Tareth's page

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The party is up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We expect the dragon to attack at any time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Chitter chitter squeak squeak chitter."

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

"Chitter."

"Now let us focus on the next phase."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"HUMPPPHHHHH!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"WHUMP!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile in another place, in another dimension...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

POP!

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

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

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

Party is up.

Raseri enters the aerial dogfight with a flash of fire that momentarily engulfs the orc in a whirlwind of flame. Not seeing the new arrival in time, the warrior is not able to avoid the rush of holy fire. Flesh and clothing burn. More significantly, the oil soaked clothing ignites with a sudden whoosh of orange fire and black smoke. The entire strike offers an opening for the quick fingered halfling.

Scramsax circles around using the smoke as a screen for her approach. It takes a moment, but the gleam of the brass bugle as is sparkles in the fire light is unmistakable. She swoops in and once again the orc is slow to react. The thief is already twenty feet away and puffing out wounded moose sounds into the night sky before the warrior can make a move.

Finding herself alone atop the wyvern, Ingryd's rage sends her flying toward the one recently illuminated by Luthael's sun magic. She lands astride the saddle, but fails to spot the goblin corpse. Her foot slips on the thin arm as it rolls under her weight. Her blow goes wild and misses.

Meanwhile, Luthael flies up to Scramsax offering her a quick moment of healing as she rooty-toot-toots on the bugle. The poisons running wild in her system fades slightly and a the worst of the bite punctures seal themselves.

Jade Sky Burning Star the wyvern turns his beady black eyes upon the bugling halfling. The sickly spittle sound of the trumpet blurting its nonsense rattled his ears even worse than when that annoying orc used the thing. Nothing good ever spewed out of the tin ear splitter. Just headaches and work. He hated that horn. One toot, lift this. Another toot, put it down. Three quick toots and a tug on the equally irritating harness and off we go as if the mighty hunter of the high plains was a gods damned cart horse. If he didn't well, out came the whips, the prods, those spiked boots. Follow orders or else, was always the threat. Or else pain. Or else no meal. Or else you end up chained and poked by those little goblin punters. So he went along. They all did. Had to.

But now the boss burned upon his back. Most of the little gutter scum were dead or quickly dying. Now they had a chance.

Jade Sky Burning Star, once Pack Leader of his entire clutch bugles his own bellowing call as his eyes turn completely away from the tooting halfling. It is a sound his throat hasn't uttered for years. The call of the wild. Call to freedom. The wyvern bellows once...twice...a third time. He then folds his wings and drops into a spinning dive that sends the hapless, burning warrior flying into the night, even his strong grip unable to maintain a hold against the spinning, bucking form of the wyvern.

Jade Sky Burning Star's call is answered by three similar roars.

*SNAP*SNAP*

Gun shots fired in the dark. No. Ropes snapping as the wyvern recently abandoned by Ingryd finally breaks her bonds. Amber Mist Stalking Cloud bugles her own delight. Freedom! She twists her neck around. Snatches one of the goblin corpses from her back. Gulps it down in a single bite.

Below. The tavern lurches. Suddenly begins to spin as it is held up by only two remaining lines. Inside the dome. Screams of fright and everyone tumbles against the top of Gunnar's protective enclosure. Crockery shatters. Formerly pickled eggs tumble roll along the walls and ceiling several finding their own escape through open windows or newly developed cracks.

Ingryd feels the wyvern bellow as the resonance of the wild roar vibrates beneath her feet. Goblins screech in fear and worry. The pilot wrenches hard on the reins. Kicks with spurred boots. Grabs a long metal prod that crackles with electricty and jabs it hard into the beast's neck. The wyvern want nothing of it. The call of its clutch leader is too strong. The big creature pulls left, right, left then a quick jerk upward. A terrible cracking, snapping sound is heard below. The entire southeast corner of the tavern pulls apart. The wyvern pumps its leathery wings flying higher into the night sky. The chunk of tavern dangling and spinning. Goblins gabble but to no avail.

The beast twists, reaches a big back claw up and scratches like a dog itching an ear. With one final screech the pilot goes tumbling off into the darkness.

Of the two remaining goblins, one desperately stabs at Ingryd with its short sword. The blow lands. The creature smiles. At least he would face his gods having blooded the enemy.

The second, cared little for gods, glory, or for that matter blood. He'd joined the unit because they got access to the workshop and better rations. He was something of a thinker. An idea goblin. With only another year left on his current term he was hoping to muster out with a little something to head north and start a cabinetry shop. It was still his dream, although, that looked likely to be delayed under the circumstances. Fortunately, he packed appropriately for a night flight involving some group of adventurers. Always unpredictable were adventurers. Getting into things. Stealing. Killing anything and everything. Best left alone in young Greckle Thornsticker's opinion. So instead of foolishly hacking at the big angry bearkin, Greckle ducks away and leaps from the wyvern. For several seconds he plummets toward the earth. Suddenly he stretches out his arms, presses a button and a small set of wings unfold. They catch the air. His plunging flight levels out a little as he streaks further into the darkness.

Tumbling downward. The warrior doesn't panic. If he was honest with himself, this wasn't the worse situation he'd been in before. Now wasn't really the time to compare. But there were worse. He waits until he was well away from the fight high above, then activates the ring. In an instant, his terminally falling form slows. Begins to drift on the soft night breeze as the descent turns from a deadly plunge to a feathery float. He slowly drops the final fifty feet to earth. Glances back up into the darkness. A few feet away a pickled eggs splats to the ground.

Ingryd takes 9 slash damage.

Only one wyvern remains tethered to the tavern.

The bugle has no effect upon the beasts as the three that are free snatch at goblin snacks or begin to fly away.

The tavern dangles by one rope. It will not stay aloft for another round.

Party is up.

Ingryd's hammer whirls through the air. A void-black block of death and doom driving it's foes to despair at its very sight. Yet, the goblin at the prow of the wyvern foolishly decides to stand firm. Perhaps this is an unusual streak of courage. Maybe it is the result of hard training and discipline. More likely, being a thousand feet in the air, there is no place to run. And so, with a move of pure instinct, panic, and will to survive, the goblin parries the bearkin's first blow. Knocking the ancient hammer aside.

For the briefest of moments both goblin and bearkin share a startled, amazed look. There is a momentary acknowledgement of respect. A bond between warriors. Shock can do that. As can the closeness of death. The goblin smiles. It was a message from the gods. Perhaps they should let bygones be bygones?

Unfortunately, for the lucky goblin, such thought were not wandering through the raging mind of the bearkin. The one she truly wanted to crush beneath the black iron void-forged hammer was not before her. Only the foul creatures minions and hirelings. They would do. For now.

Thus the second blow comes flying in from the goblin's left side. This is not ideal because of the positioning of the mounted crossbow. He spots his doom just a few seconds too late. Tries to duck. Tries to block. Even looks for a second miracle by raising his small sword to parry. The sword shatters. Less than a heartbeat later so do the goblin's ribs. The blow ruptures his heart. This is actually another blessing from the gods for he is quite dead long before his airborn body strikes the ground far, far below.

A second lands approximately fifty feet further west. For that is the distance covered by an enlarged wyvern carrying a tavern in the amount of time it takes an enraged bearkin to step forward and send another hapless goblin into the waiting arms of death.

It seems Loki has taken a fleeting interest in these curious events taking place high over the dry burnt plains of Central Midgard. Why is this assumed a curious onlooker might inquire. It would be a curiosity met with scorn by those knowledgeable of such things. They would point out the odds. The rarity of such an event occurring. The pure incomprehensibility and immediately blame the gods. For skill, quickness, talent, good preparation and a willingness to survive could certainly never be more important factors. Always better to blame the gods.

Of course, the cause for such a conversation is another surprised look. This belonging to a halfling known for her own quite lethal skill. But rather than seeing her foe slump to the bottom of the oversized flying saddle where he can bleed out in comfort and peace, her blade goes sliding off the heavy hide armor worn by her small foe. Before the halfling can truly ponder the disgust of such events, there is a familiar whoosh followed by screams from across the sky.

Luthael's fireball erupts with its usual holy efficiency. The fire strikes goblin, wyvern, saddle, and rope. All but two of the hapless fighters upon the wyvern's back burst into flames. For a few seconds, small living torches until living becomes too much trouble. Two are blasted off the wyvern completely. Sad, short-lived falling stars that plummet to the plains below. Fortunately the area has already burnt so concerns of a larger conflagration can be set aside.

The wyvern itself reels from the blast as its hide boils and blisters and the thin membranes of its wing becomes blackened and withered. It lurches away from the blast. Burning, weakened rope easily snaps. The smoking flaming ends drifting apart like two drunks following a one night stand.

The corner of the tavern drops. Wooden supports groan and crack. Several shingles flutter free. Inside crockery tumbles from shelves to shatter upon the floor. A jar of pickles rolls out the open door plunging to its final doom. Those inside the safety of the dome find themselves suddenly sitting at an awkward angle as the floor slope toward the no longer supported northwest corner. Emilee and Darrel both scream. Strangely in nearly the same pitch much to the foxkin's future embarrassment.

Aboard the wounded brute, the two surviving goblins try to continue their streak of living. The first crawls forward to grab the smoking reins from the crispy grip of his former squadmate. Kicking the meat over the side, the goggled goblin gives the leather a good solid tug. This manages to bring the wyvern back under some semblance of control. The goblin gabbles something back to his companion. The other snaps off a shot at Luthael. The prophet easily dodges away from the wayward bolt.

