DM - Tareth's page

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.

I'm assuming this has all been scraped by plenty of AI's already, and like Raseri said, that seems like something AI could actually add value by doing.

I'll have to look into it myself just to see if it can pull a copy of the entire game. Something that is searchable, sortable, and could be summarized would be an added bonus.

Scramsax: Sorry, you are correct, the door is still locked and does require a roll to unlock and open. But it is not trapped anymore.

Scramsax deftly disarms the paired trap of the cage containing Vee. Snapping the door open the halfling steps away from the cage, but doesn't have time to nip into the shadows and disappear. Suddenly the halfling feels a pair of beady, gnomish eyes gazing upon her. Turning, Scramsax sees the once familiar form of Ibrox grinning crookedly at her.

"Ibrox, Ibrox." The gnome mutters pointing a knobby knuckled hand at the halfling. Suddenly, she stumbles. Trips. Actually trips on a slight crack between a pair of the floorboards. But Tymora's grace envelopes the halfling. Just as the gnome utters a second incantation, one of the nearby goblins jostles Ibrox as it raises its own bow to fire. The nudge throws of the blast of eldritch magic and it slams harmlessly into the stone wall just above Scramsax's head.

The blast is followed quickly by a flight of arrows from the group of minions surrounding Ibrox. Most are off target, but one hits drawing halfling blood.

Still floating down from the heights of the tower top, Raseri focuses upon the whirling flows of interwoven powers flowing through the witch's lair. The numerous threads of power creating a tangled skein of energy only the Fates themselves might have hope of undoing. Yet, the priestess does not need to remove the great knot of power, in fact, she seeks to use it to her advantage.

A few more moments, as she discovers the perfect set of gathered threads. She stretches out her hand, plucks the threads, adds a bit of her own into the mix and then gives a slight tug. The gateway whirls open revealing the grayscale palette of the Shadow Realm beyond. With a quick smile, Raseri pulls herself from one world to another, her feet finally landing on the gray floor of the shadow tower.

Back in Midgard, the raging bearkin pulverizes a hapless gnome. Her ancient hammer quickly sending the little villain to whatever afterlife awaits such creatures. Her second blow is poised the strike another blow against a ghoul. But instead, metal rings against metal.

"Ha! Haa!" Shouts Aterro, eldritch power gleaming in both his eyes and around his smiling lips. "At last a foe worthy of challenging in GLORIOUS BATTLE!" The paladin draws back his heavy mace, his face a sunken cheeked mirror of a smiling skull. His mace spins, slams against his shield. A strange word of prayer is uttered and suddenly bearkin and the paladin of death are surrounded by a rising mass of ghostly moaning spirits hungry to feed upon the living.

The paladin's summoned guardians eagerly strike out at the brightly burning living flesh of Ingryd. Clawing, biting, grabbing at the bearkin in a whirlwind of pain.

The minions surrounding Aterro, goblin, gnome and ghoul, each add their own blades into the wave now lashing the bearkin. But none manage to break through the bear's guard.

Luthael watches as his wall of fire divides the room, separating three of the groups from the cages and each other. The prophet quickly turns his attention to the strange, potent power of the crystal. He calls upon the glory of Khors to dissipate the gathered magic. For a moment the prophet radiates holy light. His body wreathed in light that lashes out toward the crystal. The power of Khors strikes at the tangled skein of power fueled by the very foundations of creation itself.

A scream erupts from Luthael as the god's power continue to pour through him. It begins to burn. He can feel his entire self being drawn into the god's flow. It is more power than he has ever channeled before. It threatens to consume him entirely and still the crystal flows with energy. Threads of power renew themselves almost as quickly as they burn away. Eyes blurring from pain and the light, the prophet does see the nimbus surrounding Kalisuel suddenly disappear. He pushes harder, drawing more of his god's power. His flesh burns, begins to flake off like ash blown in the wind. His heart pounds. Another scream and the flow suddenly stops. Khors will not allow his servant to devour himself in such a manner.

Momentarily drained, Luthael doesn't see the thin, fae frame of Kalisuel pull her bow and take aim. But his god does not forsake him. A sudden gust of wind from the open roof above billows down into the tower. The two feathered shafts pass by the prophet of Khors, harmlessly shattering against the stone wall of the tower.

Gunnar races over to the cage holding the unconscious saint of Khors. Reaching into the cage the wizard touches the girl. The group of enemies centered upon the trollkin, Vrindel charge in along with the purple-eyed druid. Gunnar's own eyes suddenly glow with power and with a thundering boom, both dwarf and girl vanish with a crackle of thunder that flattens the approaching enemies and the druid. He reappears again a moment later, the screeching, swirling guardian spirits summoned by the unholy Aterro, only inches away.

Picking himself off of the ground, Vrindel grabs his staff and slams it upon the floor of the chamber. A crackling finger of power zigzags its way along the floor through the fire and beneath where Gunnar and Ingryd stand. A moment later the floor erupts in a geyser of churning earth and stone tossing the two about as if they were rag dolls in the hand of an angry child.

Scramsax: Hexed(DEX), takes 7 points of damage from an arrow.

Ingryd: WIS Save vs DC14 or take 15 points necrotic damage. Half on a success.

Raseri is in the Shadow Realm.

Luthael: Dispel Magic on the crystal itself fails, but does eliminate a protective barrier surrounding Kalisuel.

Gunnar and Ingryd: DEX Save vs DC15 or take 4d12 bludgeoning damage from an Erupting Earth spell. Half damage on a successful save.

Party is up.

As they land, or have a moment to hover, and take their bearings, Gunnar, Ingryd, Luthael, Scramsax and Raseri get a better understanding of the place they find themselves. The large crystal dominates the center of the chamber. Itself a mass of menacing power measuring twenty feet tall and on average fifteen feet around. It hovers thirty feet off the floor with occasional arcane power crackling around, up and down, and through its crystalline center. Occasionally, one of those bolts of energy is drawn along one of the wires connected to the cages holding the gathered prisoners. The bolt of power races along the wire structure eventually dropping onto the cage where the entire thing flickers with cursed eldritch power causing cries of pain and fear.

The entire chamber itself is one hundred feet in diameter. The now open roof where the wind continues to howl down from the mountains, is sixty feet above, the stars can be seen still shining, although the morning light of dawn continues to slowly emerge.

In addition to the grim instruments of torture and the foul experimental laboratory with its sad remains of an unfortunate victim, the chamber is lined with shelves of haphazardly stored books and scrolls. Crates and barrel of unknown goods have been stacked about providing a variety of cover for those both attacking and defending the hag's lair.

Of those defenders, five groups are seen. Spread almost evenly about the room each near one of the hanging cages. Each busily shifting to take advantage of cover or instead taking aim as their foes land in the midst of the chamber.

As soon as her feet touch the ground, Ingryd charges the nearest group. Her hammer whistling in the air like the piercing call of the gryphons who once inhabited this place. Her first blow strikes a zombie, crushing its head, withering its flesh. The second is defended as a pair of goblins easily duck and dodge the heavy, slow moving weapon.

Countering the crackling energy of the corrupted spear of Thor, Gunnar sends a blast of pure, ice blue lightning searing into the group where Kalisuel stands with the spear. A goblin falls to the ground smoldering, his hand still griping the sparking remnant of a partially melted short sword. A ghoul drops a moment later, its undying flesh blackened into charcoal as it shatters upon hitting the ground. A flare of power erupts around Kalisuel, although whether derived from spear, crystal, or herself it is hard to determine. Regardless of the source, it flashes and prevents the blast of lightning from harming the waiting elf.

Using the rope, Scramsax notes the cage holding Vee. Swings herself closer, grips the bars and begins to carefully look for additional traps that were likely hidden to protect the unwanted opening of those tricky locks. Pulling her cloak tight about her body, the nimble halfling scuttles across the bars before the eyes below can truly spot her. Gunnar's flash of lightning helping immensely as several of the enemy busily rub streaks of red from their watering eyes.

The halfling finds what she expects. A needle trap. Rather crude. Child's play really for one with her skill. Almost insulting. Then she spots the second trap. The thin, nearly invisible wire, more of a hair if she thought about it, running from both lock and needle trap up into the shadow at the top of the cage. Scramsax squints into the darkness, spots a shimmer of light reflecting off of glass as Luthael's wall of fire erupts below, scorching another group of the enemy, a gnome screams, races around like a living torch, then falls over dead, the flames eating hungrily at his mossy, fungal hat. A goblin hisses, cries out for a moment and then is simply incinerated within the raging fire of Khors prophet. But similar to Kalisuel, a nimbus of power surrounds and protects Vrindel as the trollkin slowly turns his eldritch gaze upward toward the hovering prophet.

