Luthael coughs a bit and avoids the worst of the irritating smoke.
"So, are we going inside? Or, drawing them outside? Or both?" The prophet asks his companions regripping his shield.
"I-- I don't know,"[b] Raseri admits, loathe to engage a dragon in its lair, but equally unwilling to fight it where it has free reign of the sky. [b]"Unless we can fly, either sounds equally bad."
And this is turning out too much like the trip to the Shadow Fey's courts.
" You trap bear in cave to kill bear. Bear has no where to run and has ro go through you. Similar princie. Though..* she pauses and thinks.
""Maybe more like Badger. We might have to comprimise ourselves a bit to strike at the beast, but it has no place to go." Ingryd says confidenrly.
Peering over the edge and into the crevasse, the opening does appear natural. The smell here is at its worst, the hot steam and gas billowing forth from the darkness below. After a few seconds it becomes easy to distinguish the hiss of steam from what can only be the bubbling of some hot spring not so very far down. Initial estimates put it between fifty and seventy five feet. Partially forming and then melting icicles hang all around the upper most edge of the opening, the dripping adding to the echoing cacophony of hissing and bubbling.
Near the bottom of the cavern a blurry, steam shrouded red light glows along the northern wall. The angle and steam make seeing anything difficult, but it appears to be another large intersecting opening.
A quick look by Scramsax and Raseri, reveals plenty of hand and foot holds for anyone willing to make an initial climb down without any magical aide. A climb made quite often by those same creatures whose prints mark the outside of the opening. All along the edge are gouges and marks from numerous comings and goings.
Appearing out of nowhere suddenly "Hmm. Looks pretty dangerous. That sizzling... Yep, probably not the vacation spot most would want to go. Damn look at that, imagine falling..." Quickly lashing on her climbing harness and crampons, squatting on the ground as she hurriedly finishes double-checking the integrity of her many carabiners. "Don't worry, I'll make the descent! If Old Man Snuffle-sulfur is home and doesn't like me arappa tap tappin' on his front door, I'll send him your way."
...and get first dibs on the dragon treasure, the eager thief thought.
”I’m not feeling so great with this poison gas…Let me gather my wits a bit and follow down at the end,” says Gunnar, not wishing to cause someone else to fall if he loses his footing.
Raseri moves closer to the opening, though she wonders if luck will be on her side this time. Experience says she shouldn't hold her breath.
Luthael checks on Gunnar.
" Thats not good Gunnar." SHe says as she the. Watches Scram appear ans speaks.
" Gunnars not great right now the gas got to him" She says ready to go down and poke around.
While Scramsax prepares her gear and quietly eases herself over the edge and down into the pit below, Luthael steps over to the pale-faced dwarf. Seeing Gunnar's obvious discomfort, the prophet takes a few moments to catalog the wizard's symptoms and finally determines that one of his more minor prayers should relieve his friend's discomfort and keep him from being overcome by the noxious gas for several hours.
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Luthael prays to Khors for his friend to relieve the discomfort of the poison gas.
Foot by foot, Scramsax makes the descent into the dark, dank, steam-filled pit. To most folk, the odor rising off the slowly boiling surface of the mineral filled pond below would be too stomach churning to continue. To a native of the Barsallen docks, back alleys, and brothels, it mostly just stirs up memories of home. Given the urgent lurking threat of reptilian fueled death and the even more urgent opportunity of a draconic treasure hoard desperately awaiting its liberation, the halfling doesn't linger within the comforting embrace of memory.
What seems like long minutes is really only a matter of a few short moments before she reaches the bottom of the cave. Sweat drips from every pore as she suddenly understands how a poached fish feels. Even more frustrating is the lack of solid ground easily accessible at the base of the opening. The only 'beach' being opposite this cliff and tucked several paces back from the opening with its grim crimson glow. A not impossible climb, but time consuming and a whole lot of physical effort under less than ideal conditions. More importantly, it'll require driving some pitons into the rock in order to secure the rope to allow the others to traverse the overhang and finally reach the safety of the beach.
Scram appreciated the peaceful silence as her flesh made the executive decision that now would be an awkward time to melt.
Hanging a few feet above the boiling pool, Scramsax pauses for several seconds rapidly calculating distances along an oval, load rates for standard pitons and rope, and the estimated weight of a fully armored cleric and bearkin. These final estimates, she is sure to keep to herself. Once satisfied she slips her compass and chalk (because one should always show ones work), back into her pouch and proceeds to pound the first piton into the stone after summoning the arcane power stored in her ring to make sure not even the slightest scuffle of her boot upon the stone is heard.
