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Yeah, I think next time I'm going to break it into 3-4 month episodes to lessen the commitment and give a chance for a creative refreshment in between. I hope to get this going again and continue to the Mad Max themed part of the adventure (it's why I started this one in the first place). But not really working well lately, and again I apologize. I'll mark this inactive in another day or two so it doesn't clutter your campaign tabs, and send PM when I think I can get it going again.
Hey guys, really sorry to do this again, but I need to take a break from the boards. I will let you know when things settle down...I will probably be back in a few months.
Reya regarded Simon's inquiry with extreme suspicion, squinting her eyes in concentrated analysis a beat before "...right. The suites, his personal residence." pointing towards the other side of the desecrated altar. "Perhaps the offices as well...I want to check both." Syrina believes she hears voices when all others hear nothing, the unsettling aura about the corrupted altar still playing tricks on her senses. Her limited experiences with magics could hardly constitute the lexicon of a true wizard, but still some things are obvious here. Some great power has overshadowed Torm's connection to this altar, and the result is a mockery of human flesh and waves of psychological games...mind f*ckery not even a feline is immune to, apparently. Lucian and Malaric, even closer to the altar, seem to wrestle with some decision ever so briefly before standing tall and defiant. Motes of pitch-black soot begin to appear and magnetize to their skin. Their bodies take on a soft red glow. Inside their minds they hear the screams of an eternity of souls locked in extreme suffering and forced into twisted, shameful pleasures. Ever have chapped lips? Similar fissures begin to erupt across their entire epidermis. The earlier sensation of weakened bones intensifies. Clumps of hair fall from their scalps in tiny handfuls. Soon it seems as if the must lie down, as their skeleton will be too weak to support their weight. For this unfortunate pair of wizard and ranger, the source of their newest malady is obvious. But their concentration is numbed, their reactions slowed. They both want to get the hell away from the stolen altar of Zariel as quickly as possible...but fear tearing their flesh apart if they move too quickly.
As precious as fresh water was in hell, the Doomguide did not hesitate to sacrifice his own for a total stranger. A stranger who has seen better days. "...oh gods...where did you get this...t-thank you friend." leaning up at his waist. Clearly this is not a zombie or dead man after all, but another survivor. Rubbing the back of his head, where there is a bloody but not serious blunt force trauma wound "Did you kill them all? Oh no...where are all the others..." he stands up too fast and passes out for a second, almost falling completely over but catching himself. This is a very tan half-elf, wearing the druidic symbol of Silvanus and carrying a polished club of what looks like yew.
Giving a bit for Grim's roll/rp.
The wooden mechanical hand seems uninterested in Grim's coins, perhaps transcendent of material wealth or neutral regarding the symbolism of Kelemvor. Grim does however notice, with his close investigation of the palm, a number of large teakwood plates constituting the palm. One particularly large sized one seems loose. Mal and Grim turn to chatter, prodding here and there at the many corpses laying about. It seems pretty clear that a force of devils took on the guard of this sanctuary, and both sides lost. Malaric and Lucian wander farther towards the altar wrapped in human skin and entrails, uncertain or uncaring about whatever Syrina and Cat are concerned with. Passing only a few steps beyond the curtain, they both feel a sudden weakness in the core of their bones...a dryness to their cracking musculature, and a very, very strong compulsion to
*spittle wheez* Meanwhile one of the corpses near Grim suddenly draws breath. "...water...please..." the zombie with a very good uncorrupted human disguise pleads. For the noble's part, Simon considers the massive central altar...its purpose, its status, its rank. There are the tell-tale signs of holiness, inspired twinkling sounds of peacefully babbling brooks, a warm comforting breeze at the nape, the giggles of distant naked virgins. The undeniable presence of such good and holy things leads Simon to take a more hands on approach to the contraption, but the moment he touches the altar a miracle happens! Simon glows briefly as if his skin was now made of pure red, unoxidized copper. You can almost smell the choir of loyal maidens as they recite the undying promises of that paragon of loyalty, Torm. And yet the service has not reached its end.
That's right. Apologies not the best hook ever, I am just running according to the published adventure and did not come up with anything different. Thavius Kreeg is responsible for Elturel's fall. Reya thought to check his residence for clues (here somewhere in the High Hall cathedral), on the hunt for the original contract. Some of you had your own motivations for coming to hell. Some of you didn't have a choice (Lucian, Syrina).
