Anostor Duran: Human Barbarian / Adroit Explorer / Eternal defender (not complete)
The Dream
A temple on a mist-covered mountain, tall and still in pearly luminescence. A thousand ravens wheel above it in perfect silence.
A warrior in coal-black armor pounds at a sealed doorway with an enormous hammer. Against a mirrored altar, his shield rests: on a field of crimson, a black dragon's head.
You yourself, locked in battle against a dragon with scales like obsidian. Your comrades are cut down one by one, while ghosts wail in agony.
A series of seven locked gates. As your hand reaches toward the first, a sound startles you, and you turn...
A desolate plain beneath a leaden sky. You watch helplessly as a great black rock the size of a moon hurtles toward you; an impact the world will not survive.
Blackness, and a falling sensation. Acceleration, and anticipation as you race down, faster and faster, toward your heart's fondest dream. Then, disaster and despair: the way is blocked.
Massacre
The dream, again? Strange, that even without physical synapses to spark randomly, dreams should come. Or perhaps this is merely a memory of a previous dream. Or... perhaps a foreknowing, a slippage of your grip on the present? It all seems so irrelevant, now. Still, the habits of a lifetime of flesh cling stubbornly, and you bestir yourself. Igor confirms that the preparations are complete. You sense the energizing of the teleportation circle; that-which-is-to-be is now becoming that-which-was. Shortly thereafter -- or is it shortly before? -- the wards at the boundaries of your domain shiver with recognition. Your guests are arriving.
Another crosses your outer wards, one they do not recognize. Another guest, or an intruder?
Sarenax
The images of the dream flash through your mind again as you approach Massacre's spire. Strange that such fleeting visions should be so sharp, so hard to ignore. Such portents can hardly be meaningless products of the imagination, mere mortal synapses misfiring in fatigued confusion. Surely not. There must be meaning, and if there is, you mean to find it.
Massacre's domain provides no barrier or hindrance to your passage. Indeed, the tower door slowly opens as you approach; held by a hunched, skeletal figure who bows as you approach. "Welcome. The mathter ecthpecth you."
Kylek
At last, alone. An immense weight seems to lift from your shoulders as the door to your inner sanctum locks behind you. A hundred minor decisions, petty squabbles, fawning sycophants, all cast aside and forgotten as quickly as... as the closing of a door.
Your armor fits perfectly, its magic strengthening and supporting you. Your pack settles into its place, familiar weight comforting and exciting. Your stride lengthens as you pass through your secret tunnel, making your way to a teleportation circle you know won't be watched at this time of day. The sigils for Massacre's tower are already flashing through your mind.
When the blackness of the between-place clears, the tower's familiar gloom surrounds you, unchanged from when you helped complete it, except perhaps a bit of dust. The echoes of a quiet chime fade away; your arrival has been noticed.
Kalas
"Orelal."
The memory of that one word, or the images that accompanied it, have not faded in your memory since you first felt it in your mind. Nor has the mental fog that gripped you returned. Clearly your purpose is not yet fulfilled. A purpose; a task. You dimly feel something, an emotion that, in a living creature, might be called anticipation.
The same mysterious knowledge that placed the image of a forbidding tower in your mind guides you; you ride confidently, sure of the way, Gilthanas' flaming hooves burning past the endless miles of the Shadowfell. Nothing disturbs you or bars your path, and after an interval of meaningless time, you arrive at the tower from your vision. There is a minor tingle as you cross the boundaries of the place; your arrival has been noted.
Batin
You cross a low ridge and behold a familiar landscape: Massacre's tower in the Shadowfell. Since the dreams began, this is the first place your wanderings have taken you that holds some significance to you. Perhaps it is time for the place-you-are to be one with the place-to-be. And if not, perhaps the wizard will have knowledge that will help shape your path.
The wards part easily for you with only a whisper of recognition. Your presence is known and welcome, for now at least. The door opens as you approach, a skeletal figure waiting there in threadbare homespun.
ooc
And we're off! Minor quest: determine the meaning of the dream. (Or in Kalas' case, the nature of your summons and the task laid before you.)
Dense fog covers the whole of Domaine de Massacre, a boneyard maze, skeletal hands, heads, and torsos of various creatures create the confounding effect of constantly walking away from the tower at domain center.
