Just wondering, if we're taking two seperate blasts, are we taking that damage twice?
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Gunnar: Sorry, I thought I had written that into a post somewhere along the way, but now I can't find it. So here you go, the cavern opening is approximately 70' long and 40' wide. Depth is 75'. Overall shape is Kind of a jagged oval but with the two ends coming more to a point than rounded.
Her leg is useless. Escape impossible. She knows her end is near. Rather than fearing what comes next, she faces it as her mistress advises. Despite her wounds her defiant roar is strong enough to rattle the branches of the surrounding trees. The villagers in Levoca turn toward the distant, echoing roar with worried eyes. Have they wronged the forest? What price would they pay for the mistake of welcoming the adventurers into their midst? For seeking their aide? But those who made the journey south from Blandezig wave off such fears and concerns. We have seem these heroes fight. They say with a potent mix of respect, confidence, and even a little awe. There are none more deadly with steel and power. None more brave and worthy of our trust. They defeated an Imperial regiment. Sent a foul demon of the Goat back to its twisted mother's arms. Faced down a pack of fae and even turned away an assassin of the Shadow Queen's courts. The praise and trust displayed by villagers much like themselves, those who scramble a living from the soil and daily toil can be trusted. But one elder shakes his head and wonders But what happens when they inevitably leave? For it is the nature of those who wander the roads to ever move on again. What follows in their mighty wake? To this question only silence answers. Another distant roar echoes out of the west. He reaches the rim of the nest's entrance just in time to see his clutchmate succumb to steel and magic. Sparks still jump about her body as it crashes to the ground. An aura of purple hewed fae flame flickers and dances across her still features, illuminating the wounds of sword, sling, hammer and holy spear. A sadness and regret passes through his mind. If he had not turned back, would she still live? He quickly shrugs away such recriminations. Ill luck was at play. He'd not known she would return so soon from a hunt. And she was the best of their clutch at hiding, ambushing. Something else must have gone wrong. It usually did when adventurers were involved. He glances back down into the fumarole. His gathered clutchmates nodded, they had her Sister's trumpeting death call. They had heard their mistresses reply. He bellows his own roar and scrabbles up and over the edge. He is quickly joined by his three other clutchmates. A quartet of raging, draconic tooth and claw. His other sisters unleash their fury upon the intruders. Twin clouds of bitter, flesh shattering, heart stopping cold burst into the clearing even as he and his brother race forward to strike at the sword wielding elfmarked and bearkin.
DM Rolls:
Drake 1 (M): 100/100
Not to be foiled for a second time, Khors takes a more active role. For a mere half a heartbeat, Luthael feels a sliver of a slice of a fragment of his gods mind enter his own. It is a moment of overwhelming awe and mindnumbing fear as for that briefest of moments the priest sees just a portion of the unimaginable power that fuels his abilities. Perhaps more unsettling, he feels the churning and swirling torrent of thoughts, drives, motives, and emotions vying within the gods mind. All the many Masks. Many working at cross purposes or in direct opposition. More unsettling, all of these whirling energies flowing through his god like some hurricane maddened sea trapped in a bottle appear to be linked back to his followers, including one Luthael Invictusol. The link ends, the magic flows, the drake cannot escape the illuminating revelations of the God of Light. Sparkling golden lights coats the creature like a morning dew glittering in dawn's first light. Upon the motes of that sunlight magic death rides. Scramsax already had a reasonable idea of the creature's position, speed, and direction. Luthael's magic eliminated any potential unforeseen variables. Before the creature could even recognize its new predicament, the poison was applied and the snap of her sling cracks through the forest air. The forged steel bullet finds a gap in the creatures armored hide just above its rear left hip. It sinks deep into the muscle where, clips an blood filled artery pumping furiously and then slams into a mass of bone creating a series of hairline fractures bursting outward like a sun's rays. The poison, picked up by that fast flowing artery burns in the drakes system even as pain from her hobbled leg causes a tree shaking screech to flow through the trees. Her pained cry is punctuated by the arrival of a full broadside of arcane bolts of force. They batter her from head to tail and she roars again. This time her reply is fueled by more than pain. A fury now rages in that thundering growl. A fury and a challenge and much more importantly, a warning. But a warning not for those who stand below ready to take her life. No. It is a warning and a call to other ears. To those she knows who are nearby. It rises in pitch, warbles three, four, five times. Then a series of loud snapping clicks and high whistles. At least her clutchmates would and her mistress would know what sits outside the nest. She turns, begins what she expects to be her last act. For a moment she fears none will have heard her call. But then there is an answer from the depths of the chamber. Seconds later other distance calls are heard, including one mighty roar that makes the earth rumble and the trees shiver in fearful anticipation. That final roar sends a thrill of satisfaction and peace flowing through her mind. You have done well daughter. Die well and join the Elders in their flight among the stars. Just before she leaps, she unleashes a flood of brutal, flesh cracking cold from her open jaws. It cascades into the clearing like a giants fist pummeling all within its grasp. Breath crystalizes. Flesh turns red and then purple and then black. Canteens freeze, even those filled with ale and wine. For a moment it is a if old Boreas himself joined the fray. But it passes just as her gliding flight ends and she lands next to the missile casting dwarf. Unfortunately her final blow is thwarted as her back leg gives out upon landing. Her slashing claw flails wildly and Gunnar easily ducks away. WIS(Percpetion) DC10:
At first it is difficult to distinguish cacophony of roaring calls from each other. But as they continue back and forth, you are able to hear four distinctly different 'voices' among the calls echoing from the chamber below. And of course the one additional roar which you are certain is something much bigger and deadlier than the creature you and your companions face currently.
DM Rolls:
Drake 1: 100/100
Her attention focused on the halfling, she doesn't recognize the true threat of the dwarf until the arcane words are already drifting upward to her perch. Moments later the trio of bright blue darts slam into her side and her dual hearts begin pumping furiously as survival instincts take over. Even as Luthael speaks the first syllables of his prayer, she's moving. The deer carcass tossed toward her assailants below. A meal lost, but better to live to eat another day. Branches snap and treetops rattle and sway as she races along thick limbs leaping from tree to tree. Her race creates an explosion of snow and ice that had gathered upon the heavy limbs that cascades upon those below. The obscuring cloud makes it utterly impossible for Luthael to properly direct his holy magic. Instead it latches onto the only seemingly reasonable target...the one hundred pound deer carcass now tumbling directly toward the holy man. Using the cloud as cover she ducks and dodges in a widening arc around the group in an effort to maintain both distance and perhaps reach the other side of the wide cavern opening. Down below, Ingryd calls up a challenge that goes unanswered for the moment, an increasingly anxious Raseri waits, her eyes searching the trees above, and Scramsax hopes for a target but finding none saves her poison dose. Instead she stands poise to dive whichever way keeps her from being some beast's main course yet again.
