A sharp, gut-wrenching crack rends the stillness of the claustrophobic chamber. The once-colossal, demonic eye at the room's centre ruptures, spewing a deluge of putrid, reeking ichor over all those within reach. In its wake, a hidden trapdoor is unveiled; a grim and ominous invitation. The entrance, through which the party entered, disappears without a trace. It is apparent that the malicious entity that reigns in this place is toying with the group, revelling in their desperate plight.
Rahadin regards the grotesque scene with a raised eyebrow, his features inscrutable. "This bodes well," he intones with a note of wry humour as if he finds some amusement in the twisted game that the malevolent force seems to be playing with the party. Without hesitation, he takes the lead and begins to descend through the open trapdoor, disappearing into the dark unknown below. His words hang in the air, a taunt that seems to dare the rest of the party to follow.
The metal rungs stretch on and on, leading the party down into a seemingly endless descent. With each passing minute, it feels as though they have left the mansion far behind, swallowed up by the darkness below. The cold wind grows stronger as they descend deeper, carrying with it the same whispered voice that had haunted them before:
“Of course, I painted what he detailed. He revealled a great deal; about the man he was and about the man he became… it was undoubtable that he was a great warrior… and that a dark and secret burden now weighed heavily upon him. How long we talked? I couldn't say.
"Always a dark cloud seemed to follow him. I began to believe that he was truly cursed… Was he aware of the nature of the power he wielded? He had to be.
"I stayed within the Castle. Perhaps it was the grand architecture or the comfortable bed, but for the first time in many weeks… I slept. However, my dreams returned, but these were clearly not my own. I beheld a vision of a great silver dragon - Argynvost.
"The mighty dragon was fighting him then… Attempting to rid the land of his Evil taint. Oh Argynvost you were unaware of the Dark Powers influence…”
The arduous descent finally ends, leaving the party standing on the solid cobbled ground. However, a magical veil of darkness obscures their vision, rendering them blind to their surroundings. The din of clashing weapons and the sounds of battle reverberate through the air, filling the party with a sense of confusion and unease.
In a sudden burst of brilliance, the darkness is shattered by a blinding flash of silver light. The light casts a brilliant radiance upon the scene, revealing a ghastly tableau as if pulled from the depths of a nightmare. As before, spectral forms writhe and battle, the air thick with the stench of blood and death. The party bears witness to a haunting visage, a scene trapped in time, frozen in its grotesque glory:
“Lord Argynvost, we cannot hold out much longer,”a young knight wearing a surcoat emblazoned with a Silver Dragon’s head reports.
Lord Argynvost sighs, he holds the young knight’s shoulder reassuringly.
“Have faith, Ser Osric.”Lord Argynvost’s voice resonates with power.“We must hold as before. We cannot and will not allow the pretender Strahd to rule over this land.”
“Understood, my Lord.”Ser Osric responds, “May I say, it has been an honour to serve. I have spoken with the others, we shall fight until the end.”
Lord Argynvost’s face beams with pride. “We stand against evil for those that cannot fight for themselves. Never before was so much owed by so many to so few. Not once has one of you questioned, not once have any of you faltered. I would not think ill of anyone of you should you choose to take your leave; I have asked much and you have given more, earning my respect more than a thousandfold.”
Ser Osric looks up, his eyes brimming with emotion, “Until the end, Lord Argynvost. Not one of us will abandon our posts.”
With a shimmer, Lord Argynvost's form transforms into that of a mighty silver dragon.
“Until the end, Lord Argynvost,”Ser Osric mutters as he watches the dragon take flight.
The vision before the party shifts and changes, revealing an intimate moment between two figures. Strahd, still youthful and full of vigour, sits perched on a stool with a canvas before him. Vauquelin stands before him, brush in hand, adding delicate strokes to a painting.
“That’s it. Slaying the great brute! Its giant head still decorates my crypts.”Strahd says, admiring the artist’s work.
“Remarkable,”Vauquelin says, lost for words.
