Tareth's page

Gunnar: Got it. I must have missed that. Give that, then I think we can call the last drake dead just prior to the dragon's arrival. No one would know for certain because of the fog. Then most of the berserkers run with the dragon's arrival.

Tekumbray graciously thanks Cayde for the gifted armor. The gnome is just about ready to leave when he spots the gleam of polished metal emanating from the corner of the armory. Stepping closer he realizes it is a blade very similar to his own in size and weight. With permission from the maiden quartermaster he carefully takes the blade and passes it through the air in a series of quick, deft slicing motions. The balance is superb. Much better than his own and he can sense the slight tingle of enchantment upon the finely forged metal.

The fae ghost at his side nods her own approval at the weapon. A fine choice my friend. And likely you'll be needing it. She shimmers with a ghostly shiver. I never did like goblins. Filthy, nasty creatures coming at you by the dozens if not hundreds. Best be careful in those caves else you'll end up a spirit drawn to some poor sod who's about to d...errr...sorry. A shrug of ethereal shoulders. Just be careful is all I'm sayin'.

Tekumbray nods quietly at both ghost and quartermaster. Accepting the ones apology and the others agreed price. After handing over a portion of his own gold and gemstones to cover the cost, he quickly changes both his armor and weapon. Well armed and with full canteen and ample rations, he turns to his companions.

"Shall we set forth?"

Purchasing the +1 short sword.

12 Gennaio, 794

It had been four days. Four days of pain. Four days of healers concoctions. Four days of apologies. Four days of curses, threats, and warnings. Four days of extra work. That last courtesy of Calliope whose fury over the loss of what was apparently her blouse and not Kyra's was not to be underestimated regardless of advice given by the healer.

The arrival of a summons from Cesare was more than a welcome blessing despite her still stiff joints and fading bruises. Putting on her leathers, best boots and cloak she arrives with her companions ready to serve her house as best she can.

Once inside and away from potential prying eyes and ears, Tekumbray approaches the maiden who allowed them inside while Cayde surveys the weapons for purchase. Bowing his head again, he politely removes his wide brimmed hat.

"My name is Tekumbray madame, and as one of your astute nature may have already guessed our purpose in coming to your temple is two fold. Indeed my companion does seek the best and finest weapons for our next foray against Zargon." He says waving his hand toward the rows of weapons. "But indeed, it is also to inform you that the god of your city have released it from its long burial beneath the sands. Baheera and I were part of a caravan crossing the desert that was beset by a sand storm. We survived the ravages of wind and grit only to find most of our caravan lost, dead, or scattered. Yet, despite our desperate situation, the gods provided. The great pyramid of Cynidicea arose from the sands and we were able to find shelter, food and water from your sisters so long trapped in that ancient place."

"Some of the survivors of the caravan still reside within the pyramid. Guests of the brothers and sisters. For this is the news I must share with you. The Magi, the Brothers, and the Maidens have all united so that Zargon can finally be defeated and the city free of his foul influence and rule. As proof, I bring you word that the way to the pyramid is no longer blocked by Zargon's cultist. We defeated Darius and his hobgoblins. Now we seek to take the fight directly to Zargon."

"As my companions mentioned, we will strike the goblin caves first. A victory there will prove the veracity of my claims, as well as give you time to seek your leaders in the pyramid."

He looks at the stores of weapons, armor, and other gear and nods with approval. "It is well you have maintained such worthy stores, for the fight to come will be hard. But if you love your city and wish to see it free of Zargon's oppression, then ready yourselves, for soon the time will come for the cities true defenders and champions to unite and defeat the evil that has plagued it for so long."

Persuasion: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (15) + 5 = 20

8 Gennaio, 794

Fortunately the darkness prevents Salvio from seeing the wild smile plastered across Sasha's filth stained and soaked face. Either the cramped, foul smelling darkness had finally caused the garnetyne's mind to snap or she was actually enjoying herself. Sister Amelia would probably make the astute observation that those two things were not mutually exclusive. A light laugh rises above the constant sound of water moving through the tunnels.

"I'm afraid so." She says glancing back up the dark shaft they'd just crawled through. "There's no way I could actually climb back up through that. Just let me think a moment."

Closing her eyes, she tries to recall the area up and down from Petra's stand. The old buildings. Mostly a mix of warehouses, rundown tenements, bars that catered to sailors, dockers, and anyone else desperate enough to drink the cheap swill they usually sold, and of course, Fisherman's Wharf. The wharf was where the handful of independent fisherman operated from. Their leaky, ramshackle boats lining the decrepit pier along the canal not so very far from the dark walls of the Silent and the Necropolitan Hill. Not part of the official city fishing fleet, the independents eeked out an existence on the scraps and leftovers that the Elandan backed fleet deemed unworthy of their efforts. Most independents were former fleet members who couldn't keep up with the high dues and tithes extracted by House Elanda. It also just so happened that most of the independents were former islanders like herself. Such was life and opportunity in Ilrien.

See remembers sitting atop an old piling eating a Puck one summer afternoon. She watched the gulls swirl around the boats like flies around a carcass and listened to a pair of fishermen complain about their latest catch, or lack thereof. Remembers seeing the sewer outlet just a few dozen paces away. The slow oozing trickle of gravy brown sludge dropping into the canal was all too similar to Petra's thick greasy, biscuit soaking special. She turns back to the gulls and takes another bite of gravy soaked biscuit.

Crouching there in the cramped confines of the sluice, she traces an imaginary line back from that outlet to where she is now. It wasn't far. It was downstream. There was more than a good chance this tunnel leads to that outlet. She was certain. Pretty certain. Desperately certain. That this tunnel would lead to that outlet.

She grabs Salvio as the rumble of another surge floods through the tunnel. Her grip isn't that of a frail noble's daughter as might be expected of someone her size. No. It is the iron grasp of one who's spent most of her years climbing rigging, scraping hulls, and bucking the great sacks of goods on and off the trade ships of the Jeweled Cities and Ilrein.

As soon as the flood passes she swipes her hair back out of her eyes and turns to the boy. "I've got an idea. It means we get wet." A pause when the boy snorts at the obvious. "Okay we get really, really wet." The grin on her face carries through to her voice causing them both to spend a few seconds giggling as if they'd just pulled some playground prank. "Right." She says before they hysteria can overwhelm them both. "I've a good idea as to where this sluice runs. I think it dumps into the canal not so very far from here. We can make it." That last is said with a confidence that is part truthful but mostly bravado and spitting in the eye of her own fear. "Wrap your arms around my neck." She says twisting around in the tiny space as if she were going to give the lad a simple piggyback ride. "When I say, take the deepest breath you can and whatever happens, don't let go." She taps Salvio on his arm. "Got it?"

"Got it."

She waits for the next surge to rumble through the tunnel and steps out into the pulling current. "NOW!" She shouts and feels his grip clamp about her chest and shoulders. She starts crawling as fast as she can to pick up a little speed and control. A heartbeat later the water slams into the pair picking them up and carrying them along in its rush toward the sea. An old board claps her in the head. Her arms and legs are scrapped, battered, torn as she's dragged across the rough stone and brick of the ancient tunnel. Long seconds pass. Her lungs start to burn, start to cry out for air. Salvio's grip tightens desperately around her chest. She twines her hand with his, squeezes a last remnant of reassurance. Just hold on. Her shoulder slams into the wall as the tunnel curves slightly. Pain lances along her arm and she stifles the urge to scream and release what precious little oxygen remains in her lungs.

Fire burns in her chest. She feels Salvio's grip start to slip. Grabs him tighter. Suddenly, the echoing rush and rumble of the water changes. The darkness ahead is broken by a circle of slightly lighter grayish black. She squeezes the boy's hand again, gathers herself as best she can. Moments later Sasha with Salvio clamped to her back like a small, terrified barnacle shoots like a cannonball from the spillway and out into the canal. Her flailing legs and arms accompanied by a handful of gasping breathes and a single strangled cry before she hits the water with a flesh bruising *SLAP*

Braggi Broadshoulder was always a contrarian. As a young raider if he was told to go left, he went right. If someone said 'jump' he said 'f%$k off.' Most folk just ignored him or learned to cope in various ways. Of course this was not always easy, as evidenced by his ultimate downfall. Braggi's wife, Hildi had put up with more than her fair share of obtuse contrariness from her husband of five years. If she asked him to take out the day's trash, he let it rot for weeks. If she asked him to fix a hole in the roof, he made the problem worse. It even got to the point where if she asked him to give her a child, he would lock himself in the other room. But the true end came, when after five long years of asking him to put down the privy seat at night she once again staggered out into the cold dark and planted herself directly onto the cold seatless surface of the commode. Straws were finally broken and Braggi's contrarian days were soon to meet an end.

So it was, that the following morning, Hildi served Braggi his usual breakfast of coffee, toast, eggs, sausage, and fried potatoes.

"Whatever you do this morning." She said to her cantankerous spouse in a most light hearted and charming manner. "I don't want you to drink the coffee this morning because I think I burnt it and it wouldn't soot your system very well."

Picking up the knife to butter his toast, Braggi looked across the table at his wife who simply smiled and fluttered her blue eyes. Offering his own smile he grabs the steaming mug of coffee and swills it down in one great gulping point of contrariness.

The massive doses of arsenic, hemlock, and hydra venom insured Braggi was dead before his head hit the table.

Thus the tale of Braggi Broadshoulder moves from the mortal realms and into the immortal. For under normal circumstances, a warrior of Braggi's dubious record, arriving at the gates of Valhalla dressed in his night shirt and shorts and wielding naught but a butter knife would result in said warrior being laughed out of that holy hall and escorted directly into the pits of Niflheim. But as the wizards and academics of chaos theory would say 'sh#t happens.'

And it just so happened that Thor, who as everyone knows oversees who can and can't enter the sacred halls of Valhalla, was a bit under the weather that particular morning. The result of a evening spent watching old Star Hopper reruns with Khors, Hecate, Sif, and Volund and having to down a shot of Grandmother's Old Time Hard Lemonade whenever anyone spotted a plot inconsistency. Needless to say, the world was lucky that the sun managed to claw its pounding head and sweater coated tongue above the horizon that morning. So it was that because the Thunder God couldn't handle the tiniest booming pin drop, the butter knife wielding, poisoned by his own wife, contrarian Braggi Broadshoulder was waved into Valhalla by an inattentive Thor.

The Mighty Horn of Valhalla sounds into the night air. Its resonating drone carries across forest, space and time calling upon those valiant warrior brothers and sisters of the northern realms to aide one of their own in dire need. The power of the horn is inescapable. Not even one such as Braggi Broadshoulder can resist its pull back into the mortal realms. So it is, the knife wielding warrior arrives with seven of his fellow faithful. So it is, that as soon as the raging, axe wielding Ragnar Gronarsson points at the drake on the far left and shouts for all to fall upon the fell beast, Braggi immediately spins and charges the drake on the far right.

Somewhere in a hut in the far northern reaches of Wolfheim an old woman staggers out into the cold to the privy. As she lifts her heavy nightdress and turns to sit, the lid seat flips up as her backside lowers. Hildi's screeching curses echo into the night.

More to come...

8 Gennaio, 794

"No, it didn't stop at the Granary." Sasha says, memorizing the boy's tale. "I suppose it's the Lady's own dark humor that put me on the spot to find you just after those Calrayan's did. We'd have gotten away clean if it hadn't been for that bast...errr...daft lad and his globe of knockout gas."

Following Salvio's gaze, Sasha nods quietly at his judgement. He wasn't wrong. She'd need to shed most everything she was wearing to be able to squeeze through. Fortunately, her captors had already seen to most of that already. Her knives, pistol, even her specially crafted lockpicks were gone. Probably already halfway to the nearest pawnshop.

"I've been in plenty of tight spots." She says. "Cleaned out more than my fair share of bilges when I was growing up." Her nose wrinkles at the remembered smells of filthy, lowest most, innards of her families trading ships. "Mucking out the slime and grime. My dad was a stickler before the fall. Every nook and cranny had to be cleared, else it was back down and do it all again." As she talks, Sasha slips out of her leather jerkin and boots and sets them aside. She's left standing there in nothing but Kyra's tattered blouse, her tights and stocking feet. She didn't relish the loss of her gear, but better than spilling blood. "And I really haven't grown all that much since."

Putting her head down to the opening, she ignores the stench drifting up from the narrow opening and instead turns her head to listens for several seconds. The rush of flowing water was loud. The storm had turned the usually stagnant waters of the city sewers into something more akin to a mountain river cascading from the cloud shrouded heights. And they were close. Not very far down at all. The benefit of being this close to the sea.