DM Rolls:
She watched from her perch among the twisted cedar branches as the adventurers approached the nest opening. Waited with her day's kill clamped securely in her long jaws while the halfling readied her gear and slipped down into the dark depths. The small deer, its life ended in a quick snap of its neck, still bled from the series of punctures where her razor sharp teeth pierced its hide. She'd hoped the others meddlesome snoopers would descend after their companion. Then she'd simply snip into the nest behind them, closing off their escape and drive them toward her mistress. But as is so often the case, fate had other plans. One of her kin must have discovered the halfling. It was the only reasonable explanation for the speed with which she scurried over the side and gabbled her warning. Now they all sat alert, ready to strike at anything that might emerge. She expects to be short one sibling before this is all over. Indeed, fate has flicked her fickle finger across the weave of this hapless creature's thread within the fabric of the realms. For in her still, silent, patient vigil she forgets the carcass still clenched between her teeth. Forgets the blood still slowly draining from the fresh kill. Drip...drip...drip. *plink* The soft splatter of blood hits Gunnar right at the gap between the back of his neck and the combined thickness of shirt collar, coat, and armor. There the already chilled deer blood slowly trickles down the wizard's neck like an icy fingertip. With a curse the dwarf shifts slightly from beneath whatever patch of believed melting snow would be dripping from above. *plop* That shift causes the next drop of blood to splatter onto the waiting dwarf's arm. The patch of darkening red a stark contrast to his own travel worn pastel green and yellow coat painted up by Scramsax so many days ago. Having experienced many different kinds of weather during the course of his travels, the wizard had yet to encounter clouds that rained blood. (This is partly because he missed his academy senior field trip to the third plane of hell due to an acute bought of mono.) Thus, he recognizes the sudden appearance of blood from above as a most definite threat. Spinning around and turning his gaze up into the trees it takes several long seconds for him to spot the corpse that seems to be dangling in the tangled limbs of the trees. But then his arcane enhanced sight picks out the outline of the drake camouflaged within the thick branches. Meanwhile down below...the second drake watches as the halfling races up the cavern wall and disappears beyond the lip. With a snarl it starts to scramble after the fast climbing intruder. But about halfway up a little voice shouts in his draconic mind. STOP! Think you fool lizard! It is likely one of the smartest orders the drake has ever given himself in all his years in Midgard. And so he pauses. Ponders the swift disappearance of the silenced halfling from his mistresses lair. Wizard. Is the first assumption he makes. Or some other spell slinging annoyance. After careful consideration of the halfling's haphazard garb, but quality equipment, and the lack of any scent of animal dung along her trail up or down, it makes a second assumption. Neither military or one of the local farmers. A deep sigh rumbles from its throat as a clawed paw reaches up to rub its temples. That leaves only one real possibility. An adventurer. And where ever there is one adventurer, there are certainly more. Probably waiting to skewer, slice, and pummel me as soon as I poke a pinky claw over the lip of the cavern. Golden eyes flick up and back down the cavern. Another grumbling growl fills the cavern, as it scurries back down. Two can play at that game. The drake thinks to itself. As it slinks back into the red cavern, it glances back at the snake floating on the surface of the pool. Probably needs a few more minutes before its cooked all the way through.
DM Rolls:
The drake sniffs the air once again. Notices something, and odd scent, bitter sweet, smokey. She glances around the dark cavern, sees nothing. Brushes it off as some odd weed falling down from above. Or maybe the boss had started adding scents to the various hot springs, she did that once in a while. Said the aromatherapy was good for our chakras or some such nonsense. He is about to turn away when suddenly a carrot drops into the pool. The hot water reconstituting the ancient veggie. This is quickly followed by the silent splash of a snake plunging from above. The hells?! This isn't the stewing pool? Is the surprised and confused thought that races through the scaled creatures mind. And since when does a snake falling into a forest hot spring not make a sound? I'm right here. Witnessed it. The philosophical conundrum causes it to examine its own senses for a fault. So a clawed forepaw is raised to its ear, a pointed tip gently inserted, wriggled around and removed with only a small bit of wax to show for the effort. A low grumble vibrates from his throat. A grumble quite audible to his draconic ears. This is both a relief and troubling to the drake. Quickly he picks up three stones. Tosses the three across the length of the pool. The first to the drakes far left end of chamber. It clatters off the rocks and then falls into the pool with a very audible *plonk*.
The grumble in its throat grows more agitated and deadly. It's golden draconic gaze swivels upward where it takes only a moment or two for it to spot Scramsax taking her union required five minute smoke break. With a quickness unexpected of such a large creature, it leaps onto the wall and races toward the halfling. The clatter of its claws upon the stone quickly silenced when it enters the sphere from which no secrets can be heard.
No worries. Take what time you need.
Hanging a few feet above the boiling pool, Scramsax pauses for several seconds rapidly calculating distances along an oval, load rates for standard pitons and rope, and the estimated weight of a fully armored cleric and bearkin. These final estimates, she is sure to keep to herself. Once satisfied she slips her compass and chalk (because one should always show ones work), back into her pouch and proceeds to pound the first piton into the stone after summoning the arcane power stored in her ring to make sure not even the slightest scuffle of her boot upon the stone is heard. The halfling is working on the third piton, when she abruptly freezes. A shadow looms in the entrance. The elongated image of a creature moves forward until a scaled, white head emerges through the opening. It's nostil's flare seemingly unfazed by the stench of the pool itself as it glances around the opening.
Foot by foot, Scramsax makes the descent into the dark, dank, steam-filled pit. To most folk, the odor rising off the slowly boiling surface of the mineral filled pond below would be too stomach churning to continue. To a native of the Barsallen docks, back alleys, and brothels, it mostly just stirs up memories of home. Given the urgent lurking threat of reptilian fueled death and the even more urgent opportunity of a draconic treasure hoard desperately awaiting its liberation, the halfling doesn't linger within the comforting embrace of memory. What seems like long minutes is really only a matter of a few short moments before she reaches the bottom of the cave. Sweat drips from every pore as she suddenly understands how a poached fish feels. Even more frustrating is the lack of solid ground easily accessible at the base of the opening. The only 'beach' being opposite this cliff and tucked several paces back from the opening with its grim crimson glow. A not impossible climb, but time consuming and a whole lot of physical effort under less than ideal conditions. More importantly, it'll require driving some pitons into the rock in order to secure the rope to allow the others to traverse the overhang and finally reach the safety of the beach. WIS(Perception) DC15:
Before the first metallic *tap* of hammer on piton echoes through the cavern, you listen for any sign of the cavern's draconic inhabitants. At first, you hear nothing over the bubbling and hissing steam. But just a heartbeat before that swing rings out, you hear something. The *click*clack*click*clack* of claw tipped feet moving across stone.
While Scramsax prepares her gear and quietly eases herself over the edge and down into the pit below, Luthael steps over to the pale-faced dwarf. Seeing Gunnar's obvious discomfort, the prophet takes a few moments to catalog the wizard's symptoms and finally determines that one of his more minor prayers should relieve his friend's discomfort and keep him from being overcome by the noxious gas for several hours.
Peering over the edge and into the crevasse, the opening does appear natural. The smell here is at its worst, the hot steam and gas billowing forth from the darkness below. After a few seconds it becomes easy to distinguish the hiss of steam from what can only be the bubbling of some hot spring not so very far down. Initial estimates put it between fifty and seventy five feet. Partially forming and then melting icicles hang all around the upper most edge of the opening, the dripping adding to the echoing cacophony of hissing and bubbling. Near the bottom of the cavern a blurry, steam shrouded red light glows along the northern wall. The angle and steam make seeing anything difficult, but it appears to be another large intersecting opening. A quick look by Scramsax and Raseri, reveals plenty of hand and foot holds for anyone willing to make an initial climb down without any magical aide. A climb made quite often by those same creatures whose prints mark the outside of the opening. All along the edge are gouges and marks from numerous comings and goings.
Ingryd stumbles as the stench assaults her nose. In an ironic twist of fate, the allergy that had troubled her earlier is cleared and her sinuses are no longer filled with mucus. But this leaves the way clear for the sickening stink of sulfur and rot clinging to the forest air like some ill begotten swamp sludge. For a moment, the bearkin starts to wander off, only to be quickly brought back into line by Gunnar and Luthael who point out the grizzly trail. Creeping forward the foul stink grows stronger. Ahead a hissing sound drifts through the thick and warming air. The snow and ice turns to slick, sloppy, thick mud that grasps at your boots. A dozen yards further a rent in the forest floor opens. A jagged, wide gash a hundred paces long and forty wide. Along the edge the trees grow twisted and sickly. A wind blows through rustling the leaves which sound like the death rattles of a wheezing old man. A pale yellow cloud of steam and putrid smoke drifts upward from this opening, the air here nearly unbearable to any except the most stouthearted and iron stomached. The trail continues right up to the edge of the opening before disappearing down into the black pit.
WIS(Perception) vs DC15: As you look at the surrounding ground you spot more tracks. Many are quite similar to those of the drake you tracked to this place, although there are enough differences for you to note there may be more than one of the creatures lurking here. More intriguing, or unsettling, are the pair of prints a good three of four times the size of those you've followed here. Massive in size, and etching a partially buried stone in one spot. This looks nothing like a drake or other similar creature, but instead has the appearance of a full sized, adult dragon.