The spectres drift off once more, and the sound of a dragon’s cry echoes out, followed by woeful mourning. Ser Osric’s voice screams out over the darkness, “Lord Argynvost is lost! Stand with me, brothers! Stand with me until the end! For Argynvostholt!”
The images fade away, swallowed up by the all-consuming darkness that shrouds the party in a veil of obscurity. Even those with the keenest darkvision are left with no discernible shapes or forms. But one thing remains: the sound of mourning, a deafening wail that pierces through the darkness, reverberating in their ears. The mournful cry grows more intense and disorienting, almost reaching a fever pitch. There is a palpable malevolence lurking in the darkness, a hidden entity waiting to reveal itself.
Dallid takes all this in, trying to discern truth, but accepting it all anyway. He writes quickly in his book, underling "Argynvostholt" several times as he goes.
"Ser Osric", says Galqarin with a frown, trying to discern what was fact and what was children's tale, what was memory and what was dreams. He suddenly recalls the dead knight they met on the trail so few days ago, "We met Ser Osric. He told us to go to Argynvostholt".
Sandu made a face. He could not accurately say just what kind of face it was, only that severe reflections of disgust, disdain and disapprovement flashed across his features. The trapdoor was most certainly a trap - what else could it be? - but moving forward beat staying put. He watched Rahadin take point and gave a shrug to the others. He followed Rahadin into the darkness, content to let the elf interpose himself between him and any danger that might lurk.
The trek through the darkness was eerie, not helped by the narration that carried through the void. Vauquelin spoke to them, telling them of his history with the Count. Of his work and the terrible things put to paint. The darkness lifted. In its stead was something that Sandu interpreted as a ghost play. Figures dead long ago forever replaying the tragedies that befell them. A knightly play of determination in the face of despair but, like all things in Barovia, doomed to fall to defeat.
'Ser Osric?' Sandu arched an eyebrow. At least these spectres were not inclined to attack the group. 'Didn't we pass him on the road?'He dug deeper into his memory of the encounter. The knight, undead as he was, had ridden past them still intent on avenging the loss of his comrades at the hands of Strahd. 'So this is how the Order of the Silver Dragon met its demise.'
With how Strahd commented on it in the next vision it greatly implied that he himself had dealt the final blow to the silver dragon. Sandu did not know much about dragons, from all the tales he had read they were all destructive beasts needing to be put down, but Argynvost had humanised himself. Sandu could not help but feel a slight pang of regret of knowing that such a noble figure was dead, curious as he found it to be.
"Ser Osric", says Galqarin with a frown, trying to discern what was fact and what was children's tale, what was memory and what was dreams. He suddenly recalls the dead knight they met on the trail so few days ago, "We met Ser Osric. He told us to go to Argynvostholt".
'If we ever manage to leave this place.'Sandu murmured. His reply was almost certainly drowned out by the mournfull wails that began to pick up all around them. Sandu clasped his ears in an effort to drown out the noise but to no avail. It felt like nails scratching across a chalkboard. The shrillness triggered a barely audible incantation - Dezvãlui- and Sandu's eyes flooded with the same inky darkness that surrounded them until his eyes were nothing but two little red pinpoints in black void.
Voices of lamentation multiply, their mournful chorus swelling to an overwhelming crescendo, an impassioned dirge that threatens to consume all senses. Yet, Dormark, a being of action, refuses to yield to the encroaching despair. With a primal instinct honed by bitter experience, he lashes out at the shrouded darkness, his mighty mace searches the air, attuned to the lurking presence that hides within. He knows that within this veil of malevolence lies a lurking foe, and he will not suffer its shadow to claim him unchallenged.
Dormark - This an unusual request, but please can you make a percentile (d100) check with no modifiers? Low is good.
Through the impenetrable veil of darkness, an overwhelming surge of power permeates the air, its intensity rattling the very foundations of your being. It is a force that reverberates with an ancient and sinister might, sending shivers down your spine. Within this abyssal realm, you discern the telltale traces of evocation magic intermingled with the insidious essence of necrotic energies.
