers through the tiny door and looks about for a place to hide since there's little to steal or stab.

In the Shadow Realm Raseri and Luthael begin to dig their way through the crumbling alcove wall. The gray world feels heavy, close. Everywhere a dense fog appears to risen, even within the confines of the shadow tower. The thick, clinging mist subdues light, sound and the heart. Even the spirits circling the prophet of Khors take on a sickly gray hue, their hungry wails becoming pained moans. The Shadow Realm does not easily welcome denizens of the Light.

As the two hurriedly carve their way through the wall, they feel eyes watching. Presences, some curious, some hostile, some merely hungry, gather. The barrier between worlds has been breached multiple times in a short period. Such usual events tend to cause such gatherings, especially in this realm of perpetual fog and mixed motivations.

On the other side of the wall in the realm of mortals, others labor. Gunnar examines the mirrors. Finds, perhaps with a measure of relief, that they do not appear to be gateways. Are not the avenue used by the hag in her flight. Flipping through runic dials, the dwarf judges each of the silvered glass squares to be tied to an arcane eye similar to the one recently crushed over the alcove. The screen showing nothing but the static haze of background mana.

Unfortunately, the tight confines of the room and the still echoing rumbles of thunder from Gunnar's teleportation make it impossible for either Ingryd or Gunnar to know for sure which way the witch may have fled. Large or small. Turning their attention to the top of the work tables, they spot something missed earlier through the lower view offered by the door. Five ragged dolls lay smoldering near the center of the workbench. An amalgamation of wire, wax, rags, and various bits and pieces of random trash, each is approximately a foot tall and each roughly resembles one of Gunnar and Ingryd's former companions.

Aterro, holding a small hammer made with a rusty nail and a piece of oak. Ibrox a rag hat topped with blacked mushrooms and moss. Trevor, a rough cut peasant shirt made of soiled cloth with used toothpick javelins. Kalisuel, old mop strands for hair and a bow made of willow and horse hair. Vrindel, a gnarled rowan stick staff and a robe of dried skunk cabbage leaves. Captured within the melted center of each doll's chest is a small glass orb that still gleaming with dark arcane magic.

On the other side of the door, Scramsax hears the rumbling bellow of the dragon. Closer. Much, much closer than before. A flare of light suddenly illuminates the tower's recently remodeled skylight. Another brilliant flare and then screams. An explosion rocks the entirety of the tower. Several vials go clattering to the floor. Two break releasing a pair of sour smelling liquids that quickly merge together. Almost too quickly. The halfling rubs her eyes, surely the two substances didn't seek to unite? No, surely not. Either way a stench start to fill the chamber. Reeking of death, decay, sorrow, and lost dreams. Screams echo from somewhere outside. For a moment something within can almost be heard screaming in harmony.

I have Gunnar and Ingryd in the small room. Scramsax just outside within the alcove. And Luthael and Raseri in the alcove within the Shadow Realm. Raseri and Luthael 'break through' the alcove wall at the top of the next round, so each may post what they do after entering.

Party is up.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of those celebrating. Hope you all have a great holiday.

After gathering the rescued hostages close together, Scramsax whisks them off to the dryad's grove where they are met with a blend of surprise and relief especially for Vee and Katerina who'd gone missing for the last three days.

While Scramsax sees the hostages safe, Gunnar, Luthael, Ingryd and Raseri try to discover how to follow the witch's trail.

Stepping back into the small alcove, Gunnar kneels down and peers through the tiny, now open, door. Inside is a narrow room about five feet wide, fifteen long. A small table rests near the center of the room. Two teapots and accompanying cups and saucers sit atop the table. One tea set, decorated with a forest fern and mushroom motif, is normal size. A wispy trail of steam rises from the spout. The second tea setting is tiny, decorated with periwinkles. Indeed, the size of a child's doll set. Curiously, the small pot also has steam rising from its spout and the cups seem in more disarray as being recently used.