Turning back to the reflection, the halfling sees the liquid dancing in the globe. Poison, acid, odious cleaning agents, a rust inducing arcane potion perhaps a blend of all four? She couldn't be sure. The only certainty being if she slips while disarming the lock or trap, the outcome would not be good for her adopted daughter.

Floating toward the chaos of the chamber floor, Raseri opens her mind to the arcane flows. Easily sees the rushing flow of the leyline's power as it enters into the massive crystal. She also recognizes the relative ease with which she can conjure an opening into the shadow realm using that very same power. All she need do is focus and concentrate for just a moment.

Luthael: Sorry, I don't have a map, but hopefully the dimensions help a little. AOE spells can affect one group of five enemies at the moment since they have not gathered or congregated near anyone yet.

Scramsax: The lock is DC20. The first trap is DC10. The second is DC20.

Raseri: DC8 Arcana/Nature/Religion check to open force open a portal to the shadow realm.

I will call that your surprise round. So now it is round one. Party is up.

As the heroes tumble, climb, free fall or float into the chamber below, the scene becomes clearer and clearer. Scramsax quickly spots a multitude of hiding locations, whether behind the iron maiden standing in one corner, beneath the surgical table with a set of rather grizzly, rotting remains of what might have been a forest elf, or among a stack of unmarked crates, barrels and jugs.

Those looking less for shadow filled hiding places, quickly see the golden cages, and their occupants. Unfortunately, the vision within the scrying bowl was not an illusion. By the sickly green glow of the massive crystal hovering in the center of the room, all can see Luthael's parents are indeed in one of the cages as are Vee and the others. The startling new additions are the slightly more than two dozen minions of the witch training bows, spells, and blades toward the arriving heroes. Gathered in groups of five, and spread so they are near each of the swinging cages, each squad incorporates a blend of goblin, undead, and gnomish followers of the ancient hag. But the truly surprising and unnerving sight is that of familiar faces, not within the cages, but accompanying the enemy.

Centered in one group, the fiery tempered countenance of Attero stands, eyes gleaming with eldritch power, an uneartly, undying visage overshadowing his proud features.

In another, wrapped in a cloak of leaves and vines, Vrindel gazes upward. His dark trollkin eyes spark purple as vines begin to emerge and twist upward menacingly.

A third group surrounds a smaller figure topped in a familiar red cap sprouting a miniature forest. The stout gnome, Ibrox, dips excitedly from foot to foot, power crackling upon his fingertips.

In the forth group is the sullen faced teenaged face of Trevor. His axe in hand. Anger burns hot within his face. Anger and heartbreak whenever he glances upward toward the shackled saint in her golden cage.

In the final group, a waif of a woman holds a familiar spear. It crackles with electrical power that ancient weapon of a god. Kalisuel's voice is sweet and musical as she sings a soft song of power, surrounding herself in a nimbus of crackling energy.

"Heeeheeeheehee!" Cackles the voice of the witch, who despite Gunnar's magical sight, cannot be seen. Her grating words coming from everywhere and nowhere. "Cursed you have been, cursed you all remain. Your fate is mine oh invaders of my domain. Once friends, now foes, this day I shall delight in your delicious woe. Ahhahahaheeee!"

The party is up.

The heroes of Nargenstal waste little time. Having found their purchase upon the dome, Raseri and Ingryd simultaneously focus fierce blows upon the thick ice and glass. A thunderous boom erupt from the priestesses sword as she drives it deep and through the ice into the supporting struck of glass and rod. Ingryd's blow is equally potent. Ennui's mass blasts through the thick barrier.

A great crackling of both ice and glass is heard and then a heartbeat later everything and everyone is falling once again. Part of an sparkling avalanche of broken glass, ice shards, and living flesh that tumbles through the collapsing roof.

A donkey brays. A bear roars. From below, cries of surprise and fright emerge from several cages ringing the chamber. Other shouts of alarm rise up. Growls and catcalls from a hodgepodge of goblins, ghouls, gnomes, and dour uniformed warriors. A cackle erupts that echoes from seemingly everywhere and nowhere.

"Who's that! Who's that, knocking upon my roof!" That screeching, grating voice bounces across the walls, heard above shattering glass and crashing chunks of ice. "My, my, quite an entrance. Very showy! Eeeeeheeeheeeheeee! Let the fun and games begin." The witch cackles and shouts, although she is nowhere to be seen among the filth, offal, and debris of the gruesome and grizzly chamber.

"Alright you louts." She growls to the gathered troops. "Time to fight for you lives. Make it count. Or else. Heeeheeeeheeee!"

Luthael, Scramsax, and Gunnar are up as the roof collapses and all but Luthael (with Emilee) fall through.

Luthael: Yes, I can do that, but probably won't be able to get to it until tomorrow.

Having grown up in the frozen north, Raseri quickly manages to jam her blade into the thick ice to prevent a quick, slippery slide over the edge. Holding on to the makeshift piton, the northern priestess is unable to find another suitable hand or foothold. Her legs and arm squirm back and forth across the surface searching for any little ridge or crack, but only Loki's ill favored gaze shines upon Raseri and she can't strike a blow to break through the thick ice and glass dome.

At the last moment, Luthael takes the wise precaution of summoning forth the winged spirits inhabiting his trusty boots. When the prophet reappears upon the slick, wind blasted surface of the tower roof, he quickly calls upon those spirits to prevent his sliding over the edge. Instead, they propel him into the cold, windy air where he quickly checks to see how his companions fair.

Khors' prophet spots Gunnar, secure on the ice, but struggling to maintain his footing well enough to unleash a spell. The arcane energy builds, but then quickly dissipates as the dwarf slips a little and is forced to focus all of his attention upon maintaining his hold.

Then there is Scramsax and his donkey companion. Strangely the animal seems to remain fairly calm given the circumstances. Quickly planting its left side hooves into the ice to prevent a fall. One might imagine this wasn't the first time the creature had landed upon a the roof of a tower in the wee early hours of the morning. This theory might be additionally validated when Scramsax quickly sets a grappling hook against the decorative griffon shaped weather vane at the peak of the dome and has both herself and her animal secured in a matter of moments. A few seconds later and the halfling gives a quick command causing the donkey to lift a hoof and slam it down hard into the ice. Cracks zigzag their way outward from the blow several small chunks of ice break free and go tumble-sliding over the edge of the peak.

Ingryd, her claws a perfect substitute for climbers crampons, barely budges from her initial landing point. A moment later she slams her deadly warhammer into the thick ice. Shards go flying. Cracks erupt. The entire sheet shifts slightly, as something can be heard crackling and giving way underneath the icy surface.

Finally, Luthael spots Emilee. The strange girl rescued from the vile experiment's of the hag's servants, is clearly surprised by her sudden appearance on a wind blown, ice covered, surface several hundred feet in the air. With a frightened shout, she tries to find a purchase, but really only succeeds at propelling herself toward the edge. Fortunately, for the young woman, the prophet is there and quick to react. Swooping down, Luthael quickly snatches Emilee in his grasp, lifting her from certain doom as he waits for the others to break through.

Several trumpeting roars erupt from above and below the tower's peak. Familiar calls. Wyverns. Likely waiting for the dragon's arrival, their attention drawn to the flash of magic and the sudden appearance of several mortals, including a potentially tasty donkey atop the tower they'd been commanded to protect.

15 out of 20 damage needed to break through. Necro doesn't count as the ice and glass are both immune.

Party is up.

"I am indeed ready Gunnar. May the halls of Valhalla long ring with the tales and songs of today's great victory." Sylvia replies to Gunnar.

The initial glow of early morning just begins to light the eastern horizon as final preparations are completed. Spells are cast. Weapons checked. Armor secured. Luthael's message reaches the heroes ally. Her reply is received. There is time, but further delay will surely lead to disaster.

All those making the journey gather around the halfling. Eyes lock. Heads nod. Scramsax begins to visualize the hag's sanctuary. The malevolent crystal, its cages, friends and loved ones trapped within, the filth, the scattered rags, broken crockery, empty wine bottles, ale jugs, and smoldering texts. The moonlight striking the domed ceiling above. It's silver rays filtering through the ice and glass.

*BAMF!*

A cold wind whips across the heights of the Black Hills. Whipped into a frenzy as it careens through the mountains, twisting, and whirling over peaks, down valleys, and across the open cliffs of the high country, the air blasts across the domed pinnacle of the ancient fortress. Once home to the valiant and honorable griffon knights, the Lord Commander's Tower overlooked a vast swath of the ancient Margreve to the north and south. To the west the lords of that order once gazed across to the highest peaks among the Black Hills, their tops covered in snow and ice. Looking east, the blue ribbon of Grandfather's Tears twists and turns, the flood stoked rushing waters sparkling in the moonlight as that silver orb slips toward the horizon giving way to the coming dawn. Farther to the east, the mighty trees of the forest eventually give way to the western edge of the Rothenian Plain, the rolling hills disappearing into the dark horizon.