It is a perplexing amalgamation, for the necrotic energies emanate not from a single source, but from a multitude of smaller conduits that have been grotesquely fused together—a macabre patchwork of a hundred wretched souls entwined in unholy union.
((Just sought clarification; Detect Magic would theoretically only provide an aura around visible creatures. However, you would still sense that a magical force exists.))
Sandu threw out his arm to stop the others. 'Careful.'He said. 'There is foul magic here. Death and decay followed from destruction.'
The necrotic energy washed over him. Sandu felt sick to his stomach. It took all of his willpower not to retch.
'There's something here. Like a group but not a group.' He forcefully shut his eyes and covered his mouth to keep anything down. 'More like a bunch of souls got smashed into a single fused amalgamation.'
Sandu's legs were jelly. He had to take a moment to collect himself.
((Dormark - Don't worry, I was just going to see whether you inadvertently struck the thing whilst swinging! Your mace's ability would certainly light the area (magical light fighting off magical darkness!), see below.))
As Sandu's words linger in the air, a blinding burst of radiant light erupts, saturating the surrounding space with its luminous brilliance. Within this radiant halo, Dormark's mace becomes a beacon of magical illumination, its potent light carving through the darkness as he swings. In its wake, the veil of shadows retreats, revealing the horrors concealed within.
Before the party stands an abhorrent amalgamation of human bodies, grotesquely fused and contorted into a monstrous entity. Its form is a twisted tapestry of flesh, a nightmarish mosaic wrought from the macabre assembly of once-separate beings. Multiple heads sprout from its misshapen torso, each visage a grotesque symphony of shrieks and moans, their discordant voices piercing the air in response to the radiant onslaught.
From the newly illuminated room, blood seeps forth, trickling down the walls in rivulets of crimson. It stains the tapestries that hang, their noble depictions of a silver dragon now marred by the gruesome hue. Rusted weapons, armour, and shields lay scattered upon the cold stone floor, bearing the unmistakable mark of Argynvost's emblem. The air hangs heavy with the scent of iron, mingling with the musty aroma of age and decay.
Unbeknownst to Rahadin, his attention fixed elsewhere, he remains oblivious to the looming monstrosity. With a swift and unexpected motion, a substantial mass breaks free from the amalgamation, hurtling through the air toward the unsuspecting dusk elf. The fleshy blob collides with him, engulfing and restraining his figure in a grotesque embrace, forming a tomb of rotting flesh. Rahadin's eyes bulge in horror as he struggles futilely against the encroaching tomb, his muffled cries echoing through the small chamber.
The Fight of the Festering Veins - Round #1 - Initiative
In the flickering glow of Dormark's enchanted mace, the horrifying truth is unveiled, illuminating the encompassing darkness. Within this eerie abyss, to the east, Rahadin is imprisoned within a grotesque sarcophagus of flesh, a morbid testament to the vile power of the creature. The mournful wails persist, resonating through the air, while the colossal amalgamation of animated corpses lurches menacingly to the north. Its malevolent gaze fixates upon the remaining members of the party, driven by an insatiable urge to purge this newfound threat from its unhallowed domain. The putrid stench emanating from the abomination assaults the senses, inducing waves of revulsion and discomfort.
Dallid - Your senses sharpen as you catch a glimpse of the horror lurking in the darkness, your body primed for battle. Ferelyon, always alert and poised for action, stands beside you, muscles taut and senses honed. A fight is inevitable and the decision of how to proceed falls to you. The zombified mass seems to writhe with malice, daring you to step forward and confront the horror within. With every passing moment, the tension grows, and the stakes become higher. It is your turn.