The trail leads deeper into the forest. After a mile of slogging through snow, ice, the forest begins to grow more dense. Although sunset is not for another few hours, little light penetrates this gloom shrouded portion of the Margreve. A few paces further is a grizzly sight. Crimson coats a patch of packed snow. Three pale, knobby fingers and part of a wrinkled palm lie in a frozen patch of blood between two twisting tree roots. Not far away an empty boot sits upright, the leather cut down the side. A wide trail of blood and packed snow leads deeper into the gloom. INT(Nature) or WIS(Insight) DC15: Clearly the signs do not bode well for the villager. But what draws your attention is the forest itself. Over the last many days of your journey through this ancient wood, you believed you were gaining a better understanding of the entity known and the Old Margreve. The constant watchfulness, the grudging approval of fire when used with care and need, the disapproval of unnecessary harm brought to flora or fauna dwelling within the boundaries of the forest, the twisting pathways that seem to shift like some constantly shifting maze. But ever since Arianna's disappearance, you've sensed the forest no longer saw you or your companions as a threat. In fact, you thought the wood was even helping guide you to your destination rather than hinder.
But here, in the depths of this gloom filled wood, you do not feel that same presence of the Margreve. Here is something...different. Sickness? Perhaps. Corruption? A possibility? Simply a part of the word more ancient, more hostile, less accommodating to mortals? Who can know for certain. No matter the cause, you can feel the danger. The hostility. It drips from the gnarled branches like summer sap. The air is bitterly cold, the temperature seeming to drop further with each passing step. A foul scent drifts through the air. That rotten egg stench of sulfa or something similar.
Yes, you've had a long rest.
Gunnar, Scramsax and Luthael spend several minutes examining the scale. Closer inspection reveals the the bit of reptilian flesh to have some chameleon like ability as it slowly changes colors to match its surroundings. When confronted with a completely neutral gray background, it reverts to a glittering pale white much like the surrounding ice and snow. This affinity for cold, seems to be reinforced when Scramsax runs the icy blade or Morrin's Misery along the scale. The razor sharp blade barely scratches the scale unless the halfling really pushes with twice or three times the normal effort. The cold of the blade turning her own fingers blue before it has any substantive effect on the scale. With accumulated evidence wizard and priest consult together for several moments. The wizard pulls out his trusty, well worn copy of Rupert's Tome of Magical Beasts and Wonderous Creatures, Volume 4 and begins thumbing through the illustrated pages. At the same time, Luthael prays quietly to Khors. A sudden breeze blows through the wood rapidly flipping the pages of the book. Just as quickly it stops and both look down to see an illustration of a draconic creature Rupert refers to as a Frost Skulker. Similar in nature and demeanor to the more common Hoarfrost Drakes, the Skulker are considered more dangerous and deadly hunters because of the ability of their scaled hide to adapt to their surroundings. They are also a bit larger and quicker than their cousins. However, much like standard Hoarfrost Drakes, Skulkers very often serve a larger draconic power. Usually White or Boreal dragons, but they are not all that discerning as long as the one they serve provides a relatively expansive hunting ground and doesn't demand overly much from the drake.
Olaf listens to Scramsax and starts to laugh only stopping himself as he suddenly realizes the halfling appears to be serious. For several seconds the big woodsman runs through the various stock and implements he knows about in the small village. Finally, he offers a shrug as his eyes alight on an idea but his face says that it isn't likely to meet the woman's desired standards. "Well..." He begins with a bit of hesitation as he clears his throat, watches Ingryd as she leans down to sniff at the mud and snow, her nostrils flaring wide. "Well, I think Joseph has a pair of horses he's been considering trading or selling. Seems one is a bit too feisty for plowing, while the other is showing her years a bit." A shake of his head. "But you'll not find any carriages or such her in Levoca miss." His says, the smile returning to his lips. "Why, most folk probably haven't seen something like the councilors and wealthy folks of Zobeck ride about in every day. I went to Zobeck once as a young man. Was going to strike it rich. Hahaha!" He bursts out laughing as his youthful ignorance of the wider world. "Lost every copper penny I brought with me and ended up serving five years in the Council's Guard before I finally got wise and came home." "But nevermind that, the best we could do would be Olga's cart." He says returning to the original request. "It isn't much, but its still in good shape and better built to make it along the rough roads of the Margreve." Tapping the tip of his chin with a finger the villager pauses thoughtfully. "Now is your really interested in something a mite fancier, your best bet is to try the Bluebell. It's a weeks journey deeper into the wood, but it's not too hard once you reach the Great Northern Road. But old Rootglum might be able to help you out or maybe one of his customers if any happen to be passing through. But mind, you'd be beware if bargaining for many a fae frequents the Bluebell. If you don't keep your mind aware, you'll likely end up trading or giving up a lot more than you initially bargained." "AACCCHHHOOOO!" Ingryd's sneeze echoes through the dwindling light of the afternoon. She offers an embarrassed apology to Raseri who just happened to be standing near enough to the bearkin to catch the full brunt of the blast. Pulling out a kerchief she blows her nose as then a large grin breaks across her features. "I've bot the scent of the beast for bure." She says in a nasally tone. "It bent bat away." She adds pointing west, deeper into the forest. With all in agreement, Olaf departs in order to get back and let his wife know she may need to keep the stew warm. Ingryd sets off following the scent of the creature through the wood. Not blessed with such a large or fluid filled nose, Scramsax doesn't bother with trying the smell the beast. Instead she simply keeps an eye peeled for anymore scales the creature seems to be shedding. No bigger than her thumb nail, she finds the thick pale green and yellow scale just a few finger widths from one of the tracks. One partial scale is found a half dozen paces along the back trail.
I think I've kept the number of villagers right around a dozen since you left the manor house, so lets go with 120gp.
Although they do their best to downplay the wizard's quiet gifts, the surviving villagers are quite surprised and more than grateful when Gunnar hands out the small pouches heavy with gold coins. Such an amount is likely more than some would have seen over the course of several years if not decades. Even some of the older men are driven to near tears at the unusual act of charity. Already respectful of the wizard, the villagers of fallen Blandezig now look upon the dwarf with the eyes of folk truly devoted to the causes and principals he follows. Thus in the following weeks and months, a new shrine dedicated to the thunder god takes root in Levoca. Thor and his scholarly disciple quickly become the new beating heart of faith in the small community. The old charlatan priest of Porevit and Yarila in his run down chapel has little power to stop the rapid conversion of his community. This is especially true as the tale of the pilgrimage south through snow, ice, and unnatural winds while fighting off fae, shadow wolves, and an ancient evil dedicated to the Goat of the Woods herself spread throughout the settlement. A tale enhanced even further when the wizard and his companions immediately set forth to tackle yet another evil befalling the poor, hardworking folk of yet another small village. Unlike so many noble lords, mighty councilors, or great generals who barely take notice of such folk except to steal their crops or send the tax assessors out every year, the dwarf and his companions are true friends and growing legends among the common people of the land. "Don't be gone too long." Della, the woodsman's wife says as her husband slips his coat back on to guide Ingryd, Gunnar, Luthael and Raseri out to where the freshest and clearest tracks could be found. "Supper will be ready soon and I'll not have our guests eating an over cooked stew." "It won't take long, I promise, but best they see the tracks before the weather buries them." Olaf says with a smile before heading back out into the elements. Standing outside the door, Scramsax steps back as the big man comes striding through. After examining the marks in the thick oak, the halfling doesn't learn too much. She would agree that the beast is no common mountain cat or badger or other typical woodland animal. Staring at the slashing marks, she recalls some of those who had journeyed with Rook Bentknee into the wilds of Courlandia talking about creature that made similar type of marks. It takes her several moments, but she recalls that scoundrel Finnigan talking about a forest drake they'd run across just before reaching Nargenstal. That's what these marks call to her mind. A drake or some beast of similar size. Trekking back out toward the western edge of the village, Olaf takes the group past a darkened hut, the door clawed and scratched similar to that of his own only in this case the wood was older. Rot had set in around the hinges and it gave way. According to Olaf, before anyone could get out here, the was nothing left of Old Beniface except a broken mug of tea and one boot. Beneath several thick cedar trees, Olaf carefully points out a set of tracks. Five toed, thick claws that leave deep impressions in the damp soil and icy snow. It's also clear something was carried or dragging along the trail. "Most likely poor Beniface it was we guess." Olaf says shaking his head sadly. "We tried to have him move in with some of us closer to the village center, but he'd not do so. Said he wouldn't put any of us young folk out. Not that anyone would have minded. Except maybe Karl of course."