The squeaking of a rat on the run from the storm flood made her grin. Amelia had always accused her of being part rat because she was always slipping in and out of places where she wasn't supposed to be. Here she was about to attempt another even more desperate and foolhardy escape. It seemed only fitting she was about to join her fellow unwelcome creatures in swimming for her life. At least they wouldn't have to worry about running into smugglers or any of the other usual denizens that lurked in the dank depths of Ilrien. Still, she turns back to Salvio. She'd practically grown up in the water. Like most islanders, she'd learned to swim before she could walk. But despite his garnetyne skin, the boy had grown up in Ilrein, not the Jeweled Cities.

"Can you swim?"

She shakes her head. "Probably doesn't really matter." Using the rusty knife as best she can, she rips off several lengths of her blouse and expertly knots the silk strips together. Creating a small loop at each end, she puts one loop over her wrist and hands the other to Salvio. "Grab on to that and slip the loop over your wrist. That way, assuming we make it through to the sewers, we won't get separated and I can help you stay afloat."

With one last glance at the door upstairs, she nods to the boy and gives him a fae grin. "Well, best we not push the Lady's grace any longer. Let's get going before more trouble arrives." She says and then starts to slither her way down the drain.

Gunnar: Sure you can use your inspiration for that.

Scramsax: It is a 40' cone, so you should be able to Dash to a safe distance without any trouble.

Gunnar: Just to clarify, the quoted passage and description is from when Scramsax had climbed down to the bottom of the main cave. The cavern opening described is about 75' down below the entrance at the surface. That describes the drake appearing down below. Only Scramsax really saw and then she raced back up the rope to the top where the rest of you were waiting. This was at the same time you and the other discovered the second drake in the trees.

Now, the four drakes just emerged from the upper opening in the ground (more like a well or crack in the earth). You could attempt to block the upper opening, but the 'wall' would need to be bigger than the opening otherwise it will just fall down into the pool below. (This could still be effective in blocking the lower opening, but right now nobody has line of sight down below because of the drakes.)

The 'lower' opening is smaller. About 50' x 40'.

Luthael: Sure, I'll let you replace SW with HW. To get Scramsax back on her feet. And since it looks like she didn't take any other actions this round, she can take a move action to clear the area and find cover.

8 Gennaio, 794

A knot of worry unravels in her gut when the boy’s voice breaks through the drum patter of the pouring rain. A large enough overdose of root has sent more than a few souls into the Lady’s embrace. Salvio up and talking meant that whoever mixed up that batch of alchemical gas wasn’t much on keeping to the proper ratios. The boy should’ve been out three times longer than she was given his size and weight compared to hers.

She looks down at her thin and at the moment, dirt covered and tattered frame. Sighs. Okay, maybe only twice as long. Her workouts with Elisabetta had surely added a few pounds here or there. Surely. As if mocking her hope, the rope finally slips and she pulls her slim hand free. Another sigh. Mother used to call her ‘her little fae princess.’ A waif. Sack of skin and bones. And plenty else, she’d been called over the years. Much of it worse than simple comments on her size.

Slowly bringing her hands around to look at the damage to her wrists and rub a little feeling back into her fingers she nods at the keen-eyed Salvio and smiles. ”I am like you.” She says in a soft whisper. ”Garnetyne, orphaned, a favorite of Sister Amelia, has the Lady’s own worst luck, and likely much too curious and head strong for my own good.” Her smile broadens. ”But that last bit may only apply to me.”

Sasha holds out her hand to shake his as if they were meeting in the common room of some posh eatery in the Rose. ”I’m Sasha. Pleased to meet you Salvio.” She shifts her legs into a more comfortable position and tries a few stretches to see what if any effects of the Targras root remained in her system. As she does so, she keeps talking to the boy in soft whisper.

”Can’t say I’m really somebody. Most of us islanders are still considered outsiders by folk here. It’s not really meanness or spite that makes it that way. There’s just a lot of fear wrapped up in what happened.” She reaches out and touches the tips of her toes, her forehead pressed against her leg in a single, graceful motion. ”Since most in Ilrien think the sinking of the islands was some divine retribution delivered by the Lord and Lady for our great sins, folk don’t want to take a chance of that curse rubbing off on them.” Her face turns sour like she’d just bit deep into a lemon. ”Of course it’s all hogwash. No one really knows for sure what happened. But my heart tells me it t’wasn’t Lord or Lady that caused our home to sink beneath the sea. If I had to guess, I’d say it was someone messing with the Weave of the World. Magic. Big whodoo gone all wrong.” She waves a hand in the air dismissively. ”Or the sea just got a bit over hungry and decided to treat itself to the best, prettiest morsels of land in all the world.”

”But look at me rambling on like some school girl.” She snorts a very unladylike snort and shakes her head. ”Must be the damned gas. Always makes me talkative. I may not be much of a Somebody, but I’ve friends who are. And when we get out of here, we're going to go see them.”

She glances around the room. Doesn’t find much of any use. A few rotting barrels. Old nets. Buckets filled with dried tar. A few old scrapers, knives, planes. A mass of moldy silk and canvas. A crab pot. A broken oar. Someone used to own a fishing boat. She decides. Debris lines the corner across the way where the wall’s crumbling. A narrow stream of water flows from damage. Her eyes follow that growing trickle to a low point in the floor and an ancient, rusted drain grate. A drain that would almost certainly lead to sewers or maybe directly to the beaches. A way out. Narrow, but perhaps not too narrow. Certainly Kyra or Luciana couldn’t do it. But a skinny waif of a woman like herself. Someone with the womanly figure of a fourteen year old boy. It was possible. She looks back at Salvio.

”Amelia asked me to find you. She was worried because you’d been gone for so long. I promised her I’d do my best to see you back safe.” She says, moving over to take a closer look at the grate after listening for any sounds of the occupants upstairs getting curious about their prisoners. Hearing none, she presses on. ”Now, I keep my promises, so I’d rather we got out of here without spilling any blood or putting you in any more danger. She looks at her own bleeding wrists and the handful of other cuts marking her body. ”Okay…any more blood.” She adds with a grim smile. ”If my ears aren’t befuddled from that targras they dosed me with, I’d wager that the woman I heard earlier is the wife of a mean piece of work who I’d rather not tangle with unarmed, drugged, and with a young, dashing lad like yourself to see after. So in order for me to keep my promise, we’re going to have to get a little creative and a whole lot dirtier.”

Grabbing one of the thin bladed scrapers, she starts carefully slipping it all around the edge of the grate, slowly loosening and scraping clear what little mortar still exists. As she works, she glances over at the boy. ”Amelia said you liked watching them unload the grain ships. Even counted how many barrels or sacks went on or off.” She says casually as if she was discussing nothing more important than the weather. ”How many do you think came off the Bountiful Beauty?”

Because that was the real prize and why she was stowed down in this hole. Why there was almost no chance of them walking out of this oversized grave. Somebody or nobody, it wouldn't make any difference. Someone was smuggling goods and using the Granary as their front. Not particularly broadsheet worthy information in a city built on smuggling. She stops her work and checks the little pocket sewn into the interior of her trousers. Felt the hard black powder grains still tucked there. But a shipload of black powder, that was a whole different story.

She feels the grate pop free and a feral smile once again crosses her features.

She watched from her perch among the twisted cedar branches as the adventurers approached the nest opening. Waited with her day's kill clamped securely in her long jaws while the halfling readied her gear and slipped down into the dark depths. The small deer, its life ended in a quick snap of its neck, still bled from the series of punctures where her razor sharp teeth pierced its hide. She'd hoped the others meddlesome snoopers would descend after their companion. Then she'd simply snip into the nest behind them, closing off their escape and drive them toward her mistress. But as is so often the case, fate had other plans. One of her kin must have discovered the halfling. It was the only reasonable explanation for the speed with which she scurried over the side and gabbled her warning.

Now they all sat alert, ready to strike at anything that might emerge. She expects to be short one sibling before this is all over.

Indeed, fate has flicked her fickle finger across the weave of this hapless creature's thread within the fabric of the realms. For in her still, silent, patient vigil she forgets the carcass still clenched between her teeth. Forgets the blood still slowly draining from the fresh kill. Drip...drip...drip.

*plink*

The soft splatter of blood hits Gunnar right at the gap between the back of his neck and the combined thickness of shirt collar, coat, and armor. There the already chilled deer blood slowly trickles down the wizard's neck like an icy fingertip.

With a curse the dwarf shifts slightly from beneath whatever patch of believed melting snow would be dripping from above.

*plop*

That shift causes the next drop of blood to splatter onto the waiting dwarf's arm. The patch of darkening red a stark contrast to his own travel worn pastel green and yellow coat painted up by Scramsax so many days ago. Having experienced many different kinds of weather during the course of his travels, the wizard had yet to encounter clouds that rained blood. (This is partly because he missed his academy senior field trip to the third plane of hell due to an acute bought of mono.) Thus, he recognizes the sudden appearance of blood from above as a most definite threat. Spinning around and turning his gaze up into the trees it takes several long seconds for him to spot the corpse that seems to be dangling in the tangled limbs of the trees. But then his arcane enhanced sight picks out the outline of the drake camouflaged within the thick branches.

Meanwhile down below...the second drake watches as the halfling races up the cavern wall and disappears beyond the lip. With a snarl it starts to scramble after the fast climbing intruder. But about halfway up a little voice shouts in his draconic mind. STOP! Think you fool lizard! It is likely one of the smartest orders the drake has ever given himself in all his years in Midgard. And so he pauses. Ponders the swift disappearance of the silenced halfling from his mistresses lair.

Wizard. Is the first assumption he makes. Or some other spell slinging annoyance. After careful consideration of the halfling's haphazard garb, but quality equipment, and the lack of any scent of animal dung along her trail up or down, it makes a second assumption. Neither military or one of the local farmers. A deep sigh rumbles from its throat as a clawed paw reaches up to rub its temples. That leaves only one real possibility. An adventurer. And where ever there is one adventurer, there are certainly more. Probably waiting to skewer, slice, and pummel me as soon as I poke a pinky claw over the lip of the cavern.

Golden eyes flick up and back down the cavern. Another grumbling growl fills the cavern, as it scurries back down. Two can play at that game. The drake thinks to itself. As it slinks back into the red cavern, it glances back at the snake floating on the surface of the pool. Probably needs a few more minutes before its cooked all the way through.

Gunnar is the only one that sees the 2nd drake. It is 60' up in the trees directly over the dwarf.

The drake sniffs the air once again. Notices something, and odd scent, bitter sweet, smokey. She glances around the dark cavern, sees nothing. Brushes it off as some odd weed falling down from above. Or maybe the boss had started adding scents to the various hot springs, she did that once in a while. Said the aromatherapy was good for our chakras or some such nonsense.

He is about to turn away when suddenly a carrot drops into the pool. The hot water reconstituting the ancient veggie. This is quickly followed by the silent splash of a snake plunging from above.

The hells?! This isn't the stewing pool? Is the surprised and confused thought that races through the scaled creatures mind. And since when does a snake falling into a forest hot spring not make a sound? I'm right here. Witnessed it. The philosophical conundrum causes it to examine its own senses for a fault. So a clawed forepaw is raised to its ear, a pointed tip gently inserted, wriggled around and removed with only a small bit of wax to show for the effort. A low grumble vibrates from his throat. A grumble quite audible to his draconic ears. This is both a relief and troubling to the drake.

Quickly he picks up three stones. Tosses the three across the length of the pool. The first to the drakes far left end of chamber. It clatters off the rocks and then falls into the pool with a very audible *plonk*.
The second *plick*plank*plonk's* off the rocks and into the pool, again with the proper amount of noise one would expect from such an act. The third, on the right side of the chamber hits with utter silence about ten feet from Scramsax's position. The rocks bounced once, twice in perfect silence and then drops without so much as *pli* or a *plo* into the water where the snake and carrot quietly ride out the rippling tide.

The grumble in its throat grows more agitated and deadly. It's golden draconic gaze swivels upward where it takes only a moment or two for it to spot Scramsax taking her union required five minute smoke break.

With a quickness unexpected of such a large creature, it leaps onto the wall and races toward the halfling. The clatter of its claws upon the stone quickly silenced when it enters the sphere from which no secrets can be heard.

Party is up.

The drake is 15' from Scramsax.

8 Gennaio, 794

No good deed goes unpunished. It is the first thought that Sasha’s mind whispers into her aching head. This is quickly followed by the all too predictable and obvious announcement that a dose of tagras root always leaves her with a splitting headache. It punctuates this obvious point by causing her stomach to do a tumbling routine fit for one of the Prince’s acrobatic troupes. As she scoots away from the mess that was remains of her meager lunch, the final bit of insight flitters its way through her muddled mind like a drunken bat. Had she been foolish enough to trigger her Charm before the gas had taken her. She really didn’t want to spoil the Elisabetta's evening at the ball. More importantly she didn’t really want to face her temper, not with this aching head. Unfortunately, the answer to garnetyne’s question would have to wait since the lingering tendrils of the targras reasserted its own authority over her system and moments later the warm embrace of unconsciousness wrapped it’s cloak about her mind once again.

