"Fantastic. Not just giant spiders, but giant parasite ridden giant spiders." Parasites would die without their host, but the worms are large enough to harm a child should one find their way down here, so Wrath tries to skewer them.
Search Posts
"Giant spiders? Under the city streets?" Wrathadorand mumbles, kicking over the dead spider. "Just what the city needs. Demons from above, spiders from below." One might argue that being sent below the city had a silver lining, if they can eradicate the spider menace while they are down here. "If the rest of you have caught your breath, we need to move." His daughter has his helmet, wherever she is, but he prefers fighting without it. There is a certain intimidation factor to ranks of faceless knights, all wearing identical armor, but Wrathadorand believes his foes deserve to know his face before he brings them to justice. With their infernal and celestial blood, it is impossible for Wrath to guess the ages of the three ladies, but they all seem quite young to him. Who knows how much life or death combat they had seen, or how they might react to a swarm of giant spiders? "Keep close to me and keep your eyes open. If anyone can make a flame, that will help with webs."
"Calm yourself, ancient one." Looking around, Wrathadorand sees he is the only one standing who is not party to a species that lives centuries, so 'ancient one' might not be usefully descriptive. "The only ones hiding are the demons. Hiding from me." Let it not be said that the warpriest does not have confidence in his place in all of this. He continues to glance through to rubble looking for survivors. Those trapped under anything more than a light dusting of pebbles would be beyond any rescue attempt the group could affect, and any that survived the initial burial would not survive long enough for an organized rescue. He does not see Alona. The father in him is torn. He cannot afford to be distracted by thoughts of his family, not in these dire circumstances. He would not want his daughter to suffocate under the rubble, but digging for her under the countless tons of debris would be both pointless and impossible. Ever the practical shoanti, Wrathadorand decides to assume she escaped the collapsing town square and puts her out of mind for now. "What is this cavern?" He demands to no one in particular. "Who knows about the geology of this place?"
Wrathadorand was never one for speeches or festivals. Ragathiel prefers followers who take action and Wrathadorand prefers combat, for combat was his gift. The eruption of flame and demonspawn in the plaza does not seem to startle Wrath, but no one would describe the man as easily startled. The attack on the city is a forgone conclusion; as the wardstones failed, a strike against the city was inevitable. His sword, too long to be sheathed in any reasonable way, is already in hand. "Demons!" He bellows, stomping towards the monsters streaming into the plaza. He carries his bastard sword in his left hand, gauntleted hand gripping the oversized cold iron blade halfway down its' length. His daughter and the other innocents in the plaza are foremost in his thoughts, but he was called to be a blade of Ragathiel - he saved lives by killing those that need to be killed. "Face me in honorable combat!" Gold-red sparks dance across the gauntlet on his right hand, increasing in number and intensity until veritable bolts of crimson lightning race up and down his right arm and the right side of his toro. With a crack, a shimmering spear of crimson lightning appears in his hand. He is running now, and he draws back the holy spear, making ready to hurl it through the nearest foe only for the javelin to instantly wink out of existence when the cracking ground brings him to a halt and causes him to stumble. And then he is falling. Wrathadorand drops his sword during the fall but manages to land on his feet. ”Ragh!” He roars at the stone ceiling entombing them, enraged to be denied combat. ”Cowards!” The warpriest huffs and seethes, pointlessly casting his gaze about, as if he would find a way back to the surface and the battle in the blackness of the cavern. His ragged, angry breathing slows after a few more moments, each breath coming slower than the last as he composes himself. He would not be part of the battle now. After finding it in the rubble, Wrathadorand casts a light spell upon his sword. The visible effects of this spell, too, are tinged with crimson, infusing the blade with a light that casts a reddish-silver glow around the warpriest. "Alona. Where are you, child?"
A giggly young girl winds her way through the crowd, running up to Arlena. "Arlena, watch! Watch!" The girl is a string bean, all elbows and knees. She wears an odd headdress made of large, exotic feathers and black-and-white coral stems. A raven sits perched upon her shoulder, its somewhat supernatural nature betrayed by the deep blue feathers on its throat and breast and a half-dozen gold flight and tail feathers. Under one arm she carries a fine steel helmet – clearly not hers. Like Arlena, the girl receives arcane power from Desna, but she was only just beginning her magical training. ”Watch!” The girl steps back and takes a deep breath, nose wrinkled in concentration. Closing her eyes, she inhales deeply and, as she slowly exhales, four pale blue orbs of light ebb into existence in the space between the human girl and the three outsider women. She opens one eye, gasps and grins at the success of her spell and… the lights wink out of existence. Her face falls. “Don’t let success distract you, Alona.” Wrathadorand, the owner of the helmet the girl carries, scolds his daughter. ”Evil does not sleep, nor does it rest on its laurels. And neither shall we.” Despite the festival in the city, his golden eyes scan the crowd for trouble. Evil does not sleep. Wrathadorand towers over most in the square, and the cold iron bastard sword resting on his shoulder is commensurately large. Two fresh scars run diagonally across his left brow and cheek, courtesy a recent skirmish with the denizens of the Worldwound. The injury is his only real blemish. His head is shaved, full black beard streaked with grey. He is handsome in a way, but his expression is one of sternness, not one that invites approach. Plate and mail cover him – minus the missing helmet – and his blue and silver tabard sports the lion sigil of Ragathiel’s Lion Guard. He gives the gathered women a curt not. ”Sorry daddy.” The girl mumbles, flashing her father a placating smile, but she turns her attentions back to the tiefling, clearly searching for approval for her show of arcane skill. |