A shadowy outline is all that belies the tower in the center of the domain. A pyramid-like base gives a sturdy foundation to the tower, smoky tendrils of shadow crawl up the twisting spire like ferrofluids. By the third floor, the spire has become a cylinder rising until its tapered flat top.
Only five foot by five foot, the top is a trap door entering the uppermost chamber of the tower.
(Those with uncanny perception would notice an unblinking eye watching both the door, and the surrounding area of Domaine de Massacre, Those with invitations do not see fog, or boneyard maze, as they are illusions.)
The lowest chamber of the tower is also the largest, with ample space for mounts, pets, and other creatures that may poop on the floor, or walls. An artesian well flows into a hose at the far end, constantly filling an overflowing tub. The waxed leather shines in torchlight. A sign hangs above, instructing occupants to clean themselves before going upstairs.
Nearby, a cabinet holds clothes of many unusual sizes; it’s as if giant’s regularly visited the tower. (Those with uncanny perception will notice an eye floating near the ceiling in the direct center of the room, constantly scanning for intrusion.)
Igor, the towers butler, never misses a creak as he opens the door for the each of the incoming guests, no matter which door they arrive at… The undead butler directs the clean guests directly up to the waiting area and the dirty guests toward the tub.
In the middle of the room on a raised platform is a large teleportation circle. Not so much drawn, as etched into the dais. A circular set of stairs lead to the second floor parlor. With plush couches and attractive end tables, the room invites guests to relax. An open bar stands at the far end of the room, with a motley assortment of strange drinks to imbibe. Near it lay a curiously shaped and textured chest… Torches rest behind opaque glass, giving a soft but illuminating glow to the room. In the center of the circular parlor an ornate Hookah sits on a small table, a plethora of herbs in small boxes rest nearby.
Somewhere in between the 2nd and uppermost floor is a room that no one save Orelal has entered. The Sepulcher, a marble altar with no adornment is the only item in the room. (Those with Uncanny perception will notice an eye floating above the altar, flickering as if about to call out at any moment)
Any door or window in the domain, is locked to intruders.
Riding his trusted stead the nightmare Gilthanas through the barrier of Orelal's territory and smiles when he realized he's being watched. "I much prefer them to know I'm coming" the revenant muses as he spurs on his stead towards the tower.
Once there, Kalas Graybeard dismounts and leads Gilthanas to the front, rapping loudly on the door loudly with the butt of his silver longsword, preparing for whatever may come out. He does his best to hide the surprise when the undead servitor opens the door and invites him inside. Despite his misgivings about leaving his mount alone, Kalas was sure that the creature could look after itself and something about this place was familiar, although he couldn't quite place it.
Himself relatively clean, the Chosen of the Raven Queen ascended the stairs to the so called waiting room. Kalas still carried the Githyanki sword in his left hand, the darkwood shield in his right, while the protective black cloak draped behind him. His hood was thrown back and his long white hair (an unfortunate side effect of the recalling) hung over his broad shoulders. Kalas stood impossibly large for a human, nearly 8 feet tall, but he was also abnormally slender as if he hadn't ate for weeks. His skin was as pale as the moonlight and his eyes as black as coals. On the shield is a symbol that is immediately recognizable as The Raven Queen's. The ease at which he swung his blade and carried his shield belied his gauntness.
Standing in the room as still as a statue, Kalas waited for a few moments as he waited for whatever he was sent for. He concentrates for a moment and the silver sword crackles with soft purple lightning. Growing impatient he calls out "Orelal!" in a deep, booming voice, his eyes beginning to glow with an unearthly white light as he prepared for the reaction.
A dragonborn, towering nearly seven feet tall with shoulders almost five feet wide, a behemoth of muscle and metal, approaches the tower. His scales and talons are black as jet, only his glowing purple eyes showing any relief from the black. He wears scale mail which exaggerates his already impressive frame and matches the shade of his scales - it's hard to tell where the armor stops and the scales begin. A similarly black cloak with jagged, tattered edges flutters around him, seeming to suck in light, making it darker than the sky on a moonless night. Around his neck is a heavy cord, on the end of which is a stone weight attached to a large raven's feather. Protruding above his right shoulder are two handles, one slim and straight, the other thicker and curving slightly. On his hip is a large pouch - big enough to be a backpack for a normal-sized mortal.
