DM - Tareth's page

Hey all, just a quick note to say I'm traveling today. Probably won't get a post up until tomorrow.

At the altar of Perun, the halfling, with encouragement from Gunnar, doesn't hesitate to scoop up each of the items carefully placed upon the holy site. This results in a series of effects, that to an outside scholar of holy totems would find quite interesting and intriguing. To the halfling they are merely painful.

The lapis sword is the first to respond to the thief's touch. Cold blue energy crackles and sparks in great arcs that zap flesh, tingle toes, and sizzle hair.

You dare lay your hands upon me, foul ally of the Great Enemy? A haughty baritone voice echoes within Scramsax's mind. (It is worth noting that the keen observer would recall that this particular halfling has often been plagued by various voices, personalities, and other entities residing within her, or previously his, head. While this might cause one to assume a certain comfort level with such occurrences, one would be incorrect. First, this particular voice is rather overbearing, pompous, and annoyingly pushy. Second, having another personality enter ones mind is just not something one gets used to, even halflings.) Free me of your infernal touch, this instant." The voice adds punctuating the statement with a fierce burst of electrical energy.

Oh Dear. Oh my goodness! Did that hurt? I'm really sorry about that, but my companion does have a point. Heehee. A sword has a point. Did I make a joke there? What? Oh. Where was I? The rather scatterbrained, flighty, and confused voice of the hide shield is the next to enter the increasingly crowded mental space of one Scramsax the Many Minds. I'm really not sure, you should be handling us in that way. Now, how about that handsome glowy fellow over there. He seems just dreamy. Although...what is that he's carrying?

Never mind that you circular twit. Scoffs the spear. "That idiot priest let my body rot...again. I swear, would it be too hard to just jab me on the end of a decent stick once in a while? I mean I am a holy artifact of mighty Perun. Pftt. Whatever. Doesn't seem to count for anything. No solid hickory for me. Or better yet, steel, now there's a handle you can count on. But noooooo! Look halfling, I don't care what the others say, you want to take me anywhere, get me a handle first.

The green spear head inexplicably drops out of the halfling's grip and clatters on the ground.

Really. I don't see the point of it at all. Why bother? We're nothing more than tiny bits of chemicals and energy floating through the vastness of the cosmos. We fight, struggle, wait, empower, and all of it only to end up doing it all over and over again. The mournful voice of the void hammer sighs sadly. Sure we're all going to get buried here for another five thousand years, or not. But what use freedom? We'll just be handed off to some other mortal with delusions of grandeur. The weight of the voice is nothing compared to the weight of the hammer which is like attempting to lift a dozen barrels of fine dwarven dark ale.

Ah crap. Did you grab him too? Hollers the sword.

Oh pooh! Don't be such a downer, there's always some good that cam come of things.

Oh right. Poor you, at least you have a f%^king body.

Please don't eat me miss. Begs the fish. I've a wife, five hundred kids, not too mention a mortgage on a swimming hole that just collapsed. I mean could you just cut me a break and let me go?

Meanwhile, Gunnar blasts the stone near the tunnel exit revealing a sliver of an opening. Ingryd gets to work with shovel and hammer even as more and more water and stone pours into the chamber.

Fifty feet away, Luthael stands along the shore waiting for the bearer of the gem to surface. Within the waters, Raseri manipulates the water itself to shove the odd creature toward her. Sensing the sudden intrusion upon its body, the strange merwoman grimaces and then slams the gemstone into her left eye crushing the small orb like an overripe grape. The gem flares to brilliant life as an aura of power engulfs the creature. Twisting toward Raseri, the eye within the gem blinks once, twice, thrice at the priestess of Thor. Then a beam of pure red energy flashes from the eye. Water boils instantly along the path of the beam creating a hissing swirl of bubbling steam and chaos along its back trail. A trail now quickly followed by the gembearer as it closes the distance to Raseri.

Raseri: DEX Save vs DC15 or take 6d6 ⇒ (3, 3, 1, 3, 5, 2) = 17 force damage. Half on a success.

The gembearer is 30' from Raseri. Luthael can see both Raseri and the gembearer. The enemy is 60' out into the lake and 30' down.

Scramsax: WIS or CHA save (your choice) vs DC15. On a fail, you are stunned by the overwhelming presence of the multiple personalities from the items and the fish.

Gunnar and Ingryd: STR(Athletics) vs DC15, magical damage, or other creative means to keep clearing the tunnel exit. Six successes are needed. You have 1 of 6 so far.

Party is up.

Water pours through the opening in the caverns roof. A seemingly never ending torrent of water that continues to eat away at the weakened stone of the caverns ceiling. As the stone gives way, even more water floods into the cavern. Even after such a short time the shore line near Perun's altar is already lapping at the stone's holy base. There is another earth grinding moan from above, thunderous cracks and snapping. A chunk of stone the size of a small temple breaks free and slams into the former alter of Carn crushing it and the remains of the fallen followers beneath a thousand tons of rock, earth, and icy mud.

Scramsax shoves the body of the now truly dead priest of Perun aside to get a closer look at the weapons still resting atop the altar. A long blade carved from blue lapis, etched with a series of runes. A hide shield, Perun's symbol in faded color emblazoned on the front. The blackened, charred remnants of runic symbols circling the outer edge. A jade spear point a jagged streak of symbolic lightning carved into each side of the wide point. The wooden shaft is rotted and brittle with age. Finally, an obsidian headed hammer. Cold to the touch, much colder than the surrounding air. It makes the halfling's head ache and her stomach twist to look upon the piece for more than a few seconds.

Another mass of collapsing stone falls, rattling the altar as the halfling ponders the ancient items dedicated to a god. Gunnar, Luthael, and Ingryd make it across the land bridge just as yet another portion of the roof collapses, this time crushing the center of the bridge in an ear crushing explosion of stone upon stone.

Dust and grit fill the air everywhere. Luthael's holy light glows in the darkness, but extends only so far before being absorbed by the billowing, swirling clouds of destruction fueled dust. A torrent of water flows into the cavern. A cascade equal to that witnessed back outside at the thundering falls. More fish, crawdads, eels, a pair unfortunate river goblins plunge into the cavern, some fortunate enough to land in water, others landing with a bone shattering thud upon stone.

Within the churning depths of the water, Raseri barely avoids being crushed by a plunging stone from above. The glowing cloud of crimson light rises closer. An odd form slowly begins to emerge from the depths. A winged mermaid of some sort is the what the priestess sees. Humanoid head and upper body, finned lower powerfully driving upward. But in addition, two leathery wings are folded against her back, evidence of an ability to take to the air should the creature reach the surface. A length of thick tentacle is still wrapped around the creature's lower body, even in death clinging to it's enemy.

A tree plunges into the water from above once again shrouding both priestess and her quarry from each other as the ice coated fir limbs and other debris stir the waters and block the view.

Party is up.

Luthael, Gunnar and Ingryd begin the long dash back across the natural bridge toward the altar of Perun. They can see the dripping form of Scramsax pulling herself ashore not so far from the ancient, fallen priest and the now cracked altar of Midgard's current Deity of War. The trio only get a dozen paces along the bridge when a loud splash draws their attention.

It is Raseri. The priestess of Thor diving into the murky water obviously in search of the ruby and it's not quite fully imprisoned guest. Within moments her swimming form disappears in the swirling, churning, grit and ink filled waters of the underground lake.

Moments later the entire roof of the cavern groans like ten thousand late night drunkards suddenly struck with fouled guts. Fifty feet beyond the High Wizards altar a massive chunk of stone slams into the ground with a bone crushing, ear shattering boom. A torrent of icy water comes flowing into the cavern washing down more mud, dirt, stone and ice.

A rather startled and stunned fish flops around on the ground madly until it is washed along in the cascade from above down into the lake where it hurriedly dives for the deeps. On its way down it passes Raseri, bubbles filtering slowly from her nose as her keen eyes try to penetrate the murky waters.

At first she spies nothing. A massive boom ripples through the water followed by the percussive blast of impact. Not so long after, as her ears pick up the sudden steady rush on in flowing water, the priestess spots a dim flicker of crimson light. Barely perceptible through the darkness. Near the bottom of the lake, ninety, one hundred feet down and another seventy feet further away from the exit. She watches for a heartbeat longer. It did appear to be rising, although slowly. How, why, or upon what, she cannot see. Only the slowly growing stain of bloodlight spiraling back up toward the surface.

It is a total of 260 feet from where Luthael, Gunnar, and Ingryd start near the opposite end of the land bridge to Perun's altar.

Raseri, unless you have a way of getting a swim speed, you move is half normal. You can spend up to 1 minute underwater based on your +1 CON modifier. This would be round 1/6.

Party is up.

Unable to withstand the combined spirit vortexes of Luthael and Raseri along with Gunnar's arcane shattering, the final two mummy warriors simply disintegrate under the assault. Bone splinters scatter in every direction and the heavy, clumsy ancient weapons clatter to the ground along with the twisted and ruined armor.

With the final path clear, Ingryd charges toward the High Wizard of Carn. The ancient minotaur tries to throw up an arcane shield but it is of little avail. The bearkin is all to familiar with such wizardly tricks having journeyed with Gunnar these past years. One blow slips past the enemy defenses followed quickly by a second. Ancient bones crack and snap beneath the heavy steel maul. Robes a thousand years dry burst into flame. Ancient words of power echo in the chamber. It is a language unknown, but the meaning is clear. It is also clear the wizard's final spell fails. The syllables too late to save a body and soul long overdue for death's waiting embrace. The minotaur falls backward with a heavy thud, flames hungrily devouring its ancient flesh and robes.

From further out near the center of the large lake, a flash of light and power burst through the inky waters. Moments later the surface is roils and thunder booms into the chamber. Chunks of bloody tentacle are among the churning waters.

Far above, a guardian's last desperate ploy takes hold and begins to work its terrible power. Ancient rock, solid enough to last for another ten thousand years weakens. The tiniest hairline cracks expand. Where water once avoided, it now pours through washing more dirt and weak stone free. Trickles become streams, streams, floods.

