"YYYEEEAAAAOOOOOCH!!!, shrieked Wastri in fiery (and then frostbitten) torment from Countess Olivia's seemingly instantaneous and simultaneous barrage of devastating high-level evocation spells. He flapped his arms and twisted spasmodically as both blistering flames and flesh-freezing magical cold scourged his pale, mottled flesh. Despite the fact that he was a demigod, and durable enough to withstand several more such barrages, he was not immune to cold, fire, or the pain that could be inflicted by both ....
But a demigod he still was, and he recovered his wits far more readily than a mortal being would've been able to do in the wake of such a withering magical bombardment. His grossly frog-like face quivered with lingering pain and a fury that made bulging veins pop out on his bald pate (his gray bishop's mitre and been blasted off his head by the delayed blast fireballs, and now laid some twenty paces behind him, atop a heap of charred bullywug skeletons) ....
The three "Loyal Mages of Purity" had not fared well against the conflagration, either: the frumpy toad-lady was now a vaguely human-shaped, smoldering black heap of charred flesh and bones; the two male mages were screaming and writhing in the midst of Olivia's delayed wall of fire, apparently too mindless with pain to think of stepping out of the blazing reddish-violet curtain of magical fire ....
"I WAS GOING TO KILL THE SCRAWNY, EFFEMINATE, WHORE-SPAWNED ELVES, FIRST ...." squawked Wastri, his wart-studded batrachian visage bubbling with angry red blisters .... "BUT YOU'VE JUST CHANGED MY MIND, WHORE-OF-DEVILS!!"
Pointing the wicked business end of his glaive-guisarme, "Skewer of the Impure," at Countess Olivia, Wastri squatted low like an obese, man-sized, bipedal frog preparing to leap, then launched himself in a bounding arc through the now open South Gate archway, glaive-guisarme on trajectory to impale the pretty blond Countess between her breasts .... *CLAAANGGG!!!* An arc of blurred night-black star metal trailing silvery white traces deflected what would otherwise have been a fatal impalement of Countess Olivia .... "WHAA--??", grunted Wastri in startled surprise ....
Simultaneous to the brief exchange between "Selephotsiphem" and Malvolio described above, the bullywug vanguard of the Hopping Horde caught up with their frog-like demigod outside the South Gate, and beheld the magical barrier of prismatic force that now barred the archway in place of the sundered gate portals with bewilderment and dismay .... But Wastri was already in the process of analyzing Hazendel's prismatic wall with his divine senses, determining the exact series of spells required to bring down the barrier's seven component layers, each a different color of the visible light spectrum, and each presenting a different hazard to any that might attempt to pass through it ....
After a few seconds of ogling the multicolored barrier with his bulging eyes (his wide mouth gaping to reveal a lolling, sticky, batrachian tongue), Wastri called out in a strident, booming croak: "TO ME, MY LOYAL MAGES OF PURITY!! YOUR LORD HAS NEED OF YOUR MAGIC!! As powerful as the demigod was, Wastri's powers were still limited by his natural inclinations -- he had been a mighty warrior-monk as a mortal man, and his powers still ran along those same lines, albeit augmented by the salient powers he'd acquired upon ascending to demigod status several decades ago. He could use a considerable array of divine spell-like abilities, and even a few arcane spell-like abilities; but he did not have the power to cast all seven of the "key" spells required to "unlock" the seven layers that made up the prismatic wall ....
In answer to their demigod master's command, his three "Loyal Mages of Purity" advanced through the ranks of bullywugs from the rear of the Hopping Horde -- three humans of strong-if-not-pure Suel ancestry (two men and a woman, pale-complexioned and ill-favored in a batrachian way that was common to the human followers of Wastri), clad in parti-colored gray-and-yellow robes, embroidered with spidery arcane sigils, and stained with muck from the Vast Swamp, each bearing a gnarled staff engraved with arcane runes. At once, the three mages began to cast the requisite "key" spells in swift succession ....