A set of stools able to rotate in a full circle sit along the back wall in front of a workbench that spans the length of the room. Mounted in the wall above the bench are a series of ornate mirrors. However, rather than reflecting the room, they each portray a different scene. One, the large chamber in the tower with its cages and bodies. Another looks upon a familiar operating theater. Another a dock and loading area. Another, some kind of training room complete with fighting dummies and wooden weapons. Underneath each mirror is a large dial engraved with glowing runic symbols.

There are two exits leaving the room. North and south. The northern exit is the same size as the one Gunnar currently peers through. Small, big enough for a cat or possum to easily scamper through. The other is of a more normal size. Both are open and exit into poorly lit corridors that appear to circle up or down within the thick wall of the tower.

Raseri takes a few moments to once again enter the Shadow Realm. Within that gray-scale recreation of the tower, the priestess finds a similar small door and similar hidden room. Peering into the room, she notices a few key differences. The first being the lack of any tea pots or other inviting warm beverages. The second is that the mirrors do not display anything understandable. Most are simply black. One looks like some constant snow storm is being watched for it is nothing but a mad, chaotic, scramble of white static against a night black background. Only one shows any kind of recognizable image at all. It stands out because of one thing. It is in complete color. It shows an image of a humanoid rabbit and duck arguing back and forth while a rather round headed hunter stalks them both.

Resting her hand against the wall, Raseri finds that is starts to crumble. Curious, she claws and tears at the barrier. It continues to fall away and crumble like rotted wood. It probably would not take very long for her to rip away enough wall to be able to crawl into the adjacent room.

Scramsax: I went back and checked, it looks like the locks on the cages are DC20.

Ingryd and Gunnar: Keep in mind the door in the alcove is very small. " Further within the narrow space is a tiny arched opening about six inches high and four wide. A hexagonal carved piece of jet is mounted just above the door and according to Gunnar's keen enhanced gaze appears to be acting as some kind of conduit for the power coming to and from the much larger crystal further out in the room."

Ingryd, Gunnar and Luthael descend upon the remaining gobins, gnomes, and ghouls like avenging angels of the gods. Ennui sends a pair of gabbling goons straight to the Abyss. So stopping in Purgatory for them. Straight into the demon's maw, screeching their innocence all the way down. Luthael's angelic choir of righteous fury mops up those remaining nearest to Vee and Katrina. A few slightly smarter survivors, notably a gnome and goblin, simply flee the area. Scrambling for the nearest exit, even the fear of their mistresses disappointment can't match the more immediate terror of being devoured by the spiritual servants of Khors and his holy prophet.

Both the residents of the wild Margreve nod with grim determination at Raseri's question.

"We've lived our whole lives in the Wild Wood." Says the old farmer. "Plenty of chance to defend ourselves with blade, bow and stave." He adds grabbing a nearby knife from one of the dead gnomes.

"Tis more than true, what my husband says. Fight like cats going to a bath we will if given half a chance and a good stout knife." Adds his wife picking up a bow and quiver from one of the fallen goblins.

Gunnar calls forth to his former comrades, but looks over to see each captured in a state of horrifying transmutation. No longer fueled and directed by whatever arcane power flowed from the controlling links above. The five former companions continue to stagger around the room aimlessly. Eerie, eldritch moans and groans of anguish emerge from melting lips. Looking closer, all see that indeed their entire bodies seem to be melting like molten candle wax. Aterro, Ibrox, Vrindel, Kalisuel, and Trevor each slowly dissolve into little more than ochre colored waxy puddles surrounding a skeletal like frame of twigs, leaves, and twine.

Within moments the quintet of former companions turned foes is no more.

"Oh pooh." The witch's voice emerges from above and all around yet again. "You've gone and spoiled all the fun. Toys have passed, losses suffered. Such a waste, such a tragedy. Nothing seems to be built to last these days. Why it's enough to make any good witch throw in the towel. Just give in. Retire to the coast. Maybe start collecting sea shells or open up a little antique shop."

A long pause.

"Fortunately, I'm not a Good Witch! Eeeeeheeheeheehee."