But within a few moments it becomes clear the move was a distraction as the furiously grinning goblin with the reins pulls hard again to bring the flying wyrm on a direct intercept course for the fireball tossing prophet of Khors. Moving at speed, the beast strafes the prophet lashing out with claw and stinger as it barrels past. The massive talon slashes Luthael ripping robe, armor, and flesh. It a bit of irony, the blow knocks Luthael clear of the creatures following stinger attack.

Observing the battle from his higher vantage point, the commander of the flying recovery crew frowns as the first rope give way under the holy fire assault. Gripping the reins tight, for his saddle was now scattered somewhere upon the plain below, he circles around toward the halfling and bearkin and their attack against the second of his squads. He watches as a goblin struggles to land a blow against the bear while a second jabs the halfling with its short blade.

Seeing the bearkin as the more immediate threat he dives tossing a javelin at the raging barbarian and follows the short spear up with another bolt of fire. The javelin strikes sending an electrical charge surging through the bearkin's body as well as piercing her hide. A moment later, a gesture and the spear appears back in the warrior's hand.

The rearward wyvern crews take aim at the fireball tossing Khorsman. The first has a line on the prophet and snaps off a quick shot scoring a hit. The second curses and slaps his weapon while jabbering angrily at the pilot. He couldn't get a shot off. The pilot waves a hand toward the drooping building and curses right back.

Luthael takes 13 damage from a wyvern claw and 9 damage from a bolt.
Scramsax takes 6 damage from a goblin.
Ingryd takes 7 piercing and 4 electrical from the javelin hit.

The tavern is now at a steep angle making any movement inside or on top as difficult terrain.

Ingryd and Scramsax are in melee.

Party is up. And Raseri feel free to jump in whenever you would like.

Luthael prepares the scrying bowl using one of the wooden bowl usually used to hold pretzels and nuts along with the water from a jug of pickled eggs. The prophet calls upon Khors to grant his servant vision into the heart of the hags fortress where even now the sun god's light should still shine within the sanctuary that once held the dragon's eggs. The vinegar water swirls within the bowl and then slowly begins to still. As all gather around to see what has happened in the last half hour, an image slowly starts to form upon the surface of the water.

The bright green pillar of magic flows once again within the center of the big hall. The blue-white light of Luthael's spell mingling with the arcane green giving the whole place the feel of being underwater. A high pitched humming sound fills the room, its source unseen until the vision pans back a little revealing a single ghoul in simple gray coveralls and a cap operating a strange device. A large canister attached to a three inch hose tipped with a nozzle is responsible for the noise. The ghoul holds the hose and is busy using it to suck up a massive number of feathers, bits of meat, and bone splinter scattered all over the floor and walls throughout the chamber.

A massive, white furred dog, that might actually resemble something closer to a hyena with ice blue eyes and sharp ivory teeth busily gnaws on a large bone. No one can be certain, but it looks like one of the bones that once made up the 'nest' holding the eggs. Within moments the powerful jaws crack and crush the ancient ivory and soon enough the entire bone is gone. The beast happily moves on to another it finds laying near one of the stone columns.

Panning back a little further, all can now see the surrounding upper balcony areas. Once long, long ago this is where many of the Knights guest or staff might sit to observe one of the many ceremony or ritual's of the Order. Now only memories and dust occupy the wooden benches. Except in one small corner of the room where an odd pair stand and argue.

One is an elegantly dressed shadow fey woman. She wears flowing robes of indigo and silver. The hood of the robe is pulled up, shrouding her pale features from the bright daylight of the spell. Her long, delicate fingers are adorned by a trio of rings. Each gold, each marked with a series of fey runes that glitter and sparkle with magic. Each also holding a gemstone sparkling in the odd mix of light. Diamond, sapphire, emerald. Her voice is melodious even in her obvious agitation as throws her hands out toward the clean up occurring down below.

"Three of my best servants!" The fey says. Her voice mixed with a blend of anger and frustration. "It will take ages to replace them. Train up a new trio. How am I going to get compensated?"

The second figure. Smaller. Much, much smaller. He speaks with a series of chittering squeaks punctuated by gestures from tiny clawed paws and a brush-like tail. One cheek in slightly puffed out, the reason evident as he suddenly spits a big glob of tobacco spit over the balcony to land only a few inches from the ghoul.

"Chitter chit chit squeak squeak...brrrrr...chitter chit squeak squeak chitter." The chipmuck replies slapping his paws together.

The fey sighs. "I know they failed miserably to prevent the eggs being taken. But wasn't that the point?"

"Chit chit squeak squeak squeak chitter chitter brrrrr chitter squeak."

"Well, no, they also didn't get any physical material from any of them. But we've plenty from the doctor's office. Plus, it seems they had the girl with them as well." She flicks her wrist toward the mass of swirling feathers. "So really, all seems to be going according to plan, so why did she...." Her had circles in the air as her face purses in disgust. "Well, you know."

The chipmunk shrugs. "Chit. Chitter chit squeak squeak chit chit chitter squeak."

The fey sorceress nods thoughtfully. "True. They didn't even get close." A sigh and a pause. "And yes, they were easily manipulated."

"Chitter chit chit chit chit squeak chitter chit brrr chit brrr squeak squeak?"

"You're right. There training and attitudes were ultimately quite lacking." She shakes her head. "I'll have to speak to my Mistress of Birds. We've got to make improvements else we'll constantly suffer setbacks at the hands of these adventurers and heroes." The last words are spoken with sneering bitterness and disdain as if the fey had just been forced to lick a bar of cold iron.

"Chit chitter chit?"

"Eh? Oh yes, we should be going. Things should be happening soon."

The two then turn and disappear through a narrow doorway leaving the janitor and his canine companion to their grizzly task.

It takes several moments for Luthael to realize the 'inn' Scramsax teleported to was the one located nearly a mile up the beanstalk still growing out upon the Rothenian Plain. This is further confirmed by Ingryd, who going to guard the door, discovers they have arrived on a particularly sunny down upon the plain. An unusual occurrence for this time of year. She doesn't spot any curiosity seeking climbers.

But as she scans the stalk and the horizon for threats, the bearkin does see the cause of that peculiar weather pattern. The roiling mass of dark gray and black clouds surrounding the mountains to the west and south. They boil and churned like caged animals. Occasionally flashes of lightning flicker through the storm clouds. But that potent power is nothing compared to the massive the pillar of green light that rises up from deep within the circling storm. Any can quickly guess the source of that arcane phenomenon. From the top of the massive pillar great arms of crackling energy arch out and back down reaching the very edges of the storm to form an arcane net. Held within the storm boils and continues to feed upon itself and the arcane power fueling it to more and more power even as the magical cage keeps it pinned in place to continue ravaging the forest and mountains with snow, wind and ice.

Meanwhile out on the plain, the effects of the witch's weather manipulation offer another harsh sight. The rolling hills of grassland, usually a golden yellow at this time of year, are blackened for miles to the east. Eventually the smoldering earth leads to another type of cloud. This one billowing forth into the sky. Wildfire. With the autumn rains arriving too little and too late, the parched grasslands burn. Great swaths of once tall, thriving grasslands, dotted with the occasional copse of trees are now little more than bald, blackened earth and stone. From her perch high, high, in the sky, the bearkin is able to see the distant outlines of at least one burned centaur village. Who can know how many others have been caught within the conflagration.

With things seemingly secure, Gunnar and Luthael begin to examine the eggs for signs of danger, contamination, or alteration. Given the long exposure to the harvested ley line magic, Gunnar has difficulty discerning the lasting effects. Eventually the dwarf steps back rubbing his weary eyes and shaking his head. The eggs practically glow with the residue of their exposure. At the moment it is impossible to tell what might help or harm the little dragons growing within. The wizard things that perhaps waiting until morning to give the energy time to dissipate will reveal the proper treatment.

Elsewhere within the confines of the small Inn in the Clouds, Scramsax seeks out food and drink along with any notes from passing customers. Within the box the halfling discovers a button, a 3 foot length of string, a chewing gum wrapper, a set of nail clippers, 23 silver coins, 4 coppers, and 3 gold. In addition, there are several notes.

"Thank you for creating such a welcome place of respite. Love the view and the self service model works great. Maxine and Johann Tillis"

"Haha! Busted by the Brewers. Zeppelin Rulz!"

Somewhere else...at some other time...

*tap*tap*tap*tap*

The tapping of the wooden stick upon the chalkboard caused the eyes, eyestalks, pods, and ocular masses to swivel toward the front of drab imperial gray room number 66 of the Sorrowspine Academy for Young Evildoers, Villains, Inquisitors and Liches. The forty by forty square room was the unchallenged domain of Vampirix Agatha Bloodspear. Her bloodshot gaze sweeps the room instantly silencing the cacophony of hisses, chatter, laughter, and occasional screech until only the rattle of her pastel pink and lemon bone bracelets can be heard.

"Okay now, pay attention class." Her knuckle-rapper taps the large crystal ball glowing softly at the front of the room. "Today we will be discussing case number 4772896 in your texts. The Case of the Absconded Eggs."

"Oh miss! Miss!" Hisses a voice from the left side of the room causing Agatha's eyes to close as she rubs a shriveled hand across her pasty features. She was famished and it was still forty-five minutes until she could head to the slave pits for lunch.