The rumble and grind of shifting stone fills the entire cavern. All around where Gunnar, Luthael, Raseri, and Ingryd stand, trickling streams of muddy water plunge downward from above in fast growing amounts. In a matter of seconds the number double and are accompanied by a just as steady flow of small rocks, grit, and mud. Crawling out of the lake Scramsax curses as a stream of rock and pebble strike her from above followed by a slurry of muddy water. Another grinding rumble that rattles the ground beneath feet and sets hairs rising on backs of necks.

Mummy warriors are all destroyed as is the High Wizard.

Party is up.

Scramsax: Were you going toward Perun's altar? That is back on the original shore near the small tunnel everyone crawled through to get here. Or were you going toward the altar where the Minotaur wizard was and everyone else in the party was fighting on the other side of the land bridge?

The alter with Perun's guardian was the one you saw with weapons on it.

The altar to Carn appeared to be made of weapons, bones, etc all merged together.

Scramsax: No the one who dove into the lake and took the ruby is completely different from the mummy warriors. She is still down in the lake somewhere presumably wrestling with the giant octopus you all ran off.

At the End of the Bridge...

The elemental manifestations of Rage, Fire, Lightning, and Thunder engulf the ancient warriors in a maelstrom of destruction and doom.

Scholars have constantly trumpeted the many advances of the Ankeshelian Empire before it was engulfed by the Western Sea. But near the empire's end, much of its so called advanced arcane acumen resulted in utterly useless items such as Xilmander's Hair in a Can, Dr. Gastronomican's Flatulence Blanket, or Vecnor's Disappearing Comfort Wipes. Which is to say, it was an empire peopled by less than stellar minds and some philosophers would argue its fate was well earned and deserved.

The last bastion of true strength within the empire was the much feared Black Legion. It roots dated back to the founding of the empire. Traditional, fierce, highly trained, fanatical and unmatched on any field of battle. The Black Legion of Ankshel was the iron fist pummeling the world into bloody submission for over two thousand years. Carn was their brutal and bloodthirsty god.

The Legion was still the strongest single power in all of Midgard, it was a thing born of bone and blood, strength and courage, savagery and brute force. It was singular in its purpose. Destroy, sacrifice, scour the land of any who would oppose the Empire and its God of War. But like its god, and ultimately its empire, the Legion did not adapt to a new age. Power rarely breeds innovation.

Adversity, scarcity, need, fear, a desire for something better. These are the potent forces needed to drive innovation. Forces the world has gorged itself upon since the fall of that ancient land. Innovations in arcane manipulation, innovations in clerical-deity collaboration, innovations in combined arms tactics. Centuries of survival based innovation by human, dwarf, halfling, bearkin, and every other kin to populate the world have meant an ever changing and much more deadly battlefield compared to those ancient days of long ago.

Thus it is that these once masters of Midgard stride forward unwittingly into their utter and complete annihilation. Where once entire armies could not stop them, now a handful of vagabond adventurers bring them to death's door within a matter of moments.

Emerging through conflagration of fire, lightning, and swarming spirits the three ancient warriors are scorched and battered. Only the warrior with axe and the one with the massive club managed to avoid a some of the onslaught. All three seemingly abandoned by their god, who is even now caught up within the grips of two others who struggle to gain his power.

No sooner do the three clear the first line of assault when the second arrives with equal fury. Ingryd's maul slams into the axe wielder, knocking it back a step and sending and ancient pauldron flying into the lake. Raseri is a pure force of destruction, her holy weapon lashing out at the sword wielder crushing bone even as her own bright steel blade, infused with further magics, slices through mummified flesh and bone. Her final stroke slashes across the warrior's rotting spine, thunder erupts, bone shatters and the spirit departs the world of the living once and for all. With one dispatched, Luthael concentrates on the club wielder. The holy lance of Khors strikes and sinks deep into rotting flesh that hisses and smokes at the wound.

In a last desperate sacrifice for their god, the two battered warriors lash out. Their skill and prowess and deadly nature on full display as both Ingryd and Luthael find themselves bleeding from axe and club.

Meanwhile, in the lake, halfling survival instincts overcome halfling greed and Scramsax swims for the surface. Her attempts to peer through the muck and murk to follow the path of the gleaming gemstone are thwarted when a massive stone from above plunges into the lake nearly becoming a permanent headstone for her watery grave. By the time she recovers the glow of the stone has faded to a dim, pale puff of light within the very depths of the lake near the now collapsed temple entrance. Another distant flash of lightning. Then nothing but the churning mud and ink filled waters of the lake.

Ingryd takes 12 cutting plus 6 necrotic and 13 cutting plus 6 necrotic damage from two hits.

Luthael takes 6 bludgeoning plus 7 necrotic and 14 bludgeoning plus 2 necrotic damage from two hits.

Yep, that will happen with the next 'round summary' and before the next enemy action. Was just catching up on Gunnar and Raseri's actions from the previous round.

Gunnar's spell crackles across the room, but the High Wizard, now aware of the oncoming threat is not so easily overcome. Ducking aside, he mutters a quick runic refrain to deflect much of the arcane attack. Nearby, one of the rising warriors is also caught in the spell. A holy symbol, a crude onyx sword crossing a silver club upon a carnelian arrowhead background, flairs to life. Awake and active, Carn momentarily protects his faithful. Again the power of the dwarven magic is partially dissipated.

Such protection doesn't extend to the lesser faithful closer to the bridge, charging toward the lightning priestess. Raseri calls directly upon Thor's power and name. The effect is immediate as a wave of destruction ripples outward from the holy woman. Ten, twenty, thirty skeletal warriors simply cease to exist. Their skeletal forms vanish as ancient bones simply disintegrate into clouds of dust. Armor and weapons clatter to the ground or spill into the lake. The remaining path between heroes and wizard and his rising, mummified guardians is now clear of any and all threats.

Now Raseri, Gunnar, and Luthael still to go. There are no remaining threats except for the High Wizard and the three mummy warriors. Per the previous post the warriors move closer, so they are now 15' from Ingryd, Raseri and Gunnar. The wizard is an additional 25' back. Luthael is just a little behind the main group (let's say 5'), keeping watch upon the lake.

Gunnar and Raseri: Sorry, to miss or not highlight those actions. I was a bit jammed and scattered from work yesterday. I'll try to post additional results today.

In the lake...

Under the influence of the halfling's nimble fingers, the magnificent gold, jade and emerald bracelet clicks free of the statue's wrist. With the blink of an eye the thieving diver stash the ancient ornament into a hidden pouch and ducks a bit further down into the murky depths.

Her eyes peering through the inky murk manage to locate the dimming gleam of the godstone as it rises back toward the surface. Then it suddenly jerks to the side in a swirl of bubbles and churning water. The glow flickers in and out of sight. Moments later the light plunges downward. A great crackle of electrical energy erupts causing even Scramsax's hairs to stand up and take notice despite the distance. The light once again begins a journey upward toward the surface.

On the bridge to nowhere...

The Narg Nasty Four of Six continue to press the attack across the bridge toward the minotaur High Wizard of War. Holy weapons scythe through conjured skeletal warriors with ease. That is until a trio of towering, mummified warriors rise from those gathered nearest the now-covered cauldrons.

Armed with axe, spear, and club the three stride through the gathered host knocking aside lesser soldiers with callus disregard. Soon enough a pathway clears and the three rumble forward through the ongoing chaos of falling rock, magic, and the ever present press of the god's will upon his fallen followers.

Elsewhere, high above, the trickle of water which has percolated through the layer of mud, dirt and stone above suddenly finds itself growing. A thing of the immediate past is the steady plip plop of water seeping from through one tiny drop at a time. Filtered to pure crystal clear cleanliness before each drop was deposited into one of the great lakes below. Now, in an instant, the entire process was disrupted. Shifting stone, new cracks, the entire equilibrium manifested thousands of years ago is thrown sideways. The plip-plop drops suddenly become a near steady trickle.

The larger warriors are thirty feet from Ingryd, Raseri, Gunnar, and Luthael.

The party is up.

Gunnar: Sorry, yes, the party is up.

In the murky waters...

The flipper finned halfling churns her legs through the murky waters following the sonar ping of her spell as it pinpoints the location of the ugly minochickbat statue that formerly contained the gemstone prison of a fallen god. The hodgepodge statue slowly emerges from the inky waters revealing the dark opening where the gemstone once rested.

Swimming to cover the last ten feet, the halfling feels a sudden tug at her side. Looking to her side she spots the glowing not-null box lifting itself from her body. She feels the pull of the weakening straps as they bite into her shoulders and chest. A quick glance around reveals nothing at first. But then from above and behind just a short distance, she sees the churning undulating form of some kind of mercreature. Feminine head and torso, finned lower body, and a pair of batlike wings, folded back now adding additional control to the creature's rushing downward dive. The eldritch glow of an outstretched hand marks the source of the telekinetic pull even as the box lid starts to slip open.

Scramsax: STR check vs DC12 to retain the box/stone.

The Battle of the Bridge...

Raseri, Luthael, Gunnar, and Ingryd charge across the bridge span. Bearkin, priestess and prophet slam into the oncoming skeletal warriors with the full wrath and fury of their gods and own personal rage. Spirits curse, spit, claw, and bite, weapons of holy power strike and flair, flaming mauls crush bone, and skeletal warriors fall. But even as some fall, more rise from their prayers at the altar where the minotaur priests stands. Suddenly the earth trembles and the High Wizard of Carn stumbles backward. A wall of stone emerges to surround the cauldrons of burning bones. The wizard attempts to counter the spell, but from the opposite side of the cavern where Perun's guardian lies broken and dying a final curse passes ancient lips. A final attempt to stave off perpetual war, death, and destruction is made.