During his short trip to the tower, Sarenax has been mulling over his dreams and recalling Orelal. I wonder what the wizard has been doing these past years that he has been so secluded for. How long has it been since I was last here, helping establish the wards? A year? No, at least two. But it matters not. I have not come for a courtesy call on an old companion. What Orelal does is no concern of mine unless he crosses the will of the Raven Queen. As his reminiscing comes to a close, he comes back to his reason for coming here. A final thought crosses his mind before he settles into patient waiting: My Dark Lady, I pray we find the meaning of these dreams ... no, they are more than dreams. Visions.
When the doors to the tower swing open before him he barely acknowledges the butler with a muttered, "Igor," not even looking at it. He stalks into the tower, taking note of the flaming steed in the entry room, each step making a small 'thud' more felt than heard. Someone has arrived ... or Orelal has a new pet. The ebony dragonborn ascends the first staircase to the waiting room, where he sees his old companion ... but not the one he was expecting. "Kalas?" Sarneax rumbles. Face calm, the dragonborn assesses the armed human, No, not human anymore. His arm reaches to the curved handle behind his shoulder and pulls it free in a startlingly fast movement for a creature of his size. A blade snaps out perpendicular from the long handle, and Sarenax takes the huge black-bladed scythe in both hands. "Why are you armed, revenant, and why are you here? Answer quickly." His tone is cool, neutral, betraying no indication as to whether Sarenax intends to fight against the revenant or alongside it.
OOC
Hurray! Why don't we start with armed inter-party conflict, eh?
Religion to identify Kalas as a revenant (1d20+17=37). That should do ... From what I can ascertain, revenants are all created by the Raven Queen, so with that knowledge check Sarenax will be less hostile to start than he might've been if he just knew Kalas was undead.
Well, to start off with, a couple checks to see if I can identify any landmarks or symbolism in the dreams, or what have you: Religion: 1d20+17=26
Arcana: 1d20+15=27
I suppose we could go on a ritual extravaganza, too, once we're all assembled.
At the sight of the dragonborn, Kalas turns quickly and points the crackling silver blade at the newcomer preparing to charge forward, when he suddenly stops and drops his blade to his side. "Relax dragonborn, I am her Chosen. You wear the symbol of my creator." the revenant says in a hissing voice, gesturing to the symbol around Sarneax's neck.
"I see I am not the only one she called here. Good, for if her enemies constructed this tower I would do well to have one of her servants by my side when I slay him or it or her. Have you any idea of the creature that we are here to destroy?" Kalas says coldly.
OOC
Nothing like a good fight to stretch those epic muscles. Too bad you were wearing that symbol
"Destroy? I see, you have not retained your memories. This tower belongs to Orelal, a wizard and companion of ours in times past. He, too, serves the Raven Queen," Sarenax rumbles as deep as a funeral dirge. While his words are still in the same calm, cool tone, Sarenax doesn't ease his grip on the scythe.
OOC
Darn it! I added the symbol to his description as an afterthought, too!
Maybe Orelal should come show us he's a lich now, so we can jump him together
"It seems she has a sense of irony. My memories were stripped of me when I was brought back. You say we know each other? When did I walk with one of her holy warriors?" Kalas asks
The seven locked gates of your dream calls to mind the Raven Queen's holy temple of Zvomarana, which is said to have a number of gates that petitioners must pass through, performing the ancient rites, before the high priest may open the final portal to Her citadel. Zvomarana lies at the edge of Letherna in the Shadowfell.
Batin nods at the undead manservant. The shadar-kai has seen it before, and as unconcerned. He admired the way the geometry of the place channeled the lines of focus on this place, and noted the intricate mazes formed by the arcane power he had assisted the mage create. After settling himself down on the lower floor while he maps the place in his mind, he smiles and steps between.
An apparition appears from nowhere in the waiting chamber to the side of its two current occupants. As it solidifies, it forms into the shape of a shadar-kai. The arrival dresses simply with the traveling garb of a janissary, a thick blade marked with runes of arcane travel across his back. His jet-black hair is kept shoulder-length, and he wears a small van-dyke beard that is well oiled.
