Your heads throb with thunderous headaches. Your ears ring. The air feels thick in your throats.
Echoes of clattering rocks, coughing, and moans of pain reach your ears. The scent of dust is thick in the air. The area is completely dark.
Altruis Heavensward ignites a fiery halo above his head. Vendric will light a torch.
As our heroes get their bearings, their recent memories return:
Armasse officially began at noon, with the blessing of the festival by Lord Hulrun himself, ruler of Kenabres. The crowd gathered in Clydwell Plaza quieted as the aged inquisitor took the stage, clad in shining, resplendent armor. He cleared his throat, but just as he was about to speak, a bright light shone from the west, as if the sun were rising from the wrong direction. Hulrun’s shadow fell huge and distorted across the cathedral’s facade. A moment later, the sound of a thunderous explosion ripped through the air and earth, along with a violent tremor.
To the west, the fortress known as the Kite—the location of Kenabres’s wardstone—had vanished. In its place, a brilliant plume of red fire, lightning, and smoke erupted into the heavens.
A moment later, a powerful roar accompanied a welcome sight rising from the crowd—Kenabres’s greatest guardian, the ancient silver dragon Terendelev, who had until that moment been attending the opening ceremony disguised as a human. Above, another form appeared, as nightmarish as the dragon was breathtaking. A humanoid shape three times the size of any man, with skin coated in fire and lightning, gripped a flaming sword and whip. The creature’s identity was immediately obvious: Khorramzadeh, the Storm King of the Worldwound, had come to Kenabres!
As the ground continued to shake and disgorge demons into the streets, the dragon and the balor lord clashed above. The fight was over in a few harrowing moments, as the balor cut deep into Terendelev’s body, swooping down to strike the dragon and arresting her charge. A few more blows, and the titanic duo spiraled downward toward the crowd.
The sight of the dragon smashing into the facade of the Cathedral of St. Clydwell is one no witness would ever forget. At that moment, a titanic demon erupted at the far end of the plaza, reducing several buildings to ruins as it smashed into this world. The rift it created shot across the plaza, and this time there was no escape—it opened below your feet, angling away into darkness.
Even as you fell, the dragon noticed your plight. Though she saw death standing over her, she seized this final chance to save a few more souls. After she uttered a few arcane words and stretched out a bleeding talon, you felt her magic take hold of you, slowing your plummet into the darkness as if you were feathers falling into a pit. Yet the fall remained as inexorable, and as you drifted downward into the depths, the last thing you saw was the Storm King standing before the ancient silver dragon, his sword lashing out and cleaving full through her neck. As her severed head fell, the rift above you slammed shut, and the light of the world above was gone.
Altruis Heavensward: "Is everyone alright?"
Nightwolf: "Thank you to whomever is responsible for that light."
Vendric rubs his head. "I suppose it is a bit much to hope all of that was just a horrible dream?"
Zullion groans as he slowly gets up from where he fell. His head still spinning. He groans out a muffled, "I think so"
Nightwolf: Yes, I am uninjured.
Tomas Castonello: "Agh! The wardstone! We're not safe here!"
Aravashnial: "My eyes hurt.... and my light spell doesn't appear to be working. if something's suppressing magic in this area we may be in serious trouble."
Tomas Castonello: "No... no, I must have light! My spellbook may be damaged!"
Zullion takes account of any and all his current belongings
Altruis Heavensward: "Umm, the light is working just fine. My halo has manifested properly."