First, the Wastrian evoker Grankuss uttered an invocation and thrust out his staff, blasting the red first layer with a cone of cold spell, and the red layer faded away; he followed this by casting a gust of wind spell, and the orange second layer vanished .... Next, the Wastrian transmutrix Wilmyrra uttered an incantation, pointing her staff at the yellow third layer, and bringing it down with a disintegate spell, followed up with a passwall spell to bring down the green fourth layer .... Then, the Wastrian conjurer Marthrick pointed his magic staff at the blue fifth layer and uttered a word of command, and a trio of magic missiles sprung from the tip of the staff to dispel the blue layer; he followed this by casting a daylight spell to bring down the indigo penultimate layer .... In a matter of less than a minute, only the final violet layer stood between the Hopping Horde of Wastri and the allied defenders awaiting them on the other side of the gatehouse! Wastri cackled hideously, his bulging eyes ablaze with unholy malice and anticipation ....
Brother will fight brother and be his slayer,
sister’s sons will violate the kinship-bond;
hard it is in the world, whoredom abounds,
axe-age, sword-age, shields are cleft asunder,
wind-age, wolf-age, before the world plunges headlong;
no man will spare another.
From: Voluspå, 10th Century
Sunday morning (~10:00 AM), 9th of Flocktime, 600 CY: The green meadow just south of Pitchfield (capital city of the Kingdom of Sunndi) ....
The allied defenders of Pitchfield have been posted all along the ramparts of the capital city since the previous night, watching the horizons in grim anticipation of the inevitable. The inevitable arrives that morning as the vanguard of Wastri's "Hopping Horde" emerges from the morning mists of the Pawluck River Valley to the southwest -- initially visible only as grayish, ghostly, batrachian silhouettes hopping in loose formation, heralded by fell croaks and the periodic cracking of whips. As the vanguard draws nearer, their silhouettes solidify into fully-visible bullywugs, countless in number, hopping and croaking monstrously, crude spears gripped in their frog-like hands.
The elven archers posted all along the south rampart on both sides of the South Gate loose a volley of arrows that momentarily arcs through the morning sky in a great cloud so dense, the bright Low Summer sunlight is briefly overcast. Seconds later, the first several staggered ranks of the mighty vanguard of bullywugs fall like walls of dominoes. By the time these first ranks are falling, the elves have drawn, nocked, pulled, and loosed a second deadly volley, and several more ranks of bullywugs has hopped into the kill zone, driven forth in a mindless, fanatical frenzy by the cracking whips and prodding military forks of their human commanders, the Soldiers of Purity.
From the midst of these latter genocidally xenophobic cultists, a strident voice croaks like rumbling thunder: "FORTH, MY RIGHTEOUS FAITHFUL ONES!! FEAR NOT THE ARROWS THAT FLY BY DAY, THOUGH THOUSANDS FALL AROUND YOU!! NOW IS THE HOUR OF THE PURIFIERS!! NOW WILL THE WRETCHED INHUMAN PLAGUE BE PURGED FROM THE FACE OF THE OERTH!!"
By the time Wastri has finished croaking these thunderous words, the elven archers have loosed another three volleys, and nearly a hundred more bullywugs have fallen lifeless on the meadow.