She isn’t sure what wakes her the second time. The constant drone of the rain. The storms downpour pounding the boardwalk and flowing off the roof like a jungle waterfall. Or was it the incessant nasal voice of Petra trying to sell one of his wretched Slithering Pucks to any poor soul desperate enough to fork over a brass for a helping of stewed canal eel served over a hard biscuit and swimming in what can only be gratuitously called gravy. It was a meal that could make anyone with any sense of taste or self preservation run to the nearest guild bakery just to take in the cleansing scent of well baked bread and sweet rolls. Sasha was a regular. Petra?

Recognizing the voice of the old man sent a jolt through her system. Either Petra had moved his little stand in the Docks, which would have been a monumental event not witnessed by man, beast, or eel in fifty years, or she was no longer anywhere near where this whole fiasco had started. How she ended up in a south shore cellar more than a half day’s walk from the Granary, that was a question still lost in a targras haze.

She takes a deep breath. Let’s the air fill her lungs. Draws it in to cleanse the lingering effects of the poison from her system. She draws another. Smells the stale, musty, dampness of a little used cellar. There was also the smell of fish, but nearly every cellar and storage room along the Shore smelled of fish. And the tar used to seal the ships. This one was no different. Occasionally the smell of spices and hot sauce drifted in from Petra's making her stomach grumble.

Listening to the wind whistle through the foundation of whatever rundown dockside shack her kidnappers had tossed her into, she tries to bring the day’s events into focus. It all started with her visit to Sister Amelia. Following the disaster that took her home, her family, and most of her people, she’d spent the rest of her youth in the Sister’s care and especially under the tutelage of Sister Amelia. Amelia had been her favorite among those harsh mistresses of the Lady’s Blessing. Quick of mind, stern, but softened with kindness and a real caring for those fallen into her care. A stark contrast to the others whose harsh lessons and punishments flowed out of bitterness, spite, or broken dreams. Amelia was also a first class healer and midwife. It was from her that Sasha learned the basics about treating wounds, sicknesses or helping bring a child into the world.

Sasha still visited her every couple of weeks. Usually they just had tea, prayed, and then gossiped a little while strolling the Temple grounds. Amelia can't get around like she used to. Yet while her body was fading, her mind was still sharp as a Bravo's blade. So it was surprising to see the usually stoic woman in such an agitated state when Sasha arrived that morning. One of the children had gone missing. Another young garnetyne. A boy named Salvio.

”He’s a good boy.” Amelia said, her eyes glimmering with tears. ”And smart, a thinker. A lover of books and learning. More so than you were.” She adds with a teasing smile to her former student.

”Yes, but does he have my roguish charm?” Sasha adds with a soft laugh.

”Indeed not, my dear girl. Thank the Lady.” As quickly as the good humor arrives it slips away. ”He would not just stay away like this. It has been a whole day. Something has happened.” She turns her increasingly cloudy eyes to Sasha and grips her hand with a firmness that says there is still strength in this old body. ”The Watch will do nothing. The other Sisters have no time to look for one wayward child. Will you find him? Bring him home?”

The wind rattles a loose shutter somewhere above. Sasha sighs. Of course she'd said yes. Agreed to find one lone boy in a city full of boys and girls and all manner of ways for one to disappear. Salvio apparently liked to watch the ships unloading at the Granary. Liked guessing the number of sacks each ship carried. So off she went to find a needle in a grain silo.

The targras root was weakening. Fortunately a gas created from the stuff was much less potent than if it had been slipped into her coffee or evening wine. Voices drift down from above. Something about the woman’s voice triggers an alarm in her head. It was time for her to start working a way out of this predicament. Rolling onto her side, she stifles a groan. And doesn't curse yet another ruined set of trousers and the shirt she'd borrowed from Kyra that morning. Instead she gives thanks to the Lady for ensuring that whoever had tied the knots on her bindings wasn’t a sailor. With practiced ease she starts working the poorly secured ropes. Slowly at first, and then with greater urgency, she works her wrists back and forth. Staring into the darkness, she focuses her attention on the small dim outline. Uses that to motivate and push through the pain and blood now coating her wrists. There in the darkness, a few feet away she could just make out the small, pale shape of another small body. Smell the grain dust on his clothes. Hear the sound of his slow, even breathing. At least she’d found the boy and he was still alive.

Here a rough idea for the Prince of House Bastien. Totally open to something else, but this is what came to me.

Constantin. His mother, was a cleaner at the university, his father a dockworker. A smart boy who learned to read, write and do his numbers from the many books his mother would 'borrow' from the university library. This learning led him some early successes in trade and other endeavors where he parlayed a few coins into a small fortune. But Constantin was not just driven by wealth as so many often are, he also had a kind heart and wished to do something more for all of those around him. Do something to ease the stranglehold of the Great Houses upon the city and its citizens. Out of this desire, he developed a dream. A dream of a city ruled not by Dread Emperors, aloof, greedy noblity, and the shadow filled fear and secrets of Corvetto and its arcane enforcers. Instead it would be a city of hope, a city of laws enforced with fairness and equality. A city where even the lowest scrubber or sailor could achieve a life that held more than simple survival. It is this dream that put Constatin on the path that would eventually lead to the rise of House Bastien. With a mixture of charm, shrewd planning, and daring, finessed use of bloodshed Constantin achieved the unthinkable by creating the first new Great House in 200 years. For this, he is either loved or hated.

Despite his success in founding a Great House, change in any culture and society happens with glacial speed. And many do not welcome such changes as this false Prince of this upstart House would embrace. Constantin grows old. The dream remains, but its fulfillment is still far off. So far in fact, that this proud champion of the common people knows the gods may take him before the work is complete. Still loved by most in the House, and he is still a master thinker and planner. But there is no doubting that age is catching up with the first Prince of House Bastien. Occasional slips in speech or wandering thoughts. A shake in his hand. These signs have set others vying for power. Jockeying to become the next Prince of House Bastien.

For now Constantin still rules, but for how long and will this new House and its founders dream survive the coming change in leadership?

Here is an idea for House Bastien:

Bastien rose to power on the back of disaster which the founding council saw as an opportunity. A recent drought created severe food shortages within the city. The founders of Bastien (an alliance of minor guilds and or families some legitimate, some not) through a bold and clever use of negotiation, coercion, and some brute force managed to break a stranglehold that House Elanda had created on the grain trade. During the plot they managed to pilfer resources from several of the other Houses which is one of the real reasons Bastien is so disliked. Bravos from Battalia joined their cause, a handful of spies and networks changed allegiances from Lovell. And of course, Elanda lost control over a key market and relationships with the Bakers and Dockers guilds. Corvetto, mostly sat on the sidelines. The reasons for that neutrality aren't clear, but rumors say that promises were made and that eventually Bastien will need to pay what they owe. The threat of the masters of the arcane setting their malice fully on Bastien may also be one of the few things keeping those within Bastien from tapping the full power of the populace. As for the Al-Mari, a healthy portion of the grain to feed their own mercenaries was enough to swing them temporarily to the cause. With the crisis over the two Houses have gone their separate ways once again.

But now, what to do with its new and growing power and influence? Some within Bastien wish to build upon their success and push for an all out revolution of the people, no matter the threat of Corvetto and the other Houses. Combine the power of the mob with blood,steel, and their own Knacks to oust the Prince and the other factions. Put Bastien in control of the city and finally bring justice and wealth and security to those who really do the work. Others see that as a path to disaster believing changes that could better serve the poorer multitudes of the city must come through more peaceful and nuanced means. Whether one of these two internal factions win out or a third or fourth way rises to control could determine the fate of the House.

I think I've kept the number of villagers right around a dozen since you left the manor house, so lets go with 120gp.

Although they do their best to downplay the wizard's quiet gifts, the surviving villagers are quite surprised and more than grateful when Gunnar hands out the small pouches heavy with gold coins. Such an amount is likely more than some would have seen over the course of several years if not decades. Even some of the older men are driven to near tears at the unusual act of charity. Already respectful of the wizard, the villagers of fallen Blandezig now look upon the dwarf with the eyes of folk truly devoted to the causes and principals he follows.

Thus in the following weeks and months, a new shrine dedicated to the thunder god takes root in Levoca. Thor and his scholarly disciple quickly become the new beating heart of faith in the small community. The old charlatan priest of Porevit and Yarila in his run down chapel has little power to stop the rapid conversion of his community. This is especially true as the tale of the pilgrimage south through snow, ice, and unnatural winds while fighting off fae, shadow wolves, and an ancient evil dedicated to the Goat of the Woods herself spread throughout the settlement. A tale enhanced even further when the wizard and his companions immediately set forth to tackle yet another evil befalling the poor, hardworking folk of yet another small village. Unlike so many noble lords, mighty councilors, or great generals who barely take notice of such folk except to steal their crops or send the tax assessors out every year, the dwarf and his companions are true friends and growing legends among the common people of the land.

"Don't be gone too long." Della, the woodsman's wife says as her husband slips his coat back on to guide Ingryd, Gunnar, Luthael and Raseri out to where the freshest and clearest tracks could be found. "Supper will be ready soon and I'll not have our guests eating an over cooked stew."

"It won't take long, I promise, but best they see the tracks before the weather buries them." Olaf says with a smile before heading back out into the elements.

Standing outside the door, Scramsax steps back as the big man comes striding through. After examining the marks in the thick oak, the halfling doesn't learn too much. She would agree that the beast is no common mountain cat or badger or other typical woodland animal. Staring at the slashing marks, she recalls some of those who had journeyed with Rook Bentknee into the wilds of Courlandia talking about creature that made similar type of marks. It takes her several moments, but she recalls that scoundrel Finnigan talking about a forest drake they'd run across just before reaching Nargenstal. That's what these marks call to her mind. A drake or some beast of similar size.

Trekking back out toward the western edge of the village, Olaf takes the group past a darkened hut, the door clawed and scratched similar to that of his own only in this case the wood was older. Rot had set in around the hinges and it gave way. According to Olaf, before anyone could get out here, the was nothing left of Old Beniface except a broken mug of tea and one boot.

Beneath several thick cedar trees, Olaf carefully points out a set of tracks. Five toed, thick claws that leave deep impressions in the damp soil and icy snow. It's also clear something was carried or dragging along the trail.

"Most likely poor Beniface it was we guess." Olaf says shaking his head sadly. "We tried to have him move in with some of us closer to the village center, but he'd not do so. Said he wouldn't put any of us young folk out. Not that anyone would have minded. Except maybe Karl of course."

Also wanting to check on what beast is glowing with which energy type on his next turn, and if any are clustered together in a line.

Beast 1: Engaged with Raseri(Radiant)

Beast 2: Engaged with Luthael(Radiant)

Beast 3: Dead

Beast 4: Engaged with Gunnar(Fire)

Beast 5&6: Engaged with Ingryd(Lightning)

All of them are in melee with a PC so any AOE spell will also affect the engaged PC. The only ones that could be affected together by a linear AOE would be 5&6. Getting any of the others would require a cone or circle.

In the woods...

The cold air struck wrapped around his body like a lovers arms as he rode silently through the depths of the Margreve. He had slept for too long. To feel the wind, taste snow upon his tongue, hear the wind howl across the plain, all reminded him of what it was to live. To embrace this mortal realm. To feed upon its very soul of existence. That is what send his own blood pumping and caused his own ancient flesh to tingle with anticipation.

He breathes deep of the air. Let's the air flow out in a long sigh of longing and desire. Even under a blanket of snow, he was surrounded by a feast that made his hungry mouth water. Made him salivate over the bountiful harvest of energy circulating through so much life. The slowly beating heart of a slumbering mother bear, a new family growing within. The flow of rich sap through the towering veins of pine, fir, and oak. The scuttle and churn of a thousand, thousand insects working the loamy soils and thick layers of centuries of fallen leaves and needles. So much, so close, yet, forbidden to him.

Forbidden. A term for which he has little experience. It's meaning a foreign concept to one used to simply taking what he wished from the world. But his mistress, her skin still showing the effects of her recent explosive and fiery experience, her pale, supple flesh red, blistered, puckered and peeling away had made it quite clear. He was not to touch the forest with his power. A bargain had been made. A price paid. Fortunately, there were plenty more priestesses filling the temples. Their lustful loins soon to produce even more fodder for the alters. This time, he would not go against his mistresses wishes. He could sense that doing so would lead to disaster. Would lead to his trying to devour the entire mass of the ancient Margreve. A task beyond even his abilities. For he strong and his appetites were quite deep, but he is not one of the mighty Dreadwalkers. Not one of the great gods from the void who nearly devoured all of Midgard.

Yet, to be surrounded by such plenty and unable to feed, well, it made him more eager than ever to reach his quarry. For that quarry was even richer in energy and power. So much gathered into so few, and yet, within all that power a great emptiness. A small void of nothing. A black boil among the juicy feast. A void which his mistress promised held so very much more.

