[ooc:failed everything; lost 3 Str[/ooc]
Dohrlock stares off into space, lost in his own mind.
Tsillmas fires his bow at the Undead abomination. Fortunately, the elf's aim is true and he hits the Overseer instead of the now massive Corvin.
The Overseer gives no indication that the arrow affected it, concentrating on fending Corvin off. Now crouching a few feet from Corvin, he springs with surprising agility and lands on Corvin's shoulders. He puts his yellowish hands on either side of the large man's neck, and an agonizing burning sensation spreads from his hands as Corvin feels an acidic liquid start to burn his skin.
Anarath, the undead thing is like nothing you've seen before. It is superficially similair to a well preserved zombie, but has strange powers and moves with a vampires alacrity.
DM spoiler
Corvin snarls in pain, grasping the undead thing's head with one of his enlarged fists. With a brutal jerking motion, he slams the eyeless creature into his forehead repeatedly. The undead flesh smacks loudly against the thickened bone.
Corvin slams the thing's head against his own, hearing the Overseer's nose collapse with a satisfying crunch. The same burning pain spreads to his forehead where his skin touched the Overseer's.
Anarath's go.
Anarath runs over towards Dohrlok, and studies the dwarf closely for a moment, trying to determine what sort of effect he is under.
Unable to be sure, he tries to shake the dwarf out of his stupor.
Anarath, there are few clues to tell you what is affecting Dohrlok but since he seems to still be alive it's probably a temporary effect. Perhaps its an enchantment of the mind, though you know little of that magic so the spell is unfamilair.
The dwarf doesn't respond to being shaken.
Arodwumm goes back to the diminishing pile of belongings and returns with his holy symbol.
Arodwumm goes back to the diminishing pile of belongings and returns with his holy symbol.
Arodwumm raises the holy symbol and calls on the Magic Around to turn this vile creature away.
Tsillmas fires an arrow at the Overseer, but this time it goes wide. A moment later the elf collapses to his knees, clutching his head and screaming silently. Crimson blood trickles from beneath his hands and down his neck.
Dohrlok continues to stare into space, a thin line of drool running down his chin. He tries to find his happy place, and fails.
Corvin switches his grip on the undead creature, attempting to crush it against the wall as he did the kobold shaman.
Again the undead evades Corvin's grasp while maintaining its own on him.
Anarath is going to keep trying to help Dohrlok snap out of his stupor, whispering urgently for him to fight it, reach deep into his Stone Fist training.
Arodwumm hits the door jamb with his holy symbol in frustration. Then he calls on the holy power of divine magic to flood the chamber and turn the slippery cus.
The power does not come.
Tsillmas collapses further to the floor, twitching fitfully in a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood. Occasionally a gutteral moans escapes from his blood-stained lips.
Your undead foe smiles at the elf's convulsions. He casually ignores the weak aurau of positive energy Arodwumm creates and, from his perch on Corvin's shoulders, calls out "Has your god forsaken you, Arodwumm? Can you feel its diminishing power?" with an insane grin it continues "A new age is dawning, Outcast. Your patron is archaic, it shall be swept aside like a dry leaf in the wind. Stand with it, and you too shall perish.". It wraps its long fingers around Corvin's neck and begins to squeeze with blasphemous strength. Smiling wickedly it continues "Stand with us, and you need not meet the same fate as your erstwhile 'master'".
"SHUT THE F$~# UP!"
*WHAM*
Corvin grasps the undead thing by the legs, flipping it over the his head. With a mighy heave, the fighter slams it into the ground, driving a metal-plated elbow into the back of its skull.
Whenever it's my turn, I fail my save. I'm consistent that way.
Whenever it's my turn, I fail my save. I'm consistent that way.
With a sickening crunch the left side of the thing's face collapses under the force of Corvin's blow. Putrid blood oozes sluggishly from the ruins of its face as it continues to grin up at Corvin.
“Stone Fist my bony ass,” growls Anarath in frustration, glaring down at the unmoving Dohrlok. He shakes his head, and then suddenly runs over to where Corvin grapples with the thing, and punches at the creature savagely with his punching dagger.