Perun's curse strikes like a deadly arrow utterly corrupting the wizard's counter magic. Instead of disrupting and disintegrating the stone wall, the wizard staggers. The power launches itself straight up to eventually strike against the ceiling of the great cavern with a thunderous boom. Great chunks of rock come tumbling from above crashing down to obliterate swathes of ancient temple ruins, skeletal warriors, and a sizable section of the land bridge.

Luthael, Gunnar, Ingryd, and Raseri each make a STR(Athletics) or DEX(Acrobatics) save vs DC10 or tumble into the lake as the bridge tremors and quakes from the impacts.

The few remaining skeletal warriors run into the fur covered, buzzing, fury of Fortress Ingryd who after establishing herself at a slightly narrowed portion of the land bridge allows none to pass. Her maul is a flaming beacon of destruction in the dim gloom of the vast cavern. Skeletal limbs and bodies are knocked into the lake with wild abandon adding to the churning, bubbling mass of sinking bones, armor, and weapons initiated earlier by Gunnar's lightning and the unholy influence of the godstone.

Moments later the lance of Khors adds to the growing cacophony of broken bits splashing into the lake below. Knightly warriors of brilliant light carve into any who approach the sun god's prophet and his nearest allies.

Not to be outdone, Raseri soon within range of bearkin's and prophet. Arcs of electricity crackle and buzz as the tiny swarming valkyrie surround the priestess and vent their own rage upon their most ancient of enemies. For many of the sister-warriors raging within Raseri's swarm, their mortal journey ended battling host so many thousands of years ago when Perun, Thor, and Mavros, or the entity who may where all three masks, ousted the fallen god from his throne of blood and destruction. Their anger feeds Raseri's own which in turn feeds the spirits.

By the time the three mighty heroes of the mortal realms have completed their steadfast defense, the near end of the bridge is clear of all except fallen bones and battered remnants of ancient armor and weapons. Raging echoes of that unknown language bounce through the stone and darkness warning of more fodder charging from the opposite end. War marches on never mind the losses.

Scramsax spins and moves further out into the lake before suddenly diving down to hit the water at a full dash. The slap and crack of the move echoes across the way, but all appears well as the curious eyes of dwarf, bearkin, priestess and prophet all see the crimson glow slowly start to make its way deeper into the murky depths.

The cries and shouts of sudden alarm are much, much too late. All suddenly spot the flash of movement. The bat-like wings folded inward in a perfectly executed dive. Where the creature emerged from, none can say. From the darkness cloaked heights high above. Attached to the wings, a woman's torso cloaked in a writhing armor of smoke and mist. Long knives of crimson, silver, and black in one hand. The other drawn back, waiting for its moment. Braids of fiery red hair flutter behind a hard, battleworn face and eyes blazing with fierce determination. Griffon like legs mark the divers lower torso, until at the last moment before it hits the water they transform to a powerful set of fins.

The splash of impact is barely noticeable on the rippling surface of the lake. Overshadowed by yet another fireball falling upon the worn down priest of Perun. The divers form disappears into the dark murk of the water. The crimson glow of the stone grows dimmer and dimmer with each slow passing stroke of the halfling as she strives for the depths and the ancient statue.

Scramsax: Make a DEX(Acrobatics) Save vs DC12 to make the dive into the water at speed and from a height. On a fail take 1d6 ⇒ 6 impact damage. No damage on a success. Flight won't help underwater, but I don't think you've ever taken off the swim fins, so you can still move at half normal. You can make it to the depth of the statue next round. Finally, WIS(Perception) vs DC15 to realize you are being pursued, although you can't actually see the target.

The land bridge is clear for the moment if anyone wishes to move toward the other side.

Party is up.

Sure. I don't recall how fast a spiritual weapon can move in a round, but probably fast enough so that it could attack after a partial move this round.

Let's say hovering over the creature's last known position, 20' straight out over the lake.

Luthael: Oops, sorry, work distracted me a couple of times while writing that summary up. I forgot to go back a place you and Ingryd. Ingryd, moved toward the bridge last turn, so would be at the near end of the land bridge now. And yes, she would be adding to the destruction of the oncoming skeleton horde caused by Gunnar and Scramsax. I believe Luthael out started just a little later than Ingryd, so you'd be in between Gunnar and Ingryd. 30' south of Gunnar along the shore line.

Scramsax and the glowing not-null box take off over the inky blackness of the lake toward the rushing hoard of skeletal warriors. About half the rushing menagerie of ancient spirits turn their void gazes upon the flying halfling and her ancient holy passenger. As she moves closer more of the enemy feel the rush of Carn's presence and power. Suddenly blades punch through ancient armor, axes slice through bone and dried sinew, mauls crush skulls and brittle bones. Chaos erupts as battle brothers and sisters turn upon each other in order to fulfill their gods ancient lust for war, glory, and bloody battle.

Lightning erupts from the lakeshore. Accompanied by a crackling boom of thunder the jagged bolt of power lances into the hoard. Several deadly spirit warriors are instantly blasted to bits that go plip-plopping into the lake adding to the already ivory-lined lakebed below. Back at the bolt's source, Gunnar's usual plain expression momentarily quirks upward just a tick.

The shouts from both Luthael and Raseri initially seem drowned out amongst the chaos of lightning and battle and yet another fireball arcing across the cavern.

From her vantage point over the lake, Scramsax makes out the source of that seemingly constant stream of fiery explosives. A bull headed minotaur dressed in robes of red and silver stands atop a short dais and altar crafted of skulls, bones, and ancient stone weapons. The cauldrons filled with red hot coals shimmer and glow rhythmically in front of the warrior priest. Several dozen skeletal warriors kneel in prayer around the figure, bony hands draped across ancient weapons. Their graveyard mutterings rising and falling in tune with the crimson glow of the cauldron, which as the halfling glances at the glowing box with the gemstone, also pulses with the beat.

The ancient high priest reaches into the cauldron on the left, grabs a coal and places in the end of a metal atlatl-like device. For a moment the gleaming coal sits in the cup as the priest cocks his arm back and with a shouted prayer in an ancient language, launches the coal toward the priest of Perun on the far side of the cavern and lake.

As the small red-hot coal rises in the air it grows it double in size with each passing moment until it is yet another flaming orb ready to cascade down and unleash its power against the weakening shield of Perun's chosen.

Back on the other side of the lake, Ingryd rumbles and grumbles her lack of immediate targets with the kraken's retreat. Seeing Luthael move to cut off the now disorganized charge of the undead warriors across the stone arch, the bearkin follows. After all, smashing undead bent on the recovery of an ancient evil god always seems like a good idea.

The light of the passing fireball and the beacon that is the glowing box holding the big ruby illuminates Scramsax as she hovers over the lake. The ancient minotaur priest's eyes glance upward marking the presence of thief and object of his desire.

In the darkness above...

For over three thousand years she had waited. Had prayed, spilled blood, held vigil. Had sat within this dark, dank purgatory and prison. Listened to the grating rantings of that fool below mumble his curses and catechisms to his upstart godling. For three thousand years she had kept faith with her own god. Kept faith knowing that someday, somehow the Glorious One would be freed of this accursed prison.

They had all done so. Carn's most faithful and loyal High Templars. Xilfander. Her eyes glance down upon the form of the minotaur as he sends another flaming sphere of power arching toward Perun's pestilence. Ever single minded, Xil was only now recognizing that their god was no where near the storm god's priest. Then there was Yifmere. How long would it take to waters to clear. She wonders looking down at the black surface of the lake. Once crystal clear, now all was hidden in an inkblot murk. It was a clever plan to set the beast upon the statue, but ever the coward, Yifmere himself relied too much on a beast with a beast's instincts for survival. It could have one the day, had it not flinched at losing a limb. Almost as pathetic as Perun's priest.

Finally, herself. Rumella Diremonger. For her war was never all about brute force or clever schemes. It was timing, it was strategy, using was the battlefield and the enemy gives to your own advantage. So it is on this glorious, prayed for day. This celebrated day of holy freedom, that she spent the last several minutes watching, waiting, judging.

She'd spotted the flicker of the thief from her perch among the cavern's heights as soon as they entered. Watched as the short one slipped past that useless fanatic and his pathetic devices. A diversion provided in a perfect sacrificial move. Observed as the thief swam down, lured by the perfect beauty that was her god and his prison. Watched as thief found success and traps unfolded. For Yifmere's failure. Then Xilfander's. She vowed to not fail where her two brothers in faith had so miserably. Upon silent wings and currents of air she takes flight, drifting downward from the depths of darkness ready to strike and claim her god's goodwill and power for her own.

Just clarifying positions. Scramsax is in flight near the center of the land bridge. About 30'? above the surface of the water. The height of the cavern is approximately 150' but varies. She is about 60' away from shore line near the small tunnel back to Darrel and the camp. The shore is roughly 50' from the tunnel exit. Gunnar and Raseri stand along the shore 60' from the end of the land bridge to the south and 30' from the priest of Perun and his altar to the north. The land bridge is 150' long. The statue is underwater on the lake bottom. About 60' from shore and 70' deep. The lake is fully obscured by kraken ink (darkvision does not see through this.) The minotaur priest is 40' beyond the other end of the land bridge.

Sorry for the info dump here, but hoped it might help you all as we continue.

Raseri and Scramsax spend a few seconds grappling with the massive shining stone. It flashes brightly forcing each to turn away. During that moment, Raseri strikes a blow against the giant grabby beast. During that moment, Scramsax makes a risky switch. The priestess of Thor looks back down at the innocent-eyed halfling who just holds up the useless metallic coil with a shrug of her shoulders.

No sooner does Raseri utter the promise to prevent further calamity than a crimson glow starts to emanate from Scramsax's side. It is in the all too familiar shape of a large box. A box carried by everyone for the last several weeks.

With the glow growing brighter, Ingryd pummels the nearest tentacle, slamming her hammer down with a squishy thump that ends up ripping the end of the appendage free from the main body. A gargling pain filled screech echoes through the chamber. An impenetrable darkness floods the lake waters as the giant beast retreats beneath the surface in a cloud of swirling bubbles and blackness. It's threat seemingly neutralized.

