Xantlin follows along with the group up the stairs, stopping at each priestess' body to whisper a prayer and blessing. "What evil could have done something like this?" he thinks to himself, trying to pry his mind away from the sorrow brought on by the horrible sight. It would take something of immense power to fell a Priestess of the Sixth Saint, he can only hope that the Saint herself did not meet such a gruesome fate.
"Sergeant, we must hurry forward, the Saint has lost much of her strike force, she may be in dire need!"
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
ALL
HELIOS watches emotionlessly as the humans express their dismay at the deaths of the priestesses. Each person grieves in their own way before steeling themselves for what horrors must lie beyond, be that in a tainted health potion (healing 9 damage) or a whispered prayer. The rituals of the ephemeral races are sometimes so strange.
After preparing, your party slips past through the opening formed by the unhinged door and into the Passage of Kings. The Passage is long and narrow, with a low ceiling; visibility is poor and you nearly stumble over the body of a fifth priestess. Her back is angled unnaturally, and she moans softly as you trip on her. Her breathing is fast and shallow, and she briefly clings to your clothing before her hand goes limp and she expires before you. The marbled floor is slick with her blood.
As you pass along the Passage, you can feel the Hole in the Weft more and more acutely. For those of you less attuned to magic (Ryloos), it's a bit like jumping into an icy lake - frigid, abrasive, the shock slowing your heart. For those of you more attuned - consciously or not - to the magical realms (Xantlin, Lofty, and Buoyside), it is agony. You feel a great, yawning absence in you, the light of the higher planes extinguished. The whispers of the Universe, the energy that ebbs and flows and eddies in and around and through all living things, are silenced; you realize just how alone you are, left with only echoes and dust. You have all entered what is essentially an exceedingly powerful Antimagic field.
Finally, you step out of the Passage way and into the Lia Fáil. Isidore's throne room is a great, flat space; to either side, rows of columns sport wild blooms of ivy and moonflower. In between the columns, the waters of the river Ogma divagate and flow briskly, the current contained in recessed sluices. The roof opens in its center to the naked sky, where light from the strange, pale sun falls to illuminate Isidore on his throne.
The century of war has little changed the man. He sits, handsome face frozen in repose, eyes closed in contemplation, hands clasped peacefully in his lap. You notice several things simultaneously.
1. A sixth priestess lies in a growing pool of blood between you and the throne. Her armor is sundered and her left arm has been almost entirely disarticulated from her shoulder. Bits of lung leak from between shattered ribs.
2. A small trickle of blood and cerebrospinal fluid runs down the side of Isidore's face. You notice that the side of his skull has been caved in, fragments of grey matter clumped in his hair and beard. His is the absolute tranquility of death.
3. Standing to the side, a tall man holds a woman's head under the surface of one of the river Ogma's legs. He turns, lifting her bodily by her hair: the Seventh Saint, Arden, dragging the Sixth Saint, Alythsia - the Morning Star, Daughter of the Dawn - behind him. Like an animal. Like refuse. His face - so handsome, framed in long golden hair, almost beautiful - is nearly unrecognizable in its cruelty and disdain. His white livery flaps majestically in the breeze and his half plate armor glistens brilliantly. Alythsia struggles and squirms in his grip, kicking and beating as his arms, a lamb's last throes in the maw of the Wolf. Approaching Isidore's throne, Arden throws the Sixth Saint down before him unceremoniously, ignominiously, her face smacking against the stone. She looks up to you, face covered in blood from a broken nose; her eyes are blurred and unfocused at first, but seem to clear on seeing you. There is a brief spark of recognition - of hope - in those brilliant blue eyes, and she extends a shaking hand to you beseechingly. The moment freezes in time. It will be burned into your psyches for all time.
Before you can react, Arden lifts the dreadmaul Gloom over his head and - with a roar - brings it crashing down onto Alythsia's neck. There is the sound of bones crunching, followed by the soft sussurus of moving cloth as myoclonic jerks wrack Alythsia's body. After several seconds, she goes still and is silent.
Arden stands alone, breathing heavily. He stares at the fallen saint, eyes unfocused. After several moments he speaks, his voice soft but clear.
"And so begins the end of the tyranny of the sun. The end of a campaign." He closes his eyes and lifts his face to the sky, his expression almost rhapsodic.
A tall, thin woman in colorless garb steps out from behind Isidore's throne. She places a hand on Arden's arm, and murmurs quietly. "The death knell tolls for the cult of Pelor. But before we begin, sweet child, you must tend to your...unexpected guests."
In near perfect synchrony, the two stop and stare at you, their faces cold and inscrutable: Arden, a faint corona outlining his lovely features, Gloom balanced on his shoulder; the strange woman, somehow terrible in beauty and yet hideously alien, clutching coyly at his arm. There is a pause, as if they expect an explanation.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Lofty gestures for his squad to fan out and encircle their foes. "You have tainted this day of triumph with betrayal, traitor saint Arden. Darkening a glorious page of history with innocent blood." Lofty spits on the floor of the throne room. "This strikes me as a uniquely unwise place to pick a fight with mortals. Especially your friend there, no armor? A sorceress then? Here? Do you imagine you can stop us from tearing out her black heart?" Lofty tries to get a read on the woman next to Arden, hoping his assumption about her vulnerability was correct. If he was wrong, this fight would be his last.
Insight: Do they seem like the source of this field? are they affected by it? I assumed Isidore was the source but his brains are mush.106
"Explain yourselves, or the honor of avenging the morning star shall fall to us."
There is a brief pause as you finish your speech; after several moments of silence, the tall, strange woman begins to laugh, coldly, derisively.
“Empty threats from emptier vessels.” Her voice drips with condescension.
Arden looks tired. His voice is gentle, almost compassionate, and spoken barely above a whisper. “I would guard your words carefully. You are in far more danger than you realize.” He nods to the woman. “Dehlia will little tolerate idle words.”
He bends down beside Alythsia’s corpse and gently parts the hair from her face. As he moves closer, you feel the void in the Weft grow deeper. You appreciate that he is the source of the magical derangement.
“A necessary victim. I loved her but for her complicity in Pelor’s crimes.”
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
"Pelor is the one who will defeat this fog, for it is the prophecy. I am his soldier and will project his will onto you betrayers." HELIOS yells... Well it could be considered yelling for him. It is the same tone and cadance as his usual voice only projected louder, almost booming.