Somewhere a cock crows. Sunlight flashes on the broken glass and stone at the top of the tower. Bells suddenly begin to clang elsewhere in the tower and along the outer wall. The cacophony is answered by the deep earth trembling rumble of a distant dragon's roar.

"Heeheeheeheeee! Time to call this dance done. This old broad's gotta run. You've won the day, earned your pay. I'd offer you a beverage but I can't stay. Eeeeeheeeheeeeheeee!"

Somewhere the sound of a door slamming echoes. Boots running on stone. Curiously they seem to come from beyond the tiny door in the tiny alcove up on the wall.

A single door exits the room where the goblin and gnome fled. The only other known exits are the open roof which you entered and possibly the tiny door in the alcove back up the wall.

Party is up.

Down on the floor of the chamber, Scramsax slips from beneath the gobbo-pile to pass Vee a dagger. Seeing her mechanical daughter armed and the Saint of Khors starting to regain her wits, the halfling then hurries over to the one cage still holding a pair of hostages.

Knowing what she's looking for the nimble fingered thief spots the triggers and traps linking the cage to the crystal and the toxic baubles.

Higher up in the chamber, Ingryd, Gunnar, and Luthael attempt to stuff themselves into the small confines of the nook that appears to provide some link to the magics passing through the massive crystal and into their former friends turned enemies. After a bit of pushing, shoving, stepped on toes, and sucking in of guts, Gunnar ends up standing on the narrow ledge while Ingryd, barely able to move uses her shield to cut off the arcane flow and potentially crush the gemstone to block it completely.

"Eeeeeheeheehee!" Cackles the echoing voice of the witch. "Friends now foes, crush their...ouch!" The witches voice is cut off when Gunnar reaches up and jabs his thick dwarven finger into the center of the arcane eye. A burst of magic flow through the hairy knuckled digit and with a sickly *splork* the arcane orb is nothing but a glob of goop dripping from the wall and a single dwarven finger.

"Nasty little wizard!" Growls the witch, her laugh suddenly gone. "Too stringy and salty to make a good pie. I'll have to find a longer lasting way for you to die."

The crystal flares to life once again. Arcane power dances and crackles across its surface. Arcs of lightning flow down the wires leading to all of the cages except the one disconnected by Scramsax earlier. The prophet's parent cry out in pain as the charge fills the cage with arcane lightning. Their bodies glow, briefly their skeleton's are illuminated by the eldritch green power. Examining the locks and traps, Scramsax is caught within the electrical charge, a painful shock before she can scramble away.

Another arc of arcane green lightning crackles to the group gathered at the nook. It slams into Luthael, Gunnar, and Ingryd just as the bearkin slams her shield into the gemstone link. Another blast of power bursts from the stone as it is crushed beneath the ancient shield.

"Aieeeyeeeeee!" Screams the shield. "It burns. It hurts. Aiiiyeeeeee!" The shield and its spirit absorb much of the blow back, but still some slips past in the confined space of the nook.

Down below Kalisuel, Ibrox, Aterro, Vrindel, and Trevor all drop their weapons and grab their heads crying out in sudden pain and surprise. The surviving minions surrounding the quintet knowingly scurry away and all start to converge upon the seemingly weakest targets available. Katrina and Vee.

Huddled with the peasants near some shelves, Raseri manages to avoid the burst of arcane power from the crystal. She does spot another arcane eye opposite the one found by Gunnar about thirty feet up the wall, tucked just beneath a protruding stone.

Scramsax: DC16 DEX Save vs Lightning Charge or take 4d6 ⇒ (2, 3, 1, 1) = 7 Lightning damage. Half on a success.

Gunnar, Ingryd, and Luthael: DC16 DEX Save vs Lightning Charge or take 4d6 ⇒ (4, 2, 5, 2) = 13 lightning damage. Half on success.

Ingryd, Gunnar and Luthael: DC13 DEX save vs Magical Blowback or take 3d6 ⇒ (2, 6, 2) = 10 necrotic damage and pushed back 10'. If pushed take and additional 3d6 ⇒ (5, 2, 6) = 13 fall damage unless able to prevent a fall. No damage and no push on success.