"Ugh....uummppfff....no...." The priest of Perun suddenly clutches his chest. The eldritch glow of the protective dome flickers wildly. His gaze is focused upon the land bridge where skeletons defend against a mass of black armored skeletons and mummified warriors. In a matter of seconds the line of defenders begins to bend back. Gaps emerge. A wailing cry of exuberance erupts from somewhere beyond the enemy line. The defenders attempt to rally, but within another few heartbeats, the entire line crumbles. Bones knitted together with magic and prayer burst apart and plunge into the watery depths below. The black armored horde plunges forward, all void-empty eyes peering toward a certain glowing box carrying by a certain halfling.

Tentacles flail about Gunnar and the emerging entity that is Carnsax. In a quick attempt to somehow dislodge the stone's effect upon the halfling, the wizard conducts an arcane purification upon the ancient evil. The eye within the eyestone, blinks once, twice, three times at this unwelcome intrusion. For a brief moment it's attention becomes fully focused upon the dwarf.

The ruby bright gaze bores into Gunnar's mind and soul.

*THUMP*

In a heart beat all is gone. Cavern, giant octopus, ancient priests, exploding fireballs. Gunnar floats in the vast emptiness of the void. Nothing but silence and pure black in every direction. Except one. A crimson beacon. A singular burning mass of a eye in the vast distance. It blinks at the bit of bearded flotsam sucked into its empty prison.

*THUMP*

An alarm blares. "WEEEEE....WEEEEEE....WEEEEEE. Red Alert. All hands to battlestations. Red Alert! WEEEE....WEEEEE...WEEEEE.."

Something explodes, sending Gunnar flying out of his chair to sprawl on a hard steel floor.

"Shields at sixty percent Captain!" A voice shouts from across the bridge. "We can't take many more hits like that."

"Marty! Give me more power to the shields." A familiar voice commands into the armrest of a chair.

"I'm giving you all I've got, she's got no more." Crackles a static filled reply.

Gunnar looks over to see Scramsax in an odd formfitting uniform. Gold top with a short black miniskirt. She stares into a big window, that isn't a window and curses at a some kind of strange device that appears to be blasting arcane power toward you. Scramsax turns to Gunnar, her eyes stern and commanding.

"Dammit Gunnar!" She shouts "Find us a way to beat those blasted Flingon shields, we're sitting ducks." Another blast rocks the ship eliciting more curses and alarms. A fire erupts. Smoke billows into the room.

*THUMP*

The smell of fire, water, and burning squid fills Gunnar's nostrils once again as the dwarf staggers back a step for a moment. He is back in the cavern. Surrounded by chaos. Scramsax, lying a step away, still gripping the ruby stone. But for just a moment, the visage of power and bloodlust that seemed to be engulfing her being is momentarily driven back. Will it be enough?

Meanwhile, a brilliant white light flairs to life in the cavern and begins to flash and weave wildly. The source is the grappled Luthael. The power of Khors flowing despite his entanglement by the massive tentacle. Rubbery flesh sizzles beneath the powerful energy of dawn's blaring light and the potent spear of agonizing brilliance. The potent holy attack appears to have achieved its purpose as the creature releases the prophet from its grip. Unfortunately, the spasmodic reaction results in Luthael being flung into the back wall of the cavern. Luthael hits with a bone jarring crunch and drops back down to the ground.

Ingryd's angry roar echoes, and she manages to break free of the creature's grip in time to avoid a similar blow.

Finally, Raseri's spectral protectors slash and snap at the writhing arms of the giant beast even as the hurries to stand beside dwarf and halfling. With nary a bit of concern for herself, the priestess grabs at the stone.

*FLASH*

"Time?" A tired and bedraggled Commodore Scramsax shouts across the command deck of the Battlestar Malarkey. Exhausted crews scramble around the bridge repairing damage or offering hot coffee and a roll to the even more exhausted command crew.

"Thirty-three minutes, Commodore. And we have dradle contacts!"

"Launch fighters! Prepare to jump and start the clock."

The rumble of cannon fire echoes from the ship and the viewport lights up with tracers that drift out into the starlit vastness of space. Tiny bright spots of metal grow bigger as a swarm of ships fly closer and begin to return fire.

"Malarkey! One got through." Comes a warning through a speaker.

"Brace for impact!" Shouts the Commodore just as one of the oncoming ships drops below the view port and slams into the ship.

*FLASH*

The conversation in the cafeteria is muted. No jokes. No laughter today. Not after someone else went missing. You glance over at Scramsax and Gunnar quietly eating their high protein, high calorie gruel, when the short halfling looks over at you with suddenly wide, shock filled eyes.

"Ooh!" She grabs her stomach. "I don't feel so good."

Everyone looks down, and you are suddenly reminded of the demonic creatures your companions mentioned clearing out of some slaver caravan. She lifts up her shirt to reveal the flesh moving wildly. She falls over, convulses and spasm. Cries out in horrible pain as something begins the gruesome process of crawling its way free.

*FLASH*

Gunnar sees Raseri grab the stone. The priestess freezes as soon as contact is made. Her gaze blanks as her eyes roll into the back of her head. Instinctively Scramsax tries to pull the stone away, but Raseri's grip is tight. The wrestling match begins even as they witness Carn's horrors.

Ingryd is free.

Gunnar's dispel does not eliminate the god's presence or magic, but is does disrupt it for a short time allowing Scramsax Advantage on her DC15 WIS save to break free.

Raseri is ensnared by the gem. DC15 WIS save or go unconscious like Scramsax.

If either regains consciousness, it is a STR or DEX check vs DC15 to wrestle the gem free from the other. If both are conscious, then this is a contest unless one willingly lets go.

Luthael takes 4d6 + 5 ⇒ (3, 6, 5, 6) + 5 = 25 damage from the throw against the wall. DEX Save DC13 for half damage.

Party is up.

"What calamity!" Cries the priest, raising another wave of skeletal warriors and sending them to reinforce those still defending the end of the rock bridge. "She has unleashed the apocalypse upon the world. An ancient, singular power that seeks one thing and only one. War. Never ending strife. Constant bloodshed, destruction and chaos."

A pause to fend off another incoming blast. This time the priests robes seem to smolder slightly as runic patterns grow bright and then finally fade along with the power of the enemy assault.

"I cannot hold the three for long. Should one of them gain possession of Carn's Eye, then surely all will be lost." His gaze glance back toward the twitching, ensorcelled halfling. "It may already be too late. If he has taken her mind, his portal to incarnation will be wide open. Kill her. Kill her now, else the world is doomed!" He shouts pointing a gnarled, skeletal finger at Scramsax's body even as another enemy fireball arcs from the opposite end of the great cavern.

Meanwhile, another fiery blast erupts not far from where Gunnar currently stands protectively over the halfling's passed out form. Luthael's fireball detonates upon the rubbery mass of the giant tentacle. Not truly aware of the threat until too late, the creature does little to protect its outstretched limb. The surrounding area suddenly smells of calamari as the tentacle jumps and writhes in wild, smoldering pain.

The beastly arms wild movements make it hard for Ingryd to land an initial blow. Her first roaring swing misses badly, slamming into the stone floor. Several large cracks spiderweb out from the bearkin's impact. A second blow manages to connect with the writhing limb with a resounding *smack* and *hiss* of more burning flesh.

These new and painful threats are just enough to distract the massive beast from its appointed task of recovering and delivering the freed gem to its master. Instead it lashes out at the bearkin and prophet hoping to nab them in its sticky grip. The first slams into the bearkin, quickly engulfing her in its suction cupped grip. The second follows in a similar manner as the prophet of Khors suddenly finds himself surrounded by a smelly, rubbery limb. A third lashes at the skeletons weakening the defenders on the bridge.

Meanwhile in the chaos that in the mind of Scramsax, the sudden scenes of war begin to diminish. Instead the focus turns to the tall stone halls, towering throne rooms, wood paneled conference chambers, elegant silk shrouded bedchambers of the powerful and wealthy. Here it is the halfling initiates the insults, orates the patriotic call to arms, unleashes the demons of fear, and otherwise pries open the shackles of peace, understanding, negotiation, and compromise that strive to keep war at bay. With the chains broken, madness begins to unleash itself and deep within her mind a god/goddess begins to laugh and absorb the fuel the feeds its own malignant and corrupted spirit.

Beyond the confines to the halfing's mind, back in the material realm, Gunnar sees the gemstone glow brighter. Feels its power grow. Feels the anger flow through his veins. Feels the need to fight. It washes across his normally logical and analytical mind like fouled storm surge making it difficult to remain logical within the growing chaos.

Ingryd takes 17 bludgeoning from a tentacle. DC18 Athletics or Acrobatics save or be grappled.

Luthael takes 14 bludgeoning from a tentacle. DC18 Athletics or Acrobatics save or be grappled.

Scramsax can try to make another WIS save vs. DC15. On a success, no longer unconscious and can drop the stone.

Party is up.

Oops, sorry. Religion check DC is 13.

Scramsax ducks as the shell explodes blasting the steamjack's axe arm completely free of the machine's chassis. Metal grinds and groans as oil, steam and smoke pure from massive wound. A teetering step forward and it crashes in the churned mud. It was the fourth jack they'd lost along the line in as many minutes. Things weren't looking good. Somewhere a whistle blows. The Reds were coming.

*FLASH*

"THE EMPEROR PROTECTS!" The scrawny ragged man wearing a simple gray uniform, holds a massive bolt gun in his hands. A moment later he pokes his head around the corner of the building he and Scramsax had momentarily ducked to for cover. The pulsing cacophony of rifle fire rattles the air. Another softer sound, like hypersonic grape hitting a fruit pie. Scramsax looks down to find a good portion of her squadmate's head splattered across her chest, a bit of brain oozing down the pickle she was about to eat.