Although the hag's artificial winter broke just under two days ago, much of the land still glistens with the muted silvery reflection of moonlight upon snow and ice. Torches and lanterns sparkle far below in the old courtyard and along the battlements. Screeching wenches, rattling chains, and shouts of overseers cursing underlings echo through the early morning air. The evacuation continues. Eyes, both living and dead, occasionally gaze eastward to take in the brightening horizon. Already they'd seen a days reprieve. The bookies had made a killing the morning before. Legionnaire's, elf, and gnome alike had bet stacks of coins upon the certainty the dragon would strike that first fateful morning. It would not be the first, nor the last time conventional wisdom proved itself wrong. Having collected their winnings, those with means and ability quickly departed on the first boats and sleds heading north toward the Blood Kingdoms, south along the river, or, for some, down into the depths of the Underdark far beneath the ancient fort.

Those poor wretches left behind, well, now they could add poverty to their growing list of complaints that could be put at the feet of their nebulous mistress. Not that any would dare. Money could be replaced. Even a dragon attack offers a chance for survival. Complaining to the Mistress of the Tower would simply result in a brutal, pain filled destruction no matter if you were living or undying. So instead, those minions of evil hauled, lowered, roped, carried, loaded, unloaded, and otherwise engaged in the gathering of all the bounty stolen during the mistresses incursion into the Margreve.

*BAMF!*

Scramsax, Ingryd, Gunnar, Luthael, Raseri, and Emilee arrive atop the domed roof of the hag's tower. The view is breathtaking. A once-n-a-lifetime opportunity to gaze upon the moonlit splendor of Midgard's most ancient forest. However, there is little time to truly appreciate such natural wonder. The wind immediately slams into the heroes as they land with a mutual set of thuds and thumps upon the still ice covered roof. The ice, slowly melting following days, weeks, of accumulation, is lethally slick. The furious wind adds to the precarious situation. Everyone is immediately forced to grab and scramble for some kind of foot hold or purchase upon the sloping, slime-slick surface to keep from careening over the edge and tumbling to a quick, but messy doom upon the paving stones and rocks far below.

All: Make a DC12 DEX(Acrobatics) or STR(Athletics) save or slide 20' toward the edge of the dome which is 30' away.

The terrain is difficult. Any move, attack, or other action requires a DC12 DEX(Acrobatics) or STR(Athletics) check. Failure results in a slip and falling 20' toward the edge. Success allows the action.

To break through the thick layer of ice and glass requires 20 points of physical or elemental damage.

Party is up.

Just to clarify, you are teleporting in 5' above the glass domed roof of the tower, correct?

Before the witch's spell ends along with Luthael's scry. Gunnar does his best to try interpret what he sees. Knowing the witch has utilized potent illusions in the past, he pays particular attention to the little details that usually give such things away. At first, it is all still so startling and overwhelming, the way the old crone commandeered Luthael's magic, the the wizard has trouble focusing.

But the sight of those he knows, care about, has saved or aided in the past is enough to brush aside the questions and concerns over the witch's ability to capture their own magic. Quickly his keen eyes and ears take in the entire scene. Vee, Luthael's parents, Katarina, the welcoming peasant couple.

The dwarf's brow furrows with concentration. He spots the slight droop in Master Invictusol's left eye. The slight, but visible hints of age around his wife's eyes, her hands. Listening closely, he hears beneath the cackling nonsense and capering of the witch, the soft tick*tick*tick*tick of Vee's clockwork heart. Even though her power has been somehow dampened and drained, the saint still gives off a dim aura of light. A sense of warmth despite her cold and dire surroundings. Even the Lenovan's match all that Gunnar can recall of the farm couple. Patched clothes. Muddy boots. Calloused hands and weathered faces. The fear upon their faces, all too real.

It is through this inspection, that the wizard becomes certain those seen in the mystical image are indeed real. Are indeed those they all care about. How they are there, he cannot know. But they are there, within the unwelcome, brutal hands of their wicked and vile enemy.

But certainty is not all he gains. For being ever curious of things of an arcane nature, he can't help but focus a few moments of his attention on the crystal that dominates the center of the villain's hall. The crystal and the long strands of golden wire stretching like metallic cobwebs from the glowing stone to each of the occupied cages. He sucks in a sharp breath as he spots a stray mote of wild magic drifting upon the air, likely a stray bit of runaway energy from the ley line. Suddenly the fluff of power's drifting course changes with a abrupt jerk. Like a bellows gulping air, the crystal sucks up the wandering power. It flares briefly upon touching the glowing surface. A moment later several of the prisoner's jump as if mildly shocked. Vee's tick tick tick skips a tick.

Before he can consider anything further, the image fades.

Later...

After much debate and discussion a plan is formulated. The heroes ready themselves for what is to come. Prayers are offered. Mystical formula memorized. Blades sharpened. Drinks drunk. Armor checked and rechecked.

Luthael steps away for a few moments. His face going suddenly slack as his thoughts take him briefly across the plain and into the depths of the forest. It takes several long moments, for the dragon has increased her arcane and mystical defenses. There is a tense moment when the prophet's spiritual mind worries he may night be recognized by the looming, chaotic, primeval magics of the dragon. But finally, it relents, a pathway opens within the maze and Luthael feels a connection with the powerful, bright essence that is the dragon of the Margreve. He feels the boiling rage, the churning need for not only revenge but to cleanse her territory of the witch's threat.

His message is sent...received. There is a grudging but accepting reply. The rage does not wish to delay any further. The fury cries out for swift vengeance before more make their escape. But the thankful mother overrides...for now...those potent and powerful desires. Her appreciation of the heroes aide and understanding of their need allows her to forego her own wants and needs. But she is a dragon. Her ability to suppress who she is, what she desires, all her mind and spirit screech for, is finite.

Luthael returns to himself. The message delivered. He suppresses a shudder, a release of some of the anger and rage absorbed by his brief foray into the alien mind. A hour more, maybe two is his best estimate. That's all they can truly count on the dragon giving before she can no longer hold back her own true nature and need to destroy her enemy.

Okay...it looks like all we need is a final decision on your teleport destination and exactly what the message is you are sending to the dragon. Oh, and no, you don't have a name for the dragon, but it doesn't seem like that is needed for a Sending spell.

Just confirming that yes, you do need a second long rest before you can teleport again. This also means you'll only have a few hours at most to rescue everyone before the dragon attacks.

None of you have been to either chamber seen during the scry spell. You all teleported out after reaching the eggs, so never really explored the higher parts of the fortress/tower.

The image of the villainous conference slowly begins to fade from view. However, just a everyone ponders the scene just viewed, Luthael glances back into the bowl only to see an ugly, bloodshot, eldritch purple eye with putrid yellow flecks blinking back at him.

"EEEEE! heeheeheeheeeeEEEEEEE!" A chilling cackle full of wicked gleefulness echoes out from the now dark as a cloud covered moonless night water despite the sun blazing overhead. "Naughty, naughty." Scratches a haggish voice. "Don't you know it isn't nice to eavesdrop on other people's conversations. Heeeheeeheeeheee!

The eye pulls back revealing a wart stricken beak of a nose and an equally ugly companion eye to the original. A crooked gap-toothed smile grins maliciously, but it doesn't really draw attention away from the trio of long black hairs that jut from the long, pointy chin like a couple of jagged dead trees perched upon a desert cliff. A few strands of greasy gray hair flop stick out from beneath a jaunty wide-brimmed felt hat. A dry dead shriveled pair of roses are tucked in a leather hat band that looks suspiciously like tanned flesh.

Another cackle echoes across the aether. "Little sneaky snoopers trying to feast your beady eyes upon me while I change no doubt." The hideous face fades back to uncover an even more disturbing fleshy sight. Dressed in little more than a harlot's negligee, the gangly limbed witch pirouette's to let the flimsy silk undergarment reveal the most mind disturbingly horrid wart bejeweled, bulbous yet saggy skinned, secrets of the multiverse.

"Still quite a looker, wouldn't you say sunshine boy! Get a good look while you can. First one's free, next time it'll cost you! Heeehehehehee!" She says moving in a swooning slithery dance seen a various dimly lit dockside taverns up and down the western and southern coasts of Midgard. Often meant to tantalize, here, now, it just sets eyes to watering and stomachs to churning.