Croak-screeching in rage, Wastri raises his glaive-guisarme "Skewer of the Impure" high overhead, describing a great circle in the air with the weapon's wicked blade, and croaks a rhythmic, amphibian chant that echoes like thunder across the meadow: "WUGG-TAH!! BUGG-TAH!! GRUNGG-TAH!! WOGG-RAH!!" An immense dome of invisible force is conjured by the frog-like demigod, and the next few volleys of elven arrows rattle harmlessly above the Hopping Horde, like drops of rain falling on an unseen rooftop. A great cry of mingled human cheering and amphibious croaking goes up from Wastri's emboldened Horde, and they hasten their hopping charge toward the South Gate. "THE ARROWS OF THE COWARDLY AND SNEAKY ELVES CANNOT HARM YOU ANYMORE, MY FAITHFUL DISCIPLES!! SUNDER THE GATES!! BREACH THE WALLS!! BURRRRNNNN THEMMMM!!! BURRRRRRRNNNN THEMMMM ALLLLL!! *RIBBETT!! RIBBETT!!*"
With three incredible leaps, each rivaling the distance and trajectory of the elves' bowshots, Wastri closes the distance to the South Gate, ahead of the surging ranks that now form the vanguard of his Hopping Horde. He raises "Skewer of the Impure" again, gripping the long polearm in both hands, and smites the great ironclad bronzewood portals of Pitchfield's South Gate with a mighty blow, giving voice to a booming croak like a thunderclap as the glaive-guisarme's gleaming blade lands: "GRAAAWWWWKKK!!!"*KA-RAAAACK!!* The ironclad portals shudder and reverberate like a temple bell ringing, but they hold -- for the moment ....
DC 20 Lore of History of Society for a bit of background info regarding the Kingdom of Sunndi and the cyclic raids of the bullywug tribes from the Vast Swamp ....:
For as long as anyone alive in the Kingdom of Sunndi can remember (including the most venerable gray elves dwelling in the Rieuwood Forest), the bullywug tribes of the Vast Swamp have united in great hordes, every three years or so, to raid the southern regions of the realm. In anticipation of these cyclical raids, Olvenking Hazendel I ordered increased fortification along the southern border with the Vast Swamp in Fireseek of 591 CY. In Coldeven of 593 CY, the formerly cyclical raids of the great bullywug horde began to occur with greater frequency and less predictability, seemingly organized and driven forth from the Vast Swamp by a cult of the bigoted and hateful demigod, Wastri, “The Hopping Prophet,” and “The Hammer of Demi-Humans.” This cult, calling themselves the “Soldiers of Purity,” are rumored to practice abominable rites in a hidden and half-sunken fortress-temple, known as the Sacred Polystery (a.k.a. the “Temple of the Toad”).
Over the past seven years, the more organized raids of the united bullywug tribes under the command of the Wastrian “Soldiers of Purity” continued to plague the southern borderland of Sunndi with increasing frequency and ferocity, prompting Olvenking Hazendel I to declare a crusade against the Wastrian cult and their bullywug minions. Bands of adventurers and mercenaries began to make forays into the Vast Swamp to cull the bullywug population, and to search for the hidden fortress-temple of the Wastrian cult. A few survivors from some of these forays have returned, relating harrowing tales of narrow escapes from near-certain death, but most of these expeditions never returned from the Vast Swamp.
Recently, on the night of Waterday the 26th of Planting (in the current year of 600 CY), a crew of carpenters and their apprentices (some twenty men and women) were encamped around the framework of a watchtower they had been building on the east bank of the Pawluck River, where it flows into the Vast Swamp. As they settled into their bedrolls for the night, the hapless builders were suddenly attacked by a great horde of bullywugs driven on by the Wastrian “Soldiers of Purity,” who were in turn driven on by “The Hopping Prophet” himself — Wastri, demigod of bigotry, amphibians, and self-deception! After massacring the entire crew, Wastri led his fanatical followers and bullywug thralls up along the east bank of the Pawluck, reaching the small riverside town of Paw’s Luck about an hour after midnight on the following morning.
Paw’s Luck had been protected on the three sides not abutting the river by a 15-foot-high wooden palisade, with a narrow catwalk, and a sturdy gate in the middle of the easternmost side. Several wooden docks extended from the open side into the river, to which a number of small fishing boats had been moored. The daub-and-wattle buildings of the town had steeply-pitched roofs thatched with straw, and at the center of the small town was an open market square, where a general alarm could be raised by sounding a large brass gong. The small town had been home to some 600 humans, 120 halflings, 40 gnomes, 24 elves, 8 dwarves, 5 half-elves, and 3 half-orcs.