*FLASH*

*PING*PING*PING*

The sonar echoes within the narrow confines of the submarine's bridge, as Captain Scramsax of the SS Minnow's Fury desperately circles the periscope to try and find the pair of destroyer's they'd run into.

"Hard to port!" She shouts as the enemy ship comes churning into the churning gray image of the scope. It was nearly on top of them. "Ahead flank!"

*KABOOM!*

The depth charge explodes sending tremors through the entire sub. Shouts echo from below.

*KABOOM!*

This time the explosion sends her tumbling sideways, she cracks her head. Her vision blurs. Water is spraying in along several weakened seams.

*KABOOM!*

*FLASH*

Spluttering water from his nose and beard, Gunnar pops into existence a half dozen feet from the shore of the lake close to Raseri and Luthael. A waterlogged Scramsax lies next to the dwarf holding a massive ruby in a white knuckled death grip. Her eyes are rolled into the back of her head as she twitches and spasms in the grip of some kind of power or injury, oblivious to her surroundings. She appears unresponsive to any initial efforts to revive her from whatever holds her in its clutches. The ruby shines with a bright crimson light the escapes through the halfling's fingers creating eerie bars of hellish light upon a churning chaos filled landscape straight from the fiendish pits of the underworld.

The light of the stone reveals for the first time elements of the shrine a short distance along the shore, just beyond a wave of reanimated skeletons which Ingryd is already busy scattering aside with great sweeping blows of her axe. The shrine itself appears to be of simple stone construction, a faded red circle with crossed lightning bolts have been carved into each face of the stone. Symbols which match the silver symbol peeking from beneath the robes of the figure just now turning to notice the presence of the newcomers upon the field of war. Sitting atop the altar are an ancient spear head of chipped obsidian, a leather shield, and a bronze short sword. Each pulse and glow with power in tune with the symbol around the priest's neck as another huge fireball comes crashing toward the shrine. Once again a shield is raised and the fireball dissipates with a thunderous boom that rattles the entire cavern and brings more rock and stone crashing down from above.

The ancient sunken, shriveled eyes of the priest gaze upon the glowing stone clasped in the halfling's hand.

"FOOLS!" Rumbles a voice, dusty and hoarse from centuries of silence. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

Before any can answer, the lake begins to churn and broil. Moments later the undersea guardian rises above the surface, its great eyes gleaming with anger and menace and a pair of tentacle, thick as the mightiest trees of the Margreve rise out of the water and lash out toward the shore.

The first crashes into the barrier of the shrine. Energy crackles and thunders as the whipping appendage cannot break through. The priest drops to a knee with the effort of maintaining his shelter. The second mighty tentacle crashes down where Gunnar and Scramsax appear and Raseri and Luthael stand. The massive suction-cupped limb makes an effective barrier between the two groups even as a third tentacle rises from the water and moves toward the halfling and the clutched gemstone.

Scramsax may make another WIS Save vs DC15 to break free of the stone's grip.

Sorry to be slow all. Work's been a little crazy since coming back from vacation. Will do my best to move things forward by tomorrow.

In the grip of War...

Even the wily thief had to admit to old octogripper knew its business. Twinned tentacles wrapped around arms and legs, with a trio of suction cups plastered against her face left even the slippery halfling momentarily helpless in the beast's tight grip. Of course, there was a silver lining, the protective arms of the giant sea creature prevented the force bolts of pure arcane energy from piercing the thief's head, heart and hand. The hand that just happened to be gripping the mass of the ruby which still strolled down a memory lane filled with an oceans worth of blood and a mountains pile of gore. War and Death were two happy twins whom the halfling really had no interest in spending an intimate evening. Yet, spend it she does.

Trapped within War's memories, her struggles wane. As they do, a door opens. A presence slithers into her mind upon the rushing cascade of visions. With each glorious or inglorious death, with each sniper shot out of the darkness, each strike along the wall, each charging lance broken upon flesh and bone, the presence grows. It finds the place crowded, but what do gods care about previous ownership and tenant laws. Power is nine-tenths of the law, and even fallen gods have more power than spirits and mortals.

While those above fight over that power's potential grace and embrace. That small, independent self that is Scramsax, that is also a dryad sitting gracefully upon a branch, that is that wily old Coin. Allied together, they struggle against the tyrant. Rebel against the imperial overlord who blasphemes by caring nothing for gold, gems, or the art of a good con.

Unfortunately, the old guardian is well versed in the resilience of thieves and their tricks and being a loyal and single squishy minded guardian, he smacks the thief against the nearest rock just to remind her who's really in charge.

Of course, this single minded focus keeps the beast from noticing the rather angry looking dwarf diving into the depths following Raseri's keen eyed gaze and shout. His eyes crackle with power and determination and he dodges debris and paddles through the churning silt.

While grappled, the Gigantopus can use its slam. Scramsax must make a DC15 Con save or take 3d6 ⇒ (6, 4, 1) = 11 bludgeoning damage and be stunned until the end of the beast's next turn. On a success, half damage and no stun.

It still requires DC18 Athletics or Acrobatics to break the grapple.

Gunnar is swimming and 40' from Scramsax and the giant beast.

Ingryd: You can reach some of the marching skeletal warriors this round. If you wish to reach the figure at the shrine, that will require a full move.

Party is up.

In the tunnel...

Perhaps it is the cracks crawling along the walls and ceiling of the narrow tunnel. Perhaps it is the explosive detonations of arcane power erupting at the other end. Perhaps it is the sudden chanting and tingle of power being drawn toward some unknown purpose. Perhaps it is fear for their companion blended with a equal part anger at said companion who has on more than one occasion initiated chaotic events detrimental to group safety. Perhaps it is Gunnar's cursing.

Regardless of whatever spurs the sudden burst of athleticism, Luthael, Ingryd, and Raseri manage to wiggle, claw, and crawl their way free of the increasingly unstable tunnel. Emerging from the end of the narrow opening, the four companions find themselves crawling into a maelstrom of chaos and madness.

The tunnel exits into a massive open cavern. At least a half dozen large lakes fill much of the area linked by small islands or paths of high ground. Trickles and drips of water fall from above. The vibration of the massive falls can still be felt through the earth. Darkness and shadow fill much of the giant underground area, keeping hidden what may lie in its further reaches. Closer, light pierces the darkness. Much of it flows from the depths of the nearest lake. A gleaming red brilliance near a tall statue matching that described earlier by Scramsax, with the exception of the large ruby that once adorned its eye. But the sight of the statue is quickly obscured by churning silt and a the glimpsed mass of underwater godling horror sporting thick tentacles, bulbous head, and although not visible, equally large maw for feeding. Briefly illuminated within the molten red, ruby lit waters, the giant guardian of the lake disappears within the cloud of churning silt and bones.

Additional light emanates just a short distance to the right of the exit. There stands a small shrine. A golden glow of power illuminating its crude stone altar. In front of the shrine, a heavily cloaked and cowled figure stands chanting with skeletal arms outstretched. The words spoken are an ancient and unfamiliar tongue that prickles the mind and grates on the ear. As the words crackle in the air, bones rise among the stone and debris and sunken depths of the nearby area. Bones that knit themselves into crude skeletal warriors carrying rusty blades and stone clubs.

As soon as they form, these animated warriors turn and rush for the end of a short land bridge connecting to somewhere deeper within the cavern. Crossing that bridge is another hoard of undead warriors. Meeting in the middle of the crossing the two forces exchange blows, brittle bones shattering and dropping back into the watery depths from which they rose just moments earlier.

A rumbling boom bursts from somewhere beyond that contested bridge. Rising from the darkness a great ball of fire arcs through the darkness toward the small shrine and it's guardian. A skeletal hand waves, the chanting words momentarily change. A pale eldritch dome appears just before the ball of fire hits. A blinding, explosive detonation bursts upon the eldritch dome. Shattering a dozen animated soldiers and rattling the foundations of the stone cavern. A stalagmite twice Ingryd's height breaks free and tumbles into the lake with a loud splash. Smaller rocks and debris come tumbling down from the darkness above.

As the power of the blast fades from blinking eyes, the dome disappears and the chants of the priest return to their earlier cadence as more warriors rise from the depths.

Somewhere further away, another detonation of eldritch power erupts. Another rumble washes through the cavern.

Hey all, I'm traveling today. Probably won't be able to update things until tomorrow or Monday. Hope you all have a great weekend.

In the depths...

Knowing time is short, Scramsax sacrifices a tiny bit of sneakiness for speed and reaches the glimmering mass of precious gemstone within a few quick minutes. Rumbles of rage and detonations of power still erupt and flash overhead, although nothing appears to come close to causing the halfling any harm.

Even underwater the halfling works with the ease and speed of a professional. But the it is tough work. The stone is practically welded to the stone almost as if it were a very part of the statue, not some simple pretty adornment. Feeling the air slip from her lungs, she gives up on the more elegant removal methods and resorts to brute force.

It is as she works the crowbar around the narrow edge of the fist-sized eye stone that the first prickle of danger tingles between her shoulder blades. The tingle of danger matches a sudden burst of light and power from the very gem she is currently trying to remove from its setting within the odd statue to an ancient god.

The flash of light momentarily blinds the halfling. Blinking away the residual spots before her eyes she catches a worrisome glimpse of the center of the jewel. A view that reveals an actual eye staring back at her. An eye that reflects not her own face nor the underwater chaos of the churning silt clouds and bubbles filling the lake. Nor the flashes and fiery blast of fury from above. No. As she stares into that eye staring at her, she gazes upon the horrors of war.

She stands, battling in the mud and snow of the north. Fighting in the shield wall of a hundred reavers, smelling the sweat, fear, and offal of her fallen comrades as they fend off the furious charge of trollkin raiders.