"Yes, Digby" Agatha replies with a grimace toward the chubby rakshasa. "What is it this time?"

"Is this going to be on the test?"

Agatha's eyes narrow viciously causing several of the other students to hiss and mutter in sudden fear.

"Are you asking if something I would spend my precious time and energy attempting to teach you young foolish morsels is not really important? Are you implying I don't know what might be useful for you to know should you ever crawl out of your mother's den and actually terrorize a village of your own?!"

The young tiger faced demon-blood swallows hard, his eyes shrinking to small dots a fear suddenly grips his heart. "Uh...ummm...no...no not at all maam. Definitely not. It was a foolish question."

*Crack!*

Like a vicious snake, the pointer lashes to strike the rakshasa across the knuckles. "Yes it was." Snaps Agatha. "You must remember Digby Direpelt, that fools are soon skewered upon the swords and bows of nasty adventurers."

"Now as I was saying. Let us focus our attention on the chosen case." As she speaks the crystal ball grows cloudy for several seconds before clearing once again to reveal a familiar scene. A large circular room of stone. Columns are set around the space except for where a large opening splits the room in half. A column of potent natural magic rises from the depths of that opening and rises upward. In the center of the chamber is a arced bridge of bone that passes directly through the energy flow. Centered on that bridge is a nest holding several dragon's eggs. Three nefarious owl harpies overlook the chamber, perched upon ledges that . They appear to be busy arguing amongst themselves at the moment.

Standing at the base of the bridge are a dwarf, a human, a halfling and a bearkin. Another human, a foxkin, and a strange altered human girl are a bit closer to where all just entered the chamber a few minutes earlier. Another rather rotund figure dominates the area nearest the entrance. Dressed in fine garments and waving his arms about in some ridiculous gesture.

"Now watch carefully as I let the visual roll forward." She taps the crystal with her stick.

The frozen image begins to animate. First, the robed human flourishes a wand and conjures forth an arcane force field that suddenly diverts the flow of magic away from the narrow arch. The dwarf follows this with a burst of dispelling magic upon the nest and immediately the bearkin races up the arch to snatch a couple of the eggs from the nest.

The image pauses.

"Now who can tell me what went wrong with the old Hag's plan from the very first moment?"

"Oh! oh!" A young beholder waves his eye stalks while bobbing up and down.

"X'anzibar."

"Unreliable guardians." He says proudly. "They are too busy arguing among themselves to notice the thieving adventurers make their move."

"Yes, but why are they arguing? Miss Holly?"

The short, prickly haired elemental holly tree starts and then looks carefully at the frozen image. Suddenly her tiny red eyes grow wide and a toothy smile cracks her bark.

"They were fooled by an illusion miss."

"Indeed they were." Nods the vampirix. The image proceeds as the bearkin passes the scampering halfling as the latter races up the arch toward the nest. Only when the halfling has grabbed the remaining eggs do the harpies attempt to swoop down toward the egg thieves.

"Does anyone recognize any other faults? Yes, Marty."

A young shadow elf points back at the nest. "There was nothing to disguise the hidden undead spirit within the nest. Therefore the wizard recognized it and was able to stun it with his dispel."

"Good. Good." Agatha taps the crystal.

The image proceeds again as the halfling scampers back down the arch and quickly gathers the rest of the adventurers into a tight circle. A flash of light and they all disappear leaving the screeching harpies and the bone horror holding nothing but an empty nest and a thousand years of torment.

"Anyone else?" The vamprixes lips purse tightly. "Yes Digby."

"Well miss, shouldn't the eggs themselves have been a trap?" Says the young tiger demon. "Or why not tap some of that power to create an anti-magic bubble around the room so they couldn't just teleport away?"

"An interesting point young Digby. Can anyone share why his plan might be just as flawed?"

"Yes, miss." Hisses a red dragonling from the back of the room. "Since the hag was using the energy flow to change the weather in an entire region, she couldn't very well divert it to a potent anti-magic field. In addition, the Twenty-Seventh Law applies in that you cannot power anti-magic with magic."

"There you see Digby. That is why." Suddenly a banshee screams from out in the hall. The students start to gather their books and papers. "Remember, your torture chambers are due in a week along with your seven basic themes for world domination."

Back in Midgard, in the right time.

*BAMFFF*

The smell of fried potatoes and roses fills the air for a moment as the chamber within the knights tower disappears and the party of heroes reappear within the Stalker's Retreat eggs in hand and none the worse for wear.

Standing

The Witch is an ancient enemy. Whispers the sword into the prophet's ear. And indeed the passion and anger for the hag who's plans each of you work to disrupt at this very moment is quite clear and true. For much too long she has been a constant thorn in the side of our god. You witnessed yourself that pain and suffering she has caused. The blade adds sending the so recent image and feeling of the old chapel and the pains Luthael felt upon first setting eyes upon the cursed place. I exist to deal with the likes of her. Would you deny me my very essence of being just to ease your own mortal fears?

But as Gunnar outlines a plan, the sword's offer appears to become less and less relevant. A way to block or at least divert the arcane flow? Check. A way to preserve that shield long enough to allow for the snatching of the eggs? Check. Someone to actually snatch the eggs? The wizard looks between Ingryd and Scramsax who both continue to distract the eggsitting owl harpys. Check. How to carry the heavy, fragile burdens back to their mother? Perhaps a question for later.

The three owl harpies continue to argue and screech at each other from their prospective points in the room. The first sister scowls at the image presented by the Emissary and her brow immediately furrows into a frown followed by a descent into outright hostility.

"Why, I don't look anything like that." She says huffily adjusting her rather ample chest upward.

"Eeeeww!" Exclaims the second upon noticing the rather lurid picture of herself and a now very dead doctor. "You couldn't pay me enough to sleep with him." She sneers. "He's just so gross and always smells of those necrotic preservatives." Her gaze turns suspciously upon the Emissary. "What do you mean by coming in here and spreading your fake rumors and gossip all over the tower?"

But then Ingryd pushes her way into the conversation between the emotional guardians and the illusionary emissary.

"Now there's a gal talking sense!" Cackles the third sister. "We've been cooped up in this old cavern for much too long. It's made us cranky and prone to squabbling. A vacation sounds nice. Someplace warm and tropical.""

"Oh my yes, yes. I've always wanted to visit Shibai or the beaches of Kashara."

"I hear Nuria's lovely this time of year."

"Bah. There's nothing but a bunch of dusty old mummies in Nuria." Says the first. "Now the vineyards of Capleon, there's some easy living."

The argument grows even more heated as the trio attempts to agree on a vacation destination. Thus leaving those below free to begin implementing their plan.

Sounds like there is a plan. Gunnar casts Dispel Magic. (In this case I'm going to say Gunnar will need to concentrate on the Dispel in order to make it last long enough to allow for the taking of the eggs.) Someone else casts the Wall of Force with the wand and holds it in place. Then Scramsax and Ingryd grab the eggs. Each of them will need to make a DC15 STR(Athletics) or DEX(Sleight of Hand) check to grab them all and get away before the blocking shield breaks apart.

*Pa-Ping*

Luthael's egg locator bounces back a return. Several seconds later...

*Pa-Ping*

The prophet raises an eyebrow as he hurriedly ushers everyone back out into the narrow spiraling stairway climbing along the outer most portion of the tower. Robes flutter as the sun prophet twists around making a few quick directional checks...

*Pa-Ping*

And with a nod starts up the stairs. Ingryd and Scramsax discuss various tactics regarding the protection of the stash of gemstones discovered within the temple. Raseri hangs back with Emilee and Darrel. The priestess helping the young woman adjust to the newly discovered abilities of her body and the chaotic thoughts cascading through her mind. The adamantine claws have retracted back into her flesh and the god's healing sealed the wounds, but thin red scars mark where the metallic blades emerged.

"B-b-but...I was so scared. So angry. They just...popped out." The girls says quietly. Her voice trembles with a blend of fear, awe, and curiosity. "Is that going to happen all of the time? Will...will I turn so...feral?"

Raseri shakes her head and pats the girl on the shoulder. "You will master your fear. By doing so, you tame the beast that resides in each of us. That creature's only desire is to survive. Fight or flee. Fear gives that aspect power and control. Defeat your fear and you stay true to yourself. And in turn you master control over this new gift."

The whispered conversation continues as the group slowly spirals up and up the stairs.

*Pa-ping* *Pa-Ping* *Pa-Ping*

Luthael's location signal sounds much more rapidly. Arriving at a narrow landing the prophet pushes the door open and steps through into another narrow corridor that ends in a set of silver double doors.

"Not much further now." The prophet says carefully moving into the hall and up to the doors.

Scramsax climbs up the wall and cautiously a little further up the dome to get a closer look at the ceiling above. Just like the rest of the temple below, the dome is now cleansed of hundreds of years worth of soot, grime, and damage. A massive painting depicting Khors, the courtship of the Moon and the chaining of the seven princes of the Abyss to their eternal hellish realm adorns the dome. A dozen angelic guardians line the base of the dome, each representing the twelve different months of the year.

The halfling spies the opening that released its near constant flow of offal upon the altar below. It is sealed with a golden sun, the arms radiating outward toward each of the angelic guardians. Whatever opening existed is now closed and the natural thieving sense of the halfling tells her to attempt to breach the seal would not sit well with Luthael and may not even be possible.