HELIOS side steps to get a clear view at Dehlia and throws 3 orbs of sunlight at her.
Attack: 16 Damage: 9
Attack: 10 Damage: 11
Attack: 11 Damage: 7
(Don't have any info on her AC and such so just rolled damage with each attack and Matt can inform if they hit or not )
Buoyside watches in horror as the mechanical man hurls his balls at the woman. This doesn't feel like the time, or especially the place, to fight. The room is heavy, he can feel his magical abilities tempered by some unseen haze. He lifts his sheathed blade, whispering to it. Tony, if this goes south, know that the both of us loved you with all our hearts.
"Do not retaliate! Things have changed! You are confounded by forces you could never know!" He shouts, for some reason, maybe in hope of confusing Arden, maybe scaring him, all Buoyside knows is he's prepared to die for what's right, but hopefully he'll punish some evil in the process. He swings his blade hard, hurling the sheathe into Arden's face
In the same motion, Arden shifts his weight, lifts Gloom above his head, and then brings the cruel weapon down onto your head once, twice. The second blow radiates with ungodly (literally) power. You feel your flesh rot and blister before you lose consciousness.
He casts your body indifferently the side and turns to face the others, maul held at the ready.
HELIOS
Your attacks seemingly catch the strange woman known as Dehlia off-guard. The first two miss by varying margins, but the third strikes her square in the chest. She is unmoved, studying the site of impact with inquisitive eyes. She looks up at you and smiles.
"Fall." A single word. There is a faint sound in the distance, like rain failing or children laughing. The lights in your eyes dim and your arms go slack. She casts Power Word Kill at 9th level.
Moving forward, she kicks your limp frame. "What filth, these worms of Pelor." She fixes her gaze on Lofty and smiles hungrily. Her mouth is somehow too big for her frame.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Lofty starts to rush for Arden as soon as Helios and Bouyside leap into action. By the time he reaches the warrior two of his companions, the strongest fighters he'd ever met, lay dead. He knows how this fight will end, and whispers a futile prayer to anyone that might listen. A prayer that their sacrifice not be in vain.
Lofty collides with the traitorous saint and embraces his enemy. He jams the plating of one gauntlet up under the chainmail sleeve of his other arm and gets it hopelessly stuck. Arms locked in place, he begins to shove and drag Arden towards the river. He fights like a man possessed, like only an animal facing certain death can. He puts every once of strength he can muster into a singular effort to drag this bastard with him to the depths of the river Ogma.
1823Is 19 enough? I like the idea of weighing him down with my corpse.
Xantlin is frozen in horror at the sight. A Saint murdered by another in cold blood, allies falling, unspeakable evil. Lofty's charge snaps him back to reality. He clings a hand to his Amulet and begins muttering his incantations to throw a Magic Missile at the corrupted Saint, before quickly realizing that the magical void of this room makes it impossible.
"Well then, I guess this is where it ends," he thinks to himself. "I won't go down without honor," he internalizes as he grasps the mace at his side. He begins running after Lofty, and attempts to strike while Arden struggles arm in arm with the Sergeant.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Ryloos draws her rapier. She looks as Helios drops to the floor, Buoyside's head caves, Lofty in the grasp of Arden and Xantlin, who she initially thought a sheepish cleric, charging at the saint. She feels a strange sense of pride knowing she will die with these people and does not want to keep them waiting. She takes off after Xantlin towards Arden. "Here I come Nameless Orphan Boy I've brought up too many times"
Lofty bumrushes the Seventh Saint, locking his arms and pushing with all of his might, desperate to topple them both into the river Ogma. The man is seemingly made out of steel, however, and barely budges despite your assault.
Xantlin and Ryloos hurry to join the fray, harrying the Saint with glancing blows from their weapons. His armor - even his flesh - are preternaturally resilient, however, and your attacks seem to little injure or inconvenience the warrior. With shocking force, he shifts weight, sending Lofty crashing to the ground, landing next to Buoyside's corpse - or so you thought, as he seems to still be breathing, ragged and shallow.
Ryloos and Xantlin disengage, circling Arden, weapons held at the ready. The saint pauses, closing his eyes and inhaling slowly, deeply. He appears relaxed.
"No." It is little more than a whisper, but instantly a series of glyphs and pentagrams burst into vivid life in the floor beneath his feet. The arrangements are complex and they shine so brilliantly that they burn your eyes. Xantlin hurriedly attempts to translate them in his mind; they appear to be corruptions of the divine rites, but the power well that they draw from references man rather than god. You gasp in horror as you realize the intent of the spell and turn to warn your allies. Before the words can leave your mouth, however, a wave of pure destructive energy washes over you in a circular pattern, radiating out from Arden. Arden casts Destructive Wave.
The wave washes over you, resplendent in golden light. It is pure energy, pure force, and it carries the sound of clanging bells and falling leaves. Ryloos and Xantlin take the brunt of the damage and are sent flying, crashing heavily to the ground as the tide rolls over them. Lofty, despite his supine state, is relatively spared, Buoyside's body absorbing the majority of the blow. Unfortunately, his body rolls over top of you, pinning you to the ground.
LOFTY
Arden approaches, his steps slow, heavy, purposeful, and utterly unhurried. This is a man who knows you are beaten. Ryloos and Xantlin lie on the ground, either comatose or moaning. HELIOS is little more than an empty husk and Buoyside's body weighs heavily upon you.
Cue this music. Snow falls into your eyes. You desperately reach about you, searching for your spear, but it eludes your grasp. Arden stops a few feet away, towering over your face. The dreadmaul loom glowers angrily on his shoulder, dark energy coiling at its edges. His face is hard to read, but you see a brief glimpse of what looks very much like pity. You hate him for that.
Almost in slow motion, he changes stance, raising Gloom above his head. Things are happening so slowly and yet far too quickly; your mind reels, unable to accept your impending death, insolent and insubordinate to the bitter end. Words fumble in your mouth as you search for a pithy insult. You watch as Arden's biceps engage, his weight shifting, and Gloom begins its descent in a perfect arc that ends in the marble beneath your head. Your hand continues to quest desperately for something, anything, that might be used as a weapon. As the maul grows closer, you can see that its blunt face is covered in elaborate runes and etchings and blood. The blood of a saint, you think. You feel uncertain whether you want to laugh or cry.