Battlemap:
Initiative:
Dallid - 20 -Dark Green Bow & Ferelyon - Small Dark Green Shield
The Fight of the Festering Veins - Round #1 - Dallid's Turn
Dallid's Turn
At the behest of Dallid's commanding voice, Ferelyon lunges forward with unwavering obedience, charging headlong into the looming peril of the undead abomination. The wolf's twin heads move in perfect harmony, their jaws clamping down on the monstrous flesh, rending it with ferocious strength. A spray of black ichor paints the air, as the beast's grotesque form is torn asunder. Limbs of rotting zombies scatter across the chamber, their dismembered parts testifying to the wolf's deadly prowess. Yet, with each severed limb, the sinister creature reveals more hidden appendages from the darkness; they writhe around, threatening to strike.
Sandu - Your eyes are fixed upon the valiant sight of Ferelyon, fearlessly confronting the teeming mass of decayed corpses. The wolf's fangs sink into rotting flesh, tearing and ripping with a primal determination. Though progress is made, the abomination's resilience is apparent, its undead nature refusing to yield. Deep in your gut, a sense of foreboding lingers, hinting at the harrowing depths of horror yet to be unveiled. It is your turn.
Sandu fought the urge to empty his stomach at the sight of the lumbering pile of corpses shambling before them. Their situation was dire indeed: Rahadin had been buried under a blob of dead bodies and everyone else looked in no condition to tackle this monster. Sandu's survival instincts kicked in and he made a snap decision. Survival was paramount. Getting away from the danger was a good call but such an option was limited. Sandu realises, against his better hope, that their best bet was to stop the undead zombie blob dead in its tracks. And the best way to do so was-
Sandu's eyes fell upon Dormark's back. The warforged was a cleric: he wielded divine power. He was their safest bet. Sandu slapped him on the back.
'Please don't die.' It was all the encouragement he could offer before those well-honed survival instincts took over and his legs carried him as far away as possible from the scene. From the corner of his eye Sandu saw a warm blue glow spread from where he laid his hand on Dormark's back. It slowly spread further, seeping into the warforged joints and, hopefully, gave him the courage Sandu was lacking right now.
The Fight of the Festering Veins - Round #1 - Sandu's Turn
Sandu's Turn
Sandu wisely chooses to prioritize his own safety and quickly retreats into the murky darkness, putting distance between himself and the abominable creature. With a whispered incantation, he creates a protective shield around Dormark, hoping to keep the warforged out of harm's way. As he moves further away from the glow of the mace, the shadows around him deepen, enveloping him in a shroud of obscurity. The floor beneath him is littered with the remains of long-dead warriors, their bones crunching underfoot as he navigates his way through the dimly lit chamber. The eerie silence is punctuated only by the sound of Sandu's footsteps and the distant wailing of the undead monstrosity.
Zombie Blob's Turn
With a cacophony of enraged screeches that reverberate through the ages, the grotesque amalgamation of rotting corpses lunges forward, propelled by a twisted determination. It pays no mind to the ferocious snapping of Ferelyon's jaws, its singular focus fixed upon the radiant beacon of Dormark's mace. Closing the distance with unsettling speed, it hurls itself toward the warforged, its mass coalescing into a colossal fist of zombified corpses. The massive fist descends upon Dormark with bone-crushing force, threatening to engulf him in a devastating torrent of decay and despair.
Dallid - Feel free to make an opportunity attack for Ferelyon.
Slam: Attack: 2123, Damage: 19 (bludgeoning)
Dormark - Didn't realise your health was so low! You fall unconscious.
The moment of impact unleashes a gruesome spectacle, as the fist of zombies detonates with devastating force. Limbs and entrails scatter in a grotesque rain, painting the surroundings with a macabre tapestry. Alas, the ferocity of the blow proves overwhelming for Dormark's sturdy metal frame, which buckles under the strain and collapses to the ground, rendering him unconscious. As the warforged lies motionless, the horde of zombified faces adorning the creature's abhorrent form contorts into sinister, defiant smiles, leaving an indelible image etched into the minds of the surviving party members. The extinguished light of the mace plunges them into oppressive magical darkness.
Galqarin - The situation is desperate. Dormark, the ardent defender and current light source, now lies unconscious at the feet of the creature. At least, that is where you last saw the aberration, you now stand in total darkness, unable to even see your hand in front of your face. A chorus of mournful wails fills the void, their origin uncertain, their haunting notes echoing from an indeterminate direction. It is your turn.