He smiles a small smile as he recognizes the others and gives them a half-bow in welcome. He, however, says nothing.
Perhaps this was the right place after all.
Batin (sorta)
__________________ stonegod -- LEB judge and spawn of Khyber since 2005 (Blog)
Kylek stepped out of the terminal point of the portal. He shook his head with a guttural snort as he regained his bearings. Unsurprisingly Orelal's servant already stood before him, motioning toward the stairs. That one always did have a habit of just appearing. Stepping down from the platform Kylek stalked across the room and ascended the stairs, his tattered black mantle flowing around him with an air of barbaric splendor.
Like some great predator he strode into the waiting chamber with a slow and powerful gait, accompanied by the steady thump clack of taloned footfalls against the stone floor. Pale blue orbs narrowed in their sockets as he noticed he was not alone, it would seem he was not the only caller this day. A deep, rumbling growl emanated from somewhere in the depths his chest at the sight of drawn weapons. The low light glittered along his icy coloured hide as he moved forward. He knew one of them, the inky black form of the dragonborn before him was unmistakable.
Sarenax...what is this? What is going on? Where is Massacre?
Coming to dark one's side he sized up the man that stood opposite them, Kyleks' heavy, draconic brows furrowed with the slow dawn of recognition.
Kalas? Is that you?
Description
Height: 7'3"
Weight: 446lb
Kylek is a massive, heavily muscled dragon born. He is covered in alabaster scales that gleam like winter ice, and his eyes are two orbs of pale, baleful blue perched over a powerful, jutting jaw that seems like it is all teeth. Black leather armour made from the hide of some great serpent covers his chest, below which hangs a black loincloth. His waist and lower arms and legs are girded in shining silvered armour. Over all of this is worn a tattered black mantle and on his head rest a silver diadem. Kylek has a deep rumbling voice, and sometimes wisp of frozen mist curl lazily from his mouth as he speaks.
ministats
Kylek- Male Dragonborn Sorcerer/Blizzard Mage/Demigod 21
Initiative: +12, Passive Perception: 22, Passive Insight: 22
AC:36, Fort:34, Reflex:32, Will:36 -- Speed:6
HP:124/124, Bloodied:62, Surge Value:32, Surges left:14/14
Action Points: 1
Powers -
Burning Spray
Dragon Frost Rimestorm
Winter's Clutch
Downbeat of Wings
Stalking Frost
Spatial Trip
Sudden Scales
Narrow Escape
Draconic Majesty
Dragon Breath
Battle Awareness
Second Wind Adamantine Echo
Lightning Daggers
Blackfire Serpent
Blizzard
Cloak of Freezing Wind
Circlet of Mental Onslaught
Cloak of Displacement
Counterstrike Guards
Exodus Knife
Pouch of Frozen Passage
Ring of Feather Fall
Ring of Tenacious Will
"What deviltry is this? How do you know my name? Who is Massacre?" Kalas replies, bringing his sword back up in a defensive posture as he eyed the dragonborn cautiously.
Sarenax glances over when Batin suddenly appears in the room, and when he recognizes the shadar-kai gives him a nod of recognition. "Batin." Then Kylek arrives and comes up the stairs. "Kylek ... what an impromptu reunion. Kalas has been recreated by the Raven Queen, and has lost the memories of his past life in the process."
The ebony dragonborn then turns to Kalas to begin to explain. "We were all companions, once. You, myself, Kylek, and Orelal. Many years ago we fought alongside each other, aiding an army in battle against a Demon Lord. During this battle, Orelal earned the name 'Massacre' for himself. Batin was not there. He is ... more elusive, though most of us have had associations with him."
Sarenax pauses for a moment, then sheathes his scythe. "Several years ago Orelal built this tower, and the four of us in this room came and lent him our aid for the warding rituals. That was the last time I saw any of you, and you were still living, Kalas. Which leads me to the question," his violet eyes move over the other two occupants of the room, "why are we all here? I do not believe this meeting is mere chance. What has brought the rest of you back to this tower?"
OOC
I'd love to jump on the visualization bandwagon here, but for some reason it's hard to find pictures of pitch-black dragonborn with scythes ... fancy that.
They say a wizard is never late, but ... where is he? He can't get lost in his own tower, can he?