And then, mere moments from death, your fingers stumble across a humble dagger, tucked into Buoyside's belt. The weapon is hardly even that, little more than a utility knife for flensing game and stripping the bark from kindling. With the desperation of a man who accepts his death, you flail violently in an attempt to plunge the dagger into Arden's leading leg. It connects, skiving between two lames, piercing the leather lining, and finding purchase in the soft tissues of his calf.
Arden does not make a sound. His face is surprised - shocked, even - but he is silent. Gloom impacts the marble just adjacent to your head with incredible force, its path diverted by a sudden give in Arden's injured leg. The flooring shatters in spectacular fashion, bits of jagged stone cutting your face; there follows a deeper, more alarming shudder as the whole foundation gives beneath the force. You feel the floor begin to shift beneath you as the river Ogma, ever eager, escapes its sluice and begins to pull away huge, multiton chunks of rock and mortar. Ryloos' limp frame is the first to disappear beneath the current, followed shortly by HELIOS, plopping dully into the water; you watch Xantlin tumble by you, desperately grabbing at the shifting marble tiles before being lost to the frothing river. Finally, you feel gravity overcome the friction provided by Buoyside's extra weight and watch helplessly as you both slide into the freezing waters. The shock of the frigid water is incredible and you feel the air forced from your lungs by its chill. You thrash desperately, hoping to reach the surface, spun endlessly by the rushing water. Something heavy strikes you in the head and your vision goes dark as you lose consciousness.
Xantlin is the first to wake. His consciousness pulls itself from a great depth, rushing toward the surface, various autonomic processes giving way for higher cognition to take hold. His eyes open - your eyes open. You find yourself lying on a small cot in the corner of a room with a vaulted ceiling. Looking around, you realize that the walls are made out of handsome, varnished wooden logs bound by patches of mortar. A nearby hearth crackles with a warm, healthy fire and the windows lining the room let in bright rays of sunlight, a chilly but pleasant breeze, and the sound of birds chirping. Your compatriots are strewn about the room; Ryloos sleeping soundly on a lofted bed with Lofty snoring softly beneath her. Buoyside lies not far away, very still but breathing ever so slightly. His face is half covered in a strong-smelling, yogurt-colored poultice. A man stands in the center of the room, dressed in a simple fabric tunic. Beside him is a large table upon which HELIOS' body has been gently placed. The man has opened the warforge's chest cavity and is tinkering with his wiring, muttering to himself. His voice is coarse and gravelly but warm in tone.
"Well, this is a right mess. She really did a number to this one, she did. Downright spiteful - must've said something smart. Damnably powerful spell, too - outright overkill. Going to be a real challenge to - hot peaches and ham!" The last interjection is spoken as a brilliant spark of lightning arcs between two exposed wire ends, shocking the man. He shakes his hand in pain before picking up a set of very delicate pliers and resuming his work. Upon his nose is perched a pair of jeweler's loupes; he adjusts the magnifying lenses absentmindedly, seemingly utterly oblivious to you.
You are restored to full health and all of your spell slots have been replenished. The others will wake shortly.
Xantlin opens his eyes to the deepest, most gasping breath he's ever taken. "Am I dead?" is the first thought that comes to mind, but a cursory glance around the room seems to answer that with a "no." Given the horrors of his most recent conscious situation, his instinct is telling him to take a defensive position, but the surroundings and this mysterious fellow somehow make that seem completely unnecessary even without knowing what is going on. Xantlin can only surmise that this man has found the group in whatever state they may have been in, after whatever happened to them happened, and is nursing them to health. He has learned through his difficult life not to put his trust in strangers, especially humes, but given the circumstances, a sense of gratitude rushes over him.
Xantlin sits up in his cot and lets out a small, purposeful "*cough*", to announce his awakening and presence in the kindest way he can think of. The man startles to attention and turns toward him, lowering his loupes.
The man breaks into a warm grin. His face is, for lack of a better word, grizzled; bushy beard covering a face that was probably once quite handsome but is now covered in scars. His eyes are bright blue and seem to shine with a tinge of mischievous intelligence.
"Oh ho, you're awake! Damn well time, too. Your lot has been sleeping like corpses since I fished you of the river two days ago. Seems like you unlucky bastards had a near run in with death herself -" his eyes linger on Buoyside and HELIOS for a brief moment "- with some of you coming a tad close for comfort. I brought you here to recover. You're safe for the time being."
He turns back to HELIOS, using a flint to ignite a small torch that hisses and burns a deep blue-orange color and returns to working on the chassis. Some of the others begin to stir, woken by the din of the man's welding. After a few moments of seemingly precise work, he extinguishes the flame and sits back, stroking his beard.
"Damn...that should have done it." He begins to fiddle furiously with various wires and switches. "Those ludicrous dwarves are supposed to be master craftsmen and can't yet be buggered to install a damn redundant autonomy circuit. Their foresight has always matched their stature - short! Lacking!"
The man begins to laugh raucously at his own joke before turning to look you dead in the eyes, his face suddenly gravely serious. "I hate dwarves. Always drinking and hitting things with hammers. Waste of talent, if you ask me. Can't trust anything that don't come up to your elbows and reproduces by laying eggs. Lousy oviparous bastards."
He pauses, lets out a sigh of frustration, and then angrily pounds on HELIOS' chassis. There is a sudden whirring of cooling fans, clicking of small gears, and rumble of tiny engines. HELIOS' frame begins to faintly vibrate. The man springs from his chair in excitement as a strange sound plays and HELIOS' eyes begin to glow softly once again.
The man wipes sweat from his brow. "**** me if I ain't half as talented a mechanic as I am handsome." He winks at you. The man stands, stretches his back, and slowly saunters over to Buoyside's bed. Your paladin looks unwell; his face - or those portions that aren't covered in the yogurty poultice - is pale and dappled with beads of sweat. He moans and shakes his head but does not yet appear to be conscious.
"This one's injuries were inflicted by a weapon most cruel," says the man softly, his voice somber. "I worry that my, uh...'medicines' may not be able to fully mitigate its influence. The humors, you see...they're all out of sorts. Too much phlegm...or is is black bile? Maybe I need more leeches...or maybe I need to remove the liver..." He begins muttering to himself once again, lost in his own thoughts.
You can all wake up now in whatever fashion you see fit. Buoyside, you're in rough shape but on the mend - you can describe what injuries, if any, have persisted following the fight.