Only a very few of the townsfolk of Paw’s Luck managed to escape aboard one of the fishing boats from the great massacre that ensued, and these few survivors would later relate the horrors of the sudden early-morning attack. According to these harrowing accounts, wide breaches were burnt in the palisade by “columns of magical fire” (flame strike spells) called down from the dark sky by Wastri and his high priest. The horde of bullywugs, Wastrian cultists, and their evil demigod master then swarmed through the breaches into the streets of the town, mercilessly slaughtering all who stood in their paths. Wastri and his murderous minions cut down dwarves, elves, gnomes, and halflings wherever they stood, as well as any humans that resisted. Those humans who tried to surrender were boarded up inside several of the larger wooden buildings in the town, which were then burned with the screaming victims trapped inside.
Olvenking Hazendel’s most capable scout, a wood elf ranger named Taenya Lufiel, had discovered the massacre at the watchtower near the Vast Swamp while soaring through the night sky on the back of her dire bat companion, Chirper. She found no survivors upon landing to search among the dead, but could clearly discern the broad trail of trampled turf along the east bank of the Pawluck River, indicating that a great horde had traveled up the riverbank. Chirper carried Taenya aloft again, and flying high above the river valley, they followed the trail left by Wastri and his horde. Reaching Paw’s Luck a few hours later, they found the small town engulfed in flames, and beheld the great horde of bullywugs and Wastrian cultists following their “Hopping Prophet” further up the east riverbank of the serpentine Pawluck.
Flying north and east as swiftly as Chirper could carry her, Taenya arrived at the royal palace in Pitchfield on Moonday the 3rd of Flocktime, where she relayed all that she had witnessed to Olvenking Hazendel I ....
Just after midnight (Freeday the 28th of Planting, 600 CY, ~1:00 AM), Wastri and his hateful "Soldiers of Purity" and horde of bullywugs fell upon the small riverside town of Paw's Luck, inhabited by a mixed population of some 800 townsfolk (75% human, 15% halfling, 5% gnome, 3% elf, 1% dwarf, 1% other).
A wooden palisade protected Paw's Luck on the three sides not abutting the riverside, where wooden docks stretched out into the Pawluck River, with a single wooden gate at the center of the east side; but Wastri and his high priest called down columns of fire (flame strike spells), burning several breaches in the palisade. Most of the townsfolk were awakened from their sleep by the sudden ringing of the alarm gong in the market square, and by the flickering orange glow of fires spreading from the burning palisade to the nearest buildings; but they were unable to escape the ensuing slaughter, as Wastri and his minions swarmed through the breaches in the palisade and laid waste the town.
Humans that resisted, and any "demi-humans" (dwarves, elves, gnomes, or halflings) they found, were cut down on sight. Humans that surrendered were rounded up to "receive the judgment of the Hopping Prophet," Wastri, who ordered the captive humans to be boarded up inside the larger wooden buildings in town (the inns, granary, stables, etc.), which were then burned with the screaming victims trapped inside. The Wastrian cultists and bullywug thralls looted and pillaged, but their main goal was clearly the total massacre of the townsfolk of Paw's Luck ....
Earthday the 27th of Planting, 600 CY (six days before the party's initial foray into White Plume Mountain in search of Blackrazor and the Left Ear of Vecna) ....
After they'd ruthlessly massacred a crew of carpenters encamped around an unfinished wooden watchtower on the east bank of the Pawluck River, where it flows into the Vast Swamp, the hateful demigod Wastri led his horde of united bullywug tribes and human cultists (some mounted on giant killer frogs the size of horses) in hopping or marching up the east bank of the meandering, serpentine Pawluck, following its twisting but generally northwest course further into the hated Kingdom of Sunndi.