('twas laborious ;)
Night (Unknown) - Day 8 - A Dragon Defeated
A sharp, gut-wrenching crack rends the stillness of the claustrophobic chamber. The once-colossal, demonic eye at the room's centre ruptures, spewing a deluge of putrid, reeking ichor over all those within reach. In its wake, a hidden trapdoor is unveiled; a grim and ominous invitation. The entrance, through which the party entered, disappears without a trace. It is apparent that the malicious entity that reigns in this place is toying with the group, revelling in their desperate plight.
Rahadin regards the grotesque scene with a raised eyebrow, his features inscrutable. "This bodes well," he intones with a note of wry humour as if he finds some amusement in the twisted game that the malevolent force seems to be playing with the party. Without hesitation, he takes the lead and begins to descend through the open trapdoor, disappearing into the dark unknown below. His words hang in the air, a taunt that seems to dare the rest of the party to follow.
The metal rungs stretch on and on, leading the party down into a seemingly endless descent. With each passing minute, it feels as though they have left the mansion far behind, swallowed up by the darkness below. The cold wind grows stronger as they descend deeper, carrying with it the same whispered voice that had haunted them before:
The arduous descent finally ends, leaving the party standing on the solid cobbled ground. However, a magical veil of darkness obscures their vision, rendering them blind to their surroundings. The din of clashing weapons and the sounds of battle reverberate through the air, filling the party with a sense of confusion and unease.
In a sudden burst of brilliance, the darkness is shattered by a blinding flash of silver light. The light casts a brilliant radiance upon the scene, revealing a ghastly tableau as if pulled from the depths of a nightmare. As before, spectral forms writhe and battle, the air thick with the stench of blood and death. The party bears witness to a haunting visage, a scene trapped in time, frozen in its grotesque glory:
The vision before the party shifts and changes, revealing an intimate moment between two figures. Strahd, still youthful and full of vigour, sits perched on a stool with a canvas before him. Vauquelin stands before him, brush in hand, adding delicate strokes to a painting.
The spectres drift off once more, and the sound of a dragon’s cry echoes out, followed by woeful mourning. Ser Osric’s voice screams out over the darkness, “Lord Argynvost is lost! Stand with me, brothers! Stand with me until the end! For Argynvostholt!”
The images fade away, swallowed up by the all-consuming darkness that shrouds the party in a veil of obscurity. Even those with the keenest darkvision are left with no discernible shapes or forms. But one thing remains: the sound of mourning, a deafening wail that pierces through the darkness, reverberating in their ears. The mournful cry grows more intense and disorienting, almost reaching a fever pitch. There is a palpable malevolence lurking in the darkness, a hidden entity waiting to reveal itself.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Dallid takes all this in, trying to discern truth, but accepting it all anyway. He writes quickly in his book, underling "Argynvostholt" several times as he goes.
Paladin - warforged - orange
"Ser Osric", says Galqarin with a frown, trying to discern what was fact and what was children's tale, what was memory and what was dreams. He suddenly recalls the dead knight they met on the trail so few days ago, "We met Ser Osric. He told us to go to Argynvostholt".
Post #1203
'Gross.'
Sandu made a face. He could not accurately say just what kind of face it was, only that severe reflections of disgust, disdain and disapprovement flashed across his features. The trapdoor was most certainly a trap - what else could it be? - but moving forward beat staying put. He watched Rahadin take point and gave a shrug to the others. He followed Rahadin into the darkness, content to let the elf interpose himself between him and any danger that might lurk.
The trek through the darkness was eerie, not helped by the narration that carried through the void. Vauquelin spoke to them, telling them of his history with the Count. Of his work and the terrible things put to paint. The darkness lifted. In its stead was something that Sandu interpreted as a ghost play. Figures dead long ago forever replaying the tragedies that befell them. A knightly play of determination in the face of despair but, like all things in Barovia, doomed to fall to defeat.