Buoyside wakes with a start, but the movement hurts him. He feels as if someone has smashed his head in with a big ol' hammer and then got sucked away into some bigger dang river. He finds it hard to breath, both from his aching lungs and the strange gunk about his face. He groans, trying to recall what happened. The traitor, the dead priestess'--he checks his pocket and is relieved to find the souvenir of organic material he took from one of them still remains--the feeble attack his other attempted. If I was there, things would've been different, he thinks.
He finally manages to sit up, partially groaning, partially yelling, though the mush still sticks to his face. Leave it on, he thinks. I can't show my face after such a piss poor performance when it really mattered.
He's aware of others in the room, though he cannot see through his facial coverings.
"You should have killed me, you c un ts. You'll wish you'd have killed me." He speaks, though his speech is seriously muffled.
Ryloos's eyes snap open as the last unconscious thought she has it the feeling of whatever hit her emanates through her body again. She glances around the ceiling which is an agony all of itself. Her shallow breath draws in a small amount of blood into her lungs and she immediately sits up and coughs up a mix of blood and mucus. Her head is throbbing and the sudden movement made it incredibly worse. Ryloos eyes focus as she looks around the room. She see Buoyside's yogurt head looking around and Xantlin eyeing . The sound of Helios's body churning again gives her some comfort. Buoyside's words resonant deep within her. She musters the meanest "Ay" she can and flashes a faint smile.
Resting her feet on the ground, she feels how weak her leg are. They're trembling in part of the physical damage she took and the drowning feeling of powerlessness. She breathes in and immediately starts coughing up blood and mucus again on the ground.
"Where's the food?" she asks trying to regain her sense of self.
HELIOS' consciousness returns to him and it is like he is still in the same moment he lost it. He springs up off the table and immediately a ball of radiant energy forms in each hand.
"Dehlia and Arden must die for their transgressions. There is not time to waste, Pelor is the savior of this land and his forces will end the plague of this fog. Sergeant, please provide instructions."
Strolling through the family vineyard, Vincent Valencour reaches down and casually plucks a grape from a vine as he passes. The sun has only just risen. The grapes are still cool and dripping with morning dew. He breathes in the fresh air and basks in dawn's warmth as he brings the grape to his mouth and bites down. His mouth fills with blood. The sun blackens and shatters into a hundred thousand maces that rain down in the sudden darkness. The earth beneath him shatters where they land and Vincent is falling. He tries to shout and his lungs fill with water.
Sergeant, please provide instructions.
Sergeant Lofty wakes with a scream that transitions into a groan when the pain hits.
"Helios? But you died, is...is this robot heaven?"
Seeing HELIOS' sudden reanimation into violence, the man initially flinches and recoils. Peering out from behind one of his outstretched hands, he sees the machine frozen, awaiting a kill command. He sighs.
"Fuzzy pretzels and turnip enzymes, you gave me a startle! T'ain't no danger here, my friend. At least not for the time being. Why'n't you sit down and relax? There're right few bastards who happen across my sister and continue to exist in a meaningful fashion thereafter." Looking up at the machine's eternal placid face, he places a hand on HELIOS' shoulder and gives a gentle but firm push - or so it seems, as his hand forces you back into a seated position with a hidden but potent strength.
"You can be damn well sure, Mr. Valencour - I mean, Mr. "Lofty" - that t'ain't robot heaven. Ach...should you lot ever find such a place though, you let me know. Nay, we're on the border of Tumulus and Lannover. Twas the playful Ogma that brought ye to me. Bundled up in my nets, 'cept that one." He nods to Ryloos. "Poor thing got caught in the workin's of the water mill. Might still be a tad smooshed, I'd venture. Nearly flat as parchment when I found her, she was."
He looks around to each of you, eyes shining, and claps his hands together excitedly. "Well, now - the gang is all here!" As he speaks his voice changes, losing its whimsical accent. He stands up straighter somehow, and you all wonder how you missed the fact that this man towers over you by several feet. Was he always this tall? "The thief with the shadowy past, the lonely cleric and his scarred heart, the self-righteous machine and its failed prophecy, the tormented paladin and his inner conflict, and the reluctant leader and the weight of his responsibilities. I am so very delighted to have made your acquaintances. So. Very. Delighted."
He bows deeply. "The name is Vagus. I do hope that we will become fast friends, as we have some very pressing business to conduct."
His smile widens. Gone is the charming ebullience, replaced wholesale by an eagerness, a cruel hunger. You each realize at the same time that this room is utterly dripping with magic. It is a deep magic, something old and unstructured and mind numbingly profound. There are powerful wards in place, woven into the fibers of wood and pores of stone: wards of concealment, of protection, of binding. The magic, though foreign, is comforting - a strange but not unpleasant current that bathes you all in an inchoate warmth. Far preferable to the nullity surrounding the Seventh Saint Arden.
Vagus seems to sense your newfound appreciation of the Weft's presence. He nods. "Now, before we begin...you must have questions for me."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
To post a comment, please login or register a new account.
Xantlin follows along with the group up the stairs, stopping at each priestess' body to whisper a prayer and blessing. "What evil could have done something like this?" he thinks to himself, trying to pry his mind away from the sorrow brought on by the horrible sight. It would take something of immense power to fell a Priestess of the Sixth Saint, he can only hope that the Saint herself did not meet such a gruesome fate.
"Sergeant, we must hurry forward, the Saint has lost much of her strike force, she may be in dire need!"
Xantlin Pegason (imgur)
33/33 HP
4/4 level 1 spells, 3/3 level 2 spells, 2/2 level 3 spells
AC = 15, Spell attack bonus = 7, spell save DC = 15
ALL
HELIOS watches emotionlessly as the humans express their dismay at the deaths of the priestesses. Each person grieves in their own way before steeling themselves for what horrors must lie beyond, be that in a tainted health potion (healing 9 damage) or a whispered prayer. The rituals of the ephemeral races are sometimes so strange.
After preparing, your party slips past through the opening formed by the unhinged door and into the Passage of Kings. The Passage is long and narrow, with a low ceiling; visibility is poor and you nearly stumble over the body of a fifth priestess. Her back is angled unnaturally, and she moans softly as you trip on her. Her breathing is fast and shallow, and she briefly clings to your clothing before her hand goes limp and she expires before you. The marbled floor is slick with her blood.