Olaf sniffs at the tin of leaf offered by Scramsax and politely shakes his head. "I reckin' our good Levocan blend was good enough for my father and his before him, so I reckin' it'll suit me and my sons just as well." He says. "No sense gettin' accustomed to something I wouldn't be able to grow myself. Like I said, we don't get much trade through here." He passes his own pouch to the halfling. "But you're more than welcome to try our own local leaf. It's a rich, robust smoke that alights the mind but lets the body be at ease." Puffing on his pipe as he stokes the iron stove, he replies to Raseri. "I'd say the last time we heard that thing yowlin', must've been two nights ago, wouldn't you say dear?" A weathered woman, arms a little heavy with muscle, body fit but showing her three and a half decades of mortal life and four children brought into the world, looks up from where she chops vegetables and nods. "Same night little Maia got that splinter from helping you bring in the wood." She says over the *chop*chop*chop* of the knife quickly slicing carrots and potatoes. "So it was." Olaf adds with his own concurring nod. "But, that's the curious thing. We didn't lose any stock that night, nor on the others when the beast seemed to be stalking the night. No miss. The animals were lost during the day, and as far as we know, when no other creature was about." Locking the stove door closed again he straightens up and smiles at everyone gathered. "It certainly wouldn't be right to turn god folk out into this weather after such a long journey. I'm sure we'll be able to find places for everyone to settle down for the night. And if you're willing to help track down whatever is haunting or stalking us, well, we haven't much to offer as reward, but we'd be mighty grateful."
Fortunately, the questions are asked before Ingryd and Olaf disappear into the woodsman's brewing hut. For it is many long hours before the two reemerge smelling of fermenting berries and still companionably bantering back and forth about various benefits and challenges of the latest brewing methods including the use of glass and steel brewing vats by the larger brewmasters in Zobeck and the Seven Cities. Olaf waves off the idea of such things a wobbly smile. "Bah! My father, grandfather, and his father before that used the very same barrels. Each year adds subtle flavor and taste to the brew." He says. "Why give up that uniqueness that gives a wine or meade its true essence and life?" Indeed it is well before the two brewers begin to chew upon that thorny advancement in fermentation techniques that Olaf answers the question offered by a parched halfling, wizard, and two priests. The man's brow furrows, not in fear or consternation, but like someone trying to piece together a puzzle while half the pieces have gone missing. Eventually he just shrugs. "It is difficult to say." He begins glancing up into the cold, gray sky. "The first, would be the weather. Cold, snow, ice, are not unusual in these parts, but so much, so early in the year...well, that's plenty unusual. Most of us have lived in this village all our lives, and no one recalls a winter starting off this foul." Mutters from the other villagers all confirm their own fears of the weather. "You say one of the fey folk are behind it. It could be. Although we've been on mostly good terms with those dwelling nearby. Folk leave a bit of spirits out on the important days, a bit of sweet cake. Stay clear of the circles, bogs, and other spots where we know such creatures tend to live." "But the second thing is that animals have gone missing." Several of the other villagers mutter and nod in agreement. "I lost my prize milk cow, Bessie, just two weeks ago." Growls one farmer. "Craziest thing. She went all crazy bawlin' and stampin' around then charged right through the fence and off into the woods." Stops to spit onto the ground. "Tried trackin' her, but lost the trail. T'was as if the forest just closed in behind her." Olaf nods and picks up the tale once again. "Walt's cow, a couple of Anna's pigs, a half dozen of Miss Pinchon's hens. All lost to similar fates." He pulls out a pipe and light's it from a lantern hanging on the porch post. "Worst of all, is folks are finding marks on their doors and walls. As if a big cat were trying to scratch its way inside." He points his pipe at a set of crisscrossing scratch marks marring his own door. The cuts are deep in the hard oak wood of the door and wide. Certainly something larger than a normal mountain cat. "Again, lived here all my life and never seen the like. And the great yowling that comes every few nights." The big man shivers and shakes his head while the others glance about warily. "We're used to the calls of wild beasts. You don't live here and not get used to a wolf pack's howl, a bear's growls, or the hiss and snarl of the bigger cats. Even the occasional wyvern or more exotic beast. But this...this is something different. Almost a mourning wail, but not from the throat of any human, elf or even goblin that any of us reckin ever walked this wide world."
To the those seeking shelter, warmth, and most of all the comforts of a well stocked inn the man's lips curl into a smile even as he shakes his head. "You'll not find the likes of a fine inn here in poor Levoca." The man says barely able to stifle a chuckle. "Travelers are few and far between and the rest of us see little reason to pay for food and drink we grow, hunt or brew ourselves." A pause to as he points out a slightly larger wattle and daub house on the far side of the meadow. "I think old Karl still rents out his spare room and barn whenever a merchant or some other decides to come traveling through." When Gunnar mentions Blandezig, the man's eyebrow quirks upward and he turns to one of his fellow citizens. "Doesn't Anna have family from Blandezig?" "Aye, I believe that's where she hailed from afore marrying young Walt." Comes the reply. "I'd be that family!" Calls the young woman from among the village refugees. "Anna's my cousin and I visited for her wedding. Tell me, where's her farm?" Realizing that in some distant way, one of their own was tied to the newcomers, the village men seem to relax and quiet the barking dogs. "It is just over yonder." The woodsman says gesturing toward a tidy, well kept building of similar make as the one he pointed to earlier. Only this one has a large brightly painted red barn and the snuffle and snort of hogs can be heard along with the smell. Turning back to the rest of the group, the leader of the group breaks into a welcome smile. "Tis a bit unusual for so many to arrive at once, but be welcome." He says warmly. "We'll do our best to find a warm, dry place for everyone to sleep. You'll forgive our caution, this foul weather has got everyone a bit on edge, and the wood has been acting strange of late."[/b] He adds turning to start walking back along a snow packed track. Ingryd quickly discovers that the woodsman, Olaf, also dabbles in brewing meade from the dark berries that fill the thorn riddled vines that seem to grow everywhere around the outskirts of the village.
With the immediate danger gone, those huddled inside breath a welcome sigh of relief. Although the villagers had gathered several clubs from pile of firewood, it is clear by the looks upon their faces that none wished to face the snapping jaws and ripping claws of the assassin's wargs or the ravenkin's own blade. It seems a triple debt is owed to their rescuers and guardians as once again they continue to dwell upon the mortal plain thanks to the bravery and skill of bearkin, dwarf, halfling, prophet and the newly arrived priestess. Some listen to the conversation brewing between their hardy companions. A mixture of curiosity and worry as questions by some delve into areas not welcomed by others. To those without the abilities of Null or the first hand knowledge of Ingryd, Gunnar, Luthael, and Scramsax, the mystery is soon a growing murmur of speculation. What great power does the prophet of Khors protect or hold in check? Will it draw danger? What could cause such concern, perhaps even fear, among such strong hearted folk as the dwarf and priest? So the whispers of the evening continue even as tea is passed around, sweetened with honey much to a certain bearkin's delight. The remainder of the cold night slowly passes. More snow fall arrives to cover much of the evidence of the evening's travail. Of the fallen beasts, nothing remains but partially filled shapes in the snow. Three days pass. Finally midday on the fourth since the encounter with the hunter, the welcome smell of smoke and fresh bread drift through the dense forest. Like a beckoning spirit, the scent draws everyone forward with its promise of shelter, warmth, and perhaps an inn with a bed, bath, and stout pint for weary travelers. A mile further on and the trees soon give way to a large clearing. A scattering of cabins dot the open landscape, most surrounded by rough cut wooden fences penning in sheep, pigs, or the occasional milk cow. Chickens strut about digging at the snow while dogs keep watch for foxes and wolves. It is those furry guardians that sound the first alarm of the travelers arrival. A cacophony of barking dogs erupts across the village quickly bringing their owners out into the wind and snow to investigate the reason for the trouble. Seeing such a large band, and well armed, arriving several duck back into their cabins leaving only the most brave, or most foolish, to confront the strangers. One such, is a big man wearing a long red beard, thick checkered coat, and large woodsman's axe resting upon a broad shoulder. "Welcome to Levoca strangers." The man says with a smile, below watchful eyes. "Treacherous weather for traveling the forest. What might bring so many to our small hamlet during such times?"