Wastri took the form of a rotund, hunchbacked, bandy-legged humanoid with batrachian features (bulbous, frog-like eyes bulging from their sockets, a flat, almost non-existent nose, a wide mouth with thin lips, and a great, flabby double chin that swayed as he hopped with mighty bounds of as much as twenty feet at a leap). He was clad in ill-fitting gray-and-yellow robe and gray-and-yellow checkered hose, a gray bishop's mitre concealing his bald pate, and he carried in his long-fingered, frog-like hands a great glave-guisarme called Skewer of the Impure, on which he loved to impale elves, dwarves, gnomes, halflings, and other "mockeries of humankind" ....
As he led his horde of bigoted and xenophobic human worshipers and bullywug thralls, the "Hopping Prophet" and "Hammer of Demi-Humans" bellowed in a shrill, strident voice that carried over the din of his hopping, flapping, or marching followers: "SPARE NONE, MY FAITHFUL SOLDIERS OF PURITY!! STRIKE DOWN THE UNCLEAN HUMANS OF SUNNDI ALONG WITH THE WRETCHED INHUMAN SCUM THEY LIVE AMONG -- ELVES, DWARVES, GNOMES, AND HALFLINGS!! FOR THE HUMANS OF THIS ABOMINABLE REALM HAVE BECOME VILE AND TAINTED FROM LIVING SIDE-BY-SIDE WITH THE UNCLEAN INHUMAN WRETCHES!! CUT THEM DOWN ALTOGETHER WHERE THEY STAND, LIKE WEEDS BEFORE THE SCYTHE OF PURITY!!" ...
The last reddish glow of the sun vanished into darkness below the western horizon, and the stygian gloom of night spread over the Kingdom of Sunndi and the Vast Swamp. Although the carpenters and apprentices were always exhausted after the long days of toiling to raise the line of fortifications along the southern border of Sunndi, in obedience to the royal command of Elvenking Hazendel I nearly a decade ago, the growing dread that always seized them during the night as they camped so near to the unwholesome and perilous Vast Swamp caused restful sleep to be elusive, if not simply unattainable ....
What was THAT noise?? .... Was something creeping around outside my tent?? .... Who's out there?? ....
These were the thoughts that kept sleep at bay as the crew of carpenters and apprentices laid as still as corpses in their humble beds of straw and coarse blankets within their flimsy tents and hastily-cobbled lean-tos ....
Suddenly, the dark night was filled with a terrible cacophony of shrill howls, shrieks, and terrible batrachian croaks that unmistakably came from the Vast Swamp! Ghastly greenish torch-flames danced over the reeking expanse of bogs and quagmires as a horde of raiders emerged from the darkness to the south! The foremost ranks of this horde were flapping, hopping, croaking humanoid shapes with frog-like heads, their slimy, mottled green-and-brown hides completely devoid of hair, their mouths wide and large, their frog-like tongues lolling and dripping with slimy saliva as they surged out of the swamp to fall upon the tents and sheds of the carpenters and apprentices!
These loose and disorganized ranks of frog-like humanoids were driven before a smaller but more organized formation of what appeared to be more human-looking raiders clad in gray-and-amber robes and pointed hoods that completely concealed their faces, some sloshing clumsily through knee-deep bogs and mud to clamber onto firmer ground and join their frog-like minions in the unfolding massacre of the terrified workers in their tents and huts, others mounted upon monstrous giant frogs the size of riding horses!
Most horrific of all the gibbering, croaking, howling, hooting horde was the one who came bounding out of the Vast Swamp from the rear of the horde, a grotesquely flabby, batrachian-featured humanoid, hunchbacked and bandy-legged, and yet somehow possessing a larger and more terrible presence than all the rest of the horde, brandishing with monstrous strength and swiftness a great pole-arm with a wicked, three-tined fork akin to a frog-gigging spear, clad in what seemed like grayish and pale-yellow clerical vestments, a bishop's mitre crowning its head ....
DEATH TO THE TRAITOROUS MONGRELS OF SUNNDI!! DEATH TO THE ELF-LOVERS!!! DEATH TO THOSE WHO SULLY THEMSELVES BY MINGLING WITH THE ABOMINABLE DEMI-HUMAN SCUM!!!