A climb back down reveals little else within the scoured and restored temple. That is until Ingryd happens to spot a loose stone near the back wall. Calling over the thief, the pair take a few more moments and reveal a small hidden nook containing a pair of potions, five hundred ancient gold coins stamped with the sun god's symbol on one side and the profile of an ancient pontiff on the other. There is also a small pouch containing an assortment of small gemstones easily equal in value to the coins.

Celebrating the find Scramsax and Ingryd make an offering to Khors. Unexpectedly, the alcoholic gesture results in the curious transformation of the potions. Quickly identified as being potent remedies for wounds and ailments, the two potions now taste of the finest whiskey either bearkin or halfling have tasted. Unfortunately, Luthael his connection to Khors being much stronger than any other present, especially within this sacred chamber finds himself suddenly suffering from the effect of having drunk several strong drinks within quick succession. This causes the normally reserved and proper prophet several hiccup infused moments of embarrassment as he attempts to shake off the offerings effects and regain his composure.

Two potions of Superior Healing.

Luthael: WIS Save vs DC14 or gain the poisoned (inebriated) condition for 1d4 ⇒ 3 hours.

Gunnar: I believe we've been doing the HP increase is rolled or average, which ever is higher.

Will move things forward on Monday.

The rippling wave of destruction erupts from the kneeling unholy knight, but almost as soon as its rumbling power begins to spread forth into the chamber there is another thunder of power. Gunnar slams the hilt of his hammer into the muck covered floor of the defiled temple. There is another rumble as another power ripples through the earth. This second power is perfectly timed and attuned to the first causing a cancellation of hell's final fury and likely saving the lives of the dwarf's companions as Luthael catches his balance and remains conscious enough to maintain his hold on the spell keeping the demon from returning.

Oathbreaker laughs and curses as hammer and sling stone converge upon his waiting form. Bone and ancient armor shatter and scatter across the room.

BONG!

The tolling of a ghostly bell echoes through the chamber. What little remains of the death knight is dragged back into the murk and muck of the ancient altar as the abyssal chains retreat into the depths of chaos and evil from which they were spawned.

BONG!

The bell tolls again. The ghastly muck and sewage coating the temple follows the path of the chains and fallen knight. The foul effluent swirls around and around the altar until it is sucked away into the abyss to land in the dining room of Prince Orcus along with a string of curses from those attending the never ending feast of souls. Elsewhere in the multiverse, a Sun God smiles.

BONG!

A final tolling of that earth jarring bell. A blast of brilliant white power washes through the temple. Luthael gasps with surprise and relief as the pain he'd been suffering is completely gone. His connection with Khors completely restored. The prophet feels both the relief and thanks of his holy patron even as his eyes gaze upon the restored and pristine Temple of Khors.

Emilee and Darrel both gasp in surprise and wide-eyed wonder as the foul, stinking chamber is transformed into a yellow and white polished sanctuary of peace and light. Windows within the domed ceiling, long covered with filth, dirt and debris suddenly let the light of day shine through. Similarly the eastern wall provides a spectacular view overlooking the vast expanse of the Margreve from high upon the great pillar of stone where the ancient fortress of the Griffon Knights sits.

The scarred sun symbols so no signs of their torment and instead gleam with renewed vigor and harmony as if having never experienced the vile touch of the Abyss for so very, very long.

As the temple is restored and recovered, so to are the wounds of those who drove away the ancient curse and evil. Burned flesh, withered limbs, cuts, bruises, abrasions, all is made whole. Poisons, arcane maledictions, or unholy curses are just as quickly placed into the bin of history leaving the entire party of heroes feeling rested, renewed, and reinvigorated for the final push to their destination.

Combat over. The Temple of Khors has been freed and restored. All are healed of any conditions and wounds.

Welcome to 10th level.

Gunnar's lightning bolt misses the unholy knight. It crashes into a nearby pile of ghastly waste sending a spray of offal in every direction that coats friend and foe alike. Ingryd struggles against the encroaching chains but she soon finds herself engulfed by hell's shackles and unable to do anything except anticipate her pending doom.

But such an end is delayed as from out of the smoke the sharp crack of a certain halfling's sling echoes through the chamber. Bone and ancient armor crack and shatter under the onslaught. The knight staggers drops to a knee. The chains yank him back upright like a wayward rag doll. Eldritch eyes flare with unholy hatred. Whether that hate is directed toward his foes or whatever demonic lord cursed him to this end none will ever truly know.

The power of Khors surges again. This time the prophet wields the light of the sun against the bindings holding Ingryd. The onyx black chains dissolve and evaporate like so much smoke in a wind. The bearkin finds herself free once again.

Oathbreaker slams his sword into the stone. The ancient steel blade driving into the marble as if it were nothing more than butter. The helmed head tilts forward as the knight drops to a knee. Memories flit through his mind. A child racing through the streets of Zobeck, watching the griffon's fly over the city. Holding his mother's hand as she gave birth to his brother. Hearing her cries as she died that same night. Feeling the blend of horror, hate, regret, and satisfaction as he looked upon his brother's body six years later. His thin frame lying still against the hearth, blood seeping from where his head struck the stone following Oathbreaker's push. Hiding in the warrens of Zobeck to escape his father's wrath. His acceptance as a stablehand to the Griffon Knight's. The first time he held a true fighting blade in his hand. Training day after day after day along. His oathgiving following his successful initiation and trial. The first flight on a griffon. The freedom. The power. He saw Her. Felt the love, the pain, the jealous rage all over again. Felt her skin against his. The passion of their knights within the chapel. Heard her words denouncing him as she chose the Commander over him. Looked into her eyes as she screamed, her hands desperately reaching for him even as he pulled away and watched her fall into the mist of the clouds. Felt his blade find the Commanders heart as they fought atop the tower. Cursed his god even as Khors cursed him to eternal damnation among the denizens of the Abyss naming him Oathbreaker. Watching as his brothers struck him from the rolls, scoured his name from every record, image, carvings, scroll, and keepsake of the Knighthood. The never ending pain and madness of his banishment to hell, where torment resulted in his return to this place of love, lust, and loss.

Now he witnesses his end. Summoning forth one last surge of power before the inevitable strength of numbers and power should overwhelm and put an end to his reign over this miserable boil upon the world's backside and its supposed God of Light. What good a god who could be hampered so easily by a former warren skulker and that old crone who bargained to put him here? Black power surges along the blade of the sword. From hilt handle to tip the necrotic potency of hell slams into the stone and ripples outward upon a wave of pure hellspawned hatred. The power rolls through the entire chapel create geysers of foul oily filth and crushed stone. All are engulfed within the conflagration as stone rumbles and groans like a thousand tormented souls.

Casting Destructive Wave: All CON Save vs DC18 or take 5d6 ⇒ (2, 4, 3, 4, 4) = 17 thunder damage plus 5d6 ⇒ (6, 4, 1, 2, 3) = 16 necrotic damage and fall prone. Half damage and not prone on a successful save.

Party is up.

The conflagration released by holy fire and hellfire engulfs the entire chamber. Within moments the ancient temple is filled with a foul smoke and roiling blue tinted flames that continue to burn and swirl all around the room and upon friend and foe alike.

The rumble and flash of thunder and lightning signal to all that Gunnar is still in the fight. The blue-white bolt lances into the insectoid demon partly evaporating upon its fiendish hide but also partly not. The humming swarm of mosquitoes is reduced down to a handful of the swirling, whining insects mostly flying upward through whatever sewage spewing opening exists in the dank dark. Their destruction and escape reveals the demon with its triangular head, long proboscis curling outward. A quartet of extra jointed arms end in similarly probing points clearly designed to draw vast quantities of blood from whatever unfortunate victim finding itself caught within the demon's grip. Filthy rags whirl about at the creature flutters through the air, its flight powered by twin pairs of rapid, wide wings.

After the initial sighting of the creature it is lost within the growing cloud of black smoke. A hindrance to anyone looking to strike out at the creature, but also an equally beneficial screen for those wishing to avoid the demon's searching gaze.

Caught within the whirling flames, Raseri finds herself alight in multiple places. She starts to slap wildly at the fire. The smacking of her hands upon cloth and hair a lighter tone to the heavy blows of Ingryd's hammer as the bearkin continues her assault upon the death knight. The knight deftly parries the barbarian's first blow, knocking her hammer off target with a quick lashing defense. It is not possible against the second blow as a quick feint by the bearkin sends the knight chasing in the wrong direction, surprised by the big barbarians ability to change her attack lines so swiftly.

Halfling taunts fill the smokey air and from somewhere to the rear Raseri hears Darrel and Emilee coughing to clear their lungs of the putrid smoke. Then a chill runs down her spine as she contemplates adding to Gunnar's assault on the lurking demon above. The song of the valkyrie's is silent. Something lands with a meaty thump into the burning sludge and muck. A muttered curse. Suddenly Gunnar's voice echoes through the clogged air.

“We need healing for the priest!”

Ignoring her still burning cloak and hair, Raseri plunges toward the dwarf's rough voice. It is only a few steps before she spots Luthael's head held up on Gunnar's knee, keeping the prophet from drowning in the filth. Somewhere Scramsax shouts about a potion, but the priestess hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing else except the need to save Luthael. Just as he has saved her in times past. She does not think nor hesitate instead dropping into the muck and grabbing Luthael's handsome head from the dwarf. Prayers already streaming through her burnt lips, tears dropping from her eyes to quench the flames smoldering upon his once full head of hair.