As you pass along the Passage, you can feel the Hole in the Weft more and more acutely. For those of you less attuned to magic (Ryloos), it's a bit like jumping into an icy lake - frigid, abrasive, the shock slowing your heart. For those of you more attuned - consciously or not - to the magical realms (Xantlin, Lofty, and Buoyside), it is agony. You feel a great, yawning absence in you, the light of the higher planes extinguished. The whispers of the Universe, the energy that ebbs and flows and eddies in and around and through all living things, are silenced; you realize just how alone you are, left with only echoes and dust. You have all entered what is essentially an exceedingly powerful Antimagic field.
Finally, you step out of the Passage way and into the Lia Fáil. Isidore's throne room is a great, flat space; to either side, rows of columns sport wild blooms of ivy and moonflower. In between the columns, the waters of the river Ogma divagate and flow briskly, the current contained in recessed sluices. The roof opens in its center to the naked sky, where light from the strange, pale sun falls to illuminate Isidore on his throne.
The century of war has little changed the man. He sits, handsome face frozen in repose, eyes closed in contemplation, hands clasped peacefully in his lap. You notice several things simultaneously.
1. A sixth priestess lies in a growing pool of blood between you and the throne. Her armor is sundered and her left arm has been almost entirely disarticulated from her shoulder. Bits of lung leak from between shattered ribs.
2. A small trickle of blood and cerebrospinal fluid runs down the side of Isidore's face. You notice that the side of his skull has been caved in, fragments of grey matter clumped in his hair and beard. His is the absolute tranquility of death.
3. Standing to the side, a tall man holds a woman's head under the surface of one of the river Ogma's legs. He turns, lifting her bodily by her hair: the Seventh Saint, Arden, dragging the Sixth Saint, Alythsia - the Morning Star, Daughter of the Dawn - behind him. Like an animal. Like refuse. His face - so handsome, framed in long golden hair, almost beautiful - is nearly unrecognizable in its cruelty and disdain. His white livery flaps majestically in the breeze and his half plate armor glistens brilliantly. Alythsia struggles and squirms in his grip, kicking and beating as his arms, a lamb's last throes in the maw of the Wolf. Approaching Isidore's throne, Arden throws the Sixth Saint down before him unceremoniously, ignominiously, her face smacking against the stone. She looks up to you, face covered in blood from a broken nose; her eyes are blurred and unfocused at first, but seem to clear on seeing you. There is a brief spark of recognition - of hope - in those brilliant blue eyes, and she extends a shaking hand to you beseechingly. The moment freezes in time. It will be burned into your psyches for all time.
Before you can react, Arden lifts the dreadmaul Gloom over his head and - with a roar - brings it crashing down onto Alythsia's neck. There is the sound of bones crunching, followed by the soft sussurus of moving cloth as myoclonic jerks wrack Alythsia's body. After several seconds, she goes still and is silent.
Arden stands alone, breathing heavily. He stares at the fallen saint, eyes unfocused. After several moments he speaks, his voice soft but clear.
"And so begins the end of the tyranny of the sun. The end of a campaign." He closes his eyes and lifts his face to the sky, his expression almost rhapsodic.
A tall, thin woman in colorless garb steps out from behind Isidore's throne. She places a hand on Arden's arm, and murmurs quietly. "The death knell tolls for the cult of Pelor. But before we begin, sweet child, you must tend to your...unexpected guests."
In near perfect synchrony, the two stop and stare at you, their faces cold and inscrutable: Arden, a faint corona outlining his lovely features, Gloom balanced on his shoulder; the strange woman, somehow terrible in beauty and yet hideously alien, clutching coyly at his arm. There is a pause, as if they expect an explanation.
Lofty gestures for his squad to fan out and encircle their foes. "You have tainted this day of triumph with betrayal, traitor saint Arden. Darkening a glorious page of history with innocent blood." Lofty spits on the floor of the throne room. "This strikes me as a uniquely unwise place to pick a fight with mortals. Especially your friend there, no armor? A sorceress then? Here? Do you imagine you can stop us from tearing out her black heart?" Lofty tries to get a read on the woman next to Arden, hoping his assumption about her vulnerability was correct. If he was wrong, this fight would be his last.
Insight: Do they seem like the source of this field? are they affected by it? I assumed Isidore was the source but his brains are mush. 10 6
"Explain yourselves, or the honor of avenging the morning star shall fall to us."
Character Sheets: Page1 Page2 Page3
HP: 35 AC: 20 Saves: Str+2 Dex+0 Con+4 Int+2 Wis+2 Cha+6
ALL
There is a brief pause as you finish your speech; after several moments of silence, the tall, strange woman begins to laugh, coldly, derisively.
“Empty threats from emptier vessels.” Her voice drips with condescension.
Arden looks tired. His voice is gentle, almost compassionate, and spoken barely above a whisper. “I would guard your words carefully. You are in far more danger than you realize.” He nods to the woman. “Dehlia will little tolerate idle words.”
He bends down beside Alythsia’s corpse and gently parts the hair from her face. As he moves closer, you feel the void in the Weft grow deeper. You appreciate that he is the source of the magical derangement.
“A necessary victim. I loved her but for her complicity in Pelor’s crimes.”
"Pelor is the one who will defeat this fog, for it is the prophecy. I am his soldier and will project his will onto you betrayers." HELIOS yells... Well it could be considered yelling for him. It is the same tone and cadance as his usual voice only projected louder, almost booming.
HELIOS side steps to get a clear view at Dehlia and throws 3 orbs of sunlight at her.
Attack: 16 Damage: 9
Attack: 10 Damage: 11
Attack: 11 Damage: 7
(Don't have any info on her AC and such so just rolled damage with each attack and Matt can inform if they hit or not )
H.E.L.I.O.S - Warforged Sun Soul Monk
AC - 19
Buoyside watches in horror as the mechanical man hurls his balls at the woman. This doesn't feel like the time, or especially the place, to fight. The room is heavy, he can feel his magical abilities tempered by some unseen haze. He lifts his sheathed blade, whispering to it. Tony, if this goes south, know that the both of us loved you with all our hearts.