The eyes flick to the side, taking in Ingryd and Scramsax. "Ahh...now who have we here. Wait...wait...don't tell me. Oh yes. Missing a couple of kiddo's are you? Tsk. Tsk. That drink won't bring them back. Tasted like chicken, although I think cousin Pim should have added more salt." She says, the ugly eyes staring straight at Ingryd. [b]"And who's that upon your shoulder. A replacment? Oh! No. Hahahaha!" The witch cackles and slaps a long, grimy fingered hand upon her knobby knee. "If it isn't the half-pint stew pot morsel. The one that got away. Oh my! That's a clever disguise." She points quickly to her own evil eye. "But the give away behind the lovely locks and rather limited feminine features is the greed I spy within your little eye."

She turns toward Gunnar. Her voice drops deep and low. "Storm god's bearded tool. Bookworm, conjurer, manipulator of the elements. Poot! Poot! Poot!" Flatulent punctuation. Another shift of her gaze. "And of course, our little lost fallen one. Heheeeheeehheeee. One little oopsie moment back home and its a few hundred years on the lam." The face leans in closer, whispers conspiratorially. "Best to give in to that old temptation. Nothing feels better than a bit of bloodshed in the morning. It feels like Victory! Heeeheeeheehaahaha!"

Leaning back. Her features blur for a moment, shift slightly. Refocus into view. "So the big showdown is coming. Scores to be settled. Revenge to be taken. Heehee. Got yourselves a pet dragon and gonna roast lil' ole me once and fer all." She presses her hat forward, reaches back and scratches her backside.

"Since that seems to be the case...let's make things a bit more interesting. Hmmmmmmm...." A snap of her brittle, dry fingers.

The image changes. A circular chamber, the stone is the same as the gryphon knight's tower. That is easy to see. Above is a crystal domed roof, sunlight sparkling through creating a myriad of rainbows and shimmering, dancing light that illuminates a terrible ghastly scene. Centered in the room in a single pale green crystal pulsing with arcane power. It's light turning the sunlight from above a sickly putrid tone as it shines upon the blood splattered tables, cages, and grim tools that fill the terrible chamber. It takes a moment or two for eyes to focus upon the golden barred cages so much like noble ladies use to a their pet canaries. But these are bigger. They hang from chains and hooks secured to the wall. Wires run from the eerie green crystal to each barred jail. But the true difference is that the birds trapped within the confines of those cages are all too familiar.

The first cage holds Luthael's parents. His father, arms around his mother's shoulders tries to look stern while offering comfort to his wife, but fear and frailty and helplessness are written all to clearly upon his mortal face. In the second. Lying in a heap of metal, is Vee. Seen not so very long ago. Somehow now caught within the gruesome spider's web of hate and malice. In the third cage a peasant couple. A host and hostess from Lenovo. Those who once sheltered a dwarf, bearkin, halfling, and prophet beneath their rood. Battered, bruised, and befuddled. They stare glassy eyed upon the horrible witch. A fourth and final cage holds a saintly young girl. Jet black manacles bind her hands and feet while a band of rune scribed lead glowing with eldritch power is placed upon her head. She stares into nothing, tears scrolling slowly down her face.

The witches voice grows cold. Deadly. Vile. Evil. No remorse. No guilt. No shame. Nothing but the desire to inflict pain, spread fear, sorrow and misfortune upon others.

"This chamber, your dragon friend will strike first." The ancient hag growls. "When the cock crows to greet the morn, torn asunder this place will be. Stone will melt. Flesh boil. Smoke will billow into the heavens upon dragon fueled heat and rage. Souls will bake and hearts will break." She twirls about. "A chance you have. The race is on. Can you save them before the dawn?"

Her face cracks into a broken grin as another grating cackles bursts forth from her pulpy lips. Fading slowly along with the image within the bowl until all that remains is the clear water, the brisk breeze blowing across the plain, and the smell of wyvern offal drying upon Scramsax's sleeves. The sun already dipping toward the western horizon, signal's the need for haste and another bit of the witch's trickery as clearly her cursed magic held all entranced for longer than thought.

DM-Tareth, did you want me to roll anything for either of those, sword or sacs?

No need to roll for the sword. It is just a normal short sword. No magic. For the poison sac from the one fallen wyvern, go ahead and make a Survival or Nature check vs DC10 to successfully remove the glands and extract some poison.

A light, warm breeze flutters across the rolling plains as the midday sun hangs high above. The bright sunlight offers welcome warmth to those who have spent the last many, many days in the wet and cold of an unnaturally early winter. But warmth and cheer is not all the golden orb of Khors offers.

Luthael pours the purified water into a small silver bowl. Already marked out in the meticulously prepared area of dirt and burnt grass is the round sun symbol with its pointed flares in each of the cardinal directions. The bowl sits in the middle of the sun. Luthael inside the eastern flare. Raseri to the south, Gunnar west, Ingryd with Scramsax upon her shoulder sit in the north.

The rippling surface sparkles in the midday sun. The prophet of Khors, his hair still damp with the sweat of his from his earlier sword practice, begins the chant and prayer to summon forth the images that lie unhidden beneath the all-seeing eye of the sun god.

Slowly the sparkling surface of the water filled bowl calms. Reflects the blue sky and the occasional puffy candy-like cloud. As the prayer reaches its conclusion Luthael fixes in his mind the shadow elf spied previously. Sends forth his desire to know all that his god can divine of this servant of his enemy.

The image within the bowl wavers. Shifts. The blue sky grows dark. The yellow orange of torch light illuminates a circular chamber. The room is dominated by a large round table. The shadow elf sits at the table. Her companion from before to her right. A strange tiny creature atop a stack of thick, mildewed books to her left. The robed and hood creature turns slightly revealing a furry face. Cheeks filled with poppy seeds. Hate fills glowing eldritch colored eyes as it turns and chitters something to the pair of ghouls filling the next two seats.

Of the ghouls, one is clearly an elder of that undying lot, decorations of battle honors hang from the black and silver military uniform of the Undying Empire. Battles fought over decades, centuries. To survive such wars both internal and external requires skill, shrewdness, daring, and ruthlessness few posses. The second, is much more plain. Wary eyes take in the others gathered in the chamber. The look upon his face seems as though he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

Across from the ghouls, a pair of gnomes. Protective blood-colored caps sprouting mushrooms and forest weeds atop their heads. A sure sign the two don't wish to test whose power is greater, the witch they serve, or old Grandmother herself. When life, limb, and a racial curse guaranteeing a painful bloody death lasting thousands of years are at stake, better to hedge your bets and cover all the bases.

The next two seats are held by a pair of dwarves. One dressed in finery, the all-to-familiar barrel and mug logo of the Brewers Guild embroidered in gold thread upon his silk tunic as well as the thick white velvet cloak. His associate, sports a similar logo, although the tunic is cotton, the thread silver, and the symbol contains the added double coin background of the auditing and taxation department. It is easy to notice the relative unease the presence of the second dwarf causes among the others. Power ever defers to greater power. Seemingly unaware of his impact and influence, the second dwarf appears focused upon a thick leather bound volume he busily scratches in with a thick charcoal stick. Double columned. Plenty of space for notes. Numbers adding, subtracting, totaling. Fines noted. Taxes issued. One of the gnomes peeks at the work. Grows suddenly dizzy and nauseated. He quickly looks away.

A final individual sits between dwarf and ghoul. Closer to the ghoul, both in distance and appearance. The wrinkled old man is dressed in a familiar black and gold style. Another symbol marks his worn vest. The corrupted dark sun of the Inquisition of Khors. He drums a gnarled hand upon the mahogany table top. Boredom and consternation etched upon his dried out face. He is the first to speak.

"Where in all the hells is our illustrious hostess?" He demands. His voice a raspy, grating sound not so dissimilar to a sick hound choking on a bone. It is a sound overshadowed by a constant clanging of bells and hooting, whistling alarms coming from somewhere beyond the insulated confines of the chamber.

"I don't know. I imagine she is within the sanctuary." Replies the shadow elf her own concern and ill ease showing. "I have neither seen or spoken to her since..." A pause as she recalls the disconcerting blend of anger, glee, and expectation of the old witch as they witnessed the failure. "Ahem...since our dark knight failed to recover the dragon's eggs."

"Yes. A mistake to only send him and a bunch of goblins." Replies the elder ghoul. "We would have been better served by my legionnaires."

"Pffttt!" Contradicts one of the gnomes. "How often have your legions failed so far general?" He says, his hand fingering a recent healed scar marking his face from eye to cheek to neck.

"That wasn't my cadre's fault!" Counters the general slamming a fist onto the table.