Party is up.

Hey all. Well it looks like things are back.

Going to take me a minute to get back up to speed and re-figure out where all of this was heading. Plus I've got a board meeting tomorrow morning, so might not get things updated until Friday.

Scramsax: Yes, you're able to grab a dagger from one of the goblins. And yes, the Hex is definitely gone. 50+pts of damage is going to break anybodies concentration. :)

Twirling and whirling forward through swings blades, whizzing arrows and billowing flames, Scramsax finds herself right up on her old friend Ibrox. Tucked within that abstract space of shadow and nowhere that provides sanctuary to mosquitoes and dagger wielding halflings. Morrin's Misery slips, swift and cleanly beneath the gnome's layers of hardened hide and much less hardened flesh.

Eyes alight at the thought of one less share to divvy up among the surviving membership of the Narg Nasty Six, the halfling barely notices her blade come away free and easy from the body. Almost doesn't register the complete lack of blood. Almost. But such unusual occurrences are noteworthy even when share recalculations need to be made. So it is that among the smoke, fire, goblin shouts, and ghoul grumbles, that Scramsax looks down and sees little more than a sticky yellow substance marring her dagger blade.

Now she'd seen the little bugger bleed before. Seen plenty of gnomish ne'er do-wells spill the old red stuff bright and pure as any other usual halfling or beast. Thus alarms starting jangling worse than old Gerald Goldsmith's Jewelry and Fine Crafts Shoppe did when she'd missed the crafty bugger's forth alarm tucked right where a clever uninvited gawker might find themselves when entering through a second story window. Something definitely isn't right about his old traveling companion.

But before she can do anything further, the gnome twists around, utters those two fateful words and blasts the halfling off her feet and into a set of barrels just a few feet away. Moments later the gnome's minions swarm over the halfling stabbing, slashing, and bashing with all they have to offer.

Luthael flies smack dab into a glop of burning goop. The vile stuff gnaws away at robes and flesh like a starved rat. But Khors doesn't just bless his followers with the power to create fire, having lost plenty of temples to poorly trained acolytes, the reformations of 517 insured everyone from acolytes to the High Patriarch receive proper safety training with annual refreshers. Thus the prophet of Khors recognizes the need to smother the flames quick rather than foolishly trying to douse them with water. One-two-three. His blanket is out, wrapped over the burning area and tamped tight until the goop is extinguished and wiped free. Then its a quick dive into a bevy of minions and suddenly Gunnar is calling, pointing toward a shadow filled nook a little less than a quarter of the way up the tower wall.

In the otherworldly realm of Shadow, Raseri makes another attempt to conjure up home. This time the portal opens into a conflagration of fire, shouting bears, stabbing halflings, screeching goblins, and dualing holy men hollering of light and death.

"Maybe we should try the spider gentleman." The peasant woman says. "He actually seemed like a rather nice fellow."

If given a moment to consider the not so very unwise words of the commoner, Raseri and her husband would have been hardpressed to disagree with such a statement. However, the tingling between the priestesses shoulders blades hinted that time was of the essence and to dawdle on the shadow road was surely an invitation to all manner of trouble. So with a gentle but forceful with no-questions-tolerated shove, the trio step through into the cacophony of the hag's lair.

"Ha! Ha!" Aterro's booming laugh batters the room. "You are a fine lass, but I'm afraid I prefer my ladies to be a bit less covered in fur. At least during the summer months." The paladin adds after the clang of Ingryd's hammer striking home is quickly followed by the bearkin attempting to pull the holy warrior into a stifling embrace. Aterro slips away from Ingryd's grasp at the last moment. As he twists away, the paladin sweeps his mace low catching the raging barbarian on her knee with a crushing blow.

A moment later the bearkin feels a firm grip upon her side then...

*BOOM!*

A thunderous rumble fills the tower and Ingryd finds herself teetering on a narrow foot wide ledge of stone peering into the three foot by three foot confines of a small nook in the wall. While her claws scramble to maintain her purchase she can't help but notice the wide, blinking eye staring at her from just above the alcove.