Cracking his whip over the great six legged hound's head, he spurs it forward. A howl erupting from the beast's wide jaw. A call answered by multiple others. It had been too long since they'd all hunted.

At the camp...

Once again the deep resonant calls echo through the shadows and darkness of the thick forest. The wandering homeless of Blandezig huddle and clutch at each other within the confines of the stone hut. Despite the confident words of their heroic patrons, their eyes snap closed, their hearts race, and prayers for deliverance are offered to Khors, Lada, and Perun.

Outside the arcane dwelling, the most recent incarnation of the Narg Nasty Six stand ready. Eager eyes watch into the night, earnest ears strain to be the first to hear a betraying snap of twig by an approached foe. Clouds of chilled breath gather about each as they wait. But it is not sight or sound that warns them of approaching danger. Instead after several long moments it is a smell born upon the wind. The smell of cinnamon, incense, and rose. The scent of fresh blood still dripping from a warm kill. The scent of a night's pleasure fulfilled and spent.

Silence reigns. The only sound is the breathing and shuffle of the six, the soft mutters and worried sobs of those huddled inside the shelter, the gentle hiss of falling snow.

Gunnar, Luthael, and Dekatron go tumbling down the slope. The first two manage to survive the fall and subsequent burial without too much trouble. Even before the echoes of the avalanche fade away into the hills more fire magic flares to life and snow bursts outward on a wave of steam and mist.

For Dekatron, the experience of dying in an avalanche leaves a lasting scar as the celestial is whisked back to his home realm. The entire incident in the snow was simply embarrassing. First, that terrible leap into nothing but a pile of snow. Then slipping on the ice like some just out of the womb kitten. Confidence shaken, the big cat decided to spend the next several decades curled up in his favorite corner where the sun always beamed its warmth and completely forget about adventures and adventurers. Especially buxom, greedy halflings.

Meanwhile, back in Midgard, as one being does his best to forget, two others appear to remember each other all too well. Scramsax holds a knife on the newly discovered, semi-thawed prisoner of the fae. Questions are asked. Bearkin fur is cleaned. So far few are willing to intervene in whatever little drama seems destined to play out between halfing and frozen priestess of Thor.

"Yes, yes. Evil shall triumph. Praise the master." Tekumbray waves his hand in the air dismissively at the priest's dying words. "How many times has some villain muttered that on their way to hell." His other hand grabs at his wounded side and he leans back against the wall. "Why not say, 'Whoa. Sorry. Guess I made some bad choices. Fine bit of spirit and pluckiness you heroes showed.' Nope you never hear anything like that."

After catching his breath and letting the initial pain of his wound recede just a little, the gnome take a few moments to more thoroughly search the room.

"Seems kind of spartan around here for an evil priest running a major gambling operation. Bet he's got some kind of stash hidden somewhere in here." Tek adds as he works his way around the room knocking on walls, pressing rocks, looking for patterns in the dirt and dust.

Investigate: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (10) + 3 = 13

Scramsax: Uncanny Dodge would apply because you could see your attacker. Evasion does not. It wasn't an AOE attack or save for half damage.

Arianna is the first to make her way back up the stairs and into the wreckage that was once the vast manor house of the Florian family. Pushing aside shattered boards and broken cabinetry, the elf is able to squeeze through the cellar entrance and back into the open air. Dust still drifts in the morning air and somewhere in a nearby tree a robin sings. A few skeletal posts jut up from the rubble here and there, lone survivors of the mad mother's destruction of all she had tried so hard to protect and save. Debris, dirt, and plaster dust coat multiple pools of ale gathered in spots throughout the crushed remnants of the manor. Signs of the actual fountain and source of the ale seem to have disappeared. Yet another terrible disappointment for her bearkin friend weeping down below.

Carefully making her way through the rubble, Arianna steps down from the still solid stones of the foundation and soon finds the villagers and Dekatron. The former prisoners are still unconscious from their own illness and the piercing reverberations of the void speech. The big cat sniffs curiously at a patch of seared grass and shrubbery, all the while glancing around as if searching for some unseen danger. A single wound bleeds along his shoulder, but for the moment, all seems to be peaceful and calm.

Below, Luthael and Scramsax offer Ingryd comfort and friendship while Gunnar busily records recent events in his journal. It is this very record that nearly five-hundred years later a young, bookish academy student named Albert Yickley will come across in the depths of Northern Ironcrag Arcane Academy library. The account inspires the young lad, barely grown into his beard at that time, to write an eloquent essay on how the darker gods feed upon the desires, fears, and misguided beliefs of wealthy and aristocratic families. He received a A- on the paper, having always struggled with proper placement of punctuation. Although not perfect, the piece launched him to the head of his Gods, Demons, and the Arcane class. Having enjoyed the sweet taste of success for the first time, young Albert increased his explorations into the interactions of the gods with mortal beings. Eventually the youth, who was often the most picked upon student in his classes and the butt of many jokes would make his own dealings with one of those very entities he studied. This pact of mutual benefit would lead to the rise of the Yickley Empire which would equal the Dragon Empire in its size, power, and ferocity. Unfortunately, it his old problem with punctuation that would be the young emperor's undoing. His fall and the collapse of the Yickley regime ultimately started the War of Shattered Souls which laid waste to much of the Crossroads and rivaled the Great Mage Wars in its destruction. But that is another story.

Back beneath the manor, Gunnar makes his notes and then discovers a cabinet tucked in a back corner of the chamber. It is a fine piece of carpentry with elaborate scrollwork and fitted to perfection. A simple magical lock protects the contents, but is easy enough for either wizard or thief to overcome. Inside are numerous spell components and materials useful for all manner of rituals, included the necessary ingredients for Luthael to heal the parasite carrying villagers. In a final bit of serendipity it also contains a vial of the black dragon bone sand needed to complete the ritual to destroy the troublesome sword still carried by the prophet of Khors.

Ingryd and Luthael unleash their own forms of holy power upon the blighted manifestation of chaos and misdirected motherly affection. Ingryd's rage over her family, stolen by another creature of heartless and evil ambition, pummels the beast with steel and fire. The bearkin's maul smashes again into the bloated flesh of the priestess. Bones crack and flesh burns as the first strike lands. But the second slides off the beast's thick flesh causing little more than a buttery ripple to flow across the creature's midsection.

Luthael calls forth a holy bolt. A flame of purity tossed by the very god Khors himself. Having heard the insults of the twisted goat's representative, the sun god's aim in precise and accurate. Light flashes and flesh burns. The smell of cooking meat fills the chamber. Moments later the spear of Khors thrusts forward and sinks deep into the beast's fleshy shoulder.

With an opening carved through the blocking wall of chaos and void slime, Arianna snaps off a pair of quick shots at the thing beyond. The constant burst of brilliant light of the battle with priest and bearkin and shifting mass of the creature manage to through the elf's aim completely askew. Both her arrows end up tangled in the sickly webbing somewhere near the back end of the chamber.

Scramsax unleashes the powers stored within his ring, opening another front for Khors' influence and power to assault the wicked priestess so long lurking here beneath the world's surface like some hidden malignant growth. The is a momentary battle of wills as a sneer lifts the jowly face of the beast. The defiance quickly gives way to momentary compliance as the command overrides what personal will the creature may still retain. Moments later the masses of tentacles cease their attempts to bludgeon, tangle, and grasp and instead begin some macabre and bizarre flowing of movements in time with the tune still chiming from the globe in Gunnar's hand. For a few brief seconds Luthael and Ingryd become practically surrounded by the undulating and swirling mass of tentacles, but the limber limbs do not cause either harm, but instead simply move in unison with each motions taken as the two combatants work to align their next strikes.

As the halfling ducks back into the shadows, practically disappearing within their gray embrace, Gunnar steps forward and through the opening into the ancient chamber. The distracted tentacles do not attempt to harass the dwarf, although one or two do approach swaying vigorously to the chiming tune. Gunnar lifts the globe high and forward and another burst of light followed by an eruption power fills the room. Music, no longer the simple chime of a music globe, but that of a full symphony of angels pouring forth their power. A power that holds sway over all...

"YOU! I SHALL SEE YOU FINALLY DEAD YOU HARLOT OF THE FIELDS" Shrieks the beast. "HOW DARE YOU BRING YOU LOW BORN FILTH INTO THIS HOUSE! IF NOT FOR YOU, ALL WOULD BE AS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN."

The voice that responds in filled with sadness, pity, and her own righteous anger. It bares the sound of youth and even innocence but an innocence lost long ago. Lost and boiled away in a cauldron of betrayal, pain, and suffering.

"Why?!" Is the first pleading cry of that angelic voice. "Why, do you hate me so? Hate me for loving your son? For seeking your own love? Why steal my child!?"

"How dare you ask such a question of me. You, a sheep herders daughter. Nothing more than a peasant. You dare cast your wiles upon my precious boy and bring your dirt covered feet into my home!" The voice of the beast growls and groans. "He was not MEANT FOR YOU!"

"You stole his honor and swayed him away from his duty to family and country. Filled his mind with dreams of love and happiness rather than strengthening the family against those who would steal all we had." The tentacles swirl in greater and greater agitation, eventually whatever searing hatred for the angelic being protected with the globe overcoming the power of Scramsax's simple spell. "You and the other rabble who rebelled against their rightful lords. You brought us to ruin and put us under the thumb of the filth of Morgau. IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT!!" A final maddened, deafening screech pummels the room, cracking stone and minds.

But before that roaring hurricane of chaos can overwhelm and bring madness to all within another power wraps each of those who stand against the beast in a warm embrace of peace and calm and gentle love. Ensconced within that personal globe of protection each is able to weather the storm of anger, hatred, and unrestrained ambition that unravels the very physical threads of the world around it.

Eventually the storm passes as the Dowager Florian's power is spent. The thing that once ruled the manor dangles spent and weakened. Her bloated form sagging upon the strands of webbing. Her mass of tentacles graying and sickly.

The protection of Lada surrounding the young shepard girl so long trapped in the globe, now dissolves away, releasing her back fully into the world. Angel's wings slowly unfold like a butterfly first emerging from the cocoon to welcome the summer suns warmth. She is the most beautiful creature any have ever seen. A radiance of warmth and love and peace surrounds her and fills all except one with comfort and compassion. For that one, there exists only hatred and now fear.

"I did not beguile and bewitch Rupert." The angel says with a sadness that threatens to overwhelm all. "It was the gods that brought us together. Love that spoke within our hearts. If only you had not poisoned his mind and forced him to choose." The angel turns her eyes to the sad broken form laying on the altar still wrapped in the tentacled embrace of his mad mother. The angel reaches out a delicate hand and gently touches the long dead cheek of her once love. "If only he had had the strength to tell you no. To follow his own heart. If only..." Her voice trails off sorrowfully. A deep breath taken. Resolve flares to life in her eyes. "What he could not do, I shall. You have taken everything from me. My husband, my child, my life. Enough!"

Upon that final word a final burst of power burst upon the unholy creature. It's screams are drowned by the roar of power as flesh and bone are burned upon the pyre of the angel's justice. The fire burns all that remains of the Dowager Florian and her fallen son and the creature that replaced her child. For as Dekatron swipes as the changeling outside and prepares to meet his end upon the creature's riposte, it too bursts into flame. It's squirming cries and shrieks echo across the hills until nothing more is left.

The heat of the purifying flames within the chamber is nearly overwhemling. It leaves skin tender and red as if one had spent too much time in the hot desert sun. But finally, slowly it all recedes until only a few flickering remnants dance upon lingering bits of chaos.
Her justice served. The angel turns to Ingyrd, Luthael, Arianna, Gunnar and Scramsax. Her smile is filled with gratitude and thanks, but also sadness and regret.

"I thank you for freeing me and weakening my mother-in-law enough so that I could overcome her unholy ally. Be at peace friends and you may shelter here safely for a little time." She raises a hand and each of you feel the flowing warmth of healing and rest and strength flow through your weary battle tired bodies. "Now I must go seek the one who was stolen from me." And with a final word of thanks, the angelic shepherd girl flies up through an new opening in the ceiling of the chamber. An opening that lets in the light of the sun, for somehow dawn now blooms across the mountains.

Combat over. All are fully healed and receive the benefits of a long rest.

Welcome to Level 9.

Happy Winter Solstice all. Hope you all have a great night and holiday season.

Arianna slowly approaches the door at the end of the cellar tunnel, followed by Ingryd, a drunken Scramsax and Luthael. After his advising about the sturdy masonry of the manor, Gunnar dashes across the hall and through the room beyond rather than down the stairs into the cellar.

Pleased that Cayde made it back alive and that the big warrior doesn't seem to hold a grudge against Tek's flight from the fight, the gnome settles in for a welcome and needed rest.