OOC: Just to point out, I think Batin is the only one that wasn't at the great battle. Or at least, I didn't call it out. Sorta liked the idea of being connected to everyone but not as directly as the rest of y'all.
__________________ stonegod -- LEB judge and spawn of Khyber since 2005 (Blog)
As Sarenax matter of factually explained the situation, Kylek studied the black dragonborn's features looking for some hint of emotion. Finding none Kylek merely scowled, a low rumbling growl rolling up from the depths of his chest and slipping out with a curl of frost. Sarenax had always been a cold one.
Kylek spared only a glance toward the mysterious shadar-kai at the mention of his name. His presence was intriguing but that could wait for later. Kylek's attention instead turned to Kalas. The huge alabaster dragonborn advanced toward him, til the point of the human's sword rested against his thick chest. His pale eyes burned with intensity as he examined Kalas, searching for a hint of his old self. After a long moment, with no insight forthcoming, he stepped back with a snort and then a long rumbling sigh.
Kalas...you've looked better.
Kylek was silent for a moment before speaking again, and though his words were directed elsewhere he did not take his eyes off of Kalas.
It was dreams that brought me here Sarenax, dark dreams. I have come to seek Massacre's insights.
Finally he looked away from his one time compatriot, glancing around the chamber his voice edged with impatience.
Where is that wizard?
__________________ Oni
"Each man, one way.
Each horse, one stance.
Each church, one buddha.
Each master to his own technique."
Orelal finished donning his adventuring vestments, he felt the familiar tingle in his nethers (a good idea, when he still had the requisite parts), that meant someone or something, was entering without permission...
Viewing the scene from his eye above the tower, Massacre watched an Undead, upon a very angry nightmare, ride straight as you will, through the boneyard maze... Ignore the dense fog... Walk right up to the (switching to the front door view) front door... and... IGOR LET IT IN!!!
Rushing for his door, Massacre grabs the handle and gives it four quick jerks before realizing Igor had to open it... (switching to Teleportation View) The Undead thing walked in and up the stairs, leaving his mount to Igor. The undead creature walked, through the already open door, into the parlor and shouted out Massacre's real name! That was when Massacre realized it was a Revenant...
*Honey... I thought you would be surprised, but sending a servant to kill me over it?*
(switching to Parlor View)
*It already has it's weapons drawn, is that a... Silver Sword... It's not as though I'm a Lycanthrope... Blasted Undead... *
When Sarenax walked through the door, Massacre did not breath a sigh of relief, he couldn't breath at all... But that wasn't important for the recently undead wizard. What was important was getting out of his tower and escaping...
The dreams, a big black dragon smiting him... Sarenax was like a big black dragon... Good old fractured mind, giving just subtle enough a warning...
Unfortunately, when Sarenax, with odd speed for his size, withdrew and armed his scythe at the revenant, that blew his theory all to pieces...
*I refuse to vacate my most sacred spire, until some comprehension of this debacle comes, besides Igor is welcoming others, and I haven't the ability to open the door until he gets it for me...*
The wizard lay back down upon his marble alter, momentarily flashing back to Igor removing his liver, and exclaiming something or other about it being perfect for his Uncle... Igor.
Then the view of the parlor butted in, rudely, as Kalas, *Kalas, inevitably that impervious enforcer would be Her chosen hunter...* calmly discussed Massacre's impending doom...
Sarenax then referred to Orelal as serving the Raven Queen, *I don't serve Her, I've MARRIED Her... well if She hasn't kill me first... Thusly I deduce you haven't yet recieved direct orders to destroy me...* Orelal smirks, well as close as a skull can get to smirking, his teeth clacked at an odd angle...
*Ah, Batin, now we are getting somewhen... kind of...*
Kylek's massive form flowing through the door as if hunting the gods themselves, was no comfort to the undead wizard...
*At least they are all calm, and docile, relatively... well... * a complete slip of the present, Massacre in slow agonizing motion, watched the table coming slowly upwards, or was he going down, either way an impact was immanent, glancing back just in time to see the black mass of...
*Creeeeeak* Mather, the gueth' are getting impathent... Igor, good, I appreciate you opening the door, Thither to our guests, insure their comfort, I'm already among them, and you've had the foresight to requisition a broom for the terrible mess...
