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*huddles in, sings something crass about there not being enough Iomedae down here* One day we'll get back aboveground Huh. Suddenly have a new desktop wallpaper for work <3 You should finish that drawing, dien. My curiosity demands it :D
Gwyneth gingerly plucks the second vial from the Alchemist's grip. Even though the liquid has settled into a relatively inoffensive hue, she still can't quite hide the mask of suspicion crawling across her face. Her first introduction to Naali's concoctions still sits relatively fresh in mind. Alongside demons, Terendelev, and a tiny Tiefling tossing explosive bombs. "So the chance of spontaneous combustion is...?" she asks grimly, though the paladin quickly shakes it off. "On second thought; don't answer that." Gwyneth gives the potion a final stare before tucking it beside her holy symbol, safe beneath the folds of her sash. "Surprise me."
Gwyneth gives the bull-headed symbols one last evil eye a piece before tossing them unceremoniously into her pack. With luck she'll have chance to turn them back into the molten slag from whence they came, but for now the Paladin settles on merely keeping the unholy tokens from sight. "Suppose I'll just have to make special exception for you and that deathtrap then, eh?" she says, ruffling Naali's hair with a smirk that pulls the old scars beneath her jaw noticeably taut. After a moment, the Paladin whispers another prayer under her breath; earnest promises to bring ruin upon their enemies and pride to those at her back. Her reward is another flicker of positive energy, and where once the glaive wound was sealed but thin, its outer markings appear all but gone.
"We all done here?" she asks, withdrawing to the southernmost doorway, her sword held firm. "'Cause I'm more than fine." Alright, so a good portion of 'fine' is blatant bravado--but clearly Gwyneth is getting the hang of something...even if she's not entirely certain what that something actually is.
I kid you not, 70% of our calls are solved with 'If you could just reinstall it for me, that'd be greaaaat.' 20% is user error or lack of training. 10% is our Wales team being blown up by third party problems beyond their control because Wales needs to be diiiiifffreeeeeent. (No prizes for guessing which team I'm stuck with). Moving on: *now with Shopping Lists! How's that look for everyone?
To Naali's question, Gwyneth blinks exactly once before admitting somewhat timidly: "I'm...not too sure. I mean I've seen it. On others. Sword-Knights, mostly. Our Lady 'Light of the Sword' living up to the name; but not..." She rumbles a little, stifling a laugh as her fingers flex about the grip of her blade. "You get told for so long that you can't do something that it ends up feeling...weird, y'know? When you can. I mean, it's a good weird. Is there a 'good' weird?" "And I...just called my Goddess weird, didn't I? Wow. Okay, just...just point me at the nearest cultist. Or a skylight. We clearly need out of this hell-forsaken place..." Preparing to deal with the matters at hand, another small, thin ribbon of light, faint as mist, hisses out between the scales of Gwyneth's armour...
... "Aye to that. If we're covering multiple levels, I'd be happier to secure them as we go," the Paladin answers to Therrik, nodding as she assists with putting their possessions to more noble means. As to the symbols...Gwyneth's first act is to try breaking one with her bare hands, but the focuses prove uncooperative with this particular method of destruction. Of course that still doesn't stop her from trying as she continues, "There's enough danger going forward without inviting a glaive in the back while we're at it."
"Like you wouldn't belie...eh?" Gwyneth's complaint comes to a grinding halt, looking down at her surprisingly less painful midsection, the last whispers of divine magic vanishing from her fingers. ".....Uuuhm. What?" She prods the area, suspicious, and jabs sharp on still-sore muscle for her trouble. "Yeah, no, ow, don't do that..." "I'm good. I think? Probably?" She eventually settles on something neutral, flexing her fingers as if something might happen a second time. When it doesn't, she lets the thought go--preferring to get back to the matter at hand before she devolves into a giddy choir-girl. "Sull wasn't specific, no; but I can't imagine this is it," Gwyneth says, peering over Therrik as he inspects the bodies. A light gauntlet knocks at his shoulder. "You 'kay? Fun as it sounds, I think I'd sooner take the glaive again than risk being touched up by that." Her head inclines towards the more persistent of their two adversaries, lips pursing in an failed attempt to curb her disdain.