The same eye is noticeable to both dwarf and prophet from their own angles. Obviously a magical conjuration the arcane eye tries to blend back into the stone, but finds itself unable to escape the peering gaze of the trio. Further within the narrow space is a tiny arched opening about six inches high and four wide. A hexagonal carved piece of jet is mounted just above the door and according to Gunnar's keen enhanced gaze appears to be acting as some kind of conduit for the power coming to and from the much larger crystal further out in the room.

Back on the ground, a rather battered and disheveled Aterro tries to rally a hearty retort, but his lungs still refuse to gather air properly following the blast from Gunnar's magic. So instead he simply point his minions toward the trio in the alcove and orders them to skewer the cowardly intruders.

A barrage of arrows flies toward Luthael and Ingryd. Most miss or bounce off the heroes armor. One manages to strike home, piercing Luthael in the leg as he twists to avoid another missile. The elf finally seems to find her range upon the prophet of Khors as an arrow fired by Kalisuel punctures his side. The young Trevor throws a javelin at the big bear shaped target and hits home. The short spear catches the bearkin right beneath her ribs eliciting a painful roar of agony.

Elsewhere in the room, Raseri steps through a portal from the Shadow Realm right behind the two peasants who are free from their cage. Vee crawls out of her cage and slowly makes her way over to where Katrina is slowly emerging from her fugue.

Scramsax: Take 13 from an agonizing repulsing eldritch blast plus 5 as your are slammed back 10' into debris. Then take 7 slashing from the minions.

Ingryd: Take 12 from Aterro. Then 14 from Trevor's crit.

Luthael: Take 9 and 7 from two arrows.

Party is up.

Valiant winged knights of Khors gather around the sun god's prophet. Their voice rise against the banshee screech of Aterro's boisterous, dead. A holy choir of light and might to challenge death's ceaseless hunger and fright. The an angel of the days of old, Luthael swoops down among the hag's horde. Diving and ducking, juking and jiving, the groups surrounding Kalisuel and Trevor manage to avoid the worst of the holy horde. Still not all escape their glowing golden swords and lances.

Focusing his thoughts, Gunnar once again approaches the bonds holding yet another ally and devoted of Khors in thrall. This time nothing distracts the wizard as he carefully and cautiously plucks the threads and strums the cords of power like a master bard's fingers dancing across a harps silver strings. But no music is summoned forth by this masterful work. Only knots made tight by malice and blight, turned loose and weak. Finally with one last careful tug, the shackles break with an aethereal snap, the power turns to mist drifting into nothingness.

His words, so distant yet so close to the one he wishes to arouse. Eyes flutter open. A breath gasps. The Saint of Khors once again rises from an unwelcome slumber.

Bear and Paladin trade mighty blows. Hammer and mace. Sparks fly, armor holds. Neither lands a significant blow until Aterro feints left, Ingryd bites. The blow comes fast and quick from her right, slams the bearkin across the arm. A wave of ugly fear crashes like another wild blow against her heart and mind. It is an unnatural, uncanny, unwanted fear. It stifles thought, seizes her heart. She tries desperately to drive the undying paladin's power away before she breaks.

Who slipped a piece of pumice stone into Scram's bag of rocks? The halfling immediately thinks of Darrel. She never did trust that treacherous foxkin. Of course, it could not have been that one evening sharing a keg of Ingryd's finest. The sweet honey mead quickly making her brain buzz like one of the bear's swarming bees. It could not have been simply that the lightweight volcano vomit was supposed to be good for exfoliating one's skin and pours and it'd been a right long time since she'd had a proper bath. Not to mention a proper meal or a right proper dalliance of an evening sort. So she'd tucked the bit of pumy into her pouch to give herself an extra scrub should she ever find herself someplace that wasn't the hairy backside of civilization. No, it was certainly the tricky foxkin.