Upon waking the next day he feels better although still a bit stiff and sore from the previous days battering. Washing his face in the basin he scrubs away while looking in the little square mirror hanging on the wall. That's when he notices the stoic, beak nosed face and patched eye of Sir Reginald. He is unable to stifle a soft groan.

Hello thief. The ghostly holy warrior says. His voice as grating and hard in death as it was in life. The others say you still follow the line between those two strumpets and their abomination called luck.

"Hello Reginald." Tekumbray mutters sullenly. Mari may have been all insults and sass, but the gnome would take that over Reggie's dour preaching any day. "What, dare I ask, brings you into my little slice of the world?"

"Why I am here to save your pathetic soul of course." The paladin's ghost says. He flips the patch covering his right up up for just a moment revealing a squirming mass of maggots, one of which he plucks out and tosses over his shoulder before flipping the patch back down and piercing Tekumbray with the cold, icy stare of his one 'good' eye. "Remind me gnome, have I ever shared with you the true salvation found in the teachings of Tyr. Even so, it seems as if you can use a refresher."

"Uuuuggghhhh." Moans the gnome drying his face and slinking into his shirt. Where was Darius and his flail when he really needed an evil cleric?

Holy and arcane power once again assaults the fallen knight. Gunnar's bolts of force batter von Florian for a second time, while Luthael summons the radiance and spear of Khor's to drive the dread darkness from the manor. This time whatever power that fuels the undying creature grants him the strength to withstand the brilliance of the sun god, but not the spear. The bright shining length of pointed light drives into von Florian's shoulder smoking and hissing as it sinks into the cold flesh.

The night staggers, wavers upon the threshold of falling. Fighting off the freezing presence of the creature, Ingryd brings her maul up and around. But although the cold doesn't fog numb her mind and body completely, it does seem to affect her aim. Her first blow glances weakly off the knight's armor. The second merely misses, whistling through the frost filled air.

Shivering from the cold, Scramsax manages to pull herself free of the void's icy embrace. She ducks away from both the area of lethal cold and von Florian's blade. At first it appears the makeshift frozen buffet fruit misses terribly. But then the purloined projectile ricochets of a wall scone with a metallic *pling*, bounces again off of Ingryd's maul just as the bearkin feints to her left, the wayward bit of waste finds itself caught up in the arcane wake of Gunnar's magical missiles. This shifts the mistimed shot yet again and sends it streaking, as luck would have it, straight through the hole created by Luthael's holy spear. Plunging through the small opening, the frozen fruit explodes against a bone sending tiny slivers of a very ancient vintage shredding von Florian's interior like a cat in a pillow factory.

The knight rears back, his hand grasping at the wound in his chest. Eldritch eyes grow wide and his mouth gasps open. "Oh blast!" The knight exclaims. "Holy mother I welcome your embrace and what you may teach me!" He says in an almost panicked, fearful tone. Moments later the house shudders. A whirlpool of writhing tentacles opens beneath the undying knights feet. A high pitched keening wail bursts forth from the center of the grasping, slithering appendages. It sound sets each of you staggering backward as it rips and tears at your minds and very essences of being. Several tentacles stretch out wrapping the now screaming knight up like some abominable mummy and drag him into the swirling mass. The entire things disappears with a loud *POP*.

Ale continues to flow into the still freezing hallway. If anything, the temperature following von Florian's disappearance is even colder than before. Below the din of the remnant echoes of the unholy wailing, beneath the groans of weakening, rotted, ale heavy floorboards, beyond the gnashing, gargling, gasping struggles of the changeling, a music box chimes its long forgotten tune of love and hope and desire.

Combat over.

A couple of clarifications. First, for Scramsax, sorry it wasn't super clear in my description and follow up. The CON save happens as soon as you and Ingryd entered melee and hit. Basically it is an 'always on' effect. So you entered melee, and then make save. If you had made the save then yes, you could have disengaged and avoided the hit, but since you failed you are stunned and therefore cannot disengage. He then attacks you during his turn. Sorry that wasn't clear. You can make another save on your turn to remove the stunned condition. Ingryd made the save, so isn't stunned and is now immune to the effect for a day.

Luthael, you were not attacked during the round, so I don't think that Warding Flare applies. The way the power reads to me it only works when you are attacked. "...you can interpose divine light between yourself and an attacking enemy. When you are attacked by a creature within 30 feet of you that you can see, you can use your reaction to impose disadvantage on the attack roll, causing light to flare before the attacker before it hits or misses." It doesn't look to me like it can be used when an ally is attacked. If someone has another interpretation, please let me know.

You all did 97 points of damage that first round, so it's all probably moot anyway. I doubt he'll get a second set of attacks. Although Ingryd's double 2's certainly does help his survival chances. ;)

Arianna completes her spell not quite silently, but quietly enough. Disappearing from the sight of her companions she begins to creep down the hall, bits and pieces of her footprints appearing in the dust riddled hall. Just as she reaches the door from which the flickering illumination emerges, the entire mansion shudders as if it were just kicked in the gut by a massive rock troll. Moments later an bizarre spluttering screech erupts from the other, shadow filled end of the hall. The cry momentarily drowns out the grating tinkling waltz the still plays and carries throughout the manor house. A rush of air flows down the hall past Ingryd, Luthael, Gunnar and eventually Arianna. It smells of a dwarven pub and dark beer. Looking down Ingryd notices a small rivulet of dark liquid running down the hall from out of the shadows.

In the lighted room, Arianna hears the clatter of a utensil dropping on a plate, the hurried scrape of a chair across the floor quickly followed by the thump...thump...thump of hurried boot steps.

With elven grace and silence, Arianna leads the way up the narrow staircase followed by the dwarven grace and not quite so silent Gunnar. Behind the wizard are Luthael and Ingryd. With each step the cold grows more intense, seeping into bones and causing breath to cloud. A rime of dusty frost coats the upper landing where the stairs then narrow and continue up into a third floor or a hall branches left and right. More webs choke the hall to the left. Undisturbed and filled with darkness, the still present chiming notes of music seem to originate from that void dark direction.

To the right, the webs are broken. Left to dangle in shredded tatters like severed vines along a jungle path. An odd eldritch light flickers from an open door midway down the hall. The dim light and slowly shifting strands of silky webbing create an eerie shadow play upon the wall opposite the open door.

Tilting her head to listen down the hall, the elf's keen ears pick out the soft tap and tinkle of cutlery upon china.

The putrid gases, the still splurting and splorking juice-filled innards, Scramsax estimates the spider met its maker within the last week or two. But not within the last day or two. Blood on the floor is quite dry, the limbs (those that remain) are curled and stiff, the flesh rubbery, hardening, but not nearly completely desiccated.

Prepared to move on, the halfling places a smattering of rabbit's feet, bent sunglasses (the good pair of Grandmother's Lemonade sunshades were sacrificed upon the vampire pyre), random keys, a squeaky witch toy, a several polyhedral dice (likely abandoned for always rolling low) in a carefully constructed pattern to create the most nose and havoc from anyone or anything making their way in from the eastern passage.

All the while, now that everyone's attention has been drawn to it, the tinkling notes of the music box continue to drift through the halls of the lonely manor.

Cautiously moving west down a short hall, there is a door to the south. A quick check reveals a long unused water closet. More unnerving is the corpse sitting upon the wooden seat. The decaying clothes would indicate the man as a servant, perhaps the butler or head steward. A bit of ancient parchment remains clutched in the dry, papery hand. There is little doubt that this corpse is quite old. Nor the cause of death. The head lies on its side in the sink, the eyeless desiccated face staring up at the ceiling, the mouth still open in surprise. A dark rusty black stains nearly every surface. Dried blood, long since soaked into the wood floor and walls. A cockroach scuttles across the bare leg and down into the depths as Luthael's flaming hair brings light to where little has flared for numerous long years.

The music continues to play it cheerful notes quite at odds with the gloom of the manor.

Although somewhat delirious due to the demonic parasite rummaging around in their insides, the former prisoners almost as one given Gunnar a skeptical look as the wizard announces with confidence that the webbing clearly belongs to the species Eratigena atrica. A large but non-poisonous and generally shy species that should pose no threat whatsoever.

"Them's is some mighty big webs m'lord." Says the older man, Mik, who'd gone off with Phineous. "Seems like anything that could make a strand like that, might be somethin' I'd not want crawling in my bed roll at night."

The wizard waves a hand dismissively. "Even if a bit larger, the pattern of the web is the obvious give away." Gunnar replies casually. "You can tell by the way the upper section is wider than the lower. And how it curves around like so." He points to each section of web. "This specimen has probably just grown a bit oversized due to the abundance of insects and rodents available in the safe shelter of the abandoned manor."

Still hesitant, Mik glances at the webbing again. "But doesn't that look an awful lot like a skull m'lord?" He says. Which to everyone else appears to be the correct assessment of the webs peculiar shape. Especially after the old farmer points it out, now nobody can unsee the rather grim telltale.

"It's just your imagination or the effects of the demon you're carrying playing tricks on your eyes." Waves off the the dwarf as he stamps toward the door.

The boy was quick and his shadow step to jam the knife against the halfling's ribs should have worked. But the damned gnomes talked a lot. Too much. Couldn't keep their jabbering jaws shut and they'd blown the whole op. He couldn't help but think that maybe the whole lot of demon-lovers really were double crossing the Emperor's Legions and therefore his own masters as well. Regardless, thanks to those blabbering bubble heads, the blasphemous halfling wench was ready for his attack. His initial killing blow does little more than give the Barsallen blood sack a paper cut.

The young protege of Baron von Ziethoffen was blooded upon his thirteenth birthday having been turned by the baron the previous evening the young lad woke that night with a tremendous new hunger. A hunger that was quickly satiated upon the other youthful, innocent attendees of his birthday celebration. It was a grim and gruesome evening that made the baron quite proud of his selection.

For the next one hundred and fifty years the boy served the baron's needs and trained under the finest tutors in swordplay and skullduggery the Blood Kingdoms had to offer. He was quick, efficient, and deadly. The baron's top assassin and spy. One of the best in all Morgau.

Unfortunately, all the training the Blood Kingdoms had to offer couldn't really hold a candle to the brutal, deadly, and utterly honorless arena that is the docks and back alleys of Barsella. An arena Scramsax had survived and even thrived in for many years. Taunts and insults echoed in the night to keep the vampire's rage from ebbing and his good sense at bay. Salt in the eyes, holy water which turned out to be fake, a sack of powdered garlic which turned out to be real, and of course that blasted prophet and elf who added their miserable magic and arrows to the mix once his own allies fled like cowards into the night. It all added up to one thing, failure. Failure and death.

The vampire's eyes flutter open. His hands and feet are bound and chained to iron stakes driven into the ground. Pain lances through his body where another stake, this one wooden, scrapes and pulls at the flesh of his chest with each little twitch and movement. He doesn't know what time it is, but the barren scrub is quiet. It is still dark. He had time to get to shelter. A cool wind blows grit across his face.

He begins to work at the rope and stakes binding his hands. Despite his size and appearance he had the strength of his unholy kind. The foot long pegs were hammered directly into hard earth and stone so it took a bit of time but soon enough he felt the iron start to slip free. It was at least moment something else registered in his mind. Bird song. This was quite odd given night still wrapped its mantle over the land.

A chill runs down his undying spine as he realizes through the various aches and pains of his body that a set of spectacles rest across his eyes. A set of very, very dark spectacles. Panic swells up inside his chest. Whipping his head back and forth the glasses finally fly free. They clatter against a rock, unbroken several feet away. The boy really doesn't care, for his eyes are much too busy focusing on the brilliant reds, oranges and golds in the eastern sky which he just so happens to be directly facing.

Somewhere in the distance a rooster crows. The vampire screams in anger and hatred as he twists and jerks against the bindings which are nowhere near loose enough yet. A first blistering ray of morning sunlight slips over the horizon. More screams erupt, this time of pain and fear as he continues to jerk wildly at the chains.

The message is set to trigger when the first beam of sunlight strikes the stone. The boy knows the voice all to well.

"Cock-a-doodle-do mother fu...."" The voice of Scramsax chuckles in the vampires ear, the message lost in the incomprehensible screams as the full light of the sun strikes the vampire. "Tell Laffy Rat hello from the Narg Nasty Six."

Within seconds nothing is left of the vampire but a remnant of white ash which the wind soon carries away. All that remain are four iron stakes. Markers that create speculation among the locals for years to come until rust and the elements reduce them to mere bumps at the edges of an oddly blackened patch of rock.

A few miles away, higher and deeper into the mountain woods outside of Blandezig, Scramsax, Luthael and Arianna share a knowing look as the sun climbs above the eastern horizon. As they help the weakest of their charges along the rough trail they stop to listen. For just a moment the wind carries a distant scream. And then silence reigns once again. Grim smiles all around.