Syrina, with focused intense look, you become certain there is nothing physically there in the shadows. Ordinarily, that kind of absolute certainty would be a comfort and a relief. However, in this case it only adds to your uneasiness...sure there is nothing, yet an unmistakable sense of some sentinel force remains. One choosing, perhaps, not to reveal its intentions just yet. And again despite this certainty the watchful nothingness endures, granted when a flare in the continual flame magics sheds a glimpse into the dark corners and proves their vacancy. But try convincing Cat. Cat still believes despite this empirical evidence there is something there... In other words, Cat has chosen to believe something besides their three eyes. Will Syrina?
The drapery did not resist. Syrina immediately wished it had. This...this is desecration. Like a merchant's bundles apassin' through the Anauroch, holy relics and reliquaries were wrapped in the skin and organs of the men and women of the previous slaughter. A stranglehold of blood, ichor, and torn strips of flesh lashed together with sinew, intestines, and the burly bristles of some exotic fiend's nethers...such is the texture that has been papered to the sacred nexus of Mercuria, the Loyal Fury's Trueheart. Its influence is beyond Syrina's base senses. She feels a tickle at her face, a little puff of wind that draws her attention to a corner near the altar...an odd shape in the shadows, like an upside down face. The three-eyed cat notices it too, starting intently and unblinkingly...slavering its lip-less kitty jowls and murmuring ancient feline curses of death and murder. The shadows stare back, motionless. ~~~ "Huh? Oh yeah, lemme give it a yank...*hwaaAAAAAHHH!!!*" contrasted to Reya's efforts, the polished wooden contraption is remarkably smooth and silent...as if maintained by some force outside the corrupting influence of hell. The fist is dexterous. The fist unravels with grace. The hand opens up expectantly, wondering what you have to offer. Somewhere you hear the dingdong of a silver bell, and the gentle warbling of waterfowl. But here too, there is a magnetism beyond mundane senses. Of course Torm, unknown to any mortal, was the master of a horde of prisoners bound to eternally walk the edge of the Realmspace crystal sphere. Each wears the same styled hand as a marking brand...their task is to open the portals to other realms. Such is the stride demanded of His gold dragon companion. What mortals can comprehend, the odd translation of this influence to the unbeknowing is like that of a promise. No, stronger than that. As if given a pledge of loyalty by a beloved acquaintance. There is a sense that a service has begun.
Cautiously peeling back the curtain, the party is immediately hit with the smell of drying blood and rotting internal organs. The visual scene is no less shocking, the bodies of multiple men and women strewn up like festival lanterns...defaced and mortally humiliated. More lie flung about on the white alabaster tiles in fancy arrangements that hint at some diabolical ritual. However, the brutal and unrestrained carnage extends to hell's citizens as well...foul devil corpses are littered among them. The centerpiece of this area is a massive altar of Torm, shaped like a faceted gemstone some 40 ft across! Made of what looks like polished teakwood, an intricate gauntleted hand clenched into a fist rises from the dais. A large lever stands next to the altar. Reya explains while pinching her nose, tactically avoiding the spilled intestines near her foot "...that lever. The priests would use it to open and close the hand. When open, it makes a platform for the target of rituals to lie upon." she offers with a shrug. North and south of this main altar are 2 smaller altars in private chapels. They seem to be able to be curtained off, but both are open at the moment.
Sorry guys got pinched tonight, will post as soon as I can tomorrow.