'Ser Osric?' Sandu arched an eyebrow. At least these spectres were not inclined to attack the group. 'Didn't we pass him on the road?' He dug deeper into his memory of the encounter. The knight, undead as he was, had ridden past them still intent on avenging the loss of his comrades at the hands of Strahd. 'So this is how the Order of the Silver Dragon met its demise.'
With how Strahd commented on it in the next vision it greatly implied that he himself had dealt the final blow to the silver dragon. Sandu did not know much about dragons, from all the tales he had read they were all destructive beasts needing to be put down, but Argynvost had humanised himself. Sandu could not help but feel a slight pang of regret of knowing that such a noble figure was dead, curious as he found it to be.
'If we ever manage to leave this place.' Sandu murmured. His reply was almost certainly drowned out by the mournfull wails that began to pick up all around them. Sandu clasped his ears in an effort to drown out the noise but to no avail. It felt like nails scratching across a chalkboard. The shrillness triggered a barely audible incantation - Dezvãlui - and Sandu's eyes flooded with the same inky darkness that surrounded them until his eyes were nothing but two little red pinpoints in black void.
Casting Detect Magic
William Brackwater: Human Fighter - The Windward Isles
Tyrgram, the Butterfly Knight: Dwarf Warlock - Secret of Greenwold
Iòlinder Corrach: Half Elf War Cleric - Allansia Adventure
Valerius Sergius Publius: Dhampir Paladin - Vae Victus
“Careful , I sense something in the air.,” says Dormark holding up his mace hoping the magical properties of the weapon will cut through the darkness.
Dormark Calling of Strahd (warforged cleric) 4
Night (Unknown) - Day 8 - Horrors Unseen
Voices of lamentation multiply, their mournful chorus swelling to an overwhelming crescendo, an impassioned dirge that threatens to consume all senses. Yet, Dormark, a being of action, refuses to yield to the encroaching despair. With a primal instinct honed by bitter experience, he lashes out at the shrouded darkness, his mighty mace searches the air, attuned to the lurking presence that hides within. He knows that within this veil of malevolence lies a lurking foe, and he will not suffer its shadow to claim him unchallenged.
Dormark - This an unusual request, but please can you make a percentile (d100) check with no modifiers? Low is good.
Sandu's Detect Magic check:
Through the impenetrable veil of darkness, an overwhelming surge of power permeates the air, its intensity rattling the very foundations of your being. It is a force that reverberates with an ancient and sinister might, sending shivers down your spine. Within this abyssal realm, you discern the telltale traces of evocation magic intermingled with the insidious essence of necrotic energies.
It is a perplexing amalgamation, for the necrotic energies emanate not from a single source, but from a multitude of smaller conduits that have been grotesquely fused together—a macabre patchwork of a hundred wretched souls entwined in unholy union.
((Just sought clarification; Detect Magic would theoretically only provide an aura around visible creatures. However, you would still sense that a magical force exists.))
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Sandu threw out his arm to stop the others. 'Careful.' He said. 'There is foul magic here. Death and decay followed from destruction.'
The necrotic energy washed over him. Sandu felt sick to his stomach. It took all of his willpower not to retch.
'There's something here. Like a group but not a group.' He forcefully shut his eyes and covered his mouth to keep anything down. 'More like a bunch of souls got smashed into a single fused amalgamation.'
Sandu's legs were jelly. He had to take a moment to collect himself.
William Brackwater: Human Fighter - The Windward Isles
Tyrgram, the Butterfly Knight: Dwarf Warlock - Secret of Greenwold
Iòlinder Corrach: Half Elf War Cleric - Allansia Adventure
Valerius Sergius Publius: Dhampir Paladin - Vae Victus
73
(Alright, I was really just trying to use the maces light ability to hopefully keep the darkness at bay. lol)
Dormark Calling of Strahd (warforged cleric) 4
Night (Unknown) - Day 8 - Horrors Revealed
((Dormark - Don't worry, I was just going to see whether you inadvertently struck the thing whilst swinging! Your mace's ability would certainly light the area (magical light fighting off magical darkness!), see below.))