The halfling is working on the third piton, when she abruptly freezes. A shadow looms in the entrance. The elongated image of a creature moves forward until a scaled, white head emerges through the opening. It's nostil's flare seemingly unfazed by the stench of the pool itself as it glances around the opening.
The thief wracked her brain...why wasn't this working? Could the odd geophysics of the thermal vents be concealing magnetic field loops that are resonating with the Patriarch's coil in her pocket? Was the devil from Rad's tower finally taking his vengeance, in the form of a curse of befuddlement?
Then she realized, the pitons she had been grabbing from her kit were actually petrified carrots from that old sack of rations she had been carrying around. Then as an extra twist of fate, her hammer turned out to be a live snake that had snuck into her pack earlier. Scram had beaten it to death on the second carrot and hence its rigidity was now fatally compromised.
Dismissing the honest mistake, Scram silently chuckled it off and pulled out her pipe, allowing the heat of the place and mysterious psychic energies to cause another documented instance of SLC (spontaneous leaf combustion).
The sweet smell of the northern blend was easily picked up by the Ice Hyena hiding in the last place anyone would expect...a fire cave.
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The drake sniffs the air once again. Notices something, and odd scent, bitter sweet, smokey. She glances around the dark cavern, sees nothing. Brushes it off as some odd weed falling down from above. Or maybe the boss had started adding scents to the various hot springs, she did that once in a while. Said the aromatherapy was good for our chakras or some such nonsense.
He is about to turn away when suddenly a carrot drops into the pool. The hot water reconstituting the ancient veggie. This is quickly followed by the silent splash of a snake plunging from above.
The hells?! This isn't the stewing pool? Is the surprised and confused thought that races through the scaled creatures mind. And since when does a snake falling into a forest hot spring not make a sound? I'm right here. Witnessed it. The philosophical conundrum causes it to examine its own senses for a fault. So a clawed forepaw is raised to its ear, a pointed tip gently inserted, wriggled around and removed with only a small bit of wax to show for the effort. A low grumble vibrates from his throat. A grumble quite audible to his draconic ears. This is both a relief and troubling to the drake.
Quickly he picks up three stones. Tosses the three across the length of the pool. The first to the drakes far left end of chamber. It clatters off the rocks and then falls into the pool with a very audible *plonk*.
The second *plick*plank*plonk's* off the rocks and into the pool, again with the proper amount of noise one would expect from such an act. The third, on the right side of the chamber hits with utter silence about ten feet from Scramsax's position. The rocks bounced once, twice in perfect silence and then drops without so much as *pli* or a *plo* into the water where the snake and carrot quietly ride out the rippling tide.
The grumble in its throat grows more agitated and deadly. It's golden draconic gaze swivels upward where it takes only a moment or two for it to spot Scramsax taking her union required five minute smoke break.
With a quickness unexpected of such a large creature, it leaps onto the wall and races toward the halfling. The clatter of its claws upon the stone quickly silenced when it enters the sphere from which no secrets can be heard.
At first sight of the massive wall-scrambling drake, Scram glanced at her pipe approvingly. Good old Illarya. It was an enchanting experience every time.
It wasn't until a silent snarl sent a melody of scents wafting her way the thief realized this was no illusion. If the drake could read the little lips, it would have deduced *Smells like Beniface's other boot*.
What happened next was done so quickly it would later be suspected of divine intervention. Clamping her pipe in her teeth and rotating a small latching clip on her tuber belay, the brakeline slid from the carabineer and Scram was launched into an unnatural ascent. As if the rope were elastic, the tiny dangling scoundrel shot straight up the cliffside...walking vertically on 2 fingers and one cramponed-foot like a lizard possessed maniac.
"*pant* *wheeze* Here it comes..."
"Lovely," Raseri grumbles as she takes a step back from the entrance and begins readying a spell.
Gunnar backs off a few paces and surrounds himself with a Fire Shield. He prepares his stylized hammer for the upcoming fight .
Luthael's anticipation built with Scramsax down the hole. Silence was the best indicator that everything was alright, until it wasn't. First, a couple of noises followed by silence. Then, more noises by silence. Then, Scramsax jets out of the mouth of the cave running full tilt on the ceiling.
The prophet takes his step back to ensure he is not first the greet whatever would emerge from that hole. He readies to sling a bolt of holy fire at the beast when he sees it.
Ingryd smiles as she shifts and readies not only to strike this thing and pull on the burning inner fire within to fuel her through this fight.