Level 2!:
Paladin 2 • HP Gained: 5(HD)+1(Con). New Total: 17 • Divine Grace: +Cha to All Saves • Lay On Hands: 1+4(Cha) uses. 1d6 Healing. Skills (+ FC Bonus): Diplomacy, Knowledge (Planes), Knowledge (Religion), Perception, Profession (Soldier), Use Magic Device On loot: I believe we covered everything, so splitting the pot is fine by me.
As the Cultist falls in a clattering heap, Gwyn equally slumps back on her knees, one arm curled about her sword, the other clenched at her wound as her brief spike of adrenaline wears off into an unwelcome ache. She would rise if her legs willed it, check the bodies and confirm what the Gods have already implied, but when split between the choice of fueling her anger and a few moments of breathing space, the Paladin settles on the saner choice. A quick scan of the party confirms that no one else has had the misfortune of a similar fate, and for that gives a solid, earnest prayer, though she's not quite sure what to make of the rest--that there's genuine Cultists down here, that Therrik finds himself unable to hit the broadside of a barn, or that Sadron is really pressing her definition of 'musician' to its utmost limits. Of course at this point, she barely cares. The Church teaches, 'I will guard the honor of my fellows'--and if they're not fellows now, after several bouts of combat and one massive, unfathomable catastrophe, Gwyn's not sure what else to call them. The compulsion to see that none suffer unnecessarily is not at all foreign, but there is a strength, hot and light, radiating in her bones as she attempts to draw herself upright; Guard them. "Templars?" She asks, gazing about the presently-armed members of their troupe. At this point her fingers--glowing, hissing fingers--press firm to her abdomen. The very edge of the wound, visible through breaks in her armour, seems to knit shut, cauterized by white-gold ribbons of light that linger only a moment before dissolving. The Paladin appears none the wiser as she finishes, "'Cause that felt like a Templar."
Gwyneth winces as the cultist takes a swing at the nimble-hoofed Tiefling, breathing a sigh of relief as Naali weaves under the blow. To Therrik, she shakes her head, teeth still clenched as she hopes to use the opportunity to introduce their enemy to a just blade! "Less backtalk; more backswing--!"
Gwyneth holds her sword in unsteady hands, eye twitching as the wound in her torso continues to scream. She winces a bit as a third glaive enters her vision, but the sight of their Tiefling ally on the opposite end of the weapon softens her scowl despite the pain. "Iomedae..." she groans between heavy breaths, forcing her left side to cooperate and advance. Don't count me out yet...! Because the thought of Naali, or Sadron, or anyone taking a sweep like that hits much harder than any Templar blade.
Apparently I missed this earlier.
Your armor is just too shiny and noticeable! Quite literally in the job description. Her ordainment might as well have been: "Name, check. Combat ability, check. Major offenses...expunged? Hmph. Strange. In any case, everything seems in order Ms. Koschei; but more importantly -- what are your feelings on wearing Silver, Red, White and Gold?"
An empty room strikes Gwyn as strange, initially, given that she has no reason to doubt Therrik's keen senses; and for a moment, the Paladin lets down her guard, mouth open with a jest on her tongue. Then there's these sounds--loud, very loud, if the hiss in her ears is accurate--but she can't quite spare the brain power as some other feeling takes hold; an awfully raw, tingling sensation at her midsection, and the sense of something hard riveting off the armour at her shoulder. Looking down to the source, Gwyneth finds the wrong end of a glaive piercing her abdomen, undoing all the work of her prior potion as it withdraws, tearing at flesh and cloth. She's still too numb from the concoction to care, but her muscles spasm in disagreement, and it's only by sheer resilience--and a desperate demand to channel her Goddess's strength--that she doesn't drop to a knee from the wound. "...shit," she curses as the pain makes itself known, and in retaliation her sword lunges forward, hoping to return the favor in kind--realizing that these opponents are not their mongrelmen adversaries , but likely something much worse...