The creature's words hit home and Arodwumm takes an involuntary step back, then he steels himself and runs over to the bleeding Tsiilmas.
Calling on divine healing, he feels safe to cast.
Arodwumm presses down on the man's head, hoping the magic will help.
Anarath jams his punching dagger into the Overseer's side, inflicting a small wound that the undead ignores.
Arodwumm's spell seems to heal the elf a small amount. Blood stops streaming from his ears and eyes and he stops twitching spastically. He lays there insenate in a pool of his own blood.
Dohrlok continues to stare into space.
The undead abomination wriggles and twists in Corvin's grasp, struggling to free himself. Although he can't escape, the acidic liquid covering his skin burns Corvin badly.
The pain barely registers as Corvin continues to pound the creature into the floor. Placing a bone-plated knee on the thing's chest, Corvin delivers a hefty one-two punch to its face.
Corvin's amored fists smash into the Overseer's face, reducing it to a pile of foul ichor, pulped flesh, and shattered bone. A spray of the thing's blood spatters Corvin and Anarath with searing droplets that start to burn and dissolve their skin.
A deathly silence settles over the tower with the Overseer's death.
Anarath grits his teeth and hisses into the silence as a few droplets of acid sizzle into his flesh.
Composing himself, he turns to look at the giant Corvin, who has fallen to the ground. “Arodwumm, do you have any healing remaining?” He asks, before noticing for the first time that Tsilmass appears to be severely injured. “What about him?” he asks. “Will he live?”
"Master, I have no healing left, but my wand of healing will help them both. And you, if you wish it."
First he gets his whitewood wand and applies it to Tsiilmas and Corvin.
The wand crackles with energy and a white detonation fires into the bleeding elf. Then twice more it fires into Corvin.
"Master, the healing is limited and there isn't much left you should know. Could we rest then maybe I can help them myself?" The dwarf asks nervously.
Arodwumm gathers the remainder of his equipment and sets about struggling into his armour. However it is soon on, perhaps due to the kobold captivity and his lack of meals.
Corvin's body is wracked with pain as the spell of giant growth dissipates. Bits of metal and bone split his skin in odd places as his flesh contorts.
The fighter's rent skin fuses back together as Arodwumm's healing spells take effect. The process continues for several minutes, skin splitting and regenerating, until Corvin finally lies still, curled into the fetal position.
He rolls onto his back, and stands awkwardly, joints popping.
"'N that's why I hate magic."
Corvin rubs his acid-scarred face with one of his newly metal-plated hands.
"Damn, that left a mark."
Anarath looks at Corvin curiously. “Yes … you seem to react to magic in unexpected ways … it is most curious.” He then answers Arodwumm. “I could do with a rest also … I’m not certain, but it seems we have dealt with the immediate threats here – perhaps this is as good a place as any to rest for a few hours.”
Dohrlok suddenly shakes his head side to side, and rubs his face with his hand. He looks around, his eyes focusing on the carnage. "It is over." He says, clearly disappointed that he slept through the end.
Dohrlok is neutral as to whether we should rest up here. He will stay, unless everyone else is ready to go.
There are three pedestals scattered about the room in a rough triangle.
On one is the squashed remains of the talking head.
Scattered about on the second, larger pedestal, which is at the edge of the room near one of the bony plates on the southern wall, are half a dozen sheets of crackly parchment covered in cramped script written in a tongue you don’t immediately recognize. Atop the parchment is a small box, no bigger than your clenched fist. It’s exquisitely crafted so that it the box appears as a seamless whole, a small solid cube with only an incredibly fine seam at the top that indicates a lid. The tarnished metal of the box’s lock is engraved with a complex pattern of geometry that seems at once a mass of random squiggles and also a set of perfectly symmetrical figures. The lines are fascinating, almost hypnotizing and were you not looking so very carefully you would have entirely missed the impossibly tiny keyhole at the metal’s center. The box looks to be crafted of the same materiel as the desk that Corvin smashed earlier and is slightly damp to the touch. A ragged feather pen sits in an inkwell crafted from a rat’s skull.