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She watched from her perch among the twisted cedar branches as the adventurers approached the nest opening. Waited with her day's kill clamped securely in her long jaws while the halfling readied her gear and slipped down into the dark depths. The small deer, its life ended in a quick snap of its neck, still bled from the series of punctures where her razor sharp teeth pierced its hide. She'd hoped the others meddlesome snoopers would descend after their companion. Then she'd simply snip into the nest behind them, closing off their escape and drive them toward her mistress. But as is so often the case, fate had other plans. One of her kin must have discovered the halfling. It was the only reasonable explanation for the speed with which she scurried over the side and gabbled her warning.
Now they all sat alert, ready to strike at anything that might emerge. She expects to be short one sibling before this is all over.
Indeed, fate has flicked her fickle finger across the weave of this hapless creature's thread within the fabric of the realms. For in her still, silent, patient vigil she forgets the carcass still clenched between her teeth. Forgets the blood still slowly draining from the fresh kill. Drip...drip...drip.
*plink*
The soft splatter of blood hits Gunnar right at the gap between the back of his neck and the combined thickness of shirt collar, coat, and armor. There the already chilled deer blood slowly trickles down the wizard's neck like an icy fingertip.
With a curse the dwarf shifts slightly from beneath whatever patch of believed melting snow would be dripping from above.
*plop*
That shift causes the next drop of blood to splatter onto the waiting dwarf's arm. The patch of darkening red a stark contrast to his own travel worn pastel green and yellow coat painted up by Scramsax so many days ago. Having experienced many different kinds of weather during the course of his travels, the wizard had yet to encounter clouds that rained blood. (This is partly because he missed his academy senior field trip to the third plane of hell due to an acute bought of mono.) Thus, he recognizes the sudden appearance of blood from above as a most definite threat. Spinning around and turning his gaze up into the trees it takes several long seconds for him to spot the corpse that seems to be dangling in the tangled limbs of the trees. But then his arcane enhanced sight picks out the outline of the drake camouflaged within the thick branches.
Meanwhile down below...the second drake watches as the halfling races up the cavern wall and disappears beyond the lip. With a snarl it starts to scramble after the fast climbing intruder. But about halfway up a little voice shouts in his draconic mind. STOP! Think you fool lizard! It is likely one of the smartest orders the drake has ever given himself in all his years in Midgard. And so he pauses. Ponders the swift disappearance of the silenced halfling from his mistresses lair.
Wizard. Is the first assumption he makes. Or some other spell slinging annoyance. After careful consideration of the halfling's haphazard garb, but quality equipment, and the lack of any scent of animal dung along her trail up or down, it makes a second assumption. Neither military or one of the local farmers. A deep sigh rumbles from its throat as a clawed paw reaches up to rub its temples. That leaves only one real possibility. An adventurer. And where ever there is one adventurer, there are certainly more. Probably waiting to skewer, slice, and pummel me as soon as I poke a pinky claw over the lip of the cavern.
Golden eyes flick up and back down the cavern. Another grumbling growl fills the cavern, as it scurries back down. Two can play at that game. The drake thinks to itself. As it slinks back into the red cavern, it glances back at the snake floating on the surface of the pool. Probably needs a few more minutes before its cooked all the way through.
Quickly pulling out a scroll, Gunnar says, ”There is one right above me, holding a deer in its jaws! I will light it up with a spell that you might see its location.”
Reading the scroll of Magic Missile, Gunnar sends one bolt after another to impact on the creature’s hide, hoping to give its location away to his companions with their readied ranged attacks!
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Luthael remembers the creature's have a strong ability to camoflage, so when Gunnar fire his magic missiles, Luthael prays for a burst of faerie fire into the area where he sees the missiles' impact. "Khors illuminate our adversary.!"
Raseri spins around as Gunnar says that there's a drake above him.
Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad.
She pushes the fear down and watches to see what comes from Gunnar's and Luthael's spells.
Seeing the big glowing lizard, the thief fiddled for the last vial of Klagenfurt poison, and with a slick grace imbued the bullet with a wyvern's sting.
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Ingryd spins and smiles. As she does she speak. " You lizard brain wanna fight!!"She adresses the Dragon above Gunnar as she taps into the swarm of angry bees within!
Ingryd moves towards the dwarf with her Mual blazing with strong fire As she does she seems to not.care about herself. She ould throw herself on the dragon in hopes of saving her friemds first.
Her attention focused on the halfling, she doesn't recognize the true threat of the dwarf until the arcane words are already drifting upward to her perch. Moments later the trio of bright blue darts slam into her side and her dual hearts begin pumping furiously as survival instincts take over. Even as Luthael speaks the first syllables of his prayer, she's moving. The deer carcass tossed toward her assailants below. A meal lost, but better to live to eat another day. Branches snap and treetops rattle and sway as she races along thick limbs leaping from tree to tree. Her race creates an explosion of snow and ice that had gathered upon the heavy limbs that cascades upon those below. The obscuring cloud makes it utterly impossible for Luthael to properly direct his holy magic. Instead it latches onto the only seemingly reasonable target...the one hundred pound deer carcass now tumbling directly toward the holy man.