Regardless of its true origin, the featherweight stone was more than useless in a fight. Fluttering through the air like a sickly quail, the scrubbing stone plinked off a bit of gnomish armor.

"Ibrox, Ibrox." Was her once drinking buddy's reply. Followed by a blast of eldritch force nearly as lightweight almost as feeble as the halfling's stone. The gnome grins unaware his forest hat is wilting in the heat of Luthael's fire.

Glancing toward the cage where Vee remains trapped, the halfling hears a tell tale click and clack as tumblers fall into place. The lock opens and the cage door slowly swings open freeing her clockwork daughter.

Elsewhere, in the realm of Shadow where things are never really what they seem, Raseri greets the bewildered but much relieved faces of the two friendly folk who'd shared salt and bread with the priestess and her traveling companions. With grand aplomb the world traveling holy woman gathers her power, focuses, bend the structures of the world to her will and opens a gate...

The peasant folk peek past the priestess, their eyes growing into saucers, they take an unwary step back bumping against the gray bars of the shadow cage. Frowning at such an odd reaction, Raseri looks through the gate to see a strange world. Three suns blaze above of red sky. A small copse of crystalline trees zig and zag and jig their sharp, crooked way toward that alien sky. Earth of pale yellow holds the roots of those strange trees. Dry and gritty, a wisp blows through the portal to brush against Raseri's boots.

Sitting in the shade beneath the largest of the jagged forms, a ten legged arachnid looks up from reading a set of rune bones recently tossed. A mass of curious eyes meet the two of the priestess. A leg reaches up to remove a long curved pipe from between the duel set of jaws.

"Click clackclack chit clatter click." Speaks the arachnoalien denizen of the realm.

"Beggin your pardon miss Raseri." Manages the ever practical and observant peasant woman. "But that don't look like home to us."

Back in the Hag's Tower upon the realm of Midgard, the witch's cackle bursts once again upon the scene.

Eeeeeeheeheeeheeeheee! The noise bounces back and forth across the stone walls like an ear splitting headache.

"Spit and Spew
Hate boils a perfect stew."

Her voice grates among the chaos and cacophony of the battle.

"Friend now foe
Brewing lovely woe.
Love, devotion, friendship, trust
Who can cook with any of that,
Treachery, bile, hate, and fear
Now were talking, let's fill the vat."

The witch cackles again. Suddenly the massive crystal shudders, crackles with energy, the pained cries and pitiful moans of a hundred trapped and suffering souls echoes from some other netherworld. A burst of power erupts like a bursting boil, splattering its putrid, burning, miasma across the entire chamber. One glob of sizzling, flesh devouring goop strikes a goblin near Trevor. The hapless creature screeches, clutches at its arm trying to shake the stuff off as it bursts into a screaming, jade flame. Soon enough the pitch of the flame is the same of its victim as the goblin drops its bow, races around in a circle arm flapping like a demented, one-winged chicken. The flames quickly crawl up the arm to the goblins chest, face, head, down to its legs. Soon the entire creature is simply one mass of oozing, putrid green flame as it flops to the ground with a sickly splat

Ingryd takes 9 points of damage from a single hit from Aterro and must make a Fear check vs DC15.

All except Raseri: DEX Save vs DC15 or take 4d6 ⇒ (4, 1, 1, 2) = 8 fire damage and remain burning from the crystal power burst. Half damage and not on fire with a success.

Party is up.

Ingryd does not hesitate as the undying spirits surrounding the eldritch Aterro continue to howl and gnaw at the bearkin's flesh. Ennui comes around with all the raging bearkin's furious might and slams into the paladin of death. The hammer's ancient power sapping the very strength and life from Aterro as the blow lands with the crushing sound of metal upon metal. The eldritch light in Aterro's eyes flickers, wavers, the howling spirits disappear as quickly as they arrived. Then the glow steadies. A second blow lands, but this time Ennui's power is blocked by the paladin's own association with the undying realms.