She stands in the desert, the hot wind blowing sand and grit across her raged features as she marches in formation with a thousand others. Looking to left and right she sees other formations exactly like hers marching upon a stone city, its temples and pyramids shimmering in the desert heat. Suddenly a darkness emerges from the city. A great cloud of doom filled power. The darkness rolls across the dunes like a charging bull and slams into the formation two squares over. Screams erupt as half the battalion is wiped away in an instant by the Nurian magic. Overhead your draconic overlord roars the charge. All around her roar and charge drawing the halfling along even as another great wave of magic emerge from the city. The black maw of doom heading straight for her.

She hunkers in a mud soaked trench, foul smelling water soaking her boots. Explosions flash and burst all around in a seemingly endless cascade of death and destruction. A man just a dozen feet away disappears in an explosion splattering her with gore. Whistles are heard across a landscape that is nothing but flatten, churned mud. Bones and body parts occasionally poke from the thick, gripping mud. The enemy slogs toward her fear and determination in their eyes even as they start to fall to the defending fire.

Khazzaki horsemen hoot and call as they circle the last remnants of the Czar's army. She had marched for country and glory and promises of looted wealth. After six months, they found nothing but blisters, dysentery, and death at the hands of the steppe riders. The arrogant general Borowitz lay dead a few paces away, pierced by a half dozen arrow within the first few minutes of the ambush. Her arms ache from drawing and releasing her bow. But relief will come soon, for she is down to her last dozen arrows. She was down to her last dozen allies. And she looked out upon a sea of horseflesh and hollering barbarians.

The visions continue to flow from the gem into her mind. She cannot pull away. She cannot stop the flow. It has been so long since the god has been touched by a mortal mind. So long since the door to the world was open once again. So long since it was able to harvest the mortal realms for blood and fear and agony.

Scramsax is so caught up within the god's desire and remembering that she does not feel the first massive tentacle swish past. Does not feel the churning waters. Does not notice the others following upon that initial wake.

Even as the second tentacle slams into her side, she only feels the dragonfire incinerating her entire platoon of brightly armored knights as they ride toward the great beast. She does not feel the slimy grip as it wraps around her, she only feels the melting of her flesh, the smell of her hair and horseflesh burning.

Another tentacle strikes. A giant's club that collapses her chest and obliterates her comrade's head in one fell swoop as they fight upon the wide green fields of a lost land now drowned beneath the western sea.

The gemstone drops into her hand, much to big to swallow. The eye within continues to enthrall as the gemstone grows brighter, brighter. The halfling conduit feels the power burning through her mind, through her battered body, through her soul. War! Doom! Blood! Destruction! All nourishment for this fallen god. Nourishment too long denied. Soon it will feast again.

Scramsax has the gem. However, she is currently grappled by two tentacles from the guardian. Each requires a DC18 Athletics or Acrobatics to escape.

In addition, Scramsax must make a Wisdom save vs DC15, or continue to be enthralled by the gemstone's visions.

Scramsax takes 17 and 15 points of damage from the two slam attacks.

In the tunnel...

Although skeptical of his ability to navigate the narrow tunnel, Gunnar's dwarven heritage and experience of many a tight fitting underground opening have him crawling, squeezing, scraping, and scooching along at a fairly easy and even pace. He about three quarters of the way along when the entire situation grows more ominous and troublesome, which for the obvious reasons, the dwarf is not really surprised about.

The first sign of trouble is the all too familiar fiery orange flash and thundering arcane boom a large, a very large, fireball detonating somewhere beyond the end of the tunnel. The brilliant light briefly illuminates the tunnel exit still approximately forty feet further along. Not far in truth, but forced to his crawling, scrambling pace he might as well be trying to reach the moon.

Then the curses echo from behind. The dwarf wouldn't be faulted if he'd guessed Ingryd would be the first to find herself stuck in the tunnel. No matter what, the trip wouldn't be easy for the big bearkin. But then he realizes it is Luthael's grunts and complaints and ever more frantic struggles he hears.

With all momentum stopped behind the prophet of light now trapped in the deep dark depths of the earth, Ingryd and Raseri find themselves stuck as well. Unable to move forward, unable to turn around or crawl backward to the entrance. Trapped.

A horrific scream erupts again drowning out the growing shouts of concern among those trapped in the tunnel. Then true fear reaches out and squeezes upon hearts and minds and the entire cavern and tunnel itself rumble and tremor and quake under whatever catastrophic events seem to be occurring beyond the exit. The boom and crash of stone striking stone or water fill the air. A crack runs chaotically along one wall of the tunnel as dirt and grit cascade down turning shouts of anger and frustration into choking fits of growing panic.

Carefully, slowly working his way back toward Luthael's position, the dwarf is able to spot where the priests robes have hooked themselves securely on an slightly outstretched finger of stone. More importantly he is also able to see another spiderweb of cracks growing along the ceiling of the tunnel. The crackle of weakening stone the loudest, most terrifying sound above all the other chaos erupting from beyond the exit.

Okay, so that was a full on group fail. Right now Luthael, Raseri, and Ingryd are stuck in the tunnel and effectively Grappled for the moment. Gunnar is able to move and act. DC15 to try and escape the Grapple condition.

In the depths...

Setting her plan into motion, Scramsax flip-flops to the shoreline as Coin splashes into the water. As she slips beneath the surface, a piercing scream unleashed from the very pits of hell erupts within the cavern shattering ancient mineral stone formations hanging from the ceiling above. Plummeting down throughout the cavern they crash and shatter on the stone floor or splash into the massive ponds churning up bubbles on their slow decent to the bottom.

Moments later a burst of light blooms where Coin performed their water ballet. Fortunately, the owl was already heeding their mistresses call to return to the safety of her pocket. Even so the water boils and hisses and churns as the fireball explodes just above the surface.

Diving deeper to avoid the undying priest's fury and better avoid the cascade of falling debris, the halfling does her best to become just another bit of falling debris swirling slowly down toward the depths and the statue.

Deeper into the lake and mass of rock from above tumbles slowly upon the entrance to the sunken temple. Cracks appear in the roof. A deep bass rumble echoes through the depths. Billowing sediment creates an underwater cloud impossible to see through.

Sheltering from the Storm...

"Uhhh...does she do that a lot?" Darrel replies to Raseri. His eyes stare at the dark opening of the tunnel. "Create some trouble for you to deal with?"

Before any can answer a piercing cry of red hot anger boils like molten rock from the tunnel. Stone rattles and hairs stand up as the power is palpable and filled with promised of blood and destruction. But that lone cry is not all that causes concern. Staring into the narrow doom of the tunnel all can sense a deeper, darker, much more ancient and troublesome power awaken. Like a dragon cracking its eyes open after a gluttony fueled hibernation, the ancient beast stretches and uncoils the immortal tendrils of its being. Threads of power quiver and quake brushing against all those in the little hut and down in the dark chaos of the hidden prison.

Worried glances flash silently about the little group. The foxkin looking back and forth between Raseri, Lutheal, Gunnar and Ingryd.

"By the gods, what was that?" Asks the shivering foxkin.

Immediate answers are not forthcoming as all gauge both the size and soundness of the narrow tunnel. The halfling did not mention anything about it narrowing. It might be possible for all to squeeze through.

Group STR(Athletics) check DC15 to navigate the tunnel without anyone getting stuck. Time taken to reach the end will depend on number of successes or failures.

Sheltering from the Storm...

Time passes. Seconds...minutes. Ten, perhaps fifteen minutes pass since the halfling's departure, chattering teeth make it hard to keep count. Nothing emerges from the tunnel. Then another burst of warm, odd smelling air billows forth from the depths. Despite the smell of doom and blood and summer's grassy fields, the heat is a welcome respite from the bone freezing cold swirling inside and out of the little shelter. It is like sitting opposite a blacksmiths bellows, the heat of the furnace blowing into the small shelter. Darrel welcomes the warmth, holding cold hands out as he slides closer to the opening. Even Luthael's fire seems to take heart from the warmth. It's struggling, hissing flames suddenly burn a little brighter, its own heat grows a little stronger. For a few moments, the shelter is warm and even comfortable.

Inside the Cavern of Carn...

Flippered and goggled, Scramsax quietly emerges from the tunnel exit to once again take in the vast cavern tucked within the cliff. The trinkle of water falling. The smell of damp air and dirt. The eerie glimmer of the statue in the depths, guarding the sunken temple. The power of the falls a distant tremor rippling through the stone. The shrine and its sole caretaker.

All is the same, yet something is vastly different. A warmth fills the air. Like a hot wind bringing fire, death and destruction. Although water still drips and drops, its rhythmic cascade is out of sync, slowing. The light glimmering from the pool is slightly brighter, shimmering with emerging excitement. Most importantly, the figure at once kneeling at the shrine, now stands before it. Tattered rags billowing in that hot, dry wind. It stands, skeletal arms thrown outward in ecstatic rapture, unintelligible, excited whispers of prayer emerging from crackling lips that have not spoken for centuries.

Coin gives one last pleading look to their mistress, hoping to dissuade her from the reckless course. But the ruby light of greed and desire burn in the halfling's eyes as she compels the owl to take flight a begin the dive toward the smooth surface of the pool.

With the first rustle of feathers upon the air. The first flap, flap, flap of beating wings. The whispered prayers abruptly cease. The hooded head at the shrine looks up into the darkness and twists in the direction of the owl revealing the grim skeletal visage of the undying. Its void gaze follows the owls flight, its yellowed ivory jaw clenched in anger at an intrusion upon the holiest of moments as its god finally awakens to stir the realms of mortals once again. Seeing that empty eyed gaze, Coin knows fear and curses sparkling gemstones and their unnatural draw upon the hearts of mortals.

Okay, so I just want to make sure I have everything clear before I move ahead.

First step, before leaving the tunnel and entering the cavern, Scramsax is 'painting' the diving gear. Correct?

Second step, Coin flies in and provides a distraction for the potential creature/foe kneeling at the shrine by diving into the water and splashing around?

Third step, Scramsax approaches the shrine and attempts an offering to try and 'convert' the shrine from Carn to another deity.