"Gentlemen!" The calm, officious voice of the dwarf assessor breaks into the argument before it can truly get started. "I suggest we are not here to litigate the past, but to best determine the path forward.

The shadow elf tilts her head to the dwarf. "As usual, you are correct Master Assessor." The dwarf nods in reply. Marks a note in his ledger.

"We expect the dragon to attack at any time.

"Chitter...chit squeak squeak chitter chitter squeak."

"Yes. I think we are all surprised she hasn't done so sooner." The elf replies with a nod toward the robed chipmunk. "I for one will not begrudge the boon. The evacuation is well underway. Assets are being shifted at better than anticipated rates thanks to our friends in the guild." A nod to the Master Brewer. "And of course, the untiring labor of the legion."

"Yes, well, aside from providing muscle what is the plan for when the dragon does strike?" Asks the general. "I for one don't plan to get roasted by that overgrown lizard."

Brushing a wayward strand of indigo black hair from her ear, the shadow elf tilts her head at the ghoul. "None of us wish to end their days. This is why we retreat." She says, purple eyes blinking. "However, we do need enough time and resources to be convincing of our defeat."

"You mean bodies to feed the beast." A gnome says.

The elf's lips purse as if she'd just stepped in a meadow pie. "Crude, but aptly put. And so we propose each of us offer forth a portion of our force."

"Chit. Chitter chitter chit chit chit chitter squeak chit chitter."

"We have not forgotten about them. But when last checked they were still camped out on the plain."

"Chitter chitter squeak squeak chitter."

"Hmmm...true. An anomalous energy surge was detected briefly yesterday. I'll send a squad to investigate."

"Chitter."

"Now let us focus on the next phase."

The meeting continues discussing allocations of resources. Distribution of materials and goods. The dividing of days, weeks, months worth of raids, excavations and general mayhem within the region.

Running out of time today. Will work on the scry results tomorrow or Sunday.

Darrel's eyes grow wide as Gunnar hands him the silver horn. For a moment or two the foxkin is truly speechless. He has seen the power of the horn. Witnessed the ferocity and strength of the mighty warriors it can summon forth from those sacred halls of the far north. In the end, he offers the wizard a deep bow.

"This...this is much too generous." He says initially. Starts to hand the horn back. But his hand freezes. Perhaps it is the look in Gunnar's eye. Perhaps it is simply an understanding of what it means for a dwarf to part with such a thing. Perhaps a god whispers in his ear. Perhaps the truth of it will never be known, even to the foxkin himself. Regardless of reason, he stays his hand, bows again. "I thank you for you kindness and generosity master wizard." He says sincerely and with a courtly grace he thought long ago lost among the mud and dark beer of Riverbend. "I shall see it put only to good and honorable use."

It is a promise that is indeed kept. The valkyrie spirit within the wizard's shield sees this truth as she gazes along the spiraling length of space and time.

She sees the foxkin eventually return to the rundown village with its rickety shacks standing upon the banks of Grandfather's Tears. Listens as the foxkin, shares only a few bits of a grand tale in a very unbard-like fashion. Offers only hints and vague answers to questions about the river's strange behavior. Of sudden floods followed by an equally sudden drought only to see the waters return again. Witnesses the return to normal life as the foxkin's return is soon forgotten among the other villagers. Replaced by a child's sniffle, a tobac shortage, a trader's arrival.

The spirit gazes upon the newly built shrine to Khors floating upon the river itself. Rising and falling upon the seasons of the Margreve. She witnesses the horns first use. Not long after the fall of certain hag's tower. Such events often create consequences. In this case, a band of shadow fey, in flight, desperate to find refuge from an angry forest. Thinking the village an easy conquest. A place to gather new slaves, food, and a little entertainment. Until a note echoes through trees, time, and the multiverse. The blades of Valhalla bask in glory and blood once again. Spirit hearts pound with the forgotten thrill of battle. Honor and death and pain and glory provide new tales for the tables of the Great Hall. Riversbend is safe. The horn takes a place of honor within Khors shrine. Sun God and Storm God brothers in battle.

Time flows. The shrine grows. A tribe of goblins discover the Curse of the Silver Horn when they seek to call the village their own. Quick, bloody work was reaped that day. The tale of Riversbend grows. Stories spread along the river. A village protected by two gods. Visited by mighty heroes whose blessings drive away all evil.

The shrine grows. Many might call it a temple. Some do. The Floating Temple of Light. The caretaker. An old foxkin, who does not call himself either priest, prophet, or elder, but simply caretaker, minds the offerings. Gathers the gifts. Sees them distributed to those most in need. A third time the horn rings. This time a ghoul battalion from the deep dark bubbles to the surface. Riversbend a point of revenge for some past deeds of which only a few know the truth. Battle rages. Homes burn. Blood spills, for the undead legions are deadly foes. But one warrior, always fleet of foot until a stray arrow sent him tumbling over the longboat and into Valhalla's Halls, delivers a message to an ally. Dawn's light break upon the burning remains of the legion. Tongues of dragon fire still flicker upon the undead bones. A dragon's memory is long and this one has reason to hate the Emperor and his undead legions.

Onward the spirit gazes. She sees the village survive the Dire Flood when fell serpents were drawn forth by an evil wizard bent on bringing low the beacon of light within the ancient Margreve. Gazes with surprise at the Night of Stomping when raging beserkers were called forth to collapse the tunnels of burrowing prairie dog invaders before they could undercut the piers, granary, and new mill. It was the furthest into the Margreve the mighty rodent hoard would reach.

She watches the tears fall for the ancient caretaker of the temple, who passed on the night of a full moon surrounded by family and friends. Songs are sung, some written by the old fox himself. A new caretaker is named. A grandson. A believer in Khors and Thor. An annex is added to the shrine under the new caretaker's guidance. A homage to his grandfather and his dedication to the village. Details of the foxkin's youth are limited. A mention of brewers and service to the Griffon Knights, but few details are known or remembered. By now the details matter little, it is only the legend that is important. And it is the legend that lives on.

The spirit soon returns to herself and her current residence within the shield of the wizard Gunnar. She had made her choice many weeks and even months ago, but now she is certain it was wisely done.

Gunnar: Absolutely. Sorry, I have been on vacation and not as much time for a longer post. Will be back home tomorrow, should be able to follow up on some of the RP Friday and over the weekend.

Luthael: Who/where and when do you want to scry?

Gunnar: Assuming Gunnar is just chilling for the next day or two, then you should have two full rests worth plus I'd guess another eight hour period so about 24 hours total.

Yes, you can all take the first of your two long rests.

After gratefully accepting Ingryd's offer of a drink, the foxkin turns to Luthael with a nervous smile and holds up his hands. "No, no." He says adding quiet laugh. "I'm sure I'll be fine. You know these lands really aren't all that unsafe. Why I've walked plain, forest, and mountain many times and never run into anything but decent folk and fresh air." He says. Pauses. Shakes his head. "But there's something about adventurers. They just seem to draw trouble like stink on a dairy maid's boots." He shrugs. "Gotta say I've had my fill of all that trouble. Coin. Reputation. Neither are worth spit in a can if you aren't breathing."

He nods his head to Luthael, slings his pack over his shoulder. "You're a good man preacher. I have to say, I see Khors in a new light after seeing his power manifest through you. Might even set up a little shrine back home. Keep a candle burning during the night and such. Gods know, that old town could sure use a bit more light day or night." He adds tipping his battered, scuffed, worn, and torn hat.

His feet shuffle with a bit of shyness at Raseri's words. For a moment the old rakish grin returns along with a twinkle in his eye, but it fades just as fast and this time his smile is genuine and one of gratitude. "No need for thanks or debt." He says to the priestess. "We'd a bargain. I did my part and you all paid. All else was...well...it was just life on the adventurer's road I suppose."

He looks back toward the growing light in the east. "Guess, I'll be on my way. I wish you all luck against the witch." He adds and then strides away west toward the mountains and the distance verdant green of the ancient forest.

Listening to the quiet debate regarding Darrell, Emilee, and the limitations of Scramsax's magical device, the dragon takes a deep breath.

"If an additional day will allow you to better refresh and prepare yourselves, then so be it." She rumbles. "I will not delay beyond that, for once it is discovered I have safely recovered my clutch, she and her minions will most certainly seek to flee."

She rises up on her hind legs. Flaps her wings causing a gust of wind that bends trees and raises a cloud of dust and ash. It is clear she is eager to take flight and return her young to the safety of her lair.

"When the sun strikes the mountain tops for the second time, I shall strike."