Light flows through Luthael's charred and withered frame, restoring the worst of the damaged flesh to pale pink health once again. A relieved smile graces her faces as the prophet's eye flutter open and he once again breathes the air of the mortal realm.

Lost within the miasma of smoke and flame, Ingryd and the death knight known only as Oathbreaker spar. Cursed steel against ancient iron. Burning, hate and hurt fueled rage verses the cold uncaring calculation of undeath. Free mortal flesh challenging enslaved immortality. The death knight responds to Ingryd's assault with a flurry of flesh flensing strikes. Except the ancient knight is not used to fighting a creature of Ingryd's size who also has her quickness. The barbarian laughs as a blow passes wide trailing a hissing stream of black necrotic energy. She grunts with a twisting effort that sends a second blow sliding off of her thick hide. The third is blocked by Ennui who shrugs as yet another notch marks his sturdy handle.

From the back of the room, a feral creature with streaming red-gold hair and pale skin bounds past wizard, prophet and priestess. A throaty growl rumbles from the creature's throat as a pair of gleaming dagger length claws slice into the stone with unnatural ease. A chilling howl bays from within the black cloud of smoke. The form flashes by Ingryd in a blink, slamming into the death knight like a whirlwind of flashing steel and bloody fury. Snarling like a creature possessed, it slashes at the knight and ethereal onyx chains that seem to secure Oathbreaker to the formerly sanctified altar of Khors. Amazingly, the knight is able to recover and fend off the blows of the wild creature Ingryd finally recognizes as the young woman so recently rescued from inside the gemstone.

Raseri heals Luthael for 21 points and he is no longer burning. But she is on fire (after failing the earlier save) and takes 1d6 ⇒ 6 fire damage. So a total of 22 points fire damage for Raseri including the initial burst.

Demon is currently hidden in the smoke PER vs DC8 to spot.

Party is up.

I want to give Raseri a chance to post today, but since I know he's a lot going on, I will bot her tomorrow to bump things forward.

I thought you all had a couple of Healing Potions a while back. To avoid anyone having to dig back through a zillion posts. Let's just say, you've had plenty of opportunity to purchase/find a couple of basic healing potions of the 2d4+2 variety.

Random #: 1d3 ⇒ 3

Looks like you have three of them among the group. With a 2 in 5 chance of Gunnar or Luthael carrying 1 of them...

Random #: 1d5 ⇒ 3 Looks like Raseri, Ingryd, and Scramsax each have one potion.

As fire and lightning disrupt the relative peace of his eternal damnation, Oathbreaker, for even he refers to himself as such anymore his true name having been buried so deep within the recesses of his mind that his consciousness has forgotten it even exists, ponders the choices made that brought him to this particular state of being.

Although his does not recall his name, he certainly remembers hers. Lady Juliana Pious Grantchester. Her hair was the yellow sun made mortal, her eyes emeralds whose faceted depths could pierce the darkest veil of secrecy. And her laugh and she rode behind him among the clouds was a symphony of joy and freedom. That she ended up married to that pathetic excuse of a trumped up commoner turned Knight Commmander, was simply a crime against all the laws and rules of the civilized world. Lady Juliana was a daughter of wealth, beauty, and power she belonged with a son of the same. She belonged with him.

It was inevitable that she would have ended up in his bed. Inevitable that he'd be forced into making the choices and decisions that ultimately brought about his current existence. To right such a wrong, Oathbreaker had been willing to sacrifice himself, his god, his Order to see things put right. Of course, he'd known that a life in service to the denizens of the Abyss wouldn't be easy. But really, being buried beneath a pile of s%^t for a hundred years was a bit much.

When the fireball bursts, the death knight braces himself for the rush of combustion as the entire oily surface of the chamber ignites. A symphony of curses and screams fill the air although they are nothing compared to those of Lady Juliana in her final moments as she plunged through the clouds toward the waiting final embrace of the earth far, far below.

The fire burns away the last few vestiges of rags and cloth that remained of whatever garment he'd last wrapped himself in. Nothing left now but bone, burnt tissue, armor and hate.

A bearkin charges and swings her warhammer against his sword and shield. The blows are powerful, fueled with a burning hatred as deep and abiding as his own. Perhaps even deeper. The burst of necrotic energy twists and turns through his spirit and what few mortal remains still keep him grounded within this world.

"Greetings Dweller of Darkness, Destroyer of Existence." Oathbreaker says, recognizing the ancient aura of a weapon thought safely dealt with long, long ago. Again, much like himself. Gods were ever arrogant and foolish with attention spans more suited to over sugared children rather than rulers of the multiverse. "I see that someone finally broke you free. Cracked any worlds open lately?"

Flames and smoke fill the air. Old bug brains is seriously upset given the conflagration must've killed more than a few of his precious blood suckers. Couldn't happen to a worse demon. The chains flick along his spine sending shockwaves of true pain and misery searing into being. With a grunt and a sigh the Oathbreaker answers fire with his own fire.

With a curse the he summons forth a swirling ball of black flamed doom and hellfire. Tossing it at the obvious priest of Khors and his wizardly companion, the ball erupts into a conflagration of burning chaos and agony as it both burns the flesh and sears the soul.

He then turns his gaze upon the bearkin. "Let us join in the dance of doom, devour our hatreds and regrets upon blades of hellfire and damnation."

Luthael & Gunnar: Make a DEX save vs DC18 or take 28 fire damage and 29 necrotic damage. Half damage on a success.

Ingryd: Take 10 slashing damage plus 20 necrotic damage.

All: Luthael's fireball ignites the oily toxin within the room. All take 6d6 ⇒ (1, 3, 3, 6, 2, 1) = 16 fire damage and you are set on fire. DEX save vs DC18 to avoid being set on fire, but still take full damage.

Scramsax: There is nothing on the knight's person except his armor, sword and shield.

Party is up.

Gunnar and Luthael act in tandem. The wizard summoning forth a crackling glowing sphere of electrical fury while the prophet of Khors calls forth the angelic spirits of the sun god to surround and protect the holy warrior and his companions as they set about cleansing the unholy evil festering within the god's shrine. Yet, once again the prophet senses Khors' pain and weakness as he draws upon the sun's power. It is like squeezing juice from a drought-stricken orange while also stabbing oneself in the side with a dagger. The shock of the pain causes Luthael's concentration to flicker momentarily, but the battle hardened prophet is no big city temple acolyte unfamiliar with the stark realities of battle. He quickly shrugs off the piercing sensation and readies himself for the next step even as Gunnar sends a bolt of lightning slashing through the darkness of the dome to strike at whatever foul evil lurked beyond the swarm of biting blood suckers.

Ingryd quickly shrugs off the foul stench of the vile effluent swirling within the chamber. Fermented honey truly being a potent elixir for many ailments.

Despite a bout of sudden and uncontrolled twitchiness, the snap of her sling signals Scramsax is in the fight before she disappears into the flickering shadows.

In an instant hundreds of mosquitoes are instantly vaporized by the crackling blue bolt of Thor's retribution. Hundreds more just outside of the main path fall like a summer shower into the waiting muck below, their wings and bodies shriveled and burnt from the proximity to the lightning strike. Yet, thousands still swarm, their hum now both hungry and angry as they continue to descend upon the party below.

From above a fiendish voice rasps.

"Oathbreaker. You are summoned forth, cursed by your deeds, bound by your deceit. Feed your black soul upon the bright one and its allies. Quench your blood thirst and earn a boon from your master and lord."

Each word grate like nails upon slate as it hisses down from above. The swarm's hum rises and falls with each syllable riddled with its hellish cadence. Then silence reigns for a pair of heartbeats. Only to be suddenly replaced by a sucking sound as a skeletal hand emerges from the mound of oozing offal covering the central altar of the once-temple. It holds a rusting sword that steams and hisses as it feels the touch of air for the first time in a century. This is quickly followed by another hand armed with a shield and quickly followed by the rotting remnant of a body garbed in the filth covered armor of a griffon knight.

Red eyes hover within the empty sockets of a stained skull bearing an equally rusted and fouled helm. As the death knight rises and steps from the altar, it is accompanied by the doom rattle of seventy-eight black onyx chains. Each length of chain connects to one of the knight's bones the other end running back to the desecrated altar where is disappears into the offal-covered depths.

The knight rolls its shoulders, heft's its blade and angles its shield before striding forward toward the gleaming glory of the prophet of Khors and his surrounding angels.

Party is up.

Out in the hall...

Scramsax and Ingryd manage to corner and trap the wandering spirit in one of the bearkin's empty honey jars before it can slip away. The mote of flickering green light bounces off the honey-lined interior of the jar as it explores the makeshift cage.

In the study...

Gunnar hurries into the room where the rather ravaged corpse still struggles to survive. Hearing the fouled and offbeat noise of the struggling mechanical heart, the dwarf immediately set about a simple casting to try and remedy the broken device.