The party of hell-weathered heroes and survivors shuffle cautiously into the spacious cathedral. The holy light within is at first a welcome glow, a number of magical sconces illuminating the sanctum. However, on closer inspection, hell appears to have warped the continual flame magics...causing them to appear as something precious (ie. your parents or pants) on fire. Lucian would also be quick to note the entire vibe of the place has twisted radically. Once decorated with beautiful paintings, statues, and other works that depicted the strength and valor of Elturel's people, the cathedral seems to have been magically transformed...perhaps when Elturel was pulled into Avernus. Now its artwork is a testament to the devils' superiority and strength, showing scenes of mortals succumbing to temptation, dying at the hands of fiends, and of course suffering eternal torture. The images animate, obfuscate, swirl and tease you when you get too close...as if forming a bulwark against the influence of Torm. Reya was enraptured by the image of her childhood crush being burned alive when Malaric probed for details. Turning slowly to regard the halfling, the transition from pure vengeance to polite smallfolk chatter was quite noticeable on her face "...well hmm. I don't know what this place has become, living in the shadow of the Betrayer. But a cluster of Torm's altars lie beyond those curtains...the largest of which is equipped with a trick mechanical hand. It used to terrify me when I was younger." she smirks to herself, now hardened way beyond such innocent reveries. "More importantly the stairs to the upper residential levels are further that direction...whatever is left of them." still hopeful they might find something of note in Kreeg's former room. She pauses though, glancing behind her a moment to regard a bundle of golden pipes stretching some 40 feet to the ceiling up on the balcony. "I've never been in here when that organ wasn't playing..." The party senses no immediate threats, but curtains are torn, windows are shattered. Some windows include heavy iron defensive screens, the majority of which are shuttered with what look like ramshackle guard posts now vacated. There are certainly signs of struggle here, and recent. Bloodstains, dropped weapons, pools of mysterious black substances. A little hasty bonfire dwindles in the corner, consuming the holy written works of Torm.
Reya tumbles out of nowhere decapitating the thing effortlessly "See how easy the corrupted evil fall before us! Heh, there is nothing to fear friends, they will ALL fall before us!!" raising her silvered sword to the sky with the fallen betrayer companion adding a dramatic cracker of lightning.
Sauntering up the steps, you find a quartet of plate-mailed fallen with their faces mostly eaten...a prize for the recently deceased hell hounds now mere mince meat waiting to be consumed by devil spores. Their wounds are clearly canine, but on closer inspection it appears a mix: slashing and thrusting weapons contributing as much to the murders as bite wounds. Beyond this tetrafecta of mauled guards, the cathedral door hangs wide open...a bright and welcoming aura gleaming from inside. Glancing right and left at the tops of the stairs, an archway opens into a long hall containing eight columns. Some of the columns have been carved to represent Torm, but the infernal magic of Avernus has warped the others to represent likenesses of a winged female devil wielding a luminous sword...Zariel.
The entrance foyer contains a few circular stairwells leading upwards to a sort of choir level complete with a grand looking pipe organ. Decorated pillars represent Torm's greatest hits, the God mounting his wondrous dragon in campaign after carefully recorded campaign. Obscuring this humongous space () are thick and heavy curtains, obscuring the main worshipping area except where shredded with weapon and natural claw...the heart of the cathedral remains beyond.
The slayers rapidly show these pups who's boss...the hell hounds infernal guts spilling from its soft belly pathetically as it struggles to survive.
The hound is faster than Syrina, but Lucian is there to intercept. Out in the borderlands, the Hellrider often went hand to hand with wild beasts...the ranger was ready to not only take the impact but counterstrike. It was then he remembered the warning about fire breath...
Round 2:
Syrina had a bad combo: a parched throat and a dust-encrusted tongue. With such instruments, the delicate sonic pleasures of rasp, jingle, twinkle and other berries were most harshly produced. The performance seemed to herald a wild crack of intense emotive force made physical, the blast skipping off the steps and leaving behind a curious purple hue on the white stone. The bounty hunter didn't miss a beat, adjusting her stance and this time funneling the massive fountain of endless energy in a more controlled manner. Imagine punching a campfire. The hound's skin burst in fulminations like coals beneath plates of some char-black organic metal. The beast whimpered in surprise from the force, before glaring his attacker down with a soul-twisting evil doggy-glare...seeming to pull out and categorize Syrina's every weaknesses in some fiendish tactical calculus. It gave a sniff in Molly's direction, triggering Syrina's retraction. Grim and Malaric patch her retreat, advancing in a crisscrossing covering maneuver...both slayers with glowing fists raised. The priest carried light, but it was more than light. It was balance, it was adjudication. A strand of the divine that ever clashed with mortal hands. It may as well be 100 naked babes on fire for how shocking and out of place Kelemvor's essence, His deific signature, seems in hell. The wizard carried sound, that irresistible boom from the darkest cloud lost in a black sky. The crystal lattice of diamond was the only known focus for the spell, other materials lacking the correct modulus of elasticity required to stabilize the intense vibrations. Grim's bolt struck true as Malaric's orb bounced off the dog's nose like a silly circus trick. But when the priest's radiant projectile ignited, it created a pressure differential that altered Malaric's sonic orb...pulling it in and crashing in an explosion of light and sound. Simon tried starting a relatively neutral conversation with Reya, preparing to further detail the quality of their coats, slenderness of their muzzles, thickness of their whiskers and general cuddle-ness. Reya ran off instantly. Comfortable alone, the wealthy planar explorer exploited the nuances of his contract with Bel to wrangle up another pair of preternatural weapons...gleaming with rich artifice the strange magic tumbled up the steps, pummeling the dogs of hell again and again. Tasty bits of charcoal dog flesh spiced with the epidermal parasites of hell sprinkled the stately steps of the cathedral. But it was Lucian's bow that stunned everyone. The Arisen Guard who once wandered the shadow orchards of Celestia had an uncanny skill with marksmanship...fate unquestionably had sent the warrior here to defend the capital during this critical juncture. *toot toot toot* Of course Lulu ruined it by tooting during each of the three shots. When the dust had settled, only one of the hell hounds stood back up.