With those last rumbling words the massive creature leaps into the air, wings flapping in long great sweeps. How it is possible for a beast of such size to take flight with such ease, wizards and scholars cannot agree, yet proof rises into the early morning twilight before your very eyes.

Several paces away, shivering upon the ground, Darrell watches the great dragon's flight into the still dark western sky, even as the first dim glow of early morning begins to illuminate the rolling hills to the east. Slowly, like a glacier melt, the foxkin's fear fades. Eventually, he manages the strength to stand and approach. His face is drawn, haggard. His eyes no longer glitter with either mischief or creative inspiration. It is clear he has lost weight. His fur matted or missing in more than a few places. He seems to have developed a small tick in his right eye. A result of his unfortunate transformation back at the hag's tower. That and the lingering feeling of tentacles wriggling at the ends of his hands and feet.

"I...I errr....ummmm..." He hesitates, eyes still following the great dragon's flight. "I think I shall stay here. Walk back home. I recognize the hills, have a good sense of where we are. It is only a few days to travel by foot." He steps slightly away from Scramsax. "No magic. No mysterious caves. No fonts of power or talking swords or..." He swallows hard. "Or dragons and flying goblin warriors. Just me, the open air, and the bright sun upon my face." He pauses. "I think I have had my fill of adventuring."

As for Emilee, she too watches the dragon's departure. But her eyes are not filled with fear or desperation to escape. No. They reflect wonder. Excitement. They bask in the thrill of witnessing a sight so very, very few ever survive to share with their kith and kin. Her body practically buzzes at the thought of witnessing such a creature in full fury, seeking revenge and retribution upon one who had wronged it so evilly.

Turning to Raseri and Scramsax, her eyes hopeful and sparkling. "You ...have...got...to...let me come with you."

Hey all, COVID jab has got me a bit off this afternoon. Probably won't be able to update until tomorrow.

Scramsax: Since it is just coming up on morning, the dragon will be attacking the hag's tower the next morning or just over 24 hours from the time she leaves you all on the plain.

Silence reigns for several long heartbeats following Scramsax's impromptu improve puppet show. Back at The Dancing Jackalope just off Filbert Street in Zobeck, Cass the bartender drops a glass for the first time in twenty years. In Barsella, the High Port clock tower bell clangs once. A feat that sends priests, wizards, and the guard scrambling since the bell had been decommissioned, the clapper removed, over fifty years ago. Within the dark, musty tomb of the Nurian Wizard-King Tutukamehni-Ra the ancient time of the prophet Rehijumbariti falls from the shelf. It lands face up, brittle pages crackling as they fall open to the Prophecy Fifty-Seven. The wizard king's ancient, undying face frowns.

On a windswept plain in the middle of exactly nowhere, a dragon stares at a halfling. Nostrils, wider than the halfling's entire height, flair. An eye narrows. A claw drums upon the dark soil rattling a nearby grove of cottonwood trees.

"HUMPPPHHHHH!"

The sound erupts in a puff of smoke from deep within the dragon's throat. The best any can decipher it is a cross between pained laughter ruthless disgust and thoughtful conniving. It is the sound most often heard when ones supervisor is about to pass along that most onerous task everyone strives to avoid. Such is the case for the intrepid puppeteer.
A slow unnerving curl twists the dragon's jaw line. Her eyes flick from gathered eggs to surrounding rescuers to smirking puppet mistress.

A rush of power ripples through the air, quickly ending the hurried explanations brought forth by Raseri then Ingryd, Gunnar and finally Luthael. Worried looks are exchanged. Escape routes, or lack of which, are noted. Sweat beads upon brows.

Threads of time, nature, creation, converge upon the patch of dirt somewhere between a wyvern corpse and it's soon to be center of power for a growing prairie dog empire and the rather intact remains of a goblin tinkerer whose ingenuity died the moment he was spotted by a certain halfling's greedy eyes. The tendrils of creation are quickly woven together in a masterful heartbeat that causes Gunnar, Raseri and Luthael to gasp with both envy and fear at such control of the world's elemental building blocks. The air grows thick. Tingles and sparkles as if suddenly filled by a thousand fireflies. All of whom surround the grinning halfling and then slip quietly and completely beneath the surface of her skin.

Aside from a momentary tickle and slight gastric disturbance. Scramsax doesn't feel a thing. No psychic ripping of soul from body. No explosive innards bursting through her nose. No fire. No electricity. Or poison gas, of course she has a way of dealing with that. Nope nothing. It was, in fact, one of the most potent displays of nothing the halfling had witnessed in some time. Until it wasn't nothing.

"I have been wondering what to do for my little one's first hatching day party." The dragon says slyly. "It is always such a challenge finding just the right blend of entertainment and nimbleness. Yet, your silly puppet act is just perfect. The little biters will love it and..." She gives Scramsax an appraising look. "You should be able to survive five young dragons and their gathered friends mostly intact."

The next words land with the weight of the World Weave. It is a command unavoidable. Unchangeable. It is a mother's salvation and a dragon's revenge.

"One year following the hatching of my eggs, you Scramsax the Conniving. Scramsax the Jewel Thief. Scramsax Gender Switched. Scramsax Beanstalk Farmer, Stewpot Denizen, and Dryad Stowaway shall provide the puppetry entertainment for my children's party. Nothing shall keep you from the task, even death, should it find you prior to this time, shall release you from its cold embrace long enough for you to fulfill this task. So it has been woven upon the tapestry of creation."

With the final word a crackle of thunder booms across the clear sky and a gust of wind stirs the plain. Then all is calm. Peace reigns. The weight of power lifts and the dragon dips her head to Raseri, Ingryd, Gunnar and Luthael.

"I see now you have acted in good faith and I thank you for the return of my little ones. I shall a promise made to you and hag. For it was the same. Once my children were safely recovered I would see removed from my realm."

She rises on her hind legs. Flutters her wings, raising a small burst of dust filled wind. Gathering the eggs carefully and gently with her foreclaws, the mighty creature crones softly to each for a few moments and then tucks each into a strange flap of scaled skin just below her chest.

"I will return these safely home. On the morrow I will destroy the hag's tower." A pause. "Do you require transport back to the forest? Or is your...navigator able to return you across the miles with ease?"

By the time those floating toward the wide, empty plain are only a couple hundred feet from landing the wind really starts to pick up. Blowing from west to east, the wind kicks up ash, dust and grit in the burnt areas while those patches of the prairie left unscathed hiss and whisper as the tall grasses are whipped back and forth. Luthael and Raseri struggle to keep everyone reasonably together while continuing to restore and purify the eggs along with Gunnar.

It is an equal challenge for Scramsax and Ingryd who racing toward their companions from slightly different directions are forced to shift their angles of approach several times as another gust pushes the drifters faster and further.

In the sky above the dragon bellows, not far away now. The wind increases to a dull roar. It scours the landscape and pushes its creator forward even faster.

Finally, thankfully, the first of those floating downward is able to touch ground. Darrel attempts to stick the landing in a carefully orchestrated drop. Unfortunately, a surging gust slams the foxkin, twisting and spinning him like some wayward tumbleweed. He eventually manages to grab the branch of a short, stocky tree. Pulls himself down until his feet are firmly upon solid ground.

Emilee lands second, her luck holds and she returns to terrafirma with knee bending grace. The egg in her grasp still safe and secure. She is followed a moment later by Gunnar. The wizard's eyes glance west. Witness a blast of brilliant fire. Momenta later another roar ripples across the night sky.

With their companions safely on the ground. Luthael and Raseri can safely land and once again gather the eggs into the protective basket provided by Gunnar.

Another roar. Much closer this time. The gale whips across the prairie. Somewhere in the distance a tree branch snaps. Halfling and bearkin hurry along the wild blustery landscape, adjusting yet again to reach the final landing area of their companions.

Moments later the squeal of the wind eases. It is replaced by the rhythmic whoosh of a pair of massive wings. Gazing upward, the moon and stars are blotted out by the silvery green and black form of the dragon. It is a sight both magnificent and terrifying. A being descended from those who created the very world, or some would say. A being whose descendants may bring forth the very end of the world, or other would say. Unconfined by the walls of her cavernous lair, the ancient dragon stretches twice the length of even the largest Barsallan galleon. Her wingspan could easily bridge the River Argent in Zobeck with room to spare on either shore. Each claw is longer than a knight's sword. Her teeth, spears surrounding the glowing furnace at the back of her throat. Her eyes. Twin orbs of sparkling silver, gold, and eldritch purple. Razor focused upon the comically tiny basket and its contents.

The ground trembles beneath her weight as she lands. A wave of fear crashes upon the scene like a meteor slamming into the earth. Darrel screams. Emilee falls back into Raseri's arms.