"Contract accepted then." The ravenkin says. With the compensation offer accepted, Null tosses the jingling bag of coins to Ingryd and nudges his mount with a bony knee. Like any good scoundrel, Scramsax has her doubts about the other scoundrel, but she can't get a good sense of whether the skulker is on the up and up or not. She does realize that the creature now turning away to slip back into the forest is real. Neither illusion or other sorcery conjured apparition. "Farewell travelers." Null says, the voice slipping back to a friendly feminine. "Perhaps we shall meet again some day." Their eyes glitter in the flickering light. "I've a sense you've made enemies over your passing days, perhaps one will be willing to hire my house. Then, well, perhaps then we'll learn what the Priest of Light carries in that box of emptiness." He whistles again and the remaining warg turns and follows its master into the looming shadows of the Margreve.
The ravenkin's eyes sparkle at Gunnar's words and a hissing laugh slips through his parted beak like air slowly leaving a balloon. "Death is my constant companion." A sultry feminine voice replies. "He is to all of us. Ever lurking. Ever caressing our souls. Ever striving to wrap his arms around our breast to carry us all away into the dark. Perhaps today he will come for me." His eyes take in the scene. "Perhaps he will come for you." A shrug of feathered shoulders. A moment's pause as the creature shakes its head slightly, feathers rustling in the sudden quiet. The shadow warg mount and the one next to him shift their weight back and forth slightly. "But I will not be the one to initiate such a test of Death's will today." The crimson crow adds in a decidedly more masculine and professional voice. "The contract is for the hunted only. Had they continued to accompany you, then no blood price would be owed or paid for the harm caused by my pack." A hand reaches to its belt. "However, since they are not. I offer recompense for the error, per the rules of my House." The small bag he pulls forth jingles with coin. Quite a bit of coin judging by the bulging sides of the bag. "One hundred per non-contracted injured. I see four with recent wounds, so that would be four-hundred of your gold crowns." It holds the bag in his hand clearly waiting for an acceptance or denial of his offer.
The corvid leans over to run a feathered hand along the back of the flaming shadow warg. The elemental energy swirls into the outstretched limb leaving the six legged hound once again nothing more than a storm gray mass of muscle and fang. For a moment a small whirlwind of flame spins in the ravenkin's hand before Null closes his fist and the power is extinguished with a simple *POP* of air filling the sudden vacuum of the fire's termination. Null's tongue runs along his beak and his eyes momentarily dilate. His head tilts at Luthael's question. "A name is unnecessary." He says in a deep baritone which reminds Scramsax of Judge Qwuint back in Barsella. Otherwise known as Bloody Qwuint or the Headsman's Judge because almost anyone who ended up before the ruthless villain was sure to suddenly find themselves missing a head at the end of the day. "A scent. The rippling traces of the hunted's energetic signature upon the flows of power. They are identification enough. Traces of the quarry have intermingled with you gathered here for many days. Beginning at the site of the attack, into the hills and the Goat's Hovel, then south into the Margreve." Null pauses, its eldritch lit eyes peering around the clearing and even up toward the hidden Scramsax. Fingers drum upon the ruffled back of his mount. "And yet..." The voice is different, almost feminine in nature. "...the scent is no longer here. All trace has vanished without conjuration of portal, gateway, or other arcane or esoteric means. The quarry still lives, else..." It holds up a tiny gold lantern on a chain hanging from his neck. It glows with a light of deep crimson. "Else this would no longer burn." The voice again turns masculine. But is more mid tone than before and suffers from a bit of a Zobecker Alley accent. "You vere zee last vones to attend to zee quarry, therefore you vill have the most relevant information to vhat has happened. Answer zee question and I vill be on my vay." A feathery eyebrow arcs above its right eye. "Or perhaps vee should see vhat is hidden vithin the most unusual case you vear upon your back." Null adds his keen interest and gaze peering at Luthael.
Ingryd sinks her jaws into the flailing neck of the beast she has grappled. Slowly it's struggles grow weaker and weaker even as the bearkin's flesh continues to burn in the aura of flame ignited by Luthael's fiery blast. Seeing an opening, Raseri lunges forward. Her short blade slips past ribs to pierce the things heart and moments later the struggling beast go limp in the bearkin's arms. The snap of a sling echoes through the woods followed by the slap of stone upon flesh. Holy light flares across the clearing and suddenly the hunter harassing Luthael falls dead at the prophet's feet as spear, stone, and pure holy light are too much for the shadow beast to withstand. Blind and wounded, Gunnar places his burning shield between himself and the now burning beast. The creature seems intent to throw itself into the arcane fire but suddenly Luthael's light washes over the beast and snarls in fury and pain even as the light shatters its mortal visage and sends it back into the shadow realm. The second beast, having sustained fewer injuries weathers the blast of holy power. Snarling, it starts to lunge once again at the wounded dwarf, but a high pitched, ear piercing whistle emerges from the shadows at the edge of the clearing. Striding into the flickering fire light is yet another of the six legged shadow wargs, this one a bit bigger a bit broader of shoulder. Upon its back is a ravenfolk, but one unlike any encountered before. Instead of coal black feathers, this ravenkin's are a deep crimson with a streak of white feathers running along the right side of its head. An eldritch light fills golden eyes and sparks with power as its long black beak drifts back and forth as if drawing in the various scents in the air. Another whistle, sharp and short causes the remaining beast to disengage and scuttle to the ravenkin's side to lay down next to its master and his mount. "I am Null of the House of Ten Thousand Daggers." The corvid says in a high, scratchy voice. "Where is the one that smells of forests, black powder, and the magic of the shadow roads? The one who stinks of roses and elven blood. The one who dances with death and who by its actions earned the enmity of a goddess?" INT(History):
The House of Ten Thousand Daggers. A name whispered in dark places by dark minded folk in need of a task completed that would most likely end in blood and death. The residents of that grim shadow house are among the most dangerous and deadly mage assassins, hunters, and killers in a shadow realm that has turned such things into art forms. It is said that only the wealthiest or most powerful can even get an audience with a member of the house. To hire one would require resources well beyond any but the most notable.
GM Rolls: Shadow Warg One: 0/100 (Gunnar) (Fire 3)
Shadow Warg Three: 0/100
Shadow Warg Five: 0/100 (Not Engaged)
Gunnar's fiery shield adds its fire to the gnawing shadow warg's own fiery aura. As it does a few of the creature's wounds seal themselves. Raseri feels welcome relief as more of her own pains are eased by the healing power of Thor. Feeling better recovered the priestess directs her holy disapproval at the creature so recently familiar with Ingryd's hammer. But somehow Raseri telegraphs her intent and the beast is already moving by the time she finishes the final syllable of her spell. The burning light does little more that melt the snow and ice where the enemy was standing moments earlier. Despite the dancing blotches of red in his eyes, Gunnar lashes out with his war hammer. There is a satisfying *thunk* and crackle of arcing electrical energy that signifies he did the beast harm. This is followed by a series of nearby thumps, thunks, and thuds as Ingryd's hammer becomes a whirling mass of deadly steel. Fire and iron pummel the beast harassing the bearkin. Curiously, having lost its electrical charge a few seconds earlier, when the bearkin's flaming maul strikes, it is like a match to dry tinder. Suddenly the beast is once again engulfed in elemental power only this time it burns with red hot flames. The smell of burning fur fills the air as Ingryd grabs at the burning warg and engulfs it in a crushing grip. In the trees above, Scramsax can only rub at her eyes and try the clear her vision of the never ending starburst of colors that continue to flash and flare in her eyes. Her sling stone cracks harmlessly off the side of the stone hut, inches away from Luthael's foot. The prophet, having stared into the sun more than once or twice over the years is unaffected by the burst of holy light. The holy spear of Khors pierces the flesh of the beast harassing his lower half. But the prophet focuses the bulk of his wrath upon the lone warg on the ground below before it can rejoin the battle. Another blast of fire erupts upon the field of battle. The air fills with steam as snow is instantly turned to vapor, low hanging needles wither and brown, the warg is engulfed and consumed by the fire. A second, now burning warg howls with fury and takes out its frustration by renewing its assault upon the dwarven wizard. The first beast is thwarted as Gunnar manages to summon his arcane shield just before a claw would have nearly removed the wizard's arm. The second, eyes gleaming with hungry intelligence takes advantage of its companions strike. Slipping just a little further to the dwarf's side, the warg lunges forward. Tooth and claw catch Gunnar all along his leg leaving the limb bloody and torn. The only saving grace is the searing heat of the burning fire seals the worst of the wounds to prevent the wizard from bleeding out on the snow. On top of the hut, Luthael is able to duck and dodge away from the continued assault. Down below, Ingryd wrestles with her own burning beast. She manages to keep free of the snapping teeth, but the warg rakes her belly with its claws creating several lines of bleeding cuts.