Floating atop the final pedestal is a wonderfully intricate mass of silvery rings slowly revolving around a central sphere. As you close on it you take note of every fascinating detail. The sphere around which all of the almost three dozen silvery rings rotate is made from interlocking plates of burnished bronze. The rings themselves at first appear to be a solid metal but as you look more closely you realize that they’re in fact some kind of barely translucent arcane illusion marking the path of the tiny gemstones. Orbiting the sphere on each of the fine arcane rings is a flawless gem, each one a different shade and each one scribed with a single, unique rune. Painstakingly slowly the incredibly complex device revolves about itself, forming and breaking conjunctions and eclipses of the minute bodies. On the pedestal below the revolving model are scattered dozens of sheets of complex diagrams and formulae and equations that seem to be depicting and analyzing the strange mechanism.
At the center of the triangle dexcribed by the pedastels is a rapidly dissipating puddle of the fluid that once held the Overseer. The four tentacles hang limply from the central mass, which throbs and twitches fitfully.
The room is eerie, but presents no apparent danger as a place to recuperate.
Arodwumm picks up the drawings with its intricate symbology, trying to make head or tail of it.
Arodwumm picks up the drawings with its intricate symbology, trying to make head or tail of it.
The parchment seems to describe some kind of arcane ritual. Although the text is written in the kobold script, you recognize a few arcane glyphs that are dwarven in origin. Most seem to involve transmuting something, although one passage seems to focus on healing magic.
Arodwumm relays this to the others as he prepares to rest.
"So, can we rest here, masters?"
"I'd prefer we work out a few of these mystery items before we sleep in this chamber." Dohrlok suggests, gazing at the orbiting gems. He leaves them alone for the moment, then turns to the box with the tiny keyhole. "Has anyone got any magic that might find the key to this item?"
If the answer is no, as he expects, Dohrlok will make a slow spiral search of the room. He will move outward from the pedestal, crawling around on the ground and thoroughly inspecting everything, searching for the key (and anything else of interest). He'll take a few hours, if need be.
It takes Dohrlok a while, although you can't be sure exactly howlong, but eventually he finishes carefully combing the floor. He notes that the embryonic ooze from the Overseer is seeping into the floor, but other than that nothin unusual is to be found on the floor. Towards the end of his search he passes one of the kobold mage's bodies. Perhaps they have something useful on them?
Anarath shrugs. “I have virtually no magic left, until I rest.”
“I’d rather rest first.”
He helps search the bodies though.
"Master - keep wand of magic then." Arodwumm starts swopping through his wands and scrolls, preparing to give more over.
Dohrlok will root through the kobolds' worldly possessions, tossing anything that looks interesting into a pile in the center of the room. He'll drag the bodies into a far corner of the room, so that they're out of sight.
Search=14+2=16
Neither of the black robed kobolds has anything of use but as you search the scratchy robes of the leader, you find several items of interest.
Hung around its neck on a fine chain is a tiny raven's skull with tiny rubies set into the eyes. They glitter with a firey light.
In its pocket is a twisted black iron rod.
Dohrlok puts the items on the floor, uninterested. He puts his fists on his hips, deep in thought, makes a hmphing noise, then goes over to the pedestal with the whirling gems to stare at them for a while. Maybe he'll get a vision.
Anarath picks up and examines the twisted iron rod … he feels he’s seen something like this before.
On impulse, he picks up the strange box and tries to insert the twisted rod into the keyhole.
While fascinating to watch, the small gem's slow orbit povides no insight to Dohrlok. As he watches, one of the stones, a roughly spherical blue one, slows its orbit. It pauses for a moment before slowly starting to move again, now in the opposite direction.
The twisted iron rod is about 8 inches long and as thick as Anarath's forearm. It is definitely not sized for the keyhole on the small box. As he picks it up, Anarath hears an almost inaudible crackling of barely restrained arcane energy emanating from the rod.
Corvin moves over to where Dohrlok stands, eyeing the swirling stones dubiously. He reaches out to touch one.
The stone is cool to the touch, but nothing happens for a few seconds. Then Corvin feels a sharp, burning pain on his hand. It feels like someone pressed a white-hot brand to his hand. There doesn't seem to be any damage to his gauntlet, or even any sign that anything happened, but the pain remains.