Round 1:
Ok, thanks for headsup Grim. About to head home, will update first thing upon arrival. (maybe second thing depending on how many beers left in the fridge)
medium or large They are in fact medium.
Just a jolly note, Syrina is fortunate Hell Hounds Trio nat 1'ed on the init roll. She would be facing 3x 6d6 had that gone otherwise.
(and that's probably meta to all but Malaric, who studied at Candlekeep)
Syrina's altered gait does much to conceal the sound of her footfalls as she climbs the tall stack of alabaster steps leading to the great cathedral of Torm. But the rotten heads at her waist. The armpits that haven't felt soapy water for tendays. The crotch-musk that long ago learned the escape route from that hot and hidden chamber. All that probably would have been enough...but then mix those scents with the dander laden cat hairs dusting her duster and making her sliced tomato preserves less appetizing (because of the hairs). It would have been a stench to wrangle any mere mutt from their slumber. But lumbering out of the rubble were no mere mutts. A trio of hell hounds, those dreaded fire-breathing fiends taking the form of dogs, were the sentinels on guard at the ornate entrance. Syrina noted their ears turned exactly in her direction, and the sniffing at the air likewise tracked every step...sniffing that quickly turned to lip-curling growls. She was made. Inits:
, Round 1:
Repost:
At Simon's analysis Reya mumbled something about invitations and how the Eltan wasn't included before snapping "All of it. We're gonna save all of it." a crazy, undefeatable look in her eyes. Lulu gave a supportive toot, but the sour looks from the others put the halfling veteran in a boat of her own. True, she had brought everyone here...but now the overwhelming hopelessness and despair of the hells had fractured the mission. She wondered if that rat-bastard Traxigor suddenly sprang back into their lives with a portal leading to Neverwinter, how many would abandon her here for the exotic fermented Troll Sh*t shots of the Driftwood Tavern. Seemed like a step up, she couldn't deny it. Unsheathing her sword and pointing to one of the cathedral towers "We raise this city from the dead or we die in hell. Your choice." the skull that replaced the Companion on her Hellrider armor seeming to laugh, knowing it was no choice at all.
Just holding a tad for Lucian's ascent.
Slow weekend, eh? After the rope climb/Mal assist gives you advantage on the Athletics check to reach the castle, how would you like to approach the cathedral? A gap in the main castle wall allows entrance to the courtyard, then the big remaining structure is the cathedral.
Sticking to the survivor's creed of not taking any chances, the slayers opt to give the scorched and undulating fallen warrior a wide berth, dashing quickly to the next open path among the collapsed remnants of civilization. Turning the corner, it is immediately blocked. Rubble from the destroyed mansions and multi-level shops of the wealthy neighborhood has created a new, hilly terrain of demolition waste. Barbs of wood splinters, sheared and torn steel, concrete blocks dusted with gypsum powders...roads and sidewalks are buried deep, it has to be climbed.