Using the cloud as cover she ducks and dodges in a widening arc around the group in an effort to maintain both distance and perhaps reach the other side of the wide cavern opening.
Down below, Ingryd calls up a challenge that goes unanswered for the moment, an increasingly anxious Raseri waits, her eyes searching the trees above, and Scramsax hopes for a target but finding none saves her poison dose. Instead she stands poise to dive whichever way keeps her from being some beast's main course yet again.
Ingryd uses her speed to run back toawards rhe mouth of the cave
,
" Raseri stay with the prophet and Gunnar." Ingryd will try to follow the path of distruction focusinf on the trees now lacking snow and branches
Luthael barely dodges the hurtling deer carcass, such that blood splashes on his clothes, praising Khors for small blessings.
Looking around, the prophet sees the telltale signs of quick forest movement allowing him to spot the creature heading towards its hole. He prays for another burst of faerie fire at the dragon. "Khors illuminate our adversary!"
When the unidentifiable carcass spilled out of nowhere like a jacked up pinecone, exploding the way only a bloated gastrointestinal tick knows how, the thief suspected foul blood magic and took another long drag of the crisp northern grove.
A rustle upstairs caught Scram's eye "Hold it, friends! That leaf is a truncate deciduous, lobed margined, palmate venation! Only lanceolate, parted leaf, pinnate venations would make sense for these latitudes! We've got ourselves a gods-damned imposter!" she cried.
Raseri tries to follow the drake's flight, but she keeps looking back to the den and wondering when its kin will join the fray.
Even having seen the creature with his arcanely enhanced vision, Gunnar is stunned at how hard it is to track the beast. If the creature is lit by Faire Fire or he is lucky enough to see it well enough to target otherwise, Gunnar reads another scroll of the same arcane energy as before.
Not to be foiled for a second time, Khors takes a more active role. For a mere half a heartbeat, Luthael feels a sliver of a slice of a fragment of his gods mind enter his own. It is a moment of overwhelming awe and mindnumbing fear as for that briefest of moments the priest sees just a portion of the unimaginable power that fuels his abilities. Perhaps more unsettling, he feels the churning and swirling torrent of thoughts, drives, motives, and emotions vying within the gods mind. All the many Masks. Many working at cross purposes or in direct opposition. More unsettling, all of these whirling energies flowing through his god like some hurricane maddened sea trapped in a bottle appear to be linked back to his followers, including one Luthael Invictusol.
The link ends, the magic flows, the drake cannot escape the illuminating revelations of the God of Light. Sparkling golden lights coats the creature like a morning dew glittering in dawn's first light. Upon the motes of that sunlight magic death rides.
Scramsax already had a reasonable idea of the creature's position, speed, and direction. Luthael's magic eliminated any potential unforeseen variables. Before the creature could even recognize its new predicament, the poison was applied and the snap of her sling cracks through the forest air.
The forged steel bullet finds a gap in the creatures armored hide just above its rear left hip. It sinks deep into the muscle where, clips an blood filled artery pumping furiously and then slams into a mass of bone creating a series of hairline fractures bursting outward like a sun's rays. The poison, picked up by that fast flowing artery burns in the drakes system even as pain from her hobbled leg causes a tree shaking screech to flow through the trees.
Her pained cry is punctuated by the arrival of a full broadside of arcane bolts of force. They batter her from head to tail and she roars again. This time her reply is fueled by more than pain. A fury now rages in that thundering growl. A fury and a challenge and much more importantly, a warning. But a warning not for those who stand below ready to take her life. No. It is a warning and a call to other ears. To those she knows who are nearby. It rises in pitch, warbles three, four, five times. Then a series of loud snapping clicks and high whistles. At least her clutchmates would and her mistress would know what sits outside the nest.
She turns, begins what she expects to be her last act. For a moment she fears none will have heard her call. But then there is an answer from the depths of the chamber. Seconds later other distance calls are heard, including one mighty roar that makes the earth rumble and the trees shiver in fearful anticipation.
That final roar sends a thrill of satisfaction and peace flowing through her mind. You have done well daughter. Die well and join the Elders in their flight among the stars.