"Do not retaliate! Things have changed! You are confounded by forces you could never know!" He shouts, for some reason, maybe in hope of confusing Arden, maybe scaring him, all Buoyside knows is he's prepared to die for what's right, but hopefully he'll punish some evil in the process. He swings his blade hard, hurling the sheathe into Arden's face
To Hit: 15
If that hits: 5
He then leaps forward, practically tackling Arden as he swings his blade at him
To hit: 8
I doubt that hits: 10
Character Sheet
AC: 16
BUOYSIDE
The sheath misses Arden's head narrowly. So narrowly that you are certain it should have connected - there's no way a human could react so quickly?
Without skipping a beat, you leap at your foe, putting your full weight into the blow.
Arden catches your blade with a single hand.
Arden's Multiattack 24 23
Arden's damage 32 (26 blunt damage 6 necrotic damage)
Profane smite 25 (cast at 5th level - 5d6)
Total damage 57
In the same motion, Arden shifts his weight, lifts Gloom above his head, and then brings the cruel weapon down onto your head once, twice. The second blow radiates with ungodly (literally) power. You feel your flesh rot and blister before you lose consciousness.
He casts your body indifferently the side and turns to face the others, maul held at the ready.
HELIOS
Your attacks seemingly catch the strange woman known as Dehlia off-guard. The first two miss by varying margins, but the third strikes her square in the chest. She is unmoved, studying the site of impact with inquisitive eyes. She looks up at you and smiles.
"Fall." A single word. There is a faint sound in the distance, like rain failing or children laughing. The lights in your eyes dim and your arms go slack. She casts Power Word Kill at 9th level.
Moving forward, she kicks your limp frame. "What filth, these worms of Pelor." She fixes her gaze on Lofty and smiles hungrily. Her mouth is somehow too big for her frame.
Lofty starts to rush for Arden as soon as Helios and Bouyside leap into action. By the time he reaches the warrior two of his companions, the strongest fighters he'd ever met, lay dead. He knows how this fight will end, and whispers a futile prayer to anyone that might listen. A prayer that their sacrifice not be in vain.
Lofty collides with the traitorous saint and embraces his enemy. He jams the plating of one gauntlet up under the chainmail sleeve of his other arm and gets it hopelessly stuck. Arms locked in place, he begins to shove and drag Arden towards the river. He fights like a man possessed, like only an animal facing certain death can. He puts every once of strength he can muster into a singular effort to drag this bastard with him to the depths of the river Ogma.
18 23 Is 19 enough? I like the idea of weighing him down with my corpse.
Character Sheets: Page1 Page2 Page3
HP: 35 AC: 20 Saves: Str+2 Dex+0 Con+4 Int+2 Wis+2 Cha+6
Xantlin is frozen in horror at the sight. A Saint murdered by another in cold blood, allies falling, unspeakable evil. Lofty's charge snaps him back to reality. He clings a hand to his Amulet and begins muttering his incantations to throw a Magic Missile at the corrupted Saint, before quickly realizing that the magical void of this room makes it impossible.
"Well then, I guess this is where it ends," he thinks to himself. "I won't go down without honor," he internalizes as he grasps the mace at his side. He begins running after Lofty, and attempts to strike while Arden struggles arm in arm with the Sergeant.
Attack Roll 13 - Damage if hit 4
That'll show him
Xantlin Pegason (imgur)
33/33 HP
4/4 level 1 spells, 3/3 level 2 spells, 2/2 level 3 spells
AC = 15, Spell attack bonus = 7, spell save DC = 15
Ryloos draws her rapier. She looks as Helios drops to the floor, Buoyside's head caves, Lofty in the grasp of Arden and Xantlin, who she initially thought a sheepish cleric, charging at the saint. She feels a strange sense of pride knowing she will die with these people and does not want to keep them waiting. She takes off after Xantlin towards Arden. "Here I come Nameless Orphan Boy I've brought up too many times"
Attack Roll - 16
Hit Roll - 8
Sneak attack baby - 10
LOFTY, XANTLIN, RYLOOS
Lofty bumrushes the Seventh Saint, locking his arms and pushing with all of his might, desperate to topple them both into the river Ogma. The man is seemingly made out of steel, however, and barely budges despite your assault.
Xantlin and Ryloos hurry to join the fray, harrying the Saint with glancing blows from their weapons. His armor - even his flesh - are preternaturally resilient, however, and your attacks seem to little injure or inconvenience the warrior. With shocking force, he shifts weight, sending Lofty crashing to the ground, landing next to Buoyside's corpse - or so you thought, as he seems to still be breathing, ragged and shallow.
Ryloos and Xantlin disengage, circling Arden, weapons held at the ready. The saint pauses, closing his eyes and inhaling slowly, deeply. He appears relaxed.
"No." It is little more than a whisper, but instantly a series of glyphs and pentagrams burst into vivid life in the floor beneath his feet. The arrangements are complex and they shine so brilliantly that they burn your eyes. Xantlin hurriedly attempts to translate them in his mind; they appear to be corruptions of the divine rites, but the power well that they draw from references man rather than god. You gasp in horror as you realize the intent of the spell and turn to warn your allies. Before the words can leave your mouth, however, a wave of pure destructive energy washes over you in a circular pattern, radiating out from Arden. Arden casts Destructive Wave.
Xantlin Save (DC 17; DEX modifier -1) 5
Xantlin Damage 18
Lofty Save (DC 17; Dex modifier +0) 20
Lofty Damage 7 (Reduced by half)
Ryloos Save (DC 17; DEX modifier +7) 15
Ryloos Damage 21
The wave washes over you, resplendent in golden light. It is pure energy, pure force, and it carries the sound of clanging bells and falling leaves. Ryloos and Xantlin take the brunt of the damage and are sent flying, crashing heavily to the ground as the tide rolls over them. Lofty, despite his supine state, is relatively spared, Buoyside's body absorbing the majority of the blow. Unfortunately, his body rolls over top of you, pinning you to the ground.
LOFTY
Arden approaches, his steps slow, heavy, purposeful, and utterly unhurried. This is a man who knows you are beaten. Ryloos and Xantlin lie on the ground, either comatose or moaning. HELIOS is little more than an empty husk and Buoyside's body weighs heavily upon you.
Cue this music. Snow falls into your eyes. You desperately reach about you, searching for your spear, but it eludes your grasp. Arden stops a few feet away, towering over your face. The dreadmaul loom glowers angrily on his shoulder, dark energy coiling at its edges. His face is hard to read, but you see a brief glimpse of what looks very much like pity. You hate him for that.