This last is a little more problematic. Since Scramsax is not a cleric in any way or really imbued with any clerical/holy powers, I don't think she has the ability to truly consecrate a space or convert it to another god. However, I would allow that the action would provide an added distraction to Carn and his allies. With a roll of 20, I'd say the distraction would last for 1d6 rounds and would prevent the use of any lair abilities. In addition, during the distraction any enemies aligned with Carn have disadvantage on their attacks each round.

Fourth, the depth of the statue is 40' and it is 30' out from the shore. I think the scuba fins require one DC10 Athletics Check assuming you are not wearing armor or carrying more than 5 pounds of other gear. If wearing armor or carrying more gear, then DC20. On a success, you gain a swim speed of half your normal move. On a failure, you are drowning and need to make another check the following round.

Fifth, we will deal with how to remove the gem if/when that time arrives. :)

If all of this works, then I'll get a post up later today or tomorrow morning to get things rolling.

"Carn is it?" Raseri says looking to Gunnar for confirmation. A draft of warm air stirs into the leanto from the narrow opening. It smells of dirt and damp and decay, but its warmth is welcome as the cold continues to burrow in from the outside.

"Indeed, an ancient deity named Carn, God of War, Fertilizer of Fields." The dwarf replies. Another burst of warmth, this time with a hint of blood and battlefield offal. A name not spoken for three thousand years. Lost, forgotten, and buried beneath the roots and rock of an even older land.

"I'm not really a religious type so I guess Carn was a bad guy?" The bearkin inquires her thick hide blocking the cold as well as the trickle of heat emanating off of Luthael's small, carefully tended fire. Somewhere from the depths a gong rings. For a third time in quick succession the forgotten has been spoken. A time of remembering has begun. The stone of the cliff shifts like an old man shifting in his chair after a long afternoon nap. Streams of dirt and stone tumble and drip into the shelter. The entrance flap flips open and briefly the billowing cold of unnatural winter pours within. Then nothing. The flap settles. The trickle of soil and sand dwindles to a stop. All is once again the rumble of the falls, howling of the wind, and pelting of rain and ice.

Scramsax disappears back down the three foot wide rabbit hole, her feet drifting slightly off the ground following Gunnar's gift...and warning. As her small form disappears into the depths another breath of air comes billowing up the tunnel. Again it smells of blood and sweat and the heat of battle.

After hearing Scramsax describe the peculiar statue, Gunnar and Raseri each begin a long conversation to work through the various gods and their known masks or iterations recorded over the centuries. For an hour their voices can be heard beneath the rumble of the falls, the howl of the wind, and the pelting sleet. While the two search their memories , Luthael tends the fire as it struggles to provide much needed warmth against the freezing cold of the storm.

A booming crash echoes from the river. Ingryd pokes her head from the shelter to see a massive uprooted tree caught upon the rocks. A good seven feet in diameter the icy, waterlogged tree vibrates and spasms beneath the never ending flow of water. Seeing no real threat, the bearkin ducks back inside and tries to sleep although between the cold and the deafening noise, true sleep in near impossible.

Gunnar does his best to patch and strengthen the small shelter while Darrel goes about starting a fire. While dwarf and foxkin work on creating some meager comfort, Scramsax clears the rest of the wood from the opening in the cliff. The halfling reveals a tunnel approximately three feet in diameter. An initial look down the narrow opening reveals nothing but darkness and a trickle of slightly warmer air coming from whatever depths. The air smells earthy and damp but with a wisp of something musty.

Pausing in his repairs, Gunnar estimates the tunnel to be fairly recent. Likely dug sometime within the last six months, but definitely before the onset of the storm. The dwarf judges the tunnel to be crude work, but done with enough strength, natural ability or tools to carve through solid stone for a good portion of what little distance can be seen from the entrance.

Seeing no immediate traps or dangers. Scramsax quickly follows her summoned owl down the cliff side rabbit hole.

Moving past the foxkin, Scramsax crunches along the ice covered ground aided by her spiked boots. She is first to spot the half buried shelters tucked against the side of the cliff. The first has collapsed completely, although it is difficult to say if the damage occurred before or during the storm.

The second still looks to be sound enough. It is more of a lean-to butting up against the cliff. Thick logs covered with layers of mud, sod and now ice, make up the structure. Ducking inside, the halfling finds the space to be fairly dry, just as cold as outside, but sheltered from the wind. It smells of earth and damp and cold. A small stash of dry wood is stacked along the cliff side near a circle of smoke blackened stones.

Peering at the wood, the ever suspicious halfling notices a bit of deeper darkness in the darkness. Shuffling a few pieces of potential warmth aside she uncovers what looks to be a small roughly carved opening just as the others arrive.

With the decision made, it takes little time to break camp and store the boats and best as possible under the fraught circumstances. Every step requires concentration and balance. Any mistake or overzealous action results in a tumble that leaves a backside sore and even colder. But as the morning slowly turns to day, everyone develops a mostly functional short-length stride that with the aide of Raseri's walking sticks proves effective enough.

The trek up the valley is slow, cold, and miserable. Ice coated shrubs and low tree limbs constantly drape themselves across what little wisps of a trail Darrel seems to be following. Depending on the icy covered barrier it either means ducking beneath and risking a rain of shattering ice shards down the neck with one wrong bump or working around the offending obstacle and yet another slip and fall on the uneven ground. All the while the wind continues to scour faces and flesh with ice pellets and cold rain that freezes in an instant.

The constant roar of the wind and hiss of the falling moisture is and ever present companions as welcome as a mother in law, with the same desire to stick around much longer than hoped. After two grueling hours the cackle of the storm is accompanied by another sound. At first it is merely a distance, low rumble. Barely noticeable above the howl of the wind. But at the march goes on, the rumble grows in volume. Looking up river, a white cloud of moisture billows and churns. The ground trembles and the ice coated trees tinkle like temple chimes.

Further progress reveals the source of the now raging rumble that easily drowns out storm, wind, and every other noise in the valley at the base of Shattered Staircase or so Darrel calls the massive set of roaring waterfalls.

The name comes from the central most cascade of water as it flows through a wide series of naturally formed terraces from a height a thousand feet higher than where the party struggles along. A trio of other narrower falls rumble, tumble and rush on either side of the great expanse of falling water. Ice coats every rock, nook, and cranny and the massive cloud of spray from the falls freezes as soon as it touches ground again. Icicles wider than Ingryd's chest and longer than a dragon's tail hang in great groups from the cliffs and terraces of the tumbling falls.

Pulling his heavy cloak tight around his face, Darrel points off to the eastern side of the steep rocky cliff. Usually covered in massive ferns, gnarled trees, and clinging vines, the cliff is now a mass of whites, grays, and sparkling silver as all is buried beneath the ice.

"The path up." He says, voice muffled by cloak and the rumble of the falls. "There used to be some shelters near the base of the cliff, but with this weather I don't know what shape they'll be in." He adds starting to work his way away from the river and toward the looming cliff.

(Have we passed the night in the stone shelter? Is it morning? Or are we forging on in the night?)

Sorry, I wasn't clear about timing. Most of the night has passed and the storm is not letting up. It is just nearing dawn, so by the time you be done breaking camp it will be light.

Darrel listens to Raseri's offer. For several long moments the foxkin ponders the offer and gives it a meaningful level of genuine consideration as the ice continues to slowly engulf the land and forest in its heavy, thick embrace. Finally, he huffs his cheeks and seems to come to a decision.

"I could describe the way. Even draw ya'll a reasonable map." He says, but then shakes his head. "But even in the best of days, it is a treacherous path. With this..." His hand waves in the air after brushing more ice from his face. "With this it'll be difficult enough for me to not get lost. No, I won't let ya'll go off into this without at least a tiny bit of local knowledge to guide your way. And to be honest with creatures like that roaming the land, I wouldn't be lying if I said I'd rather stick with a group of folk rather than wanderin' about on my own."

"So, a deal is a deal, and I'll not leave you." He looks at the boats and his shoulders sag in disappointment. "But best we leave those here. At this rate the river'll be froze solid in a day, maybe two anyway. Then they surely won't do us any good. No since lugging them around the falls just to leave 'em." He points out a little area near some low rocks. "Let's draw them up the shore further against them rocks. With a little shelter maybe they'll not be too damaged after all this. Then we best git movin'."

Luthael spends a bit of time looking Darrel over but finds surprisingly little wrong with the foxkin thanks to Gunnar's intervention. With the wendigo dead, the excruciating pains that wracked his body have fled back into the darkest corners of his mind. It takes a few minutes, but eventually the guide is recovered and well enough to move about on his own.

He dutifully avoids watching Scramsax try to remove the fallen beast's face and instead turns he attention on the foul weather and Gunnar's puzzlement over the creatures mirrored return.

"Magics are often a might...errr...unpredictable here in the Margreve." He says. "Power flows through...well, pretty much everything which is true of most of the world, but here it's just stronger." A quick shrug of the shoulders. "I ain't no scholarly wizard, but I've heard folk say it's because the forest is so old, a living connection to the beginnings of the world. Others claim some fallen god lies buried beneath feeding the trees and all. I had one feller tell me it was because of some confluence of major ley lines creating all the trouble. Really, it just is what it is." Another shrug as he turns to look out at the river and the growing layer of ice.

"Now on the other hand, this weather is down right peculiar even for this old wood." He takes a moment to brush the accumulating ice from his own clothing and head. "Ain't never seen or heard of such a foul mix. And lasting so long. All this ice is going to make traversing the falls nearly impossible. If it don't let up, sticking here ain't much of an option unless you're looking to freeze to death fer sure."

The foxkin's point is punctuated with a shiver as another blast of wind howls down the river valley snapping tree branches and blasting faces with a frigid blend of snow, ice pellets, and rain that freezes instantly upon landing. Even if a fire can be maintained with nothing but wet fuel and some makeshift shelter, this open spot along the river shore offers little opportunity for rest or safety.