As Sandu's words linger in the air, a blinding burst of radiant light erupts, saturating the surrounding space with its luminous brilliance. Within this radiant halo, Dormark's mace becomes a beacon of magical illumination, its potent light carving through the darkness as he swings. In its wake, the veil of shadows retreats, revealing the horrors concealed within.
Before the party stands an abhorrent amalgamation of human bodies, grotesquely fused and contorted into a monstrous entity. Its form is a twisted tapestry of flesh, a nightmarish mosaic wrought from the macabre assembly of once-separate beings. Multiple heads sprout from its misshapen torso, each visage a grotesque symphony of shrieks and moans, their discordant voices piercing the air in response to the radiant onslaught.
From the newly illuminated room, blood seeps forth, trickling down the walls in rivulets of crimson. It stains the tapestries that hang, their noble depictions of a silver dragon now marred by the gruesome hue. Rusted weapons, armour, and shields lay scattered upon the cold stone floor, bearing the unmistakable mark of Argynvost's emblem. The air hangs heavy with the scent of iron, mingling with the musty aroma of age and decay.
Unbeknownst to Rahadin, his attention fixed elsewhere, he remains oblivious to the looming monstrosity. With a swift and unexpected motion, a substantial mass breaks free from the amalgamation, hurtling through the air toward the unsuspecting dusk elf. The fleshy blob collides with him, engulfing and restraining his figure in a grotesque embrace, forming a tomb of rotting flesh. Rahadin's eyes bulge in horror as he struggles futilely against the encroaching tomb, his muffled cries echoing through the small chamber.
All - Please roll initiative.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Dallid initiative 20
Paladin - warforged - orange
On today's episode of Bring My Brown Pants: AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!
Initiative: 15 (campaign log)
William Brackwater: Human Fighter - The Windward Isles
Tyrgram, the Butterfly Knight: Dwarf Warlock - Secret of Greenwold
Iòlinder Corrach: Half Elf War Cleric - Allansia Adventure
Valerius Sergius Publius: Dhampir Paladin - Vae Victus
(Galqarin's initiative: 5)
11
Dormark Calling of Strahd (warforged cleric) 4
The Fight of the Festering Veins - Round #1 - Initiative
In the flickering glow of Dormark's enchanted mace, the horrifying truth is unveiled, illuminating the encompassing darkness. Within this eerie abyss, to the east, Rahadin is imprisoned within a grotesque sarcophagus of flesh, a morbid testament to the vile power of the creature. The mournful wails persist, resonating through the air, while the colossal amalgamation of animated corpses lurches menacingly to the north. Its malevolent gaze fixates upon the remaining members of the party, driven by an insatiable urge to purge this newfound threat from its unhallowed domain. The putrid stench emanating from the abomination assaults the senses, inducing waves of revulsion and discomfort.
Dallid - Your senses sharpen as you catch a glimpse of the horror lurking in the darkness, your body primed for battle. Ferelyon, always alert and poised for action, stands beside you, muscles taut and senses honed. A fight is inevitable and the decision of how to proceed falls to you. The zombified mass seems to writhe with malice, daring you to step forward and confront the horror within. With every passing moment, the tension grows, and the stakes become higher. It is your turn.
Battlemap:
Initiative:
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Dallid determines that his own weakness has become a liability.
He sends Ferelyon in to strike first
Ferelyon runs forth and lunges with gnashing of teeth
Attack: 23 Damage: 12
Attack: 25 Damage: 7
Paladin - warforged - orange
The Fight of the Festering Veins - Round #1 - Dallid's Turn
Dallid's Turn
At the behest of Dallid's commanding voice, Ferelyon lunges forward with unwavering obedience, charging headlong into the looming peril of the undead abomination. The wolf's twin heads move in perfect harmony, their jaws clamping down on the monstrous flesh, rending it with ferocious strength. A spray of black ichor paints the air, as the beast's grotesque form is torn asunder. Limbs of rotting zombies scatter across the chamber, their dismembered parts testifying to the wolf's deadly prowess. Yet, with each severed limb, the sinister creature reveals more hidden appendages from the darkness; they writhe around, threatening to strike.