Standing on the other side of the dying young woman, Raseri prepares herself for a desperate sacrifice, only to be stopped by the kind and caring hand of Luthael. The prophet of Khors calls upon the guidance of his god and moments later a layer of light illuminates Emilee's body. The overlay begins to flicker and glow with various multicolored trails linking the mechanical heart to living veins and arteries. Nerve bundles are highlighted so that Raseri is able to repair broken junctions along the spine. Another layer of lights point out how the initial effort incorrectly linked the liver to the pancreas while bypassing the kidney's. Working their way through the various anatomical overlays, prophet, priestess, and wizard are able to use their combined healing and mechanical magic's to stabilize and heal the bulk of the girls physical wounds. What mental wounds exist, only time will tell. However, for the moment, her breathing eases, her pulse steadies, and her face and muscles relax into a deep slumbering state allowing everyone to breath a momentary sigh of relief.

What? Oh, are you the cleaning wench assigned to me by Mistress Ingryd? The shield says to Scramsax. Well, I don't particularly care for your tone, I do not yell and shout except when circumstances force me to do so.

This elicits a burst of laughter and exclamations of disbelief from her weapon companions. Even void hammer can be heard muttering something about an epic lack of self awareness.

Hmmpff. The shield snorts in haughty reply. I'll not debate my constant mistreatment with the likes of you three...

The gods do exist. Says the sword.

Nothing has ever stopped you before. Adds the spear.

Truly, if you did not, it would make me question the futility of everything. Replies the hammer.

OH! You arrogant pig iron barbarians. Why, I can't believe how often I've had to put up with...

Ahhh... Sighs the void hammer. It's good to know that nothing ever truly changes so there is no point.

What?! Now, you just shut up you. A tassel suddenly wriggles on the shield. Start here wench, there is something particularly sticky. I can't tell if it's a bit of brain or yet another honey soaked finger print. I swear doesn't that bearkin ever wash her hands?

In the hall...

"Yaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrr!"

"Mmmmmmmpppppphhhhh!"

"Yaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!"

The shouts of bearkin, shield, and wizard fill the halls as Ingryd drives her shield into the wall of arcane force. At first the magical barrier holds. Then it begins to bend. Knowing he has no chance of outrunning the bearkin, the wizards eyes bulge outward, his claws fiercely grip the wand as he pours his own energy into trying to maintain the barrier. In the end his efforts are no match for the ancient shields power of self preservation and the bearkin's unstoppable fury.

Stretching thinner and thinner, the force field finally and completely shatters with a loud POP! Shards of energy scatter and sprinkle everywhere quickly turning into little more than sparkling motes of dust as they collide with the more material substances of the world. No longer struggling against the field, Ingryd goes flying forward, slamming her shield and body into the equally surprised wizard who goes tumbling backward until hitting the wall.

Meanwhile, Scramsax double checks the body of the fleeing apprentice and finds the nosy tattletale is indeed quite dead. Having the stereotypical frame of the scholarly, wizardly student, the body is light enough for even the much smaller Scramsax to lift and carry back down the stairs and to the door that opens back into the hall. Poking her head around the corner, she witnesses the final bursting of the force wall and the subsequent collision of bearkin and wizard.

Out in the hall...

Temporarily hindered by the glowing arcane force field, Scramsax casts a quick look up and down the hall for signs of the youthful narc that brought more attention to the group's little stolen hideaway. At first, there's no sign of the culprit, but then the astute thief hears the soft click of the door into the second, non-chaos magic infused surgical theater.

Quickly slipping through the door, she cast her eyes about the wide amphitheater and spots a young shadow elf, robes whirling as he runs up a long set of stairs toward the far end of the large room. Without hesitation, the halfling snaps off a shot with her trusty sling as catches the elf right at the base of the neck.

With a sharp cry of pain, the fleeing apprentice grabs at his neck, stumbles, and falls forward with hard thud against the cold stones.

Meanwhile, back in the hall, Ingryd readies her shield.

Wait! What do you think you're going to do? Cries out the shield as the bearkin starts to rumble toward the crackling force field. Your going to mess up my paint! Ahhhhhh!

"Raaaaarrrrrr!" Ingryd's own roar of fury overshadows the less potent, worried, screech of the shield.

Both are then overshadowed by the crackling cacophony and the barbarian's charge slams into the immovable, glowing wall.

Mmmphhf...mmmrrrph...mmmmm The muffled choking voice of the shield can barely be heard as the bearkin pushes and drives against the arcane barrier. Her legs drive and slide against the floor, the muscles on her neck and back strain and bulge. From the other side, the wizard's face twists into a reptilian smirk.

Under normal circumstances the bearkin's efforts would be futile. But out of preservation for its appearance and being worried about her frame bending or breaking under the continued strain, the shield activates a self-preserving absorption field.

Suddenly, the bearkin feels her frame slip forward ever so slightly. A little more and a little more. The barrier and shield strain against each other as the reptilian smirk quickly turns to a frown and then a growing look of concern as he focuses his concentration to reinforce the wall.

Ingryd: STR check vs DC18 to break through the barrier.

Raseri's body suddenly tenses as though the young priestess is witnessing something important or frightful. But otherwise she remains still and well within her trance-like state as Gunnar and Luthael sit watchfully nearby.

Luthael offers Ingryd a quick blessing before the bearkin disappears with Scramsax to deal with the potential threat outside of the protective barrier put into place by Gunnar's magic. The two disappear in a puff of theatrical purple smoke. A few moments later the sound of Ingryd's roaring voice can be heard even through the thick stone wall. It is a fury filled roar that rattles the furniture of the office and causes a bit of dust and grit to fall from the ceiling.

Party is up.

Gunnar studies the situation further eventually devising a potential line of attack. But before the dwarf can act, Raseri's entire body suddenly goes rigid, her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

"...my purpose quite nicely once I deal with you."

Her voice comes out in a hissing, unfamiliar rasp. Only the whites of her eyes show. The gemstones tendrils seem to have worked themselves all the way up her arm judging from the movement beneath her skin. Gunnar shouts instructions, Raseri is barely able to snap out a response before the voice changes again.

"None of that priestess of thunder."

Raseri gasps again in pain.

Will get to Gunnar's Banish attempt, Raseri's WIS success, and any other actions Scramsax, Luthael, or Ingryd would like to attempt tomorrow.

Gunnar, Luthael, and Ingryd watch as Raseri once again reaches out and touches the gemstone in order to attempt making contact with the entities trapped within its ruby confines. Her hand wraps around the stone. For several seconds the priestesses body is still, meditative. The clack, click, clack of Scramsax making her calculations in the corner is the only thing to break the still quiet of the small office. And the occasional moan from the balloon-tentacled Darrel bobbing quietly in one corner of the room.

Suddenly Raseri's face goes white. A gasp escapes her lips. A flash of light bursts from the stone and then the tiny limbs stop their struggle. A few seconds later Luthael sees blood dripping from Raseri's hand. Her eyes roll into the back of her head for a moment before she appears to shake off...whatever is happening.

More worrisome is the wriggling movement beneath the flesh of the priestesses hand and the sudden appearance of a tiny serrated needle point poking through to create another trickle of blood.

Scramsax's calculations suddenly go completely askew as the odds of apology are quickly overridden by odds of survival supplemented by the odds of how often the halfling would be able to say 'I told you so.'

Raseri concentrates on the gem for several seconds then reaches out and touches the struggling stone. For a half dozen heartbeats both priestess and gemstone become still. Then Raseri's eyes begin to roll into the back of her head, her body wobbles, the gemstone pierces her finger and suddenly the priestess rocks backward, eyes blinking, breath rushed and shallow.

Luthael, Raseri, and Gunnar all arrive upon the scene to find Ingryd pulverizing a rather large beetle in the tunnel while Scramsax remains ensconced within her tangled rope weavings where the wall meets the ceiling of the tunnel.

Just to clarify the situation with Ingryd. Over the course of the game, she has portrayed herself as basically addicted to alcohol because of the trauma of loss in her background. Now, the party has discovered the best and most potent alcoholic beverage she has ever encountered thanks to it sitting an aging for 100+ years and being distilled using the natural spring waters of the Margreve.

It isn't that the whiskey is poison or heavily magicked. It is actually that it is too good. Much too good. The slight bit of Margreve magic (as far as I know, nobody has cast a detect magic to see how or if it is even magical) and the whiskey's smooth potency actually provide the escape from her pain and anguish that she has tried to achieve at so many other times with drink. Scramsax took a sip with little or no ill effect other than knowing right off it was something special. Ingryd, was trying to guess actual ingredients and so drank an entire cup. Thus much more effect, especially one with her condition.

Thus, does she have the actual willpower to not drink the entire jug? To do so would almost certainly result in one passed out bearkin, and the loss of a very valuable jug of booze. Does she have the capacity to not completely go off on Raseri and/or anyone else who would deny her this long desired escape? Can the party persuade her to stop drinking?

Right now, Ingryd has contained herself well enough so she doesn't go straight into a barbarian rage and attack to get her hands back on the jug. Instead it is something of a stand off both within the bearkin's mind and with Raseri and the party.

Scramsax actually breaking the jug will certainly escalate the situation, thus I wanted to clarify things in case she wants to do something else.

Raseri snatches the jug away from Ingryd and jams the cork into the top. A series of expressions ripple across the bearkin's face. A low threatening grumble echoes deep in the big warrior's throat like a rapidly approaching storm. Looking into the bearkin's whirling eyes, Raseri feels a cold chill race down her back. A chill that quickly spreads to the rest of the Narg Nasty Six as they sense the internal battle for control taking place within their companion.