"Might be best to try and forge ahead on foot." He points out a pillar of rock jutting from the river nearer the opposite shore. The basalt weathered and worn looks a bit like a finger pointing upward, the rest of the hand buried in the river depths. "That's Devil's Finger, so we aren't but a few miles from the falls and where we'd have to leave the river anyway."

Gunnar: Darrel took 11 points slashing and 14 points of cold damage with the hit you blocked with the ward. So that would be a total of 25 against the ward.

Even as Raseri gets back to her feet and once again summons forth the wailing spirits of the northern realms to form a protective whirlwind of howling death, the prophet of Khors summons forth his god's holy lance and drives it toward the troublesome spirit. Unfortunately, the prophet's aim is slightly off as he momentarily confuses one of the images for the true target.

*POP*

The image disappears causing the prophet to blush at his unexpected miscalculation. But no sooner does the vile creature spew forth another cackling howl than the searing flame of Khors engulfs the beast in burning light. Smelling sickly flesh burn and hearing the pained howl all know Luthael's second holy conjuration strikes true. This unleashes the true might and power of the heroes of the north.

Gunnar summons the power of the storm from sky and hammer. The entire shoreline shivers and shakes as lightning strikes the beast twice in rapid succession. Raseri's spirits howl and wail in eternal fury and glee as they rip and shred pale gray flesh and its illusionary counterparts. Unfazed by the maelstrom of furious spirits, Ingryd wields her hammer fueled by her own anger. Two crushing blows slam into the creature turning hard bone into little more than a splintered, shattered, mess. Finally, Scramsax regains her feet and with a quick *snap*crack* of her sling punctures one of the wendigo's eyes before she slips back behind the icy mound of a nearby shrub. The blow snaps the creatures head around and sends it momentarily spinning on the slick surface.

But even battered, blasted, and pulverized the insatiable hunger of its nature still pushes and drives it onward. It's gaze falls upon the lightning wielding dwarf and rage fills its one remaining eye as it easily traverses the distance and slashes its filthy claws at the wizard. The first blow bounces off sturdy dwarven armor, the second misses so badly the creature snaps its own ankle. On a mortal warrior such a thing would have certainly ended the battle, but a manifestation of greed, hunger, and devouring desire feels little pain other than its own need. And so a third blow lands, this time slashing the wizard across the leg, the razor claws also blackening and freezing the flesh sending waves of cold through the dwarf's body.

Gunnar takes a hit (I believe 27 will get through.) !5 slashing damage plus 13 cold.
Creature has 4HP left so next hit takes it out. AC16.
Party is up.

Scramsax wrote:

...before slipping away behind some fallen bramble or one of her companions, whichever was farther away from the encroaching spirit of vice.

Scram was wanting to move away earlier. Into the forest for cover or behind someone if they were farther away than forest cover.

Sorry, I guess I missed that or didn't understand correctly. I thought you were hiding behind Darrel or Raseri. The thick tree line is a little far away (30-40') and on the other side of Gunnar's wall. The rest of the area is mostly just a flat rocky river shore with scattered smaller trees and shrubs. But moving anywhere requires the STR(Athletics) check because you all are basically fighting on a really bumpy ice skating rink. Feel free to have yourself behind a small tree or shrub further away from the creature, but still starting the round prone.

Lightning bursts upon the ice coated landscape. The crackling thunder of a storm sphere surrounds momentarily surrounds the raging wendigo. But in perfect synchronization the twelve duck and roll across the ice avoiding the sparkling charge of electricity. A similar feat occurs when Gunnar calls down the full fury of the storm. In a brilliant flash and thunderous boom a bolt of lightning slams into the earth instantly vaporizing a small sapling, bent over with a heavy layer of ice. A shrub explodes as super heated sap and ice expand bursting through the puny confines of the shrubs outer bark. Shards of ice and wood fly into the air. But it is with an almost supernatural precognition and unison that the wendigo's once again tumble and roll to avoid the worst of the lightning strike's fury. It's movement's bring it close to where Darrel lies incapacitated on the slick, frozen ground.

This time, focused on the seemingly easy meal, the creatures cannot withstand the sudden pulse of brilliant light that engulfs each of them. Several suddenly flicker, popping into and out of existence with a loud irritating buzz as each jumps around in a chaotic whirlwind. An eye blink later and each image stabilizes. And the creature roars again in hungry fury.

The roar is accompanied by another outraged call. Ingryd, denied yet again the peaceful relaxation of an evening ice fishing, charges across the slippery surface of the camp. Each step taken is as treacherous a goblin's promise, but the northern born bearkin moves as if she were born upon a glacier and lashes out at the closest beast.

Warhammers flash with fire as they lash out at the clawed creature. The first blow is aimed perfectly at the beastly chest but in a surprise turn simply passes completely through the enemy. Her follow up blow ends with a similar result except that the image flickers, buzzes, and disappears from existence with a quiet *Fzzzzt* and does not return.

Having cast called forth her power, Raseri, reaches down to grab the fallen foxkin. Setting her feet to lift him up, she discovers the treacherous nature of the icy ground. One moment she is standing, the next she finds herself flat out on the ground sliding gently down the barely noticable slope toward the river shore.

Planning to use the foxkin as a hiding spot, and potentially regaining a certain amount of coins recently handed over for services yet to be rendered, Scramsax finds herself exposed with Darrel's collapse and Raseri's failure stay upright as well. Spotting another reasonable hiding spot near Gunnar's bedroll, the halfling takes a step in that direction only to find herself succumbing to the same fate as the priestess. Gazing up at the dark, cloud filled sky and slowly sliding toward cold waters of the river.

Standing still, Luthael waits for the true creature to make its move. For it has become clear to the holy man that while he does not understand the why or how of it, somehow the spirit's image was multiplied upon its return to this mortal ream. A quirk of fate. Some chaotic mischief of the hag's, or maybe just a side effect of the Margreve's own powers. The prophet can't be sure. But he is certain their is only one true foe that they face. This is even further confirmed when one of the beasts simply disappear under Ingryd's assault. And so he waits.

A wait that is soon rewarded when one of the creatures steps forward to stand over the prone halfling. All of the beasts step forward and snarl a hyena-like snarl at a scrambling Scramsax as claws lash out. A flash erupts in the wendigo's eyes as it attacks, causing the thick claws to slam into the ice a mere hair's width from where the halfling paddles furiously on the ice to slide away from the beast.

Black eyes narrow as it stops to momentarily contemplate the nearest three fallen foes. Upon only one, does it feel the hunger. Does it sense the pain and anguish. It is this one that draws the wendigo's own hunger. And so it turns away from the scrambling halfling and focuses it deadly attentions upon fallen, helpless Darrel. Claws rake the foxkin opening a quartet of bloody wounds that instantly turn blue and black like fingers left exposed to the cold for much too long.

Raseri and Scramsax are prone. To regain their feet uses the full movement action for the round. You may still attack. Anyone attempting to move on the ice must make a DC15 Athletics check or fall prone.

There are now only 11 beasts and Luthael can point out the real one.

Party is up.

Darrel moans and holds his head and he slowly sits up with Raseri's help. The foxkin shivers with both cold and the after effects of the wendigo's foul magic.

"Ooh...what by the gods was that?" Mumbles the foxkin. "Ain't never seen...or felt...such a thing in the Margreve before."

Congratulations are shared. Scramsax ponders the beast's final words, getting little help from wizard, priest, or priestess. Ingryd starts to return to her ice covered stone seat along the shore, only to find her line a little lighter than it was before. A few minutes pass. The cold, dreary precipitation continues to coat the world in a shell of slick ice.

Suddenly the air once again grows heavy and prickly. Ears pop as the air pressure rapidly rises. For an instant everything within thirty paces of Gunnar seems to stretch, pull, twist, and curl in upon itself in a thousand, thousand knotted configurations. Arcane energy pulses among the trees and along the river shore.

*POP*

*POPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOP*

A dozen of the creatures pop back into existence in another plane wrenching, headache inducing, ear popping, planar rip. The fabric of the world quickly repairs the unnatural gash with a final skin tingling...

*SLURP*

Then silence as wendigo's blink in confusion for a moment even as the heroes of the north stand temporarily bewildered in their own right. Then all twelve beasts suddenly raise their spindly clawed arms high and twelve throats erupt.

"WEEWEEWEEE Woooooo" They howl as they all swing their head back and forth in unison looking for the nearest, easiest prey to sate the hunger that once again fills the night air and causes Darrel to slink back to the ground with a soft groan.

One by one the heroes of Nargenstal throw off the mind devouring aura of the wendigo. Long have they wrestled with such internal hungers and desires. Long have those particular demons been laid to rest or in some cases simply harnessed and chained for more practical purposes. Only one among the small band succumbs to the monster's broadcasting desires. The foxkin Darrel, lies on the frozen ground, arms clutched about his stomach as ice slowly begins to embrace the guide within its frozen grasp.

But there is time to save the fallen guide, for the elements operate on a different time scale than most mortals. Hours are needed for the foxkin to finally fall completely into the frozen grip of death's embrace. Plenty of time for the stalwart band of heroes to dispatch the pest born of some others greed and misfortune.

So it is that within moments of its appearance upon the wall, the beast is pummeled by sling stone and engulfed in flame and angry spirits. A roar near equal to its own erupts from near the shore where a fishing pole now sits unattended, the end bobbing almost imperceptibly as a scaled, finned thief makes off with the bait amidst the distraction.

Then the grumbling voice of the wizard fills the silence following Ingryd's charging roar. The air grows heavy, cloying. Pressure builds causing ears to squeal and pop in annoyance. A fissure in reality cracks open as the wendigo leaps from the wall toward the fallen guide. The beast plunges through the sudden opening into whatever lies beyond that mist shrouded portal. One last startled and surprised "Yip." is all it manages to voice before the portal slams closed.

*POP*

All is silence once again. Silence and ice and cold and darkness beyond the flickering flames still glimmering from Gunnar's shield and the remnants of Luthael's fiery blast.

If you make the original save, then you get your full turn per normal. It is only if you fail and save later that it takes place at the end of the turn.