Almost in slow motion, he changes stance, raising Gloom above his head. Things are happening so slowly and yet far too quickly; your mind reels, unable to accept your impending death, insolent and insubordinate to the bitter end. Words fumble in your mouth as you search for a pithy insult. You watch as Arden's biceps engage, his weight shifting, and Gloom begins its descent in a perfect arc that ends in the marble beneath your head. Your hand continues to quest desperately for something, anything, that might be used as a weapon. As the maul grows closer, you can see that its blunt face is covered in elaborate runes and etchings and blood. The blood of a saint, you think. You feel uncertain whether you want to laugh or cry.
And then, mere moments from death, your fingers stumble across a humble dagger, tucked into Buoyside's belt. The weapon is hardly even that, little more than a utility knife for flensing game and stripping the bark from kindling. With the desperation of a man who accepts his death, you flail violently in an attempt to plunge the dagger into Arden's leading leg. It connects, skiving between two lames, piercing the leather lining, and finding purchase in the soft tissues of his calf.
Arden does not make a sound. His face is surprised - shocked, even - but he is silent. Gloom impacts the marble just adjacent to your head with incredible force, its path diverted by a sudden give in Arden's injured leg. The flooring shatters in spectacular fashion, bits of jagged stone cutting your face; there follows a deeper, more alarming shudder as the whole foundation gives beneath the force. You feel the floor begin to shift beneath you as the river Ogma, ever eager, escapes its sluice and begins to pull away huge, multiton chunks of rock and mortar. Ryloos' limp frame is the first to disappear beneath the current, followed shortly by HELIOS, plopping dully into the water; you watch Xantlin tumble by you, desperately grabbing at the shifting marble tiles before being lost to the frothing river. Finally, you feel gravity overcome the friction provided by Buoyside's extra weight and watch helplessly as you both slide into the freezing waters. The shock of the frigid water is incredible and you feel the air forced from your lungs by its chill. You thrash desperately, hoping to reach the surface, spun endlessly by the rushing water. Something heavy strikes you in the head and your vision goes dark as you lose consciousness.
So ends the chapter "THE SIEGE OF CIONN TSÁILE."
TYRANNY OF THE SUN
ALL
Xantlin is the first to wake. His consciousness pulls itself from a great depth, rushing toward the surface, various autonomic processes giving way for higher cognition to take hold. His eyes open - your eyes open. You find yourself lying on a small cot in the corner of a room with a vaulted ceiling. Looking around, you realize that the walls are made out of handsome, varnished wooden logs bound by patches of mortar. A nearby hearth crackles with a warm, healthy fire and the windows lining the room let in bright rays of sunlight, a chilly but pleasant breeze, and the sound of birds chirping. Your compatriots are strewn about the room; Ryloos sleeping soundly on a lofted bed with Lofty snoring softly beneath her. Buoyside lies not far away, very still but breathing ever so slightly. His face is half covered in a strong-smelling, yogurt-colored poultice. A man stands in the center of the room, dressed in a simple fabric tunic. Beside him is a large table upon which HELIOS' body has been gently placed. The man has opened the warforge's chest cavity and is tinkering with his wiring, muttering to himself. His voice is coarse and gravelly but warm in tone.
"Well, this is a right mess. She really did a number to this one, she did. Downright spiteful - must've said something smart. Damnably powerful spell, too - outright overkill. Going to be a real challenge to - hot peaches and ham!" The last interjection is spoken as a brilliant spark of lightning arcs between two exposed wire ends, shocking the man. He shakes his hand in pain before picking up a set of very delicate pliers and resuming his work. Upon his nose is perched a pair of jeweler's loupes; he adjusts the magnifying lenses absentmindedly, seemingly utterly oblivious to you.
You are restored to full health and all of your spell slots have been replenished. The others will wake shortly.
Todd Howard you've done it again.
Xantlin opens his eyes to the deepest, most gasping breath he's ever taken. "Am I dead?" is the first thought that comes to mind, but a cursory glance around the room seems to answer that with a "no." Given the horrors of his most recent conscious situation, his instinct is telling him to take a defensive position, but the surroundings and this mysterious fellow somehow make that seem completely unnecessary even without knowing what is going on. Xantlin can only surmise that this man has found the group in whatever state they may have been in, after whatever happened to them happened, and is nursing them to health. He has learned through his difficult life not to put his trust in strangers, especially humes, but given the circumstances, a sense of gratitude rushes over him.
Xantlin sits up in his cot and lets out a small, purposeful "*cough*", to announce his awakening and presence in the kindest way he can think of. The man startles to attention and turns toward him, lowering his loupes.
"What... what happened?"
Xantlin Pegason (imgur)
33/33 HP
4/4 level 1 spells, 3/3 level 2 spells, 2/2 level 3 spells
AC = 15, Spell attack bonus = 7, spell save DC = 15
The man breaks into a warm grin. His face is, for lack of a better word, grizzled; bushy beard covering a face that was probably once quite handsome but is now covered in scars. His eyes are bright blue and seem to shine with a tinge of mischievous intelligence.
"Oh ho, you're awake! Damn well time, too. Your lot has been sleeping like corpses since I fished you of the river two days ago. Seems like you unlucky bastards had a near run in with death herself -" his eyes linger on Buoyside and HELIOS for a brief moment "- with some of you coming a tad close for comfort. I brought you here to recover. You're safe for the time being."
He turns back to HELIOS, using a flint to ignite a small torch that hisses and burns a deep blue-orange color and returns to working on the chassis. Some of the others begin to stir, woken by the din of the man's welding. After a few moments of seemingly precise work, he extinguishes the flame and sits back, stroking his beard.
"Damn...that should have done it." He begins to fiddle furiously with various wires and switches. "Those ludicrous dwarves are supposed to be master craftsmen and can't yet be buggered to install a damn redundant autonomy circuit. Their foresight has always matched their stature - short! Lacking!"
The man begins to laugh raucously at his own joke before turning to look you dead in the eyes, his face suddenly gravely serious. "I hate dwarves. Always drinking and hitting things with hammers. Waste of talent, if you ask me. Can't trust anything that don't come up to your elbows and reproduces by laying eggs. Lousy oviparous bastards."