Fire burns in the dragon's throat matching the blazing light within her eyes. A protective arm and claw surrounds the basket. For a moment, all hold their breath unsure if the enraged mother recalls the bargain made not so many days ago. A time which feels like it could be measured in months or years for one of the most powerful made helpless creatures to call this world home. But beneath the primal rage, the primal fear, a small spark of sanity and memory flickers. The spark flares brighter. Flickers to life. Counters the primal fires just enough to stay the mother's fury. A spark fueled by relief. By joy. Even by thankfulness, although that is difficult for one such as her to admin openly. Still...

"YOU HAVE FREED MY OFFSPRING FROM THE WITCH'S GRASP. FOR THIS DEED AND OUR BARGAIN YOU STILL LIVE. BUT WHY ARE YOU HERE?!" The question booms across the land, echoing into the night. "WHY ARE YOU NOT AT MY HOME? WHY ARE WE OUT UPON THE PLAIN FAR FROM THE FOREST, FAR FROM ME? DO YOU SEEK TO STEAL MY YOUNG FOR YOURSELVES?!" The massive head lowers toward the ground, each breath like a giant's bellows. Her jaws and teeth grind like millstones. Her wings flap in agitation. She is poised to strike, but holds herself in check for the moment.

Hmm, it sort of seems like Scram is in a bit different timeline since her coming down to ground wouldn't be that much faster than everyone else floating down. Im not really sure.

But if, as DM narrated, the orc leader is lost, Scramsax would wander back towards the landing site while attempting to maintain a hidden status (with supreme sneak half speed I believe) reaching fairly near the time of eggdown.

Yes, both Scram and Ingryd are likely a couple of minutes ahead of the others since both the wyvern and the goblin were simply falling (steadily heading toward terminal velocity of about 176 feet per second.) Each would have reached the ground in about a single 6 second round with both of you able to 'pull up' at the last moment to avoid your own impact.

I think the time difference is easily made up in travel distance to reach where the others all finally land.

Will try to update later today.

Racing toward the ground along with the falling goblin corpse, Scramsax relies upon her mastered back alley survival skills and manages to snatch the body and save the tinkerer's devices from certain destruction. While Ingryd similarly rides the dead wyvern to the ground and the others hurry to cleanse the eggs the halfling gets down to the important business of looting the corpse.

Along with twelve gold crowns, six silver, and fourteen copper pennies, the rogue finds the desired makeshift gas mask, gliding apparatus, a notched short sword, along with a set of tinkers and thieves tools.

Having finished tallying the score, the halfling glances upward to spot Raseri and Luthael busily circling and flitting back and forth between Gunnar, Emilee, and Darrel. Flashes of magic occasionally sparkle in the night sky. Sudden bright stars that quickly wink out of existence.

"WHUMP!"

A few hundred feet away the body of a wyvern crashes to the ground crushing an entire colony of prairie dogs beneath its meaty mass. One particularly determined young rodent reached a state of enlightenment in what he believed to be his final few moments in this world. In fact, his mind and tiny spirit, affected by a strange, toxic combination of oxygen deprivation, wyvern poison, and residual gases from several unused goblin bombs that burst upon impact, just happened to put the rodents animal spirit in touch with the sleeping consciousness of the eldritch power known only among the most ancient tablets as Gyeee'zamp. Stirred awake for the first time in over two million years, the eldritch god gazed upon Midgard through it's new High Priest's tiny rodent eyes. Finding communication with the rodent challenging, the god immediately uplifted his intellect and granted him numerous other powers so he could free himself from unacceptably dull dirt and stone tomb. The newly enlightened prairie dog and a handful of other shell shocked survivors dug clear of the collapsed tunnels and wyvern remain after three long days and nights.

Feeling the wind upon their fur once again, the ragtag band of survivors gave thanks to their new deity by immediately attacking and sacrificing a rather surprised and dumbfounded coyote who'd been feeding off the wyvern's ample remains. Gyeee'zamp approved.

Within a year, the massive Gyeee'zamp Temple Mound had been raised among and around the moldering, rotten remains of the fallen wyvern. Recognizing the growing danger of the temple, the centaur tribes made an attempt to destroy the bastion of evil, but too many were caught within the tunnel traps that surrounded the temple for up to a full mile in every direction. The strangled cries of hundreds of centaur warriors with broken legs echoed for days across the plain. A music to Gyeee'zamp's eldritch essence.

The following year, the small village of Sutter's Mill found itself under siege by a rodent army. Their walls were of little use as the burrowers quickly tunneled beneath the palisade, found the granary and ate or removed every last morsel stored within. The village soon surrendered, its inhabitants enslaved or sacrificed. Gyeee'zamp gleefully approved.

What followed next was a story of determination, triumph, pain, passion, and, in the end, rediscovered hope. But that is a story for another time. For three days prior to a certain prairie dog's emergence and rebirth from the crushed tomb of Prairie Town, a dragon mother races toward her lost eggs. Wizard, priestess and prophet hurry to restore and cleanse those very same eggs. A halfling searches for more loot, but finds that her quarry must have drifted out of range as she curses the dragon and her wind magics. Finally, a bearkin wipes a mass of blood and grime from her face and takes a drink. Stepping away from the reptilian corpse she stumbles and curses as her foot falls into a narrow hole in the dirt. Part of some blasted rodent tunnel. Fortunately, she didn't sprain her ankle. She takes another drink.

Do we need to fix the eggs individually, or has the dispelling already done apply to them all? Gunnar is happy to keep casting dispel magics until all the eggs are fixed if needed.

Right now I have Luthael, Gunnar, Emilee, Darrel, and Raseri all carrying an egg. Only Luthael and Raseri have full on flight. Since some of those carrying the eggs are only floating at the whims of wind and gravity while others are flying, I think that makes things a bit too difficult to keep them all close enough together to complete the various spells all at once. If you want to cleanse them all in a single go, then you need to wait until everyone reaches the ground. I think Feather Fall offers a drop of 60' per turn so about 16 turns or three minutes from your starting height of 1000'. Plus an extra minute or two to regather together. I see this as kind of like a parachute drop where the Feather Faller's should land within the same 'general area' of each other but not necessary within a single move. Unless they are being 'herded' by those with an actual fly speed.

Or you all can cleanse them separately. I would say you can wrangle one group of two on the way down, so that would save one round of casting. That would be four castings to cleanse all five eggs.

The wyverns continue to flee leaving those with the eggs and the means free to cleanse the hag's curse. Another bellowing roar echoes across the night sky. Much closer this time. In fact, as those who are watching turn in the direction of the call, they see in the moonlight the billowing clouds churning behind the approaching dragon. Occasionally a flash of lightning arcs menacingly in the creatures wake. Wind lashes the clouds, sheering off tops and spinning them into wild, short lived funnels. The wind, clearly a conjuration of the mighty dragon, drives her forward even faster than her furiously beating wings.

Falling toward the ground below, Ingryd makes certain the wyvern is dead. Which it most certainly is. Not so very far away, another enemy tumbles from the sky. Scramsax follows the falling goblin, hoping to time a grab and grab some goods.

Meanwhile in another place, in another dimension...

"I'm telling you we are under fu%$#*&g attack by a giant, flying lizard!" The security agent screams into his comm unit. "I don't fu$%#^ng know where it came from! It...it just appeared! Along with a couple of freaks with big-assed knives. It's wiped out my entire detail and half the senate already! We can't hold...oh god...Ahhhh!"

The overweight balding security guard screams as the jaws of the wyvern slip under the desk where he was hiding to grab his leg. There's a loud crunch as the creature bites down. Blood sprays. The guard screams again, but only for a few seconds more before a second bite removes his head and shoulders.

Pandemonium reigns across the once stoic and pompous legislative chamber for the great state of Tennesota in the twenty-second state of the Great Northern Union. The massive wyvern lashes its tail crushing the majority leader's desk along with the majority leader. His toupee flies from his head like a deranged bat before landing in a rat-like heap atop a growing pool of blood.

Tarn Kneecapper, goblin commando, having found himself helpfully transported to another, much softer location and free of the overmaster's whip delights in the easy carnage and chaos.

"Gack! Mack, ack arack! Hahaha! Gack!" He yells gleefully plunging his short sword into the good senator from Backwater County. Steals the dying man's wallet and scampers off toward the smell of fried chicken and the taco bar in the cafeteria.

The boom of a gas bomb erupts out in the hall. Grizzle Skinflint follows the blast with a quick dash down the hall slicing his blade across the throat of a gasping brown suited guard, the gold star on his chest already turning green and smoking from the toxic gas. Grizzle grabs the magical fire stick from the dying man. Points it further down the hall and pulls the trigger.