At last mounting the summit of Elturel, you feel the vibrations from the dark Betrayer above...closer than ever before to Kreeg's mysterious artifact. It grips every hair on your body and slowly pulls it from the root, directly towards the center of the swallowing black sphere. Yet, at the same time you feel a strong empathic connection to the hovering darkstar, a powerful emotional sense of sadness and shame seems to be drawn out of you as well. Sound likewise seems unable to escape the grasp of the turned Companion. From below echoes are muted or drawn into bizarre pitch changes as the arcs of electricity ozonify the acoustic medium. Light too, seems unable to escape...the sphere covered with something akin to magical darkness, solid black void without texture. Reya can't bear to think upon it, focusing on the surviving fortifications here instead. Of course the clifftop castle was once the crowning architectural jewel of Elturel. Now only three of its five watchtowers towers still stand, though they appear abandoned save the one oddly flying the Flaming Fist banner. The wooden gates that once led into the castle grounds have been shattered, leaving a convenient gaping hole in the wall. Glancing behind you, you see Elturel as these masters of the realm would have in the past, a pristine view of a bustling port now a disgusting view of boiling mud and festering chaos. Indeed the whole eastern district was now a nightmarket of ghosts and bone, overrun by countless undead...slowly consuming every last Creed-keeper citizen of the cursed capital. The lesser-explored western residential expanse seems to have faired little better, the cemetery on the distant hill promising even more bodies for the army of dead. Peering inside the remnants of the courtyard, it is clear the west side of the castle has been reduced to yet another pile of smashed brick and broken wood. The surviving buildings are blackened by soot, and licked by the still flapping flames of a giant meteoric crater crackling with heat nearby. Yet, at the center of the castle grounds, the High Hall cathedral stands defiant...a testament to the power of faith in Torm, perhaps some divine protective wards still burn within offering respite from the brutal and unforgiving trials of hell. Or perhaps it was just another deal High Observer Kreeg made with the devil to spare his residence...
ft Grim, armored with the cancelling veil of morality-made-force, strides into the intersection...but keeping his distance from the odd charred corpse. Meanwhile, Syrina is wholly amped, meticulously scanning every nook, crouch hole, and awning for sights and sounds of an undead ambuscade or devilish skirmish. Ultimately the bounty hunter finds none, although she does wonder what's with all that bubbling and churning noises coming from the corpse. You call that a corpse? Simon finds his patron's 'great arcane gift' isn't as great as the contract suggested, feeling a bit conned.
Indeed, although careful it isn't a shrubbery situation. ;)
I had a better opinion of this cantrip Hehe, well the visual aspect is pretty limited unless you are an illusionist. It takes some creativity...good for lures and macguffin decoys. But don't forget it has the aural aspect as well, basically replacing 'Ghost Sound' and 'Ventriloquism' from previous editions. I think that's where its real strength is.
Grim, if you have a chance for a quick post, can you just let me know how close you are getting?
Leaving Torm's Blade behind, the slayers of devils and dead find the most direct route up the steep, artificial hill overlooking the fearsome chasm into hell. What was once an inspiring, verdant orchard is now another gravestone of the bright civilization once flourishing here. The wealthy would give their second born daughters for a plot right next to the so-called 'Winter Garden', which carried fresh springwater from High Hall all the way down. It's now a hot lava flow, and the trees and exotic plant species are either on fire or rotten. It doesn't take hours of debate for the party to decide on an alternate path through the ruins...ruins of mansions. Ruins of noble estates and the finest of shops. Were the wealthy able to buy their salvation from this horror, you wonder... *BLAM* The dark orb lingering above the High Hall reminds you of its presence, casting a random bolt of lightning feet from your position in an explosive scattering of stone. Don't look down, keep your eyes up...the Betrayer is not yet finished casting its net of annihilation. Those with metal gear feel the hairs on their neck energize every few moments, just before another rip-crack of light arcs across the scorched landscape. "Oh gods..." Harkina mumbles "Are we too late? What's happening to it..." It doesn't take long to see what she's talking about. From this vantage, it appears certain parts of the castle parapets are floating in pieces...almost as if magnetically suspended between castle and companion. Not to mention the main courtyard is either on fire or smoldering given the rapidly churning column of smoke. Reya has a doubt in her voice "What if whatever we were supposed to find is just blasted away by meteors or lightning, or stolen by those snake-beards...wait! that banner..." Fluttering in the droplets of sulfuric acid and bone powder constituting hells atmosphere was a long standard of red fabric...the emblem? A clenched hand on fire. Even from this distance, it was unmistakable. "The Fist...? Ravengard?" a hint of hope clawing its way back to the dark warrior. The sense of urgency somewhat lost on the chatty ladies was not forgotten by the slayers, again submerging themselves among fallen stone and shattered spruce splinters as they begin the trek upwards. Just from an initial survey, it seems the dead are somewhat less frequent than back across the bridge. The scouts report only single zombies lumbering around, and certainly no dragons made of bone. Cutting a path through the crumbling mansions is almost mechanical at this point. Wait. Listen. Know, never gamble. But then, about halfway to the castle, some new temptation: a corpse in the middle of the street clutching a longblade and seemingly well-equipped. The body is completely blackened, burnt to a crisp.