Regardless of whether the blow lands, Gwyneth soon falls back on her heels, filling the space between herself and the enemy with several feet of tall, green, warhammer-wielding Half-Orc; the Ranger seemingly standing in for her own shadow while coarse, bitter words ebb from her lips, senses focused on the foremost enemy in her sight. "შენი ღმერთები არიან უმადური...და აქ, თქვენ მოკვდება." Abyssal:
"Your Gods are thankless...and here, you'll die."
Edging a nod of thanks for the vial, and seeing that Therrik has the northern exit covered, Gwyneth wipes the last of the pink froth against her sleeve and eyes the eastern doors, praying Iomedae might reveal something beyond her mortal senses. "Maybe some of them have sense. That'd be nice," she wonders dryly, gaze unflinching as she speaks. "Whether you think it or not, Vaneth, I don't particularly like this any more than you do. People lose their way. Become misled, misguided; and for them, at least, surrender's always an option." The paladin shrugs a little, bouncing on her toes as the potion takes full effect, neglecting to comment on the genuine and insane among Mendev's enemies. Bluntly put, she's not sure how else to save them. Heck, given their current situation, she's not sure Kenabres can save itself--but hell if Gwyn won't die trying. "Personally," she sighs, "I'd just like to keep my teeth."
Gwyn frowns as her sword unsheathes itself from the mongrelman's side, the near-blue tint of cold-iron stained red with too much needless blood. "Utter waste," she spits, a line of pink froth running down her chin as she wipes the blade against her tabard to no effect; the blood of three mutated men clings awkwardly to her cloth, leaving what few white spots remained a sordid mesh of crimson that only, if anything, makes the sword worse. "Someone...someone wanna lend me a vial?" she asks, the words slurred as she attempts to communicate with a rapidly swelling jaw.
Yay Potions!: Without much hesitation, Gwyn forces the really-not-all-that-pleasant liquid down her throat.
Even less pleasant is the feeling of her teeth realigning themselves, but she strives to ignore it as she strides ahead, spouting apologies to Iomedae for the violence to come while her eyes gleam over the room...
...to absolutely no avail. The Paladin's righteous fury knows neither bounds nor this room apparently.
"Hey! " "So...I take it that's Naali drumming up an interest?" Gwyneth suggests, white teeth flashing as her greaves push against rock and dirt, sharply following Therrik in tow. Finding the two mongrelman guards ahead, she resolves to divide and conquer, setting her sword upon southernmost mongrelman.
"Stand down or fall down," marks the Paladin, voice purposely clipped. "Your choice."
Ayyyyeee! I'm more or less back on schedule! New job is awesome (now that I can get in and out of the building with my own keycard instead of ringing reception and crying to get inside like a lost puppy) and the holiday season has officially worn off. Still got a ton to learn, but my weekends are finally free! Also, thanks dien for my 'funnier than it should have been' thought of the day. Iomedaeans? Scary? No idea what you're talking about. I'm not even trained in Intimidate! :P
For her part, Gwyneth keeps quiet, the dark circles at her eyes a little more pronounced than before, though that simply might be due to her squint; a lack of darkvision made apparent by her face. Her morning prayers were thick with pleads for more than just Iomedae's light; for the Yeoman does so miss the sun, and a few traitorous heathens are not going to keep her--nor any of them--from walking again under a Mendevian sky. That aside, she refrains from too much talking, giving only a shrug to Therrik's suggestion of subterfuge (chuckling low as she's considered 'scary' by the 6ft-something Orc with a guillotine for an arm) and a good-luck sign to their apparent Tiefling scout as she leaves Gwyn's field of vision, visibly swallowing her urge to march. "We aren't that bad," she says, distracted by her own eagerness, sword rolling with her wrist. A second of thought has her looking between Therrik and Abrielle for confirmation. "...are we?"
@Therrik:
"What?" retorts the Paladin, not quite understanding his gripe. Given the quality of her eye-roll when told to knock, it's probably fair to say this isn't the first time she's been scolded for it. Unlikely to be the last, either, as she waits for the half-orc to right himself and answer the question...and then a few seconds more for the words to get past her immediate image of a well-toned half-orc waist deep in floral-scented bubbles. "...Hn..?" She blinks, apparently remembering where she is, and lets out a dry cough, adding his request for 'a jar of fire' and promptly taking her leave. Oh. And the orc wants soap. Of course he does.