DM Rolls:
Shadow Warg One: 44/100 (Gunnar) (Fire 3)
Shadow Warg Three: 0/100
Shadow Warg Five: 0/100 (Not Engaged)
With the aide and benefit of Gunnar's ward, Raseri survives long enough to slip away from the beasts. Getting in behind Ingryd she uses the big bearkin as a raging, fur covered, and lethal heavy shield. The brief respite offers the cleric enough time to heal the worst of her wounds while Gunnar steps in to fill the gap. Above and behind the trio Luthael fends off the illuminated beast currently nipping at his ankles. Fire and force lash at the shadow creature although it manages to duck aside from the worst of the fiery blast. Moments later yet another stone flies from the forest canopy and slams into the beast's side with a resounding *thump*. Tired of being an oversized chew toy, Ingryd counterstrikes and catches one of the wolf-like brute right in the shoulder. Bones break and the beast goes tumbling to the side at the force of the blow knocks it back several paces. A fortunate blow for not more than a heartbeat later the crackling energy that surrounded the beast sudden overcharges and bursts with a thunderclap. Fortunately the bearkin's blow pushed it back far enough, the blast had no effect on her or her companions. The dark gray, wide shouldered creature slowly picks itself off the ground. The two other creatures near Ingryd and Gunnar suddenly suffer the same effect. One, the second infused with lightning, emits a burst of electrical energy that catches dwarf and bearkin in its blast. The second, merely releases a brilliant blinding burst of radiant light. This is quickly followed by a second burst from the creature fighting Luthael on top of the stone hut. The two on the ground, also back to their original gray shadow selves, continue to press the attack against Ingryd and Gunnar, along with the third that still burns with the fiery power of Luthael's holy magic. The wizard fends off multiple blows as tooth and claw seems to snap and rend from every direction. Arcane wards flash and glimmer in the night, but then the creature still imbued with Khors power slips past Gunnar's mighty defense. It's jaws snap and rip flesh leaving a bloody patch of torn and blackened flesh behind. Ingryd fairs little better, but benefits from the lack of electrical charge jumping from each swipe of claw and ripping bite. On top of the hut, Luthael struggles against the beast fending off one blow only to feel the pain of a second as a claw shreds his flesh and pushes him back a step.
DM Rolls:
Shadow Warg One: 60/100 (Radiant 1)(Gunnar)
Shadow Warg Three: 0/100
Shadow Warg Five: 10/100 (Lightning 1)(Not Engaged)
No worries. I've had a mind numbing day today myself, so likely won't update until tomorrow.
Also wanting to check on what beast is glowing with which energy type on his next turn, and if any are clustered together in a line. Beast 1: Engaged with Raseri(Radiant) Beast 2: Engaged with Luthael(Radiant) Beast 3: Dead Beast 4: Engaged with Gunnar(Fire) Beast 5&6: Engaged with Ingryd(Lightning) All of them are in melee with a PC so any AOE spell will also affect the engaged PC. The only ones that could be affected together by a linear AOE would be 5&6. Getting any of the others would require a cone or circle.
Actually, the fire damage healed them. So a little worse than just being immune.
Ingryd: 8 points of lightning for the first hit; 6 points of lightning on the second. The rest is all normal.
Thunder rumbles through the clearing as Gunnar steps away from Ingryd's side and summons forth the power of Thor. The booming blast rattles both beasts harassing the wizard. A moment later another sling stone zips from the foliage above and slams into the most wounded of the creatures. It tumbles to the ground and dissipates in a whirl of fire and feathery shadow. Ingryd slams her hammer into the first creature biting and slashing at her, but her follow up strike is off balance and weak. A blow easily avoided by the quick moving shadow creature. Raseri's strike lands true. A large wound opens along one of the glowing beast's shoulders. But as she makes a move to join up with her allies she cannot avoid both creature's swiping claws. Ducking from the first leaves her vulnerable to the second and once again she feels the pain of her flesh being torn open and seared with holy light. Stumbling up to the area in front of the stone hut, Raseri and everyone else quickly shade their eyes as the blinding brilliance of dawn bursts forth from Luthael. Unlike the gloomy gray dawns of recent days, the prophet's power is unhindered by cloud, tree, or mountain. Pure holy light of Khors turns night into day for several seconds and sears shadow flesh. Gunnar's wards hold firm against the beast attacking him, while Ingryd cannot avoid the flurry of snarling fangs and slashing, burning claws. Following Raseri, the first of the illuminated beasts comes in low and snaps at the cleric's leg. She feels the teeth punch through her armor. The second leaps upon the roof of the hut and slashes at Luthael. The blow is dead on but much weaker than it could have been.
DM Rolls:
Shadow Warg One: 60/100 (Radiant 1)
Shadow Warg Three: 0/100
Shadow Warg Five: 39/100 (Lightning 1)
While Gunnar's eyes suddenly lose focus and go a bit blank, Raseri imbue her magnificently crafted sword with furious amounts of holy power. With grace and poise befitting her elven blood she feints, twists, pivots, and ducks inside the defenses of the two radiant wargs. It is quite the display of prowess, dexterity and sword craft that would make any northern warrior proud. Until that is, she just misses the final blow. The bright steel catches nothing but air and leaves the two wargs, who seem barely able to stifle wicked grins as they growl in stereophonic unity. Thor's cleric generates a slight bit of revenge when she unleashes the power of the storm against the two catch the first beast by surprise and turning the growl into a yip of shocked pain. The moment gives Raseri just enough time to reset her defenses as the shadow creatures strike. She deftly avoids the first completely, but a claw of the second catches her leg once again drawing blood and infusing the blow with her own radiant energy. On the opposite side of the clearing, Khors holy fire once again bursts upon the two charging from the north. Flames engulf the already flaming creatures and the flesh blackened and burnt by the previous attack quickly heal. Even the beast dazed by Scramsax's sneaky sling stone emerges from the roiling fire looking healthier and stronger. Fortunately the hidden halfling's aim is spot on and the beast suffers another lump upon the back of its head as a second stone strikes from somewhere up above. Finally breaking out of his trance, Gunnar rapidly alters his initial targets for his lightning blast. Pivoting away from the crackling duo coming in from the east, he turns to the north and blasts the two elevated by Luthael's fire. It just isn't the first creature's day as it zigs directly into the oncoming bolt of electrical energy. Already charged with a different element, the beast's defenses can do nothing but take the blow. Muscles spasm and fur burns away in an instant. The second of the pair guesses correctly as it zags and while frazzled by the blast suffers much less harm. With Gunnar dropping to her side, Ingryd waits for the inevitable. She does not have long to wait as the two crackling with electrical energy race forward only moments ahead of the two aflame. The first times its attack perfectly using its partner as a foil. Ingryd completely buys the feint and leaves herself exposed. Jaws snap and rip as the canid briefly treats the bearkin's arm like a caught coney and shakes the limb with flesh rending ferocity. Adding to the bearkin's misery is the charge of electrical energy that crackles through the blow burning flesh and leaving muscles tingling. A raking claw adds to her pain. The other pair focus on the wizard. Infused with fire, both creatures attempt to force their way past the dwarf's initial defenses. Only the first appears to be successful landing a glancing blow with a slashing, fire infused claw.