A hundred yards ahead, Gunnar and Ingryd stand warily with four other people. Former prisoners judging by the rags and emaciated frames. The source of their wariness is a two story log manor house tucked deep in the shadows of several massive fir trees. Cobwebs, thick as a man's arm lace across the front deck while years worth of debris and needles coat the ground, roof and nearly everything else in the area. The windows are all shuttered with thick wooden covers while a single door stands closed in the front a stained glass window pane broken in the upper right corner. Nothing but darkness sits within.

Here's a brief attempt to try and summarize the current events and plot, such as it is. :)

--> While traveling south toward the Ruby Sea in order to locate a vital ingredient for the ritual to destroy the nasty Sword of Evil Evilness, you rescued several prisoners (including Arianna) from the clutches of gnome slavers.

--> It was discovered these prisoners (including Arianna) were infected with a nasty parasitic demon. And that the gnomes were delivering these poor prisoners as part of some agreement with the Undying Empire or some faction within it. Further questioning revealed the time and location of the delivery as Blandezig.

--> Most of the party (including Arianna) chased off after a couple of the slaver gnomes. The chase led them to a certain Lemonade Stand and at some point the planting of a magic bean which resulted in an actual giant beanstalk. More hijinks ensued, but in the meantime Luthael was left to struggle with the keeping the prisoners alive, preventing a demonic plague outbreak, and trying to get them back to his family manor so they could be properly healed.

--> Eventually you all did make it back to the manor. Connected with Luthael's priestly mentor and learned the healing ritual and saved the prisoners (including Arianna).

--> With little time to reach the gnome-ghoul rendezvous, you decide to take the shadow roads. Things happen, brave deeds are accomplished, and you make some new friends including the ancient treant who helps you all (including Arianna) reach Blandezig in time.

--> Arianna, by herself, scouts the village while the rest of you wait hidden nearby. This results in a pair of massive explosions, the appearance of an angry unholy avatar and the fight with yet another platoon of ghoul legionnaires. But all indications do point toward the gnomes taking the majority of the blame for the explosions. It was also discovered that there may be some amount of the black dragon bone sand necessary for your ritual stored among the provisions of the legionnaires or their allies...former allies.

--> The Blasting of Blandezig did allow several of the prisoners to escape. These were rounded up and guided by Gunnar's faithful familiar, who used to be your magic carpet ride, back to your hidden camp. Not realizing the camp was actually that of their rescuers, the poor starving wretches ate a good portion of your provisions. Then some moved on.

--> Having returned to camp, you all (including Arianna) discovered the prisoners and also discovered they are infected with the same demonic parasite.

--> Gunnar and Ingryd went to follow the trail of those who left. Those who remained (including Arianna) question the former prisoners, it is believed the others were heading toward some reasonably close abandoned nobleman's hunting cabin. It also revealed the three youthful imposters hidden among the prisoners. A vampire boy and two gnomes disguised as red-headed twins.

--> Having dealt with the imposters, the rest of the party (including Arianna) help and hurry the sickly prisoners along the trail to catch up with Gunnar and Ingryd near the manor house. I believe that once you've got them all secured the goal is to once again cleanse the prisoners and then head back to Blandezig to both deal with the remaining enemies and potentially find the stash of black sand.

Guys I know we are all pretty busy but I put up a 5e Spelljammer game on Myth Weavers if interested.

Spelljammer Academy

...and yes, I don't have the best track record as DM lately. :P

Courts of the Shadow Fey [Failed]
Saga of the Worm [Failed]
Descent into Avernus [Failed]

These are pretty straightforward AL-style modules in comparison.

I've been wanting to check out Myth Weavers and things are gradually starting to slow down for me. I could take on something as a player. I'll bust open my Spelljammer stuff and see if I can put something together over the next couple of days.

"Name's Milo." The talkative older man offers to Luthael as the prophet of Khors begins to get a closer look at the ragged survivors of the ghoul's hospitality. "Born and raised in these mountains." He says gesturing toward the tall, snow-capped peaks of the Cloudwalls looming to the west. "Prospected, trapped, hunted, and eventually settled down in Blandezig where I've run...errr...used to run the mercantile for the last thirty years."

He nods toward a bedraggled middle-aged woman who doesn't do much more than stare into the darkness. Fear and pain are etched upon every inch of her filthy face.

"This is Darya." Milo says adding a sad shake of his head and he steps over and wraps a gentle, comforting arm around the lost woman's shoulders. "She and her husband Olaf ran the Unicorn and Tiger, Blandezig's inn. Was a nice, respectable inn. Many a merchant heading north to Zobeck would stop in just for a bit of Darya's sausage stew and apple pie." Stepping away from the woman, Milo leans in and whispers to Luthael. "It broke her when the ghouls took her youngest away." The man's hands shake as he closes his eyes against the memory. A long pause. A moment to bury the fear. Blinking back tears, for Olaf, Darya and their family had been the same as his own over the years, Milo takes a deep breath and looks around as several of the other broken souls gathered in the little camp.

"Mariya and Yelena." He points out two other women entering their older years. Both sit hunched over in pain, griping their bellies and moaning. "Mariya is a fine seamstress. Dmitri was her husband. Farmed several acres along the creek. Yelena, her sister, worked the neighboring plot of land. Grew herbs and some of the best greens, carrots, and potatoes in the village. A green thumb." His brow furrows in anger and frustration. "Course the best fields were flooded by those blasted eel pens."

"Vidim and Laslo here used to run the mill and do a bit of tanning. Laslo there makes some of the finest, softest leather goods you'll ever find. Better than anything you'll get in Zobeck."

Looking out among the remaining former prisoners, he shakes his head. "Don't really know these other folk." He says. "Poor souls were brought in by those witch-cursed gnomes. Including those three over there." He says tilting his head toward the young boy and twin girls. "Most of them haven't said much. Course I don't think the gnomes treated 'em any better than the ghouls. Maybe worse as usually half the ones brought in the wagons arrived dead or nearly so. Caused a bit of a fuss among them gray-skinned bastards."

When Scramsax asks about the fortunes of Blandezig Milo offers a knowing nod of his stork-like head. He gaze shifts out to the east where the foothills of the mountains eventually give way to the open plains. "Life here is plenty hard. But there was a bit of trade. Merchants trading between Zobeck and Courlandia...especially since the fall of Krakovar cut off most of the northern routes."

He looks at Gunnar. "A few of his folk maintain holds up in the mountains. Not as prosperous as their Ironcrag kin, but gold and silver enough to keep a clan or two happy. I used to sell a good bit of dwarf made goods to traders who didn't want to risk the high passes or tread deeper into the Blood Kingdoms."

"Good soil, good water and a bit of trade." He says pointing back toward the village. "That along with being out here on the back side of nowhere. Far from the centers of power, far enough from the tribes and Khazzaki who make living on the plains a futile and deadly endeavor. Blandezig offered a hard, but decent enough life for those willing to work hard. At least it was."

"As for Phin...well he's a peculiar sort. Gets along better with the wolves and wilds than he does most folk." A soft chuckle escapes his throat almost like a crows cackle. "We've known each other since we both could skip stones across the millpond. Trapped together for a few years until I decided I'd had enough slogging through the snow, ice, and cold for a few more pelts."

"Anyway, he's good enough with a bow and blade. Can't survive out here and not at least know a few basics." His gaze takes in the gore covered bearkin, her tattered dress and maul that could easily crush his own head like a grape in a press. "But he couldn't have taken on those legionnaires like you folk did. He's a good enough shot to put an arrow into an eye from a hundred paces, but unless there's a good pelt or value in the carcass, Phin's was more likely to just slip back into the woods to be on his own." A frown and shadow passes over Milo's features. "Course, I can't say now. He spent more than a few days in the clutches of one of those Blood Sisters. It seemed to break him somehow."

Hey all, apologies for the recent radio silence. Unfortunately, real life has reared its ugly head and sapped a ton of my free time and creative energy the last few weeks. I keep expecting (hoping) things would calm back down to normal levels, but they haven't and in fact just keep getting worse.

In light of that and with the FATE rules not being quite as 'rules-lite' as low GMing lift as I'd hoped, I'm going to have to close this one down. I just don't have the bandwidth to keep it going.

Thanks to you all for giving this a try and putting up with my half-baked mash of FATE and Battletech. I hope to see you all elsewhere on the boards.

Cheers!

Aboard the Last of Nine...

"Are you okay?" One of the rescued civilians approaches Charly as she sits there shuddering in the hallway. The muffled sounds of duct tape being unrolled and rustle plastic or tarps comes from behind the accordion door of the small supply closet. Partnered with muttered curses and a few grunts of exertion the man gives the door a quick glance, but Charly's obvious agitation captures most of his attention.

"You...you're one of the mech pilots aren't you?" He asks the curled up Capellan. At her nod he holds out his hand for her to take. "I just want to thank you for what you and your friends did for us. Why I thought we were all goners for sure. Either doomed to drown in that blasted mine or to a life of misery in the slave markets."

He's of average height and a bit on the thin side. What is does have is all muscle. A mop of dark hair, still damp from the rain, a shower, or possibly both. Green eyes peer at the upset mechwarrior with genuine concern as he helps her to her feet. He wearing one of the spare set of standard issue coveralls stored in the ships lockers. The Last of Nine patch standing out against the cobalt blue fabric.

"My names Ben. Ben Thompson." He says walking with Charly as she leads him away from whatever is happening beyond the thin door and back toward the main hanger. "I'd love to help out a bit where I can. I'm a pretty handy tech. Least wise I kept our crawlers and digging gear working despite not seeing a new part in over twenty years."

********

Meanwhile after Markus leaves Lapeidra to clean up and dispose of Deigo's remains, the Phoenix Hawk pilot bumps Lloyd. The sensor jockey hands Markus some coordinates marking some anomaly he'd sighted as the Last of Nine made the hop to join up with the rest of Operation Flyswatter.

With Jack and Charly working to repair their own mechs as well as judge the real damage done to the salvaged Thunderbolt and Blackjack and Gunny bartering for a few of life's essentials with the Janissarie techs, Markus, Lloyd and Lapeidra meet with Vikhaus and Commander Gerard.

"What have you got for us?"

The eyes of Vikhaus, Gerard and several aides swivel toward the newly arrived Stormhammers. Vikhaus runs a hand through her hair. The dark circles of lost sleep lurk beneath her eyes as the continues to study the choppy BattleROM video. Watches as Hutton's Battlemaster shreds a Janissare Jagermech with a barrage of missile and energy fire.

"Until I can find out more about what the hell is going on down on this mudball, I've got nothing for you." She says her fist tapping the top of the table. "League intel told us Hutton was just another bunch of bandit raiders growing a bit too big for their shorts. They did mention anything about assault mechs or a second full company." She sends a piercing gaze to one of the nearby techs who gives a slight shake of his head in return. "And given the blasted weather, we've got no stinking idea where he's gone to ground."

She turns and looks to Markus. "You said you have a prisoner and some civilians who were under Hutton's thumb for a while. Bring them over. I want to have my team can talk with them, see what we can find out."

She'd nearly outrun the trap when the portal of arcane energy swirls open in the blink of an eye. She tries to stop or throw herself aside from the glowing portal, but there just isn't enough time. Her rapidly churning legs plunge through the opening to find themselves dashing across nothing but open air. A momentary look of shock is quickly replaced by fear and just as quickly a bit of resolute determination as she sees the rapidly approaching ring of holy fire. Unfortunately, attempts to steer away from the conflagration prove futile as her limbs flap uselessly and her armor proves less than useful as it drags her down even quicker.

Eventually, she is forced to depend upon her undying body's relative resilience to survive the coming collision. Tucking her arms and legs she throws herself into a magically enhanced spin as the final few feet of open air disappear. By Marena's bloody backside, I hate elves. Is her final thought before...

*WHUMPFF*

A cloud of dust bursts upward from the sight of impact. Rivets on her armor burst free as her body absorbs the remainder of the long fall. At the same time, holy fire boils skin and turns hair to ash. But her spinning, curled body manages to roll right through the opening in the ring past her dying comrade as Ingryd's hammer crushes his ghoulish skull and Gunnar's bolt of frost finishes off whatever life force may have still inhabited the sack of animated flesh.

Shooting up from her tucked position, the ghoul once again takes off on a zig-zagging run, this time trailing a band of smoke from her smoldering clothing and hair.

The legionnaire charging Luthael, manages to twist aside from the bolt of holy flame. Lunging forward the ghoul rakes a claw at the prophet and opens up a series of nasty cuts across the cleric's chest and shoulder. Moments later a sling stone comes flying. The halfilng powered projectile careens off the ghoul's iron armor and falls harmlessly to the ground.

Healing energy flows across the scene when Khor's prophet bathes the area in the god's light. More horns blow from the direction of the camp.