"I am Lord Death's hand upon this mortal realm! Under his banner shall I rally to Glorious Battle!" Shouts the paladin. Suddenly the air surrounding Aterro turns icy cold. As cold as the very darkest, deepest pits of the Abyss where the warmth of light has never reached. A coat of icy, black armor coats the paladin's body.

The remaining minions with Aterro harass Ingryd, but none are able to get past the bearkin's defenses.

Gunnar examines the restraints holding Katrina in thrall and unconscious. Quickly locating what he believes to be the leverage points of the power binding spells, he summons forth his own magics to unravel the witch's spiteful conjuring. Unfortunately, in his haste and with the distraction of Luthael's fireball exploding nearby, not too mention, Aterro's constant shouts and screeching spirits, which thankfully disappear as Ingryd connects with her hammer, the wizard fails to spot the underlying foundation of the hag's spell. His attempt to dispel the bindings fails as wards flare to life and divert the dwarf's magic elsewhere.

His thoughts are interrupted as a flight of arrows arc through the air. Most clatter nearby, but one lucky shaft slams directly into the dwarf's chest. Pain lances through his body from the blow and for a moment he can do little else but shout in surprise and pain.

Kalisuel nimbly ducks away from Luthael's fireball. The minions surrounding the thin elf-marked are neither nimble or lucky as they are engulfed within the exploding conflagration. Screams usher forth. A screeching goblin dances about in agony before finally collapsing into a heap of burning, broiling flesh.

Turning her strange purple gaze upon the prophet, the eldritch bard sends another two arrows flying toward the prophet, but they do not come close to Luthael and instead simply shatter against the stone wall of the tower.

Vee, slowly, groggily pushes herself off the floor of the cage. She hears the familiar voice of her father-mother. She sees the tools slipped between the bars. But her springs are nearly wound down. Her usually deft cogs and joints fouled with grime and the witch's dire magics. She grabs the tools, tries to apply what Scramsax had taught her, but her fingers simply won't comply with her mind's instructions. The lock fails to release. Panic starts to take over, she nearly breaks the thin, frail metal pick. An image of Scramsax sitting next to her, a smile upon his face as he watches her attempt the simple padlock from Finnigan's chest. The halfling telling her not to get flustered. If she didn't get it to work the first time. Stop. Take a moment. Give the culprit your full attention. Visualize the tumblers, springs, and other inner workings. Then go at it again.

As the halfling shouts encouragement, arrows begin to fall all around her position. None strike. In fact, one passes through the wall of fire and having been ignited, strike a shelf of books and scrolls which quickly becomes engulfed in fire itself adding to the chaos of the battle.

Meanwhile, in the shadow realm, Raseri easily slips into the cage holding the aethereal shadows of the two villagers. Once again she concentrates. Once again a portal opens and she is able to grasp the two by the arms and pull them into the gray confines of the Shadow Realm. The two gasp with amazement and fright as their surroundings change from horrifying to colorless horrifying. Raseri, turns to try and offer some reassurance, but suddenly feels a prickling sensation race along her spine. Something or someone has taken notice.

The gnome Ibrox, once again points a finger at Scramsax. "Ibrox, Ibrox." Gargles the gnome to release another bolt of eldritch power at the scrambling halfling. The blast just misses the halfling as she ducks behind a barrel shouting encouragement to Vee and the clockwork girl struggle to regain her senses enough to release the lock to her cage.

From the direct of the trollkin Vrindel, a blast of sparkling dust erupts over Gunnar and Ingryd. The sparkling glitter begins to attach itself to wizard and bearkin, illuminating them in a fae light.

Flying above the chaos, Luthael attracts the attention of two groups of archers. One flight of arrows is far off the mark, but the second manages to land a blow, sending the prophet ducking for cover.

Eruption Damage for Gunnar from previous turn = 30hp.

Aterro loses Spirit Guardians, gains Armor of Agathys at level 3

Gunnar and Ingryd: DEX Save vs DC15 or gain Faerie Fire.

Gunnar: Take 8 points piercing damage from arrow flight crit.

Luthael: Take 11 piercing from arrow attacks.

Vee failed first lockpick attempt.

Party is up.