@Naali:
"No Naali. I don't think Neatholm has that," she concurs with a frown; not because the request is a little outlandish, but because Gwyn doesn't quite have the power to magic one up out of thin air...AS CONVENIENT AS THAT WOULD BE, INHERITOR. HINT-HINT. ...Nothing? Well, can't blame a girl for trying. "Tell you what; if I find anything that'll fuel your gizmo-bombs or a second coming of Rovagug, I'll let you know. Just...be careful with those vials, yeah? Don't think Lann needs another doorway."
"You're probably right." Gwyn nods, not exactly convinced but more than happy to hear it. "We'll know soon enough. Never let Templars stop me before. Far be it from me to break that tradition." To talk of Mendev proper, the paladin cracks her jaw. "If I were the gambling sort, I'd wager that if Nerosyan hasn't heard by now, either every senior cleric of every church is dead, or someone isn't doing their job," she says flatly, wondering who she's got to ask get a flask of fire and scented soap. "I hear wardstones are quite expensive. Queen Galfrey must be losing her shit."
"So either our scouts are slack, or these folks are nimble enough to evade an entire city of twitchy, witch-hunting crusaders...but not the Cult of Baphomet?" Gwyneth gives a laugh, mouthing 'Iomedae have mercy' as she shakes her head. "New allies aside, my hope's all spent on there still being old ones up there. I think it's safe to say the cathedral's lost, at least; but if the Order's fallen with it..." She drifts off to an uncomfortable shudder, the thought of being reassigned clearly more terrifying to her than the army of demons and cultists combined. Gwyn soon shakes it off. "How about you, Ms. Freelance? Anyone waiting for you up there?" "Besides the fanclub," she jests.
"Well we wouldn't want to sell the chief's morningstar anyway, right? Like he said, bash a few cultists with it while we try to get to Kenabres." "Better than offering back massages and teacakes with it," Gwyneth deadpans, adding Abrielle's morningstar to her list and hauling the pack onto a shoulder. "I suppose that covers Horgus but...Actually, gimme a minute..."
She also leaves a note on the apparently 'priceless' statue and the knotted ring of gold and asks that someone point Horgus in its general direction on arrival. With luck, it'll keep him distracted for a minute or two. Heaven knows he probably needs it.
Note:
Master Horgus. Trivial as it might be, could you do us a favor? You're a man well-versed in the mercantile, yes? Any chance you know what these are worth? Your opinion on the matter would be well appreciated. If not, don't worry yourself. Iomedae willing, we'll soon see the sun. Yeoman Koschei. That done, Gwyneth's happy to crack on with their spree, though her stride misses most its usual rigidity without the weight of her armor to weigh her down. Her left arm remains on the pommel of her sword throughout; an act borne more of habit than any real paranoia. "Been here since the First Crusade, eh? Just...waiting under Kenabres?" She gives a weary sigh. "Honestly Cerulean, I'm beginning to wonder what the hell our intel's been doing the last eighty years." Party Sell List: MWK Chain Shirt -- 125gp Spiked Gauntlet x2 -- 5gp Morningstar -- 4gp Backpack -- 1gp Caltrops -- 5sp Scrolls -- Shocking Grasp + Cause Fear: 12gp 5sp Total Sell Value: 148gp Current Loose Party Change (in gp): 216gp Party Fund after Selling: 364gp
Yeah, got super lucky. I applied within 12 hours of it being posted and was the only one to full-mark their aptitude test sooo...yeah. Last time I was unemployed, it took half a year. There was a lot of celebration in my house yesterday. As for your term: YIKES! Yeah, so happy you survived to the holiday because gods its sounds like you need it! :( Wrap yourself in duvets and get all that illness/stress to wind off while it can, yeah?
Clearly our Bard's Inspire Competence worked, as I got a call this morning and apparently I have a job waiting for me in the new year! A job which is a whole 15 minute walk from my home, pays some ~4k more than that hellhole I was last in, and lets me put my fancy computing degree to work. Literally me. All day. And probably the next two weeks. "How to pay rentz" panic over, now I can actually enjoy the holidays. Hope everyone's going strong and the weight of academia hasn't quite crushed the life out of you all yet!