Sandu - Your eyes are fixed upon the valiant sight of Ferelyon, fearlessly confronting the teeming mass of decayed corpses. The wolf's fangs sink into rotting flesh, tearing and ripping with a primal determination. Though progress is made, the abomination's resilience is apparent, its undead nature refusing to yield. Deep in your gut, a sense of foreboding lingers, hinting at the harrowing depths of horror yet to be unveiled. It is your turn.
Battlemap:
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Sandu fought the urge to empty his stomach at the sight of the lumbering pile of corpses shambling before them. Their situation was dire indeed: Rahadin had been buried under a blob of dead bodies and everyone else looked in no condition to tackle this monster. Sandu's survival instincts kicked in and he made a snap decision. Survival was paramount. Getting away from the danger was a good call but such an option was limited. Sandu realises, against his better hope, that their best bet was to stop the undead zombie blob dead in its tracks. And the best way to do so was-
Sandu's eyes fell upon Dormark's back. The warforged was a cleric: he wielded divine power. He was their safest bet. Sandu slapped him on the back.
'Please don't die.' It was all the encouragement he could offer before those well-honed survival instincts took over and his legs carried him as far away as possible from the scene. From the corner of his eye Sandu saw a warm blue glow spread from where he laid his hand on Dormark's back. It slowly spread further, seeping into the warforged joints and, hopefully, gave him the courage Sandu was lacking right now.
Action: cast Protection from Evil and Good targeting Dormark.
Move: down as far as 30 feet of movement can get.
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The Fight of the Festering Veins - Round #1 - Sandu's Turn
Sandu's Turn
Sandu wisely chooses to prioritize his own safety and quickly retreats into the murky darkness, putting distance between himself and the abominable creature. With a whispered incantation, he creates a protective shield around Dormark, hoping to keep the warforged out of harm's way. As he moves further away from the glow of the mace, the shadows around him deepen, enveloping him in a shroud of obscurity. The floor beneath him is littered with the remains of long-dead warriors, their bones crunching underfoot as he navigates his way through the dimly lit chamber. The eerie silence is punctuated only by the sound of Sandu's footsteps and the distant wailing of the undead monstrosity.
Zombie Blob's Turn
With a cacophony of enraged screeches that reverberate through the ages, the grotesque amalgamation of rotting corpses lunges forward, propelled by a twisted determination. It pays no mind to the ferocious snapping of Ferelyon's jaws, its singular focus fixed upon the radiant beacon of Dormark's mace. Closing the distance with unsettling speed, it hurls itself toward the warforged, its mass coalescing into a colossal fist of zombified corpses. The massive fist descends upon Dormark with bone-crushing force, threatening to engulf him in a devastating torrent of decay and despair.
23, Damage: 19 (bludgeoning)The moment of impact unleashes a gruesome spectacle, as the fist of zombies detonates with devastating force. Limbs and entrails scatter in a grotesque rain, painting the surroundings with a macabre tapestry. Alas, the ferocity of the blow proves overwhelming for Dormark's sturdy metal frame, which buckles under the strain and collapses to the ground, rendering him unconscious. As the warforged lies motionless, the horde of zombified faces adorning the creature's abhorrent form contorts into sinister, defiant smiles, leaving an indelible image etched into the minds of the surviving party members. The extinguished light of the mace plunges them into oppressive magical darkness.
Galqarin - The situation is desperate. Dormark, the ardent defender and current light source, now lies unconscious at the feet of the creature. At least, that is where you last saw the aberration, you now stand in total darkness, unable to even see your hand in front of your face. A chorus of mournful wails fills the void, their origin uncertain, their haunting notes echoing from an indeterminate direction. It is your turn.
Battlemap:
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Ferelyon attack of opportunity
Attack: 17 Damage: 10
Paladin - warforged - orange