Sounds like a winner, just home will update soon.
It is statistically possible, but it would likely be a 1 step forward 2 steps back kind of situation. You guys will have a chance to long rest soon...but yeah out here on the streets pretty hard. You guys took a hard path to get here. Remember how you chose to simply walk through the huge zombie horde? I really wasn't expecting that or the return to the printing press. A few random encounter rolls were also not in your favor, but that could've been shaved down a bit from a more direct route.
Slater Slitherins the Nupperibo was having a bad millennium. Magically compelled to pluck devil-lice from the asshairs of a flatulent night hag, the tormented was then ordered to fold the bugs into perfect origami frogs (with a clever flap on the back to actually make it jump). If there was even the slightest mistake with his folding, it was a redo. The pile of nearly 30,000 origami frogs paled in comparison to the millions of lice still jumping about the rump of the lazy hag. "Wot's that?! Do you see it, ass picker?" the hag inquired, spotting a plummeting shadow in the sky quickly coming their way. Depressed and apathetic, Slitherins still made a show of attempting to answer the revolting woman-not-woman "...I don't know, the sky...? Oh, looks like a helmet? No. It's a Pumhart von Steyr." "Hee hee hee. Well it better move, cause I sure as hell aint." firing an eldritch blast of some force only an insane criminal could understand. Striking true, the mystery projectile began to tumble, spilling its contents in a much larger swath. "Hee hee...oh sh*t." The aborted kitten fetuses signed with the mark of corruption and drenched in incomprehensible feces from beyond the void scored a direct hit, and somewhere the master of torment licked his lips...tasting the magnitude of grotesque suffering bestowed upon his charge.
You guys have a few paths to consider. High Hall is at the top of the big hill in the middle of town. See Art 2 slides map for current position. A. Straight up the hill, using the former 'garden' as a path
The devil's corpses are quickly burnt away from the lingering radiance of Torm, leaving behind their weapons, jewelry, and leather clothing. On closer analysis, the jewelry and clothing appears to be a sure winner of the Satan's Choice fashion awards, being an affront to good taste and unabashedly offering a finger to practicality. The cloaked figure does not burn away in the holy fire of the runes however. Turning him over, its clear why...its a blue-eyed survivor neither devil, demon, or undead.
A foul-smelling liquid undulates in a bucket at his feet, near the dropped brush. Daring a look, it appears to be a gallon of aborted kitten fetuses mixed with the feces of some forbidden, interplanar acquaintance...each one marked with a hellish sigil of corruption upon its face and neck. This cultist was painting the obscure substance over the runes of Torm, for gods know what purpose. Defilement seems a safe bet. Among his possessions is a spellbook, featuring an embroidered depiction of an unlucky guy getting his entrails pulled out of his mouth by a large goat-like figure. Cultist's Book: Level 1 Spell: Find Familiar Level 1 Spell: Fog Cloud Level 1 Spell: Alarm Level 1 Spell: Burning Hands Level 1 Spell: Charm Person Level 1 Spell: Chromatic Orb Level 2 Spell: Cloud of Daggers Level 2 Spell: Flaming Sphere Level 2 Spell: Alter Self Level 2 Spell: Arcane Lock Level 2 Spell: Blindness / Deafness Level 2 Spell: Blur Level 3 Spell: Sleet Storm Level 3 Spell: Stinking Cloud Level 3 Spell: Animate Dead Level 3 Spell: Bestow Curse Level 4 Spell: Conjure Minor Elementals Level 4 Spell: Dimension Door Level 4 Spell: Arcane Eye Level 4 Spell: Banishment Level 4 Spell: Blight Level 4 Spell: Confusion Level 5 Spell: Cloudkill Level 5 Spell: Conjure Elemental Level 5 Spell: Animate Objects Level 5 Spell: Bigby's Hand Level 5 Spell: Cone of Cold
Reya's battlecry proves you can pack a lot of sound in a tiny box, the halfling charging forward for the pride of the Hellriders, the vengeance of Elturel...