Darrell, seemingly unaware of the sudden danger standing only a few feet away, nods at the markings on the second jug.

"Aye, that's the old symbol my grandsire used." He says, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. "Strange though. I'd always been told the jugs were usually kept in a more secret chamber, well hidden and secured." He shakes his head. "Not just kept on a shelf out in an open tunnel. But it's all long ago, so who can say what stories are true or not I suppose."

Sorry for your loss and condolences to you and your family.

Ack! Oh by the GODS get it off, get it off. This glop is ruining my whole look! Aiieeee! The shouts of Ingryd's shield pierce the air with the high pitched panic of one who abhors all things that might mar its appearance. Both Luthael's blade and Raseri's spear can be heard chuckling quietly over the shield's distress. However, all gasp in sudden horror when the bearkin decides to take a healthy bite of the clinging, candied organ filled batter.

By Thor's Thundering Flatulence! The prophet's blade shouts at the barbarian. "Did you not see what was floating in that stuff?"

Raseri feels the spear shiver in disgust. Ugh. I think I'm going to be sick. Gods, Molly Holly's fruitcake is the absolute worst. A fully baked one can even dull adamantine. That's just going to sit in her gut for decades. The spear shivers again.

And indeed, as Ingryd chews the overly sweet, firewater infused, bits of frog bladders and goblin eyes she feels her own system, pickled as it usually is, begin to revolt. Sweat breaks out across her brow and her teeth start to ache. Her stomach decides it would like to join the gladitorial gymnastic games and does a series of flip, flops, twirls, and somersaults as she bites down on a partially baked salamander liver that squirts forth its still gooey innards. Tasting something akin to chewing tobacco mixed with peppermint schnapps and burning dog hair, the bearkin's eyes roll into the back of her head as her entire system begins to twitch and flop within her glop encasement.

Fortunately, Scramsax sends a sling stone slamming into the goblin sneaking up on the sick bearkin's side. The stone strikes with a loud crack that makes the bells dangling his red and green boots jingle jangle as he is thrown from his feet to land dazed and drowning in a smoking pile of batter. While the goblin's bells ring, no one hears the halfling slip back into the darker confines of the tunnel.

Having no interest or perhaps a better knowledge of Molly Holly's infamous old time holiday treats, Gunnar quickly removes himself from the potentially deadly batter and sends the fury of the north lashing out a hobgoblin just coming around the Firefruit Truffle Press. Lashed with sudden chills the hobgoblin staggers back behind the machine.

Also stuck within gripping batter, Raseri has an excellent view of not only Ingryd's increasingly sickened form, but of the sudden whirling flashing lights and alarms that erupt following the fiery conflagration of only moments ago. Fire burns everywhere among the equipment, the workers, the supervisors, and the various products. One of the hill giants staggers to his feet, hands slapping at the flames as they devour his holiday pompadour, the copious hair oils madly feeding the flames.

The priestess is the first to spot the dozen new arrivals stepping through the large doors marked 'Shipping and Distribution'. Clad from head to toe in red, green and silver rubber suits, one of them waves a signal. Moments later great quantities of a sour smelling whipped soy curd gush from a series of pipes and nozzles mounted in the ceiling. In a matter of seconds the stuff floods the chamber dousing most if not all of the fires. Visibility it reduced to near nothing as the oversweetened whipped, soy mist fills the air and sucks away much of the air needed to breath. Those not clad in the rubber suits begin to thrash about grabbing their throats and choking as the oxygen is quickly absorbed by the slimy cream.

The new arrivals, armed with nozzle spewing tanks of the same foul smelling, fire retardant add to the carnage as they begin to systematically work their way into the chamber putting out any remaining fires regardless of whether they burn a living creature or not.

Ingryd make a CON Save vs DC20. On a fail take 8d6 ⇒ (5, 4, 3, 1, 5, 4, 6, 5) = 33 fruitcake damage and become Incapacitated. Half damage and not Incapacitated on a success.

Anyone else still in the chamber (all except Scramsax I believe) make a CON save vs DC14. On a fail take 2d6 ⇒ (6, 2) = 8 damage and one level of exhaustion from suffocation. On a success, half damage and no exhaustion.

Party is up.

Ennui summons forth a loud sigh as Ingryd charges down the stairs and into the fray.

"Goblins. Are such creatures really worth bothering with? You kill one and six more pop up elsewhere crafting another half baked scheme destined for failure. Why spend the energy? I mean...mmfffphhh..."

The hammers words are muffled by goblin brain as Ingryd slams the weapon into a pair of hapless workers still attempting to pat out small fires burning on their aprons and puffy hats.

Gunnar brushes aside the tiny festive explosive devices and calmly watches as Luthael starts to reply to Raseri's request but instead suffers a direct iceball hit. The prophet's calm facade melts faster than marshmallow on oven baked sweet potatoes. The full fury of Khors in quickly unleashed upon the chaos filled manufactorium.

*WHOOSH! WHOOOOOM!*

Luthael's fireball strikes the high octane rum ball alcohol. A wave of heat and fire fills the entire half of the cavern. Toy soldiers are instantly turned into tiny flaming candles burning upon a blackened smoking wasteland of fir branches. Secondary explosions erupt within the gruesome fruitcake batter mixer and the nearby one. Several dozen goblins and their hobnobbing supervisors are instantly turned into ugly, crispy cookies, burnt on the outside, still chewy on the inside. All quite dead.

Great globs of super heated fruitcake batter come flying through the air. One mass shatters the spider corral, sending the creatures scattering in every direction. Although plunges upon a trio of goblins engulfing them in a partially baked gooey tomb. More great globs of batter splatter around the party, landing with loud splorks, splats, and splurts.

Those few living workers and managers remaining in the area are busy putting themselves out, picking themselves off the ground, or fending off the few remaining angels and sleigh born bombers, many of which were also doomed within the massive fiery retribution of Khor's holy prophet.

All in party make a DEX save vs DC15. On a fail take 2d6 ⇒ (2, 5) = 7 bludgeoning damage and are trapped in place by a glob of fruitcake batter. Half damage on success and not trapped.

Party is up.

Rounds that burnt tree remains: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6

Planning on doing that starting with the next round. Either the fire or lightning could set it off, so I'll be giving it a 2 in 4 chance. The tree's 'range' is only really a 50' radius so it doesn't reach the entire cavern, but it is near enough to the growing alcohol pool that by next round there will be a good chance of one landing in it.

I'll also be rolling to see how many rounds the pool/stream will take to reach the furnace (probably 1d3). Either way it's going to go up pretty quickly would be my guess.

And since Christmas Trees are not permanent and usually pretty short lived, I'll be rolling a d8+1 to see how many rounds it sticks around.

Her face turning a bright red that has nothing to do with the blinking factory lights, Scramsax watches with utter embarrassment as the bean barely clears the edge of the ledge everyone is standing on, bounces off a goblin's head, plinks the side of a passing dandruff cart, plonks onto a supervisors clipboard, and finally flops into a mass of troll dung waiting to be scooped into the Rocha Refactorator.

A few more awkward moments pass with nobody looking the halfling directly in the eye. Then a series of yelps, squeaks, and shouts erupt from the area below where the bean made its final, feeble landing. The cause of the commotion is the sudden rapid emergence of a cheerful, brightly lit, sparkling, twenty foot tall fir tree. Glimmering ornaments of jolly snowmen, plucky elves, holy angels, and brightly dressed soldiers dangle from the branches of the tree. Light shines and twinkles from strands of red, yellow, blue, and green gemstones that wind and twist up and around the entire tree ending in a brilliant glowing white diamond at the top.

A goblin's screeches are cut short as the roots of the tree drive through his chest and begin to suck the moisture from his small body. More roots quest outward in need of immediate moisture and sustenance. The quick moving tendrils wrap up another half dozen goblins and one supervisor before the surprised and startled workers finally fall back out of reach.

Then things get weird. For seeing the utter corruption of the bright, cheerful, happy holiday it symbolizes, a shiver runs through the tree like a call to arms and rallying of the troops. Suddenly, the various ornaments begin to animate. Their tiny bodies swinging from limb to limb and hustling along to join their various kin and kindred. Those with wings begins to buzz and swarm protectively around the tree, while those on foot begin to pluck some of the lighted gemstones to drop into catapults or hand off to waiting angels and flying reindeer.

A heralding trumpet sounds the charge and a flight of angels take off toward the nearest gaggle of befuddled goblins. Gemstones drop among ole Molly Holly's non-union workforce and burst with bouts of tiny fire, lightning, acid, and ice. More cries of pain and shouts of fear erupt from the workers as they once again scramble for cover.

Another trumpet blast. The catapults unleash their first flight. Bright gems fly in every direction, including back up onto the ledge where the Narg Nasty Six suddenly find themselves included in the tree's holiday assault. Fire, lightning, acid, and ice burst onto the ledge forcing folk to find cover even as wizard and priestess unleash their own magics upon the shocked and awed workers of the manufactorium.

Pixie cages burst in a fusillade of iron shards and pixie dust. Those surviving the blast immediate take flight to find cover or their own revenge upon their captors. Across the way, the great glass globes containing firewater that would curdle the stomach and pickle the mind of the hardiest Barsellan dockside drunkard ripple with cracks and burst. Gallons of the highly flammable liquid slosh across equipment and onto the floor. A washing river of the stuff flows directly toward the super heated flames and metal of the fruitcake oven.