DM Rolls:
Shadow Warg One: 76/100 (Radiant 2)
Shadow Warg Three: 11/100 (Fire 5)
Shadow Warg Five: 77/100 (Lightning 2)
Gunnar: You quickly try to assess the beasts and their abilities as then charge toward you and your companions. It is, of course, immediately clear that they are no mere warg or wolf. Appearance alone would give that away what with the extra set of legs and larger size. In addition, a beast of such size would typically struggle in the deep snow, yet these practically float across the powder covered forest floor. It takes approximately 453 million nanoseconds for your mind to cogitate that these entities are only partially present on this plane of existence. Your immediate guess is that they originated in, and are still tethered to, the shadow realm.
However, even their origin within that dangerous realm does not explain their ability to seemingly take on some properties or aspects of elemental forces used against them. Your cognitive mind burns through another 657 billion nanoseconds reviewing the visual data. (Unfortunately, precious time was lost do to a recurring image of kittens playing with a ball of yarn that Scramsax shared with you a day ago. Ever since, you've been unable to push the block print from your mind.) Still, you finally are able to analyze the visual and see the burned and electrocuted flesh, wounds dripping a viscous gray fluid you can only guess to be blood. They are not immune. Or at least they weren't. You can't be sure now. Fortunately, Luthael unleashes another ball of fire which should quickly add more data to your analysis. In the meantime, it is quite clear that the creatures do become 'charged' with elemental energies when attacked with such and that the charge then harms any they come into contact with as evidenced by the radiant burns and reddened flesh marring Raseri following her initial encounter with the beasts.
Raseri races forward calling forth the weapons and magic of her faith. The radiant hammer lashes out against the first charge beast and strikes with a flare of holy light. The creature shimmers, its flesh rippling as a stone disrupts a pond. A moment passes and the gray shadow skin of the beast begins to glow with an equally radiant power as it continues it race ahead. The second creatures almost appears to welcome the priestesses second blast of holy energy. A moment later it too radiates the same brilliant ivory glow. The two quickly close the distance on Raseri. The first flanking to her left the other to her right. The first catches Raseri in its jaws sinking into her flesh brilliant radiant light sears and burns the wound causing more pain even as she twists away to avoid a secondary rake of it claw. Unfortunately, she dodges right into the path of the second glowing creature. Jaws rend and sear flesh even as claws rip at her armor to find the soft meat beneath all the while the burning light cooks her flesh and boils her blood away. From atop the stone hut Gunnar and Luthael unleash fire and lightning upon the two other groups of charging creatures. Luthael's fire erupts like an inferno among the two coming from the north. Neither seem intent on avoiding the oncoming blast. Oddly, these two both ripple as the others and then begin to burn, the fiery red glow illuminating the northern part of the clearing. In contrast, those charges from the east crackle and spark with electricity as the race toward the front of the hut where Ingryd stands ready to keep anything from breaching the doorway and reaching her defenseless charges inside. From his perch in the trees, Scramsax fires a sling stone that catches the first beast dead center in its forehead. The blow stops the beast momentarily as it shakes off the blow. Burning eyes glance about searching for the source of stone but it cannot locate the hidden halfling. So instead, it follows its partner toward the hut. ************ Ahhh...the pack has engaged. We are late to the banquet. We must hurry and see how they fare against the quarry. His thought-speech is answered by a rumble of hunger from his mount's throat. ************
GM Rolls:
Shadow Warg One: 84/100 (Radiant 3)
Shadow Warg Three: 46/100 (Fire 3)
Shadow Warg Five: 77/100 (Lightning 3)
Sorry for the delay all. Busier than anticipated weekend. Will get an update posted tomorrow.
Scramsax ascends into one of the massive sequoias that mark the outer edge of the small clearing where the stone hut sits. The soft stabbing of the spiked foot gear grabbing the bark and rubbing scrape of rope drift on the wind. The noise stops when the halfing seems to disappear among the heavy ice coated greenery of the tree's lower branches. The sounds of the halfling's climb are soon joined by Luthael's familiar prayers to the sun god as the prophet prepares for the forthcoming violence. This time he is joined by Raseri's less familiar northlands prayers. The newcomer's words end with the crackle and spark of electricity dancing along her steel blade. The whoosh of flames whirling upon Ingryd's hammer comes from just outside the hut's doorway where the bearkin stands. Her deadly maul a beacon of promised pain to any who would try to force their way by the mighty guardian. Atop the stone structure, Gunnar stands. His dwarven features flickering between light and shadow with each passing whirl of his companion's maul. The changing light doesn't affect the stoic wizard's concentration or sight as he gazes out into the still, cold silence of the frozen wood. Time passes. Sand slips through the hourglass. Beyond the thick clouds the stars continue their passage through the infinite void of night. Some begin to wonder if perhaps the concern was all for naught. A false alarm. Nerves stretched too taught. Then the wizard's head swivel's north. From his perch atop the stone hut and with his arcane enhanced vision, he is the first to spot the pair of crimson eyes gleaming in the night. They eyes slowly resolve into the wolf's head and features of huge warg. But this is no warg, for it moves upon six thickly muscled legs that move with a mesmerizing grace and ease across the deep snow. Wide shouldered and with thick fur ranging from void black to an icy storm gray along its belly and at the tip of its thick tail. It stands as tall as a war pony, it's sharp canine teeth gleaming in the firelight that bursts forth from the wizard in his watch post. No sooner does the first beast appear in the north than another appears just behind. Two more appear from the east while another pair creep forward from the south. Six of the beast in all. Silent except for a few soft rumbling growls from deep in their throats as they slowly stalk forward.
The cold air struck wrapped around his body like a lovers arms as he rode silently through the depths of the Margreve. He had slept for too long. To feel the wind, taste snow upon his tongue, hear the wind howl across the plain, all reminded him of what it was to live. To embrace this mortal realm. To feed upon its very soul of existence. That is what send his own blood pumping and caused his own ancient flesh to tingle with anticipation. He breathes deep of the air. Let's the air flow out in a long sigh of longing and desire. Even under a blanket of snow, he was surrounded by a feast that made his hungry mouth water. Made him salivate over the bountiful harvest of energy circulating through so much life. The slowly beating heart of a slumbering mother bear, a new family growing within. The flow of rich sap through the towering veins of pine, fir, and oak. The scuttle and churn of a thousand, thousand insects working the loamy soils and thick layers of centuries of fallen leaves and needles. So much, so close, yet, forbidden to him. Forbidden. A term for which he has little experience. It's meaning a foreign concept to one used to simply taking what he wished from the world. But his mistress, her skin still showing the effects of her recent explosive and fiery experience, her pale, supple flesh red, blistered, puckered and peeling away had made it quite clear. He was not to touch the forest with his power. A bargain had been made. A price paid. Fortunately, there were plenty more priestesses filling the temples. Their lustful loins soon to produce even more fodder for the alters. This time, he would not go against his mistresses wishes. He could sense that doing so would lead to disaster. Would lead to his trying to devour the entire mass of the ancient Margreve. A task beyond even his abilities. For he strong and his appetites were quite deep, but he is not one of the mighty Dreadwalkers. Not one of the great gods from the void who nearly devoured all of Midgard. Yet, to be surrounded by such plenty and unable to feed, well, it made him more eager than ever to reach his quarry. For that quarry was even richer in energy and power. So much gathered into so few, and yet, within all that power a great emptiness. A small void of nothing. A black boil among the juicy feast. A void which his mistress promised held so very much more. Cracking his whip over the great six legged hound's head, he spurs it forward. A howl erupting from the beast's wide jaw. A call answered by multiple others. It had been too long since they'd all hunted.
Once again the deep resonant calls echo through the shadows and darkness of the thick forest. The wandering homeless of Blandezig huddle and clutch at each other within the confines of the stone hut. Despite the confident words of their heroic patrons, their eyes snap closed, their hearts race, and prayers for deliverance are offered to Khors, Lada, and Perun. Outside the arcane dwelling, the most recent incarnation of the Narg Nasty Six stand ready. Eager eyes watch into the night, earnest ears strain to be the first to hear a betraying snap of twig by an approached foe. Clouds of chilled breath gather about each as they wait. But it is not sight or sound that warns them of approaching danger. Instead after several long moments it is a smell born upon the wind. The smell of cinnamon, incense, and rose. The scent of fresh blood still dripping from a warm kill. The scent of a night's pleasure fulfilled and spent. Silence reigns. The only sound is the breathing and shuffle of the six, the soft mutters and worried sobs of those huddled inside the shelter, the gentle hiss of falling snow.