...the silver blade bursting rainbow sparks against the infernal iron of the barbazu's glaive. Dropping her grip a split second, the swordpoint swung a rapid arc finding a meaty, artery filled chunk of flesh to bleed. The Lord of the Dead hungered for justice with a zeal that bordered lust, the snake-bearded warriors evading a true death for nearly a millennia. His champion rushed forward, following the light of his example.
The Sharran, offended by the light but unwilling to pass up a combat opportunity, shed his cold bolt and struck true...dropping the devil to the white-hot marble of the bridge. Lucian adjusted his aim, taking the longer shot...and was rewarded with a satisfying yelp of pain. However, the Raven had other plans...a programme quite lacking in patience. Syrina's blast took the fiend at the shoulder, shearing it off at the bone joint. Simon stepped in for the glory of the final shot, offering no mercy to the last of the bridge force...fallen in an instant to the First Hope of Hell.
Bonus Hide: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (6) + 9 = 15
vs Bridge Magic:
A symphony of pain casts its overture for the trillionth time in Avernus. Before Lucian can even open his eyes, the devils erupt into a white-hot radiance. The smaller winged creatures all burn to ash instantly, while the meatier snake-beards struggle to grip their glaive from the searing pain rocking their entire pink bodies (and scorching their paisley tunics).
Round 1:
The Sharran's snipe from the shadows gets everyone's attention, as with a bolt in the back the crouching cloaked figure drops their brush and unleashes a (clearly human) scream. Something falls off the brush but it is hard to see from this distance, however the substance has a curious resemblance to chicken dumplings...falling from the brush in tiny wads. The guard of Elturel doesn't hesitate to use the city defenses against these interlopers, his inner prayer again opening a conduit to Trueheart (the realm of Torm located in Mercuria). For a brief moment the clouds of dark ash part, and everyone has a glimpse of a clear blue sky...the odd combination of scents streaming from the planar nexus suggesting honeysuckle and copper. The runes at Lucian's feet glow brightly, spreading to the others nearby and even all the way across the span in a blink. Already startled, the bridge force now scrambles in alarm.
The cloaked figure reeling from Mal's shot finally manages to pull the barbed projectile out, but barely squeaks out a sigh of relief before the Raven's gift of annialation pummels him to death. His brains splatter across one of the large white marble columns near the halfway mark, and the rest of the body collapses pitifully...nearly falling off the edge.
With the hollyphant's magics still spent, the too-cute-for-hell elephant ducks for cover struggling to think of a way to be more useful. Meanwhile Simon, still irritated from stepping on a duck moments earlier, pouts and considers leaving the fight to his Round 1:
Round 1:
Syrina delivered the numbers, and the party responded with a plan. One devil at a time, the bridge would be theirs. The only catch to the strategy was a winding path through narrow, treacherous ruins. It may as well have been lined with the liverhooks of pit fiends, for all the snags and scrapes protruding from the demolished constructions. But it was invisible, like glass submerged in oil, this crooked path through hell. Until a weird three-eyed duck waddled out of the side hatch, the fat mallard being immediately STOMPED by Simon's noble footwear. *wwWWWWACK!* its neck vertebrae fracturing into tiny splinters, which then eviscerated the water bird's spinal cord instantly. Everyone's blood froze. The devils seemed startled. But then a questioning and much more quiet *ack?* came from the distance, and the disturbance was hand-waved away as a flock of abyssal chickens. They were soon back to their usual business of patrols, boasting, cajoling and generally torturing each other. Save the cloaked figure. That one remained crouched, engaged in some tedious task resembling oil painting. The party took a final step, the last before they would break cover. With last second plans muddled and/or dropped, the Sword Coast expendables took the fight to the natives.
Inits:
, Round 1:
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