Just before she leaps, she unleashes a flood of brutal, flesh cracking cold from her open jaws. It cascades into the clearing like a giants fist pummeling all within its grasp. Breath crystalizes. Flesh turns red and then purple and then black. Canteens freeze, even those filled with ale and wine. For a moment it is a if old Boreas himself joined the fray. But it passes just as her gliding flight ends and she lands next to the missile casting dwarf.
Unfortunately her final blow is thwarted as her back leg gives out upon landing. Her slashing claw flails wildly and Gunnar easily ducks away.
Drake 1: 100/100
Drake 2: 44/100
Gunnar throws up an Arcane Shield (Absorb Elements) as the numbing cold approaches and his Arcane Ward flashes in response!
His shield and natural hardiness blocking the incoming damage, Gunnar lashes out with his Arcane Hammer (Shocking Grasp)!
shock and no reactions
Raseri weathers the icy blast, but the cold makes it impossible to swing her sword effectively.
"There's four more of these things and something a lot nastier," she calls out through chattering teeth.
Ingryd seems unfazed by the ice. She was after all a proud Grizzlekin, who are home in the most frigid of environs.
She also notes the other dragons and growls. Tapping into her bizzing hive of fury she surrenders to it and closes the distance.
Plucking the long extruding icicles from her nostrils, the thief snatched her sling from the floor with a quick pinch of her toes. The cold leather strap had lost its supple, pliable knack...but after a quick dip in her underarm it was usable enough...
Luthael staggers a bit at the contact with his god. The divine power making him dizzy. After his mind clears, he prays to Khors to burn the drake again sending a gout of holy fire into the creature.
And, a holy lance strikes down from sky as if a shaft of sunlight was made solid.
He heard the same sounds as the Thorsdottir and conserved his daily blessings.
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Her leg is useless. Escape impossible. She knows her end is near. Rather than fearing what comes next, she faces it as her mistress advises. Despite her wounds her defiant roar is strong enough to rattle the branches of the surrounding trees.
The villagers in Levoca turn toward the distant, echoing roar with worried eyes. Have they wronged the forest? What price would they pay for the mistake of welcoming the adventurers into their midst? For seeking their aide? But those who made the journey south from Blandezig wave off such fears and concerns. We have seem these heroes fight. They say with a potent mix of respect, confidence, and even a little awe. There are none more deadly with steel and power. None more brave and worthy of our trust. They defeated an Imperial regiment. Sent a foul demon of the Goat back to its twisted mother's arms. Faced down a pack of fae and even turned away an assassin of the Shadow Queen's courts. The praise and trust displayed by villagers much like themselves, those who scramble a living from the soil and daily toil can be trusted. But one elder shakes his head and wonders But what happens when they inevitably leave? For it is the nature of those who wander the roads to ever move on again. What follows in their mighty wake? To this question only silence answers. Another distant roar echoes out of the west.
He reaches the rim of the nest's entrance just in time to see his clutchmate succumb to steel and magic. Sparks still jump about her body as it crashes to the ground. An aura of purple hewed fae flame flickers and dances across her still features, illuminating the wounds of sword, sling, hammer and holy spear.
A sadness and regret passes through his mind. If he had not turned back, would she still live? He quickly shrugs away such recriminations. Ill luck was at play. He'd not known she would return so soon from a hunt. And she was the best of their clutch at hiding, ambushing. Something else must have gone wrong. It usually did when adventurers were involved. He glances back down into the fumarole. His gathered clutchmates nodded, they had her Sister's trumpeting death call. They had heard their mistresses reply.
He bellows his own roar and scrabbles up and over the edge. He is quickly joined by his three other clutchmates. A quartet of raging, draconic tooth and claw. His other sisters unleash their fury upon the intruders. Twin clouds of bitter, flesh shattering, heart stopping cold burst into the clearing even as he and his brother race forward to strike at the sword wielding elfmarked and bearkin.
Drake 1 (M): 100/100
Drake 2: 0/100
Drake 3 (M): 100/100
Drake 4 (F): 100/100
Drake 5 (F): 100/100
Gunnar attempts to withstand the onslaught of cold as best he can, counting on his natural toughness and the warmth of his Fire Shield for protection.
Raseri weathers the blast and turns her attention on the drake beside her. She hacks at the beast with her blade as it crackles with lightning.
Luthael gets his shield up in time to dodge the majority of the two clouds. He focuses on the solid lance of sunlight and moves it to attack the next drake.
Then, the prophet calls Khors to send a furious ball of holy fire into the drakes, hitting as many as possible.
Ingryd shrugs through the slice and bite, and even the cold for her it was nothing.
Ingrud roars and begims to smash ans slma her maul into the drake before her.
Just wondering, if we're taking two seperate blasts, are we taking that damage twice?