Question does Ingryds Cold Resistance help? Not really necessary given your roll, but I think it would give you advantage on the saving throw.
The stone shelter proves to be a life-saving boon for the old villager and maybe even a few of the others. The ability to get out of the cold wind and actually feel the warmth of a fire and surrounding companions brings the old tanner back from the brink. The extended delay needed for everyone to recover their strength, takes up the rest of the day and well into the night hours. INT(Arcana) DC15:
You can just taste the unnaturalness of this storm on the very wind. The blizzard's lasting strength, deep cold, and dumbfounding amounts of snow falling. None of it feels normal or natural. You step out of the warmth and light of the stone shelter and begin taking a few measurements. Gathering snow into a bottle, looking at it through the light of the moon. Tracking the nearest ley lines, only to find them still in a state of agitated flux, trembling like constantly plucked and out of tune harp strings. Curiously, you seem to stand at the center of that very source of agitation. It does not emanate from your band, but it hovers over you like some arctic minded sense of doom. For whatever reason, the storm appears to be following you. WIS(Perception) DC15: With night's fall you step outside for a quick breath of air. Gazing through the darkness, you see the various shapes of the surrounding trees and the clouds swirling overhead as they continue to cover the land in snow. In the distance, back along your trail, you hear the long, low howl of a wolf. Close, but not so close as to be a threat. You shrug off any real concern. That is, until another answering howl comes from the opposite direction. From the direction you are going. The concern grows deeper when another grim call comes from the east. North, South, and East. Coincidence? Possibly. Possibly not. Fortunately, all are still a mile or two away.
Leaving behind the little clearing and the petaled figure slowly blowing away with each passing gust of wind, the large group continues along the winding path. Travel along the path is easier than before. It seems this passage manages to miss the deep drifts of snow, the tangled hollows of thorn and nettle, the sudden bone freezing bogs just beneath a thin layer of ice and snow. Where ever the elf's or the forest's magic took her, it seems Arianna bargained well for her friends. The day passes without incident. A small ring of soot blackened stones tucked against an outcrop of granite signals a spot well suited to stopping for the night. An icy rimmed spring bubbles from the ground just a few feet away. Tucked within the rocks a stash of dry wood waits for weary travelers, a welcome gift from those who came before. Another night passes. This time no ghostly armies march through, but in the distance a scream echoes and is quickly cut short. The sound of large beating wings whooshes by. Their owner enveloped in the low, snow filled clouds hanging overhead. The Margreve can be a dangerous place. Another gray morning dawns with snow falling. The path remains open, but even with the forest's blessing, the winter storm makes travel difficult. Several days have passed since leaving the cursed manor house. Days of exposure to snow, wind, cold, ice start to take their toll upon everyone, even with the brightly colored, thick down coats provided by Scramsax's magical paints. The first to stumble is old Joshua, the former tanner of the ghoul devoured village. Midday is just passing when a startled shout from the other plodding villagers interrupts the march. Turning to see the trouble all quickly spot the handful of villagers struggling to lift up the shivering, bulk of the older man.
Gunnar:
You carefully examine the area around the floral Arianna and are quite certain it isn't the woman herself, but a representation left in her place. Why? You've know idea. How? That takes a bit more examination. Gazing upon the natural web of arcane energies drifting through the area, you recognize the residual signature of a potent casting. Not Arianna's simpler spell, which you also see the ripples drifting through the aether. No this was something much more powerful. But curiously, the magic did not emerge from some outside source as if you or Arianna or even Luthael through his god had cast it. Instead this appears to have been generated from the very forest itself. Not a single tree, but through every tree, shrub, weed, and bit of moss within the glade. All contributed some minute portion of power, control, and....intellect of the casting. It is all quite interesting and unheard of. In fact you are just on the verge of a major arcane breakthrough when Raseri completely interrupts your train of thought asking about some kind of spider or vine or something called a Peruvian.
The thought immediately vanishes like a sweet roll in a halfing hostile. Gone. Forever lost. Such are the whims of inspiration. You do your best to try and answer the newcomers question. The only thing you can think of is the deadly white bloomed, carnivorous spider plants of Kush. The vines can grow as thick as a human's leg and as tall as an oliphant. Spawn of the Green Walker that haunts the jungle of the central southlands, the plants are terribly deadly. Poisonous and active hunters, a pod of spider vines can devour an entire expedition in a matter of minutes. In fact, that is what most historians believed happened to Sir Chester Waterbury of Malana and his entire entourage nearly twenty five years ago when he went to find the Lost City of Kanjacomore once known for its streets of silver and a grand ruby statue of Ptah. As Scramsax points to the west, a clear and obvious trail appears among the trees. Whether it has anything to actually do with the halfling, none can truly decide. Nevertheless, it is there and all along its length the snow is packed and much easier to travel upon.
Right? Oh sure. She'll be able to get back there...eventually. But in the meantime she is able to converse with one of, if not the, oldest living being in Midgard. The consciousness of an entire forest even. It likely has some stories to tell that an elf bard would find quite interesting. Assuming she can get it to focus long enough. :)
Heh...problem resolved. Arianna is now a 'guest' of the Margreve.
Arianna:
The sound of bird song rings in your ears. The smell of meadow flowers and pine fills your nose. The taste of sweet spring sap sits on your tongue. Your hands and back feel the soft loamy soil beneath you. Your eyes flutter open. They are immediately filled with greens, bright and dark. Thick, dense foliage belonging to the ring of enormous sequoia trees that surround you. Their tops disappear far beyond the reach of your earth bound eyes. The bright sun shines above, a few yellow rays filter down through the thick branches.
The next thing you notice is the warmth. Or rather the lack of freezing cold. It is like a mild spring afternoon. Bees fly past loaded with pollen. Squinting through the green you can make out the bright yellows, reds, and purples of a meadow full of flowers. Somewhere far above in the tree tops a raven croaks, a squirrel chatters. Voices still rattle and dance in your mind, but now they are more distant. A background cacophony rather than a mind ripping barrage. Then you feel the presence of another. Or is it many? You can't quit be sure. The voice booms within the glade.
Back in the snow covered camp, Gunnar is the first to notice that Arianna has not moved. Notice that she has remained utterly motionless in the small patch beneath the tree for quite some time. A unusually long period of time for the elf. Stepping closer, the dwarf frowns. Something is certainly not right. This concern is quickly confirmed when he reaches out to the sitting elf and instead of finding flesh and blood, a flower petal drops away from what should have been the elf's shoulder. A pale daisy petal if the wizard believes. Getting closer until his nose is only inches from the sitting figure, Gunnar can see every bit of what sits beneath the tree is nothing more than a delicate construct of flowers, moss, leaves, and pine needles.
As others douse the fire, finish up their morning meal, and prepare for the day's journey, Arianna settles a short distance from the camp and begins to call forth her elven magic. Her breathing slows, her pulse beats ever slower until reaching a constant resonating rhythm that could easily lead someone to wonder if she even still lives. Elven eyes gaze upward into the branches of the massive, snow covered conifers. Her question forms within her mind and drifts out to the silent, listening, waiting wood. Arianna: Unlike in other forests, gardens, lonely places where only a single stubby tree growing beneath a withering sun, your mind does not encounter a single entity as your open it to hear the response to your question. Instead you find yourself hearing a thousand, thousand voices.
"The snow chills my needles."
And on and on and on. A vast ocean of voices that threaten to drown you in its seemingly endless depths. Among so many, you find your mind stretched, twisted, pulled in every direction. You can feel it slowly shattering as the ancient, massive weight of a thousand different viewpoints a thousand different scenes and thousand different experiences all quickly overwhelm your singular mortal consciousness. Yet, intertwined and underlying the myriad voices and perceptions is a single interconnected entity of nearly unfathomable proportion. It is this consciousness that turns its attention toward you. Toward the thing that is separate. The thing that is not part of the mass collective of its existence. It is this thrumming, cascading voice that truly threatens madness or complete assimilation as it draws you into its entwining embrace.
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