A nearly incinerated skeletal figure emerges from the center of the ring of fire. Armor red hot, skin charcoal, and eyes little more than glowing eldritch orbs of energy within burnt out sockets. The last ghoul trapped inside launches itself at Ingryd with tooth and claw. The burnt undead's frenzied attack catches the bearkin off guard. She's unable to fend of the fiery hot claws that slash another series of cuts across her burly frame. She does manage to fend off the undead's snapping jaws as she dances back a step leaving it to bite nothing but smoke and hot air.

The two other legionnaires continue to flee toward the camp, although, slower than the potion powered Sliver.

Meanwhile....

Ingryd: Kills a ghoul. Then takes 21 from the final trapped ghoul.

Luthael: Takes a claw hit for 21 from the ghoul now engaged with him and Gunnar. (Less any reduction from Gunnar's magic.)

One badly burnt ghoul is engaged with Ingryd. One pretty wounded ghoul is engaged with Gunnar and Luthael. Two others flee and are 90' away. Sliver after her fall and near incineration is 60' away and Dodging.

Party is up.

Thanks DM. I disagree with the Piloting Overcome rule. Discounting the effect of gravity on planets with varying mass, falling happens too quickly to do anything but land. I fell from a ladder once and it happened so fast I didn't have time to think. Plus, it would seem like the longer the distance you fall, the better your chance of being able to engage jump jets, so like, the opposite of the rule you have. DFA is defensible like any other melee attack, and if you fail to defend you get knocked prone, simple enough.

Does overcoming the Prone aspect consume movement? I think it should. In the BT video game, standing from prone is your move action for that round. Perhaps a success with style on the Overcome roll lets you move 1/2 speed that round.

Sorry, I forgot to mention actual movement. Since movement works a little differently in FATE. Completing the Overcome from Prone, means you are unable to change Zones for that round. So from an RP perspective you are upright and mobile enough to Defend or shift around within your current zone, but you aren't able to advance/retreat to another zone.

For falls of distances of 1 level or more I think I'll just do away with any modifiers. If you succeed vs an Overcome of +5, then you can land on your feet. A doable challenge for a skill of +3 or +4 but certainly not a guarantee. Much harder for anyone with only a +1 or +2 skill level. Again, all damage still applies regardless of the Overcome result for non-jump capable mechs. Jump capable mechs can reduce Fall damage by 1 for each jump move point of the mech.

And yes, for anyone hit by a DFA and who isn't knocked off of some elevated height, then there isn't any Overcome roll. If the initial Defend fails, then they are knocked prone.

So the options are basically damage from DFA and knocked prone (this is what will happen most of the time.) OR damage from melee/DFA plus a fall from a height (This is very dependent on terrain and RP as it is totally situational and won't occur as often.). Falling from a height causes additional falling damage and potentially Prone depending on result of the Fall Overcome of +5 vs Piloting. Jump capable mechs that succeed in the Overcome also reduce the damage by the number of Jump movement points of the mech. (This reduction does not occur if the mechs Jump Jets are Damaged or Destroyed.)

It's worth noting that a Fall from height could also be caused by other things such as a failed piloting Overcome roll when moving along a cliff; a shove, charge, or other similar kind of melee Attack with an intent to forcefully move a mech; collapsing a bridge being crossed by enemy mechs. Again, probably rare, but not impossible situations.

The chaos of all out battle reigns upon the dismal open scrub outside of the lowly mountain village. Lightning crackles searing undead flesh inside the booming storm sphere until finally the hapless ghoul within the blasting conflagration recovers its wits enough to escape the circle of electrical damnation. A second thunderous blast flashes from Gunnar's fingertips toward the scattered, charging ghouls. The closest spots the wizard's arcane gestures and guesses the coming result. He dives aside midstride and avoids much of the blast. Unfortunately, the move leaves his commander wide open to the crackling blast. The squad leader tries to duck aside, but his beefy body is simply to big a target and too slow. Another blast of electrical energy pulses through his undead frame.

Across the field Ingryd's mighty battleroar rumbles in counter balance to Gunnar's storm. Stepping free of Arianna's shroud of invisibility a storm of bone, fur and muscle is unleashed upon the pair of surprised undead legionnaires. Hammer blows crash into ribs and femurs snapping bones and pummeling gray ghoul flesh.

Moments later a second wall of fire bursts to life surrounding two of those hung up by Ingryd's sudden appearance. One manages to dive clear of the flames suffering only minor burns while the other remains caught inside screaming as the holy flame of Khors cleanses the undead of its wicked flesh.

Seeing a clear line of sight to the leader, Arianna shifts her focus and aim. The snap of her bow sends one of the treant's arrows sinking deep into the ghoul's flesh where it flares to radiant life cooking the undead painfully from within. Sadly, the flash of radiant light catches the elf by surprise and the aim of her second arrow is thrown off as she blinks away the afterglow of the treant's magic.

Despite having never received true bardic training, Scramsax is able to pull off a passable enough performance to fool the female legionnaire who manages to unleash a string of curses that could melt the pitch from a Barsellan merchant ship when another ring of fire erupts across the field. Distracted by fire, lightning, and blessed elven arrows, she mistakenly ignores the halfling that tumbles from the back of the racing leopard, his final pleas falling upon her uncaring ears.

It isn't until she reaches for another arrow that the truth is suddenly revealed. Instead of finding another black feathered shaft, she finds nothing. Emptiness.

Teeth grind in hapless rage and she glances back toward the formerly lamenting leopard only to see it staring back at her with that condescending cat-look so common to all felines across the multiverse. A blink of golden eyes and the leopard leaps away with a chuckling yowl.

Although battered, the ghoul engaged with Ingryd is certainly not out. Taking advantage bearkin's frenzied fighting style, the undead warrior rakes its thick, sharpened claws across her hide. It then twists aside and ducks low, diving in to bite at her leg. Before she can kick it away, the undead manages to painfully rip away a chunk of bearkin flesh which is munches on while it ducks back waiting for another opening in the big barbarian's defenses.

The ghoul's leader and one other of his legionnaire's charge the two spellcasters. Racing forward the leader is nearly upon the two while the other warrior races up on Luthael's flank to slash at the prophet of Khors with claw and tooth. Initially it stumbles on a loose vine of dried blackberry. It's slashing claw flails in open air. But with a quick recovery, the ghoul uses its own momentum to step close snatch at the prophet's shoulder and sink its razor like teeth into Luthael's flesh.

Knowing her missing arrows must be some trickery caused by the feline riding halfling, Sliver pops a small vial from a pouch on her belt. With practiced ease she snaps the top off and downs the entire contents in a trio of rapid gulps. Moments later her muscles seem to quiver with energy, her fingers moving in a blur as she draws the short steel blade from her side. Then in a massive burst of speed she takes off running toward the fleeing leopard.

Meanwhile...a bit further away.

"Meow!" Mamluk's call carries across the scrub capturing the attention of several of the fleeing prisoners. "Meow....purrrrrr." Eyes filled with too many horrors and hopelessness turn toward the cat who strangely enough props up on its hind legs and waves its furry paws toward back toward the camp of the Narg Nasty Six.

One or two of the wounded souls simpyl ignore the strange antics of the cat as little more than further hallucinations caused by fever, hunger and terror. But several others including a very emaciated young woman of no more than 17 going on 55 stumble toward the cat.

Proud of his ability to get their attention, the fearless feline looks again at the prisoners stumbling toward him across the scrub. Hunger burns in their eyes and the cat gulps nervously before bounding off toward the camp. Following friend Gunnar's request, but being sure to stay well ahead of the starving prisoners.

Ingryd: Take 16 and 22 from a claw and bite attack.

Luthael: Take 7 from a crossbow attack. Then take 16 from a bite.

One ghoul is engaged with Ingyrd. One is trapped inside the wall of fire. One is just outside the wall of fire. The leader dashed to 0' from Gunnar and Luthael. One ghoul is engaged with Luthael. One crossbow ghoul is just beyond the storm sphere radius. A second is 60' away from the spell casters. Sliver is hasted and chasing Scram/Dekatron.

Arianna: Given the magical nature of the arrows and the generally open, flat landscape, it should be easy to locate the missing arrows after combat. During combat requires a Perception rolls vs DC20 given all the magic being unleashed.

Party is up.

Sorry all. Been busy. Will try to catch up on rules questions later today.

In the meantime, I just want to confirm that you are grabbing the T-Bolt and Blackjack. Lapeidra's piloting and assuming all are helping means that you all manage to outrun them back to the evac point.

Of course, given how much equipment you are shoving into that tiny little Leopard dropship, I can't help but visualize the T-Bolt strapped to the roof of the dropship like an elk carcass atop a 1970 Gran Torino. ;)

Tekumbray cautiously moves up to the big plate. He spends several moments studying the device.

See look there." The ghostly visage of Mari whispers in his ear.

"Aye, I see it." The gnome says out loud forgetting that his companions are not likely able to see the spirit leaning across his shoulder. "Looks simple enough if I tie a counterwieght there in order to disable the spring over here."

Yes and don't forget to keep the weight balanced as you cut the second wire.

He nods. "Of course, of course. It's similar to the trap that caught..."

Boris.

"Right. Boris. Those big shoulders and thick arms sure didn't do much against a thousand pounds of stone."

But he was fun to look at...especially from the back.

"Errr...right. Best get to work then."

Seeming oblivious to any puzzled looks, the gnome waves everyone back a few steps and begins to work on the trap. "Give me a moment and I'll take care of this."

Thieves Tools to Disarm: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (20) + 7 = 27

Gunny's rejiggered PPC is spot on target this time around as the man made lightning rips into the heavy mech. Internal systems rupture and the glow of its heavy laser suddenly winks out at the entire weapon system drops off line. In addition, the crackling high energy blast triggers a handful of the heavy mech missile warheads. The desperate pilot quickly slams the emergency warhead ejection system and the remaining ammunition goes tumbling away in a cacophony of explosive blasts that blow down trees and shred the muddy landscape.

Gunny's hopes for a final killing shot with his missiles are thwarted as the Griffin's missile targeting system seems to be less than perfect. Most of the long range salvo goes flying off across the meadow to explode harmlessly among the trees and already shell-shocked squirrels. The measly pair that do stay on target don't react quick enough as the enemy pilot yanks the Thunderbolt clear.

Markus charges forward, lasers blasting at the wounded and exposed heavy mech. A ruby red beam bores deep into the Thunderbolt's interior joined by the thicker emerald beam of the the Phoenix Hawk's heavy Harmon systems laser. Coolant fluid leaks from the bandit mech like a dying bull in the ring. As its right leg completely locks up as metal joints are temporarily welded together by the blasting lasers.

Seeing her opportunity, Lapeidra unleashes the fury of her own PPC on the stubborn bandit. The Canopian mechwarrior is rewarded as her shot shears a medium laser off the bandits upper shoulder, burns into the heavy missile launcher and right into the cockpit. Suddenly supercharged ferroglass cracks and bursts sending shards of thick armored glass in every direction including the mech pilot.

Coming in opposite of Markus, Jack opens fire with his own laser barrage. Just like his lance mate, he manages to strike with his heavy and one of the smaller lasers. The already damaged missile system turns into a molten mass of useless slag as does the secondary shorter range missile rack. The ghastly remnant of the heavy mech smolders in place before suddenly toppling over with a thunderous crash as the leg finally gives out completely in an ear piercing screech of grinding, ripping metal.

Having bracketed the Thunderbolt the two Stormhammer Phoenix Hawks then twist around and catch the bedraggled [b]Blackjack[/i] in an almost perfectly executed and coordinated iron-fisted sandwich. What little remained of the battered Blackjack simply gives away under the myomer powered pummeling. The bandit mech's upper torso on the left caves in under the paired punches. Stored plasma for the jump jets vents in a fiery blast. While machine gun fire rattles into the heart of the mech killing the last of it's medium lasers. Moments later the cockpit cracks open and the pilot's ejection seat goes shooting high into the rain soaked air.

With their number halved the two remaining bandit pilots retreat toward the trees their movements erratic as they try to avoid allowing any targeting locks. The moves seem to work as Charly simply cannot get a lock on anything, but Lloyd manages to briefly zero in on their signals to allow possible parting shots.

BJ, Thunderbolt are out. Shadow Hawk jumps to -11; Phoenix Hawk jumps to -8; Markus & Jack are in -6; Lapeidra and Lapeidra are in zone -4; Charly is at -2; Lloyd holds at +1.

The remaining bandits are retreating.

It is unclear whether the leopard is repulsed or drawn to the magically created offal pile. Scramsax senses it may be the later as the leopard's shining eyes gaze at the bloody pile, its nose working that direction with eager curiosity. As quick arm and a calming word, aka threat of being turned into one of those hairless house cats carried around by some southern noblewomen. Although fairly certain the halfling is incapable of following through on such a transformative threat, the leopard decides discretion is the better part of valor and hunkers down near the hiding Scramsax.