He pauses, lets out a sigh of frustration, and then angrily pounds on HELIOS' chassis. There is a sudden whirring of cooling fans, clicking of small gears, and rumble of tiny engines. HELIOS' frame begins to faintly vibrate. The man springs from his chair in excitement as a strange sound plays and HELIOS' eyes begin to glow softly once again.
The man wipes sweat from his brow. "**** me if I ain't half as talented a mechanic as I am handsome." He winks at you. The man stands, stretches his back, and slowly saunters over to Buoyside's bed. Your paladin looks unwell; his face - or those portions that aren't covered in the yogurty poultice - is pale and dappled with beads of sweat. He moans and shakes his head but does not yet appear to be conscious.
"This one's injuries were inflicted by a weapon most cruel," says the man softly, his voice somber. "I worry that my, uh...'medicines' may not be able to fully mitigate its influence. The humors, you see...they're all out of sorts. Too much phlegm...or is is black bile? Maybe I need more leeches...or maybe I need to remove the liver..." He begins muttering to himself once again, lost in his own thoughts.
You can all wake up now in whatever fashion you see fit. Buoyside, you're in rough shape but on the mend - you can describe what injuries, if any, have persisted following the fight.
Buoyside wakes with a start, but the movement hurts him. He feels as if someone has smashed his head in with a big ol' hammer and then got sucked away into some bigger dang river. He finds it hard to breath, both from his aching lungs and the strange gunk about his face. He groans, trying to recall what happened. The traitor, the dead priestess'--he checks his pocket and is relieved to find the souvenir of organic material he took from one of them still remains--the feeble attack his other attempted. If I was there, things would've been different, he thinks.
He finally manages to sit up, partially groaning, partially yelling, though the mush still sticks to his face. Leave it on, he thinks. I can't show my face after such a piss poor performance when it really mattered.
He's aware of others in the room, though he cannot see through his facial coverings.
"You should have killed me, you c un ts. You'll wish you'd have killed me." He speaks, though his speech is seriously muffled.
Character Sheet
AC: 16
Ryloos's eyes snap open as the last unconscious thought she has it the feeling of whatever hit her emanates through her body again. She glances around the ceiling which is an agony all of itself. Her shallow breath draws in a small amount of blood into her lungs and she immediately sits up and coughs up a mix of blood and mucus. Her head is throbbing and the sudden movement made it incredibly worse. Ryloos eyes focus as she looks around the room. She see Buoyside's yogurt head looking around and Xantlin eyeing . The sound of Helios's body churning again gives her some comfort. Buoyside's words resonant deep within her. She musters the meanest "Ay" she can and flashes a faint smile.
Resting her feet on the ground, she feels how weak her leg are. They're trembling in part of the physical damage she took and the drowning feeling of powerlessness. She breathes in and immediately starts coughing up blood and mucus again on the ground.
"Where's the food?" she asks trying to regain her sense of self.
HELIOS' consciousness returns to him and it is like he is still in the same moment he lost it. He springs up off the table and immediately a ball of radiant energy forms in each hand.
"Dehlia and Arden must die for their transgressions. There is not time to waste, Pelor is the savior of this land and his forces will end the plague of this fog. Sergeant, please provide instructions."
H.E.L.I.O.S - Warforged Sun Soul Monk
AC - 19
Strolling through the family vineyard, Vincent Valencour reaches down and casually plucks a grape from a vine as he passes. The sun has only just risen. The grapes are still cool and dripping with morning dew. He breathes in the fresh air and basks in dawn's warmth as he brings the grape to his mouth and bites down. His mouth fills with blood. The sun blackens and shatters into a hundred thousand maces that rain down in the sudden darkness. The earth beneath him shatters where they land and Vincent is falling. He tries to shout and his lungs fill with water.
Sergeant, please provide instructions.
Sergeant Lofty wakes with a scream that transitions into a groan when the pain hits.
"Helios? But you died, is...is this robot heaven?"
Character Sheets: Page1 Page2 Page3
HP: 35 AC: 20 Saves: Str+2 Dex+0 Con+4 Int+2 Wis+2 Cha+6
ALL
Seeing HELIOS' sudden reanimation into violence, the man initially flinches and recoils. Peering out from behind one of his outstretched hands, he sees the machine frozen, awaiting a kill command. He sighs.
"Fuzzy pretzels and turnip enzymes, you gave me a startle! T'ain't no danger here, my friend. At least not for the time being. Why'n't you sit down and relax? There're right few bastards who happen across my sister and continue to exist in a meaningful fashion thereafter." Looking up at the machine's eternal placid face, he places a hand on HELIOS' shoulder and gives a gentle but firm push - or so it seems, as his hand forces you back into a seated position with a hidden but potent strength.
"You can be damn well sure, Mr. Valencour - I mean, Mr. "Lofty" - that t'ain't robot heaven. Ach...should you lot ever find such a place though, you let me know. Nay, we're on the border of Tumulus and Lannover. Twas the playful Ogma that brought ye to me. Bundled up in my nets, 'cept that one." He nods to Ryloos. "Poor thing got caught in the workin's of the water mill. Might still be a tad smooshed, I'd venture. Nearly flat as parchment when I found her, she was."
He looks around to each of you, eyes shining, and claps his hands together excitedly. "Well, now - the gang is all here!" As he speaks his voice changes, losing its whimsical accent. He stands up straighter somehow, and you all wonder how you missed the fact that this man towers over you by several feet. Was he always this tall? "The thief with the shadowy past, the lonely cleric and his scarred heart, the self-righteous machine and its failed prophecy, the tormented paladin and his inner conflict, and the reluctant leader and the weight of his responsibilities. I am so very delighted to have made your acquaintances. So. Very. Delighted."
He bows deeply. "The name is Vagus. I do hope that we will become fast friends, as we have some very pressing business to conduct."
His smile widens. Gone is the charming ebullience, replaced wholesale by an eagerness, a cruel hunger. You each realize at the same time that this room is utterly dripping with magic. It is a deep magic, something old and unstructured and mind numbingly profound. There are powerful wards in place, woven into the fibers of wood and pores of stone: wards of concealment, of protection, of binding. The magic, though foreign, is comforting - a strange but not unpleasant current that bathes you all in an inchoate warmth. Far preferable to the nullity surrounding the Seventh Saint Arden.
Vagus seems to sense your newfound appreciation of the Weft's presence. He nods. "Now, before we begin...you must have questions for me."