BANG! The .38 bullet slams into a display case further up the hall shattering glass and sending the display copy of the Tennesota state constitution fluttering to the floor. A hole piercing the first article.

"Ack....Gack ack!!" The goblin's wide mouth curls into a wicked grin. Hearing frantic voices coming from a room just a few doors up, he readies another bomb and he new fire stick.

Back in the main senate chamber, the wyvern's roar is abruptly cut off as the beast slams a claw through the fake stone wall and starts crawling through to the outside. Panicked gunfire sporadically echoes from the outside as security forces hurry to the confusing scene. Then the wyvern simply disappears with a loud...

POP!

It is a curious twist of both arcane and holy magics that left the two goblins behind. Having been considered an extension of the wyvern and captured within the grasp of Khors initial holy displacement, the creatures were transported along with the reptilian beast. Little did the two understand that having left the beast's back to embark on their own mayhem induced shenanigans the two goblins severed the tenuous link with the banished beast. Thus in an uncanny mishap of fate the two goblins were left to terrorize the good state of Tennesota for the next six months before they disappeared into the depths of Malihoochi National Park and its dense swamps and wild country. Ten years later from that hidden reserve they would launch the war that would soon establish the GrizzleTarn Empire and bring the crumbling Great Northern Union to its knees.

Because just having a banished creature go to an empty pocket dimension is boring.

Scramsax: Make an Athletics check vs DC13 to actually catch and keep the goblin from splattering into the ground.

Party is up.

Floating on gossamer wings has a way of calming the dwarven mind. Slowly drifting toward the still distant ground, Gunnar turns his attention back to the puzzle of the dragon's eggs and just how the hag's treatment has affected the growing creatures within. As fire, lightning, and pure white light continue to flash, crackle, and boom only a short distance away, the wizard stares at the threads of power still circling and swirling around the egg he holds. The weave of menace and malformation is quite potent. A vile cozy of malevolence powered by the days spent within the ley line's flowing power.

Yet, just like even the most intricate rug in the Queen's palace, anything woven can be undone. He just needed to find the right thread to pull first. The sliver of moonlight gleams upon just such a tendril of power. The clever dwarf peers closer at the eldritch strand tucked loosely against the egg. His eyes trace it's twisting path among the other threads of power. Slowly a smile creeps across his bearded face.

A roar erupts somewhere above. The cracking of bone. Ingryd and Ennui working out the bearkin's rage upon one of the wyverns. A higher pitched squeal as the shield is suddenly splattered with gore. The dwarven smile slips. Now they'd have to listen to the blasted shield complain until it was cleaned.

Gunnar brushes aside the distraction. Refocuses on the egg. Reaches out. Plucks at the key thread. It resists. A spark snaps. A shock of surprise and pain zaps the wizard's thumb and finger, but then the thread breaks free of the weaving.

Out of corner of his eye, Gunnar spots Scramsax just at the edge of his night sight. The halfling tussles with a goblin. The flash of steel in the moonlight. The goblin seems to go limp,dropping suddenly like a stone even as Scramsax's feminine hands come away with a small belt holding a trio of round objects.

The wizard gives the thread another, stronger tug. This time it pulls away freely and easily. Unraveling faster and faster as the wizard continues to pull, letting the power dissipate into the air as he drifts down and down toward the dark earth below.

Lightning and light erupt around Jade Sky Burning Star. He curses the foul magic weavers and their power. He starts to dive toward the female whose magic still twitched through his body. Then he hears the distant roar. It is power unfathomable. That sounds echoing in the night air. It is death and doom. His blood runs icy cold. In an instant, he pulls up, wings flashing out and now pumping with every ounce of strength and energy. He calls to the rest of his pack. Only two remain. Opal Wind Stalker was doomed. He could see her wing snap at the shoulder. Crushed by the flying bear and its hammer. He bellows again. Warning. Danger! Flee! Flee or die!

The two others growl their responses. Break away. Wings driving hard for the safety of the clouds.

Three of the four wyverns dash to move 160' away. The fourth goes tumbling toward the ground.

Scramsax grabs the goblin's belt. It is dead and falling straight down.

Party is up.

"You ain't a sky cop!" The goblin's high pitched voice shouts over his shoulder. [b]"You're one of them 'venturers. I was jus' followin' orders, leave me alone!"

He tucks his wings and dives hard evading any attempt by Scramsax to land a quick opportunistic blow.

Caught up in an aerial dual, Ingryd harasses the larger wyvern like one of her companion bees. She ducks in and out of the beast's range feinting and distracting the creature. Eventually she creates an opening lunges in. The ancient hammer slams into scaled hide. A gust of foul airs blasts from the wyvern's mouth as it is knocked sideways. But the creature is able to recover just enough to slip away from the bearkin's follow up swing.

The wyvern bugles to its kin. One responds to the cry for aide. Turning away from its hunt for easy prey, it circles around and joins the fight against the bearkin. Caught between the two oversized beasts, Ingryd cannot fend off all of the incoming attacks. Her leg is caught within the snapping jaws of the newcomer, while her wavering initial adversary manages to slash a claw along her shoulder.

Luthael searches the night sky for any other dangers sent forth by the ancient witch. The sliver of moon drifts upon a sea of twinkling stars. A few clouds creating the occasional patch of drifting darkness. At first, the prophet feels they'd bested all the old hag could muster to throw at them. But then he hears a trumpeting roar in the distance. It is nearly drowned out by the rushing wind of flight and the snarling, growling, snapping dogfight with the wyverns. He hears it again. Can sense the desperation, the fear, and rage behind that call coming from the west.

The prophet's eyes scan the darkness. There. The stars shimmer against the night sky. It is neither cloud nor the simple twinkle caused by turbulent skies. It is the massive form of a dragon. Wings pumping. Every ounce of massed muscle and death dedicated to reaching the thing that is more precious to her than any mountain of gold. She is distant still, but already Luthael feels the ripples of power shifting the night air as the mother of the eggs currently floating toward the earth races onward.

Meanwhile, lightning crackles at Rsseri's fingertips. Her own eyes watching the closer sections of sky for any sign of the other three wyverns. None of the beasts seem very interested in the slowly drifting priestess and her other charges floating nearby. Instead, one launches itself in aid of its clutch mate against Ingryd. Another plucks a goblin corpse from its back, gulps it down in a single bite and starts a slow circling flight down and west along the trail of fallen bodies.

The third. The commanders mount seems to have disappeared in the darkness. Chills run down her spine realizing the hunter may have fled, but may also be stalking them. Waiting for a moment to strike from some unexpected quarter of the sky.

Within the rapidly disintegrating ruin of the tavern, Gunnar, Raseri, and Luthael gather eggs, Emilee and Darrel and then leap into the darkness as Raseri completes the final utterance of her spell. Ever stalwart, the dwarf is the last to jump. The final bit of the building practically collapsing from under him. Falling quietly and slowly, the group of adventurers and dependents appear little more than more bits of debris fluttering and swirling through the air to reach the ground more than a thousand feet below.

The added bits of camouflage prove to be a boon as one of the wyverns sweeps through the area hunting for meat to fill its belly. Fortunately, its gaze focuses on the fluttering goblin corpse kicked off its reptilian clutch mate's back by the still raging bearkin.

Meanwhile, Scramsax abandons her plan to try an wrangle the rather fierce and potentially unwelcoming wyvern once kept by the orc commander. Instead the halfling searches the night sky for signs of the clever goblin with his nightglider and belt full of bombs.

Although not as nimble as its smaller clutch leader, the big wyvern under threat from Ingryd, does its best to claw and sting the bearkin.

Luthael, Gunnar, Raseri, Emilee and Darrell are all floating toward the ground at 60' per turn. Ingryd eliminates the last goblin on the wyverns.

Scramsax: Perception Checks vs DC15 to spot the goblin in the dark since you were engaged with the wyvern when he jumped. On a success, you see him flying lower and away a distance of 80'. It is also worth noting there are one or two other goblin corpses wearing similar bomb belts that are intact, you can see those, but it does require approaching one of the wyverns.

Ingryd takes 12 slashing, 16 piercing, and make a CON save vs DC15 or take 29 poison. Although, I can't recall, you might be immune to poison.

Party is up.

I was just talking with a friend about their 50 year old freezer. They don't build them like that anymore. Now they're designed to be repaired and replaced.

That is unfortunately, oh so true. We were talking with an appliance repair guy a couple years ago who was working on our clothes washer (which needed repair after only 5 years) and he said most appliances are made to be replaced after about seven years. Gotta love our disposable society and its ferengi overlords.