Arianna deftly works her magic on Gunnar, Ingryd, and Luthael shrouding the three in elven secrets to hide them from unsuspecting undead eyes. With nothing else in sight except a few fleeing prisoners, the ghouls turn aside from their pursuit and fall instead upon the gruesome open air deli.

"Alright you bloated sacks o' maggot meat..." Hollers a ghoul wearing black scaled armor instead of the lighter weight reinforced leather of the other legionnaires. His wavy blond locks are expertly trimmed and moussed so that not a single strand dares deviate from its commanded position. Blue eyes sit above a chiseled chin and thin nose carried in such a way as to convey a nobleman's gift of superiority "Vardesain has blessed us for certain." He says, his voice a bit nasal and filled with greedy hunger as he glances back toward the still smoldering camp. "We've got a turn of the glass to get our fill, then best we be off after fresher meat."

Most of the ghouls let out hungry, enthusiastic shouts and growls as they scamper up to the pile like excited kids ransacking a candy stand. All except one scrawny looking soldier. Her long black hair is neatly tied in a braid that hangs down the center of her back. Bony shoulders barely seem to hold up her leather armor and it looks like she had to poke an extra hole in her belt in order for it to loop small enough to fit around a rail thin waist. Gout is not something this ghoul will ever need fear. For whatever reason she shows little interest in the fortuitous pile of undead snack foods. Instead her wire thin hands tightly grip her oiled and polished to a fine sheen short blade as she scans the surrounding area with a suspicious frown.

"Lieutenant Chaz? Don't you think it's kinda odd a big pile of meat just sittin' out here in the middle o'no where like this?" She somehow manages to hock up a bit of spit from her paper thin frame and manages to knock a buzzing fly out of the air with the gooey mass. "Mighty unusual coincidence if'n you ask me. Some are sayin' the gnomes were the ones who blew up the..."

The beady eyed ghoul unleashes an exasperated groan interrupting the skinny ghoul's worried thought. Grabbing a lengthy strand of intestine and begins to chew and talk at the same time. "The gnomes?! What a load of hogwash. Them runts wouldn't dare. Probably just Wallflower finally blew herself up working for old Gristleblister." He growls. "For Merana's sake, Sliver. *munch*munch* Can't you just *slurp* enjoy our good luck for once? We ain't that far from camp. Probably just stumbled upon the stash of those liver thieves in second squad. *slurp*crunch* They're all blown up now, so we aren't even stealing. In fact, we'd be going against Vardesain's teachings to let such a feast go to waste. *munch*" He pauses to choke down an especially thick piece of gore while running his eyes across his subordinate's scrawny frame. "Seems like you could do a bit better following the hunger god's teachings. But if you really don't want any, then by all means go get a start on tracking down those pathetic fools." He adds waving a hand in the general direction of a handful of fleeing captives.

Sliver's puzzled frown turns to one more of disgust at her commanders lack of...well just about any and every command skill possible. A moment later she just nods, offers a crisp salute and starts to stride after the fleeing escapees. Chaz simply waves a half hearted salute before returning to the feast along with the rest of his squad.

Inside Marena's Shrine...

An ecstatic cry bursts from Sister Bev's blood soaked lips as the broad shouldered ghoul plies his rather generous and gifted wares upon her worshipful altar of pleasure. The crack of a whip across the ghoul's shoulders punctuates Bev's moan and elicits a grunt of pleasure from the lips of Centurion Rhevus.

"Yes!" Cries Bev her eyes glowing with power. "The emissary joins us. Blessed goddess...accept our pleasure and pain...taste or our blood and grant us your powers." The Bloodsister says breathlessly oblivious to the muttering of gnomes somewhere beyond the walls of the makeshift shrine. Shivering with growing pleasure, Bev opens her mind to the dark angel Syn who has guided her so far along this path.

"Mighty Syn, what blessing and message to you bring from Marena." She gasps as this time the acolyte snaps the whip across her own bared flesh.

Suddenly something tickles her nose. The unwelcome scent of burning hair or perhaps hemp. The distraction is only momentary as both she and Rhevus feel the desire of the Emissary and his moments become even more forceful and urgent.

"Behold! I am Syn. I bring..." The melodious angelic voice calls forth from Bev's lips but is cut off as fiery death and doom envelope the communing priestess and her subjects.

"KABOOM!"

Near the eel pens...

"Rats, Mantis git yer lazy hides over here and feed the eels." Sergant Thirsty hollers to two of her most troublesome soldiers. "Sooner the eels eat, sooner we get eat. Vardasian knows I'm hungry enough to eat half a village myself."

"When ain't you got the munchies sarge?" Rats grumbles, but hurries over to grab the basket of offal.

Legionnaire Mantis leans over and sniffs at the basket nearest him and immediately jerks back, his face wrinkled in disgust. "By Marena's backside! What've they done to this stuff? Smells a month old already." He says carefully picking up the basket and following Rats out onto the rickety wooden platform.

"Do I look like a Necrophage to you Mantis?" Growls Thirsty watching as Mantis carefully tips the basket to dump its putrid contents into the writhing, eel-churned water. "God's pair, I didn't think so. It's just somethin' special to make these fiendish buggers even more voracious when their wings sprout. Now fewer questions or I'll see you end up in..."

"KABOOM!"

Near the quarry...

"Hold it tight and steady Wallflower, mustn't let it bite another one." The black robed necrophage says. It long gray fingers carefully hold a wriggling eel about three inches long in a pair of shiny steel tweezers. Tiny complaints screech from the writhing eel as it greedily lunges for the opening only a few inches below. An opening created as Legionnaire Wallflower clamps her strong undying hands tight against the jaws of a struggling, wild-eyed prisoner.

Two redcapped gnomes stand nearby watching with curiosity as the necrophage releases the eel that instantly slithers between the man's open teeth. The prisoners panicked grunts and attempts to cough the thing back up are foiled as Wallflower quickly switches her grip and slams the bound man's jaws shut. Sweat pours from the hapless victims forehead and neck where the flesh wriggles as the eel slithers its way deeper into his system.

"An interesting method of infection." Mutters one gnome to the other.

"Simple, but requires much more effort than necessary." Replies the other. "Now a simple paralysis conjuration would render the subject less violent and likely to reject the insertion."

"True...true. However, I'm told that in many cases the demons reject such placid hosts and in some cases turn upon the administrator."

"Interesting. I hadn't heard that."

"By the way...did you hear that Fennel and Holstien lost there caps?"

"What? When was this?"

"Not long ago. A search is on to try and find them, but a declaration is to be held at the next turn of the glass."

"Yes, yes. Best we not dally in dealing with two such careless fools." The second gnome says noting the now placid demeanor of the prisoner as Wallflower drags him back toward the waiting cage. "It will be most unpleasant for all of us if the Witch catches..."

"KABOOM!"

Near the ghoul camp...

"KABOOM!"

The blast comes much sooner than Arianna had expected. Much, much sooner. She'd not even cleared the camp when the wave of destruction throws her forward like some child's tantrum tossed rag doll. The memory of her mother warning her to never get careless when it comes to fire dances through Arianna's head. A warning with perhaps even more meaning when it comes to highly explosive substances. Shaking her head, the bard quickly figures that she isn't knocked out for long as smoke still roils everywhere and occasional bits of debris continues to tumble from the sky all around her. Yet, the world is eerily silent as she looks around at the shattered tents and a handful of ghouls writhing in pain from missing or broken limbs or in one case, a mass of tent stake protruding from its gut.

An odd ringing buzz fills her ears along with a grating whine like some insect droning directly in her ear. A few waving attempts to swat the annoyance away do no good. They do reveal the blood dripping from her nose and several small cuts along her arm. Minor wounds instantly forgotten with a glance upward into the cloud of smoke and grit. The chilling presence of the unholy ripples through Arianna's being. Writhing within the explosive fueled cloud is a angelic being of overwhelming beauty and at the same time overwhelming darkness. Blood colored skin and black raven wings. Golden hair ruined by fire and blood. An eye buried by an unlucky encounter with an explosive propelled candle holder. Another unholy, fiendish eye gazing out in wild confusion, hatred, and need for revenge. Thrice as tall as a normal mortal man and wielding a wicked, barbed whip, the dark angel lashes out with her weapon capturing a dazed legionnaire in its grip. Unholy lips move but Arianna hears nothing but more buzzing as she stumbles backward and tumbles into the fallen remnant of one of the tents.

The commotion draws the grim eye of the angel, but fortune strikes as another smoke coated, bleeding ghoul exclaims at the site of a red cap discovered not so very far from center of the blast.

More words, unheard. More importantly, more time to slip away.

Near the rendezvous spot...

Gunnar, Luthael, and Ingryd each arrive at the little copse of trees beneath the rock formation a few minutes after sunset. Or at least they each believe the sun did set, for the western clouds over the mountains have stretched east and nearly the entire sky in covered in gray. A wind whips down off the mountains, cold and biting. It is anyone's guess when the rain will come.

Not knowing how much longer the scouting elf would be, it is Ingryd who suggests they take up shelter beneath the dense branches of juniper and pine just in case the rain does arrive in earnest. Given the generally barren and desolate state of things, all are quite surprised when they push through the prickly limbs to the hidden sanctuary deeper within and find the snoring form of a halfling.

A half filled, or half empty depending on one's general philosophical outlook on life, rests in the crook of the halfling's arm. A few drops of a potent, sweet smelling liquor glisten at the end of a spout located just above his lips. Dried blood coats his hair like some grizzly used cart salesman and a raw red mark of a nasty, but healing, wound marks his forehead and scalp.

Between the dim light, blood, and wound it is difficult to recognize the halfling. But the snoring. That nasal fueled roar able to drown out the tumbling falls of the Heart of the Forest is recognizable by any of the Narg Nasty Six. Bearking, Dwarf and Prophet each look between each other and the passed out halfling. They'd found Scramsax.

A note appears pinned to his chest. Gold ink in an elegant hand scrolls neatly across the supple vellum.

To the Narg Nasty Six. He's all your again. I apologize for the slight damage incurred, but then again, he really needs to learn how to duck. He should be fine...assuming you arrive at the correct time and before...well never mind about before. Too many variables, too many potential branches. You'll find out soon enough. M

"Blandezig..." Taqa mumbles its face wrinkling into a rough furrow. "Once a pleasant, quiet village. Darkness reigns there now. Another victim of the relentless hunger of the Blood Kingdoms and the Undying Emperor."

Taqa begins once again to hum. With each new note the living gate begins to glow and the center shimmers with power. An image begins to flicker to life. Tall snow-capped mountains loom over sparse forest land that opens into a wide section of cleared, flat land. A quarry carves a deep scar into a rocky hillside. A murky red stream dribbles from the wounded hill through the outskirts of a ramshackle village. A few dozen scrawny, pitiful souls labor within the confines of the quarry. The crack of the overseers whip snapping just over their heads...most of the time.

A small series of low dams confine the murky waters of the stream into several large pools. Each one rippling with the movement of black fleshed eels that a lone farmer scoops at with a long thick net. The catch doesn't succumb to its fate easily. The sharp toothed water worm snaps and wriggles at the farmer catching the old man on the arm before he can finally club the thing to death and drop it into a wheelbarrow quarter filled with a half dozen of the long stinking fish.

Beyond the eel farm runs the remainder of the village. A few broken down homes, a battered inn, and a smithy producing mostly lengths of chain and shackles. The need for such grim items is made clear by the dozen slave carts similar to the one that so recently hosted Arianna and the other poor souls captured by the gnomes of Niemheim. A pair of the of the red capped small folk sit outside the inn drinking from mugs and tossing rotten turnips at those languishing in the cages.

Beyond the village are a half dozen canvas tents set out in an orderly fashion. The bone and coin banner of the Marrowrich Legion. Among the tents numerous ghoul legionnaires loiter about sharpening weapons, cleaning armor, gambling, or toying with those unfortunate folk selected to fill the evening cook pots.

Another tent sits in the center of the formation. Larger and constructed of a blood red canvas decorated with blackened skulls. A pair of busty robed warrior-acolytes of Marena stand at the entrance, a necklace of bones dangles about their necks.

Soon enough the treant's song grows strained and troubled. The scene pulls away so that only the rising wisps of smoke from the few village chimney's can be spotted. Here the forest seems peaceful, calm. A quiet refuge uncaring of the torment and darkness burrowed like a summer tick into the backside of the mountains.

"This is as close as I can bring you." Taqa says following the final note that stabilizes and locks the gateway into place for the moment. "The wards...and lack of living nature...within the village prevent anything closer. But what was once days away, is now only a few short hours. It is the best I can do for you."

"Be warned the gate will close once you pass. I've not the strength or connection to that land that would enable a more permanent presence. I wish you good hunting and much luck in your strike against the gray ones."