Somewhere an emergency whistle blows and bells ring warnings grinding the entire production line to a stop while frantic goblins race about in panic ignoring the harried and bullying hobgoblins. The bugbear chief grinds his teeth and points at the bubble gum snapping violet.

"Someone toss the brat in the vat, shut down the furnace, sop up the hooch, and then get me a bloody AXE!" He hollers glaring at the bright tree.

All in the party DEX save vs DC12 or take 2d6 ⇒ (4, 5) = 9 fire, acid, ice or lightning damage feel free to roll randomly for damage type. Half damage on a success.

Luthael and Ingryd still have actions.

Worst possible bean roll.

Also, we've already had that one. With something like this, I really don't think repeats should happen. So I think I'm just going to come up with something different.

And to add to the discussion above, curiosity had me go back to my 1E DMG and Bag of Beans is in there. The interesting thing is in that edition they just offer a handful of suggestions for possible bean events. No table, no die roll. It's all up to the GM with the added note that "...only 1 or 2 will be beneficial, the others being monsters or useless things."

After returning to her companions to relate her own findings beyond the less-than-sanitary chocolate hot spring, Raseri and the rest of the Narg Nasty Five along with a rather confused Darrell who has clearly never seen, heard, or smelled any of this before sneak up to the opening of the next chamber.

A scene of brightly lit chaos and grotesque manufacturing emerges before the hardy adventurers. The chocolate stream slides over the edge of a short waterfall, dropping forty feet down into a lake churned by a gaggle of large eels. The followed footprints lead through the entrance onto a narrow ledge and down a flight of stone stairs. There they get lost in the cacophony or workers moving to and fro with great deliberation and attention.

The entire chamber well over two hundred feet wide and about half again as long is lit by constantly flashing lights of putrid green, bloody red, bile yellow, and a rather bruising blue. The central corridor is filled with a variety of hissing, steaming, blurping, glurping, and obnoxiously slurping machines. Running from machine to machine is a long wide conveyor belt carrying various stripped, spotted, polka dotted, candies, cookies, and other sweet looking treats in various stages of cookery and bakery. Goblins in gaudy red and green striped chef hats busily monitor the machines and their spewed forth contents for any that aren't properly hideous enough to send anyone eating one into immediate fits of deranged murderous hallucination.

Still other goblins sing their jaunty tune as they toil to bring more and more ingredients to drop into the various funnels, bowls, and bendy tubes that feed the mighty machines. A glance around the cavern reveals a good, sickening deal about what goes into the Molly Holly Old Time Candy Treat boxes being packed and stacked at the end of the long assembly line. In one corral, a half dozen goblins in wide brimmed hats and spurs jingle jangling with each step are busy roping a herd of giant spiders. Once secured the big, furry beasts are milked for poison and silk which is quickly carried off and dumped into a machine churning out curved white and red striped candy canes. Scramsax is quick to note the sacks of harvested mushrooms sitting near the same device, watching as a pair of goblins pour the fungal contents into a big feeder. A cloud of spores burst from the chute causing one of the cooks to grow pale, choke, and fall to the floor eyes bulging for several seconds.

Seeing his companion in such a terrible state, the second goblin sighs and quickly reaches over to flip the numbers beneath a sign from 2 to 0. The lettering below the numbers reading 'days without an accidental death.' He then calls over a nearby hobgoblin carrying a large clipboard. The two enter talk for a few seconds. The hobgoblin wacks the goblin with the clipboard and points back at the machine before blowing a whistle that draws two other goblins to carry off the still twitching body.

They unceremoniously drop the poor hapless creature into an immense vat sitting along the north wall. A fouler looking batter one could hardly imagine. Newts eyes, eel tails, frog warts, and little girls giggles can all be seen churning and heard bubbling to the constantly stirred mixture. The twitching goblin body is seen for a few seconds before it slowly swirls and sinks beneath the surface of the grainy globby goop. At the far end of the vat a spigot splorks forth into a series of oversized bread pans. Onto a belt they slide and into a massive oven labeled Holly's Scrumptious Fruitcakes. Out the other end a trio of frightened goblins stand ready with thick mitts over their hands and arms. One of the pans comes sliding from the hot oven with a banshee scream. The three grab catch the pan, knees buckling beneath the cakes enormous density rivaling that of an exploded star. Dropped from the pan, wrapped in tin foil and tied with a bow, off it goes on another belt and disappears into another chamber.

Down below at the base of the stairs, a sopping mass of oversized fae flesh waves her hairy arms about and drips chocolate near the boots of an angry looking hobgoblin with yet another clip board. He tries not to notice or thick about the jiggling swinging chocolaty breasts bobbing just below eye level, but he unfortunately happened to look straight at them when the dour damsel for started shouting at him. Now he can't help but stare. So distracted, it takes several moments before he realizes she isn't coming onto him, but in fact warning of potential intruders in the outer tunnel.

His eyes look past the barrels of newt eyes. Beyond the pixie dust hives where workers busy themselves scrapping the golden confectioners delight from the bottom of the pixie cages. They carry his gaze over the farthest corner of the chamber where the days unlucky six are busy combing white flaky dandruff from a trio of hill giants recently arrived for a quick shave and haircut. The cascade of snow white flakes are swept up and drop into the sugar sieve where it is generously sprinkled upon the chocolate truffles. Finally his gaze looks up to the opening where the heroes hide. But seeing nothing but shadows and gloomy dark, the haggard supervisor throws up his hands, stomps his boot in a splatter of chocolate and demands the flabby fae get back to work.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone. Hope you all get to enjoy a little peace and relaxation with family and friends over the next few days. Cheers.

So sounds like a what is happening is basically a short rest to warm everyone up and have a bite to eat, then into the tunnels.

Will try to update later today.

I'm just saying, it doesn't make sense for Khors to be upset with Scramsax. It's like blaming someone for an accident. Scram feels Khors, as a god, should be more wise.

Assuming the gods are wise, might be Scram's mistake.

Immortal, yes. Powerful, sure. But not all powerful, otherwise why was one of their archenemies even still around to cause trouble. Arrogant, check. Uncaring, probably, most of the time but every once in a while they'll show some concern just to keep the rabble enthralled. Selfish, pretty much. Clever, maybe. Book smart, depends on what books they decide to study. If they bother reading instead of dabbling in creating creatures like the Flumph. Ready to take accountability for the quite poor decision to leave their archenemy guarded by a single priest armed with a handful of neurotic weapons and who only bothered to trap the single entrance into the ancient prison with a bell on a trip wire, absolutely not. Or for that matter using a big old massive precious gemstone as the prison rather than a plain ordinary river rock which no one would bother looking at twice? This question alone will likely account for two hundred years of exalted debate within the Immortal Halls of Debating Important Things and an entire set of Holy Regulations stipulating that deposed gods should only be imprisoned in plain, unassuming stones or other substances not guaranteed to catch the eye of mortals. And like any good set of regulations there will be numerous loopholes built in just in case any of them end up getting deposed themselves and would prefer a better than zero percent chance of escaping and exacting their revenge upon their immortal kindred.

So clearly this was all the fault of meddling mortals and the utter inability to find decent help these days. After all, a certain substance does roll down hill and there isn't really a steeper incline than from the top of Olympus/Valhalla/Whatever Throne of Immortals down to wandering vagabond adventurers. ;)

With no further need for delay, the following morning results in a quick meal and early start on the trail. Unfortunately, the path that once existed is now beneath the waters of the lake. While at one time the forest may have been more accommodating and opened a new path through its tangled undergrowth, such a thing does not happen. Some might say it is the forest being spiteful. Others fear it may be the forest is unable to make such an alteration given the unnatural cold and its weakened state in the area.

Still, true to his word, Darrel manages to lead you onward. It is an arduous journey around the lake using a combination of narrow game trails and spending sheer physical strength to hack through undergrowth while plowing through the drifting snow and ice. It is a slow, grueling days work, but as the cold gray day starts to once again turn to a cold black night, the foxkin exclaims with tired excitement as he points a short distance ahead.

The lake lies a mile or so to the south, while to the north where Darrel's eyes gaze you all see the narrow, winding clearing of a more typical path. Certainly still covered in snow and tough traveling, it makes for a much, much easier journey than hacking and slashing a new path through the thick brambles and branches of the forest.

Three more days and nights pass uneventfully. Simply days of bone chilling wind, feet numbed by slogging through deep snow, and the near constant oppression that comes from never seeing the bright light of the sun for days and days on end.

On the fourth day, the terrain gets rougher, steeper. As if it were possible, the weather grows worse. Even those adapted to winter climates find themselves shivering and constantly dreaming of warm fires and even warmer beds. Clouds hang so low in the sky it feels like a person could reach up and grab a handful. If half frozen fingers could grab anything.

Around midday a mountain looms ahead. Its rocky form slowly emerging through the churning clouds. Darrel points a stiff finger at a prominent point of rock approximately half way up the mountainside. It takes a few moments for the fog to clear enough to see the tower and low wall standing atop the point. Truly, a place where only wings could reach it easily.

"This path continues on up to the base of the point and then winds up the rock to the tower." He says through chattering teeth. "The other path..." He gestures to the west and what looks to be a narrower, darker path through dense woods. "The other route leads to an opening in the mountain itself and a series of caverns and tunnels that emerge within the lower dungeons of the tower."

"Which do you choose?"