The door standing open, Massacre pulls himself together, reciting as many defensive spells as he can remember. Working his way through every escape route he could take. Considering the safety of his phylactery. *they won't locate it, and if they do, they haven't the mental aptitude to break the cipher of it's destruction, and if they do, I'll create one anew, whenever I am...
The Archlich gathers himself up, and begins heading for the stairs
Igor
Igor loping down the steps inserts himself between the large gentlemen with weapons drawn, The Mather will be with uth thortly, pleathe make yourthelveth comfortable... the scarred servant indicates the weapons still being wielded, the chairs, and finally the hookah, and liquid bars... Thur, Igor is next to Kalas in an instant, if what Mather Kylek thayth ith true, ith there any thing I could do for you thurgically thpeaking? I'm very handy with the thalpel, could pothibly be finithed before the Mather arriveth...
Just as Igor finishes his sentence, the bottom of a familiar robe appears at the top of the stairs...
The same quite that always accompanied the old Eladrins shuffling gate is heard. His hood is up, and the six foot figure descends the stairs as if frail with age. Hunched over, the obviously aged wizard positions himself in front of the table bearing the hookah.
Stooping down slowly, Massacre removes the large glass base, and all of the contents of the table, before delibrately turning toward his compatriots...
With the items that were on the table safely to the side, the Archlich hood drops as if a spectral hand had pulled it back.
A clean, bleached-white skull sits where once was Orelal's face... His eyes now glowing purple balls of energy, instead of the lilac orbs that once rested in his sockets.
Cheers, says the skull, pronouncing the word much like Massacre had in life. His oddly textured purple and pink robe, blinked, then smoked over, blurring Massacre's figure with the shadows behind him. May I inquire as to the condition of my wife?
Seeing the wizard's skull where once was his face finally cracks Sarenax's cool. His eyes widen a fraction, then he takes two swift steps to the wizard. Regaining control, he calmly reaches out, grabs the wizard by the collar, lifts him up ... and smashes him through the recently-cleared table, sending splinters of wood flying across the room to patter agains the walls and the armor of the assembled warriors. That is for your presumption ... calling her Dark Majesty your wife. Fool, he thinks.
Then he stands straight and the scythe appears in his hands again, the blade snapping out as he speaks. "What madness has claimed you, Orelal? If I had known all the preparation was to turn yourself into this ... blasphemy, I never would have lent my aid. You were once a servant of the Raven Queen; now, you are an affront to Her." The sides of the ebony dragonborn's jaw ripple as he clenches his jaw, stopping further words. Then his face clears of any remaining emotion, and calmly he draws the scythe up and to the side, preparing to attack his once-friend. And this is for your betrayal.
OOC
I figure, worst case is that Sarenax 'kills' Orelal, turning him to dust, and we have to wait til tomorrow to consult with him. Maybe Kalas will help
Igor appeared in the entry way, dustpan and broom in hand, as the table exploded.
Massacre during his short flight, decides to try out his new technique. Casting without vocalization or intricate hand motion. In the past destroying his body by mucking up a spell may have been a big deal, but now... His confidence was such that he prepared to cast a Direct Incantation.
The movement from the others in the room seemed frozen as the scythe cut the molecules of air into requisite parts, splinters of wood spun lazily by, the floor had recently become acquainted with Massacre's brittle form, and Sarenax had just finished his speech when...
OOC
Covaithe, clearing a little friendly PvP here...
I'm more than accommodating to Sarenax taking the swing. And anyone else who wishes to get in on the action can jump to as well.
Massacre will use the most appropriate defensive spell for whatever comes his way. But won't take the offensive in any case. Preferring to escape before capture.
Thusly the worst case scenario for the short battle is as LS said, dusty Orelal...
In the blink of an eye, Batin and Massacre were one then two again... on other sides of the room. The Shadar-Kai hung a bit more awkwardly in the dragonborn's grasp, but did not seem particularly perturbed..
Perhaps we should speak before blades.
OOC
Assuming Massacre considers himself ally enough, Batin can switch places in this little drama.
__________________ stonegod -- LEB judge and spawn of Khyber since 2005 (Blog)
Why don't we start with armed inter-party conflict, eh?
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