Having bidding Sull her best regards, Gwyneth follows suit, offering Lann's kin a mountain of gratitude on entry, not daring to consider fatigue until her armor and tools lay a neat and orderly heap. With the layers off, the paladin's white garb looks like a patchwork where the blood of her earlier wound seeped into the cloth, and she tuts at the torn fabric at her side, poking a finger through to the fresh pink scars beneath. Great. She heaves a sigh, shoulders drooping under their own weight. Better than a punctured lung, I guess. Waving Sadron off, Gwyneth turns to wondering what to do with herself, deciding that throwing Therrik into the lake isn't liable to be anywhere near as engaging a task without the orc actually being there. Eventually she settles on the very same notion as their blue-haired comrade, and nods as the aasimar makes the suggestion. "Right," she answers Abrielle, taking a moment to stretch herself straight before eyeing their collective haul. "I think we ought to be able to trade a good bit of this off in kind, but this..." she hefts the chief's morningstar from beside her longbow amid the pile. "What was it...something about 'weighted momentum'?" She gives a faint smile, having remembered the spat back at Defender's Heart. "Honestly, I haven't wielded a 'star since I took up the oath. No intention of starting either; but I figure it'd be a crying shame if it went unused so..." She holds out the well-crafted weapon to Abrielle, ever so slightly bouncing on her heels, as if she might suddenly drop dead if she were to stop moving. "Yours, if you want it. The rest of this," she notes to a particular collection of items, some already partitioned out into a spare backpack, "Should be good to go. As am I, if you'll suffer the assistance."
Gwyneth gladly lets the chief pluck the pin from her fingers, more curious than anything else, but her lips tighten as he speaks, leaving the paladin obviously unsure of how to respond, save for a quiet "Well...Damn." At his thanks, Gwyneth gives her own for his time, but comes to an abrupt pause as Sull offers up his weapon in kind. Truth be told, her first instinct is to courteously turn it down--Gwyneth's fist is, in her opinion, only fit for a longsword...but once in hand, she notes the weapon to be far more robust than anything she's personally handled, and the weight strangely well balanced for what Gwyn would normally consider a glorified mace. That the chief wants it embedded in a traitor's skull just makes it all the better, and Abrielle's notion that Gwyn won't let anyone leave without committing to mass extermination gets an almost comical set of enthusiastic nods in reply. The delay less so...but the paladin's only impatient, not incompetent, and does at least retrieve an uneasy smile, glad of knowing there's a way to the surface nearby. "If we're sticking around, I'd rather not be in the way, y'know? Don't suppose there's somewhere we can occupy for the time being? Maybe near the water?" she asks, adding wryly, "Tired or not, I'm still up for tossing Therrik in the lake."
"Hey, I think that some of us want to go deliver some steel to the bellies of those cultists anyway, so....not like it'll be out of our way." "Well, the only thing the Ivory Labyrinth does right is dying," Gwyneth answers matter-of-factly, speaking as if she were being scolded for her...enthusiasm? Sure. That. Confirmation that they'll need to burrow through a horde of traitors doesn't bother her much in the practical sense, and it shows. By this point, the paladin's quite convinced that this is all just Iomedae's way of saying 'if you want to root out a heretical organization dedicated to corruption and sin...do it your goddamn self.' ...though she does briefly question The Inheritor's sense of irony, and prays this lot of wasted life is properly deserving of her sword. Once Chief Sull returns with his cache, Gwyneth stands beside the mongrelman, plucking a bottle from the collection and giving it an ignorant once-over before sliding it across to Naali with a shrug. Not that she's ungrateful, but the Tiefling's shown her way around a tincture more than once already. A second opinion can't hurt, right? The rest of the chief's words slide over Gwyneth's ears like rainwater; she'd head off alone if she thought it'd do any genuine good...but getting herself killed now wouldn't help anything. Instead, she gives one long glance over the table, scratching her neck, before turning to Chief Sull with an open hand. "We'll handle it," she says confidently, hoping to shake on it, though frowns a bit before adding, "And I apologize for anything our noncombatant might have managed to do with himself over the course of this discussion." The important details more or less covered--or at least, nothing she feels she can't ask later--Gwyneth promptly fishes a hand into her belt pouch, feeling for a coin with want of a whetstone and Horgus's location fresh in mind. The object she finds feels too light between her fingers, and the paladin almost laughs aloud on finding the copper and amethyst brooch sitting in her palm. "How the hell'd you get in there..?" she mutters to the piece of jewellery, holding the token up as she turns sheepish, clearing her throat. "Erm...right. Don't suppose you folks take pins?"
For a moment, Gwyneth stops dead, looking to the chief as if she had misheard his offer. Anevia's face assures her otherwise, and for an instant the paladin's brow straightens...only to furrow again, her pacing renewed. "Done." The word has a certain finality to it; a confidence typically reserved for prayers and oaths. "So long as my legs work, I'll march to the Prelate myself. And if Hulrun's fallen, I'll go to Sunnestier. Or Alodae. Or Streigher, or Cobelen, or Hawkblade...or somebody, anybody who's standing," she says, wincing as the promise drives a new wedge in her heart. She soon shakes it off. "But that still leaves us with the Templars. And with all the havoc going on up there...Well..." Gwyneth finally cracks a smile, albeit a weak one. "I don't think the Inheritor's got time to burrow us a skylight, y'know?"
"We...the world swallowed us up. Opened a chasm straight down. Without the dragon--without Terendelev we...really wouldn't be here," Gywn adds, frowning as she realizes she doesn't quite know how Sadron managed the trip, and looks to the musician for an answer before going on. "Beyond that, pretty uneventful trip here. I mean besides the giant bugs, tentacle monsters, undead, mad dwarf...The chapel wasn't so bad," she says. The paladin clears her throat, careful not to get sidetracked. "Skyward's our goal, Chief Sull; but the Templars make that...problematic. Lann makes them sound recurrent. Used the word 'alliance'? What in the hell would the Ivory Labyrinth need down here...?" A lightbulb seems to click in her head as she finishes, and any attempt to keep the anger from her face falls short as she realizes: "Son of a...those bastards knew what was coming, didn't they? Kenabres burns under a legion of demons so they scurry underground to...to avoid getting mauled by their own army?" Gwyneth pinches the bridge of her nose, now pacing a hole in the floor with her voice reduced to a quiet, pained groan.
While the table seat is offered, Gwyneth declines, giving a slight bow on entry but thinking little else as she reflexively scans the property for threats (). With her sword sheathed and Lann extending their greeting, the paladin is comparatively quick to fidget and ultimately stands aside the room's entrance with her arms crossed, the lack of motion helping to settle her blood. Horgus's exit is as...predictable as it is appreciated, she supposes, earning nothing more than a crooked brow and a shake of the head. At least he had the good sense to get out, she thinks. That's something. Once Lann is done with his exposition, Gwyn pipes up, keen to correct him. "Really? Because appreciative isn't the word I'd be looking for if someone told me there was a literal army of demons marching overhead." She realizes only too soon how sharp the words sound midair, and in return gives a second, albeit more flustered, bow in apology. What follows thereafter is a surprisingly curt account of the Worldwound's assault--detailing Lord Hulrun's failed speech at Armasse, The Kite's destruction; a city overrun with enemy forces and casualties rising by the second. She does make it a point to stop between her sentences, in part so that the others might add their lot. The truth is that she doesn't want to stand here and talk about it at all, but these people--mongrels, whatever they are--they've got as much right as anyone to know what's coming. Or at least what's already there. Gwyneth stops just short of Terendelev's fall, the shadow in her eyes apparently making up for the one lost from her feet. Someone else can handle that. She doesn't feel like crying. "So. Not to sugar coat the situation, but the surface feels like it's midway through hosting the biggest abyssal incursion since the fall of Iz." She then sighs a prayer, as if only just realizing the severity of it all. "Inheritor save us."
Gwyn's mouth nearly dares a smirk. If they were any closer to the shore, the paladin may very well have attempted to toss him in already. However terse her manner, she's never quite been able to back down from a challenge. For now though, she nods, having already lofted her sword onto a shoulder. "Fine. Whatever works."
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