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<blockquote data-quote="reddist" data-source="post: 2957388" data-attributes="member: 5212"><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">… its Petolus, or at least his ghost. Petolus and Cryridon speak for a while, at it appears that the ghostly remains of the lord of this ancient keep is still capable of giving orders. He wants something from us, and Cyridon seems willing to do it.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">Petolus <em>was </em> betrayed, and by his own lieutenant at that. His wife and child died as a result. Their remains are below, in a hiding space under the stables. Petolus and his men came back from the Beyond to revenge their betrayal, but were then forced linger in the tower for eternity as a price. Until Balderic cut them down, at any rate. Petolus asks us to put his wife and child to rest, so he can finally go to his reward. He seems to feel no sorrow at the slaying of his skeletal troops.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">Balderic and I spend the rest of the afternoon digging a shallow grave and gathering rocks for a cairn. Cyridon spends it muttering his thin, spidery tongue over the remains we find in the basement. Cyridon’s cold gods appeased and the corpses buried, we go back to Petolus and let him know he is free to move on.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">The setting sun shining through Petolus makes him glow with a reddish light. He thanks us and then fades from sight, dissipating with a faint, nearly intangible hiss. We spend the night below in the stables, resting and recovering from the assault on the tower.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">The following morning I awaken early, eager to get away for a bit and spend some time hunting. Quail and rabbits are plentiful in the fields surrounding the tower and I easily catch four bairns, setting two of them sizzling on hot rocks for breakfast and cut and cook the other two, wrapping them for travel. Rabbit meat and quail eggs fry upon the rocks, their succulent scents mingling with the crisp morning air, and we eat well before breaking camp.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">The grasses and fields give way to scrub brush and damp peat as we approach the forest around midday. Twisted trees rise up to the overhead sun, looking unhealthy and cancerous. A dank haze emanates from the dim shadows under the trees, and we can smell swamp rot and decaying muck.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">As we cross the tree line, Cyridon seems to be visibly relieved. I seem him throw back the hood of his cloak and take several deep breaths, gaining strength and color with each one. Sometimes I think Cyridon himself is something from the Realms Beyond.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">Its past midday when we enter the forest and the thick trees cut off much of our sunlight, bringing an early dusk to our travels. I crouch to inspect the mud, easily spotting large humanoid tracks, though they appear both bare-footed and clawed. Additionally I find the webbed tracks of amphibians, though at least as large as my own hand. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">Owlbears riding salamanders. Right now, I’m willing to believe anything.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">The thrumming of great bullfrogs is deafening, and the dull bassy rumbling is pierced by the sharp chirps of crickets and cicadas. Its almost as if we are herded along through the perverted trees towards an empty clearing where we find two long forgotten shrines, covered in moss and creeping vines, stonework broken and crumbling.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">Both shrines have stone altars and ancient statues in their center. One is to Amantir and the other Torm, two of the eldritch gods only Cyridon and Theros seem to care about. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">As we climb the worn stone steps up to the shrine of Amantir, it becomes apparent these holy places have been defiled. Mud, feces, and graffiti in what can only be animal entrails cover every surface, and scrawled, repulsive signs and symbols mar the ancient altars.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">Damn my innate curiosity. As Cyridon and I approach Amantir’s alter, I put my foot down on one of the stone cobbles. A cold numbness shoots through my leg and into my gut, sucking strength from my very core. I crumple to the ground, weak and helpless, my bow clattering on the cool stone.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">Cryidon and Theros cry out and rush to my side, looking for blood and wounds. They find nothing. I crossed an ancient ward of some sort, and once Theros realizes this he sets about finding others, marking the cobbles with small piles of sticks and stones. Cryidon seems untroubled by these wards, actually setting one off intentionally, deliberately stepping on the pavestone.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">It causes him no harm. Indeed, he seems to enjoy it.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">I’m not sure I like this death cleric. Helpful enough, but… still…</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">We uncover a line of celestial runes engraved upon Amantir’s altar, buried under the encrusted muck and grime. It seems to hint at some clue to activating the statue nearby. I remain unconvinced solving this riddle is a good idea. Nonetheless, Theros announces that he understands this cryptic puzzle and needs but to prepare a spell for the morrow. In the meantime, he suggests, we investigate the other shrine, Torm’s altar.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">Approaching Torm’s shrine angers the skeletons resting the shadows of the ruined and defiled columns. They rise to attack us <em>en masse</em>. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">Again, Cyridon is able to hold them off for a while, but this time neither my nor Balderic’s blows seem to do them much harm. The aura of the defiled temple gives these undead ravagers unholy strength, and they shrug off all but our mightiest blows. Finally Balderic brings his flail to use, and under the pounding force of his blows the skeletons crack and splinter. Just as Cyridon loses his slim control the last of them flies to pieces, smashed through by Balderic’s crushing blows.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">I sheath my useless scimitar, cursing under my breath. If this keeps up I’ll need to find a club or mace, and soon. We’re several days from any smithy though, and I despair of finding anything useful before we are set upon again by these ubiquitous skeletons.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">After the battle, Cyridon and I take a closer look at these skeletons… their bones are dyed or painted red, and they are covered in muck and filth. I ask Cyridon about their apparent strength. <span style="color: DimGray">The unholy defiling of these temples empowers them, </span> he explains. And what of you, Cyridon? Do you too feel empowered?</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12px"><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic'">I need to find that mace. Soon.</span></span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="reddist, post: 2957388, member: 5212"] [SIZE=3][FONT=Century Gothic] … its Petolus, or at least his ghost. Petolus and Cryridon speak for a while, at it appears that the ghostly remains of the lord of this ancient keep is still capable of giving orders. He wants something from us, and Cyridon seems willing to do it. Petolus [I]was [/I] betrayed, and by his own lieutenant at that. His wife and child died as a result. Their remains are below, in a hiding space under the stables. Petolus and his men came back from the Beyond to revenge their betrayal, but were then forced linger in the tower for eternity as a price. Until Balderic cut them down, at any rate. Petolus asks us to put his wife and child to rest, so he can finally go to his reward. He seems to feel no sorrow at the slaying of his skeletal troops. Balderic and I spend the rest of the afternoon digging a shallow grave and gathering rocks for a cairn. Cyridon spends it muttering his thin, spidery tongue over the remains we find in the basement. Cyridon’s cold gods appeased and the corpses buried, we go back to Petolus and let him know he is free to move on. The setting sun shining through Petolus makes him glow with a reddish light. He thanks us and then fades from sight, dissipating with a faint, nearly intangible hiss. We spend the night below in the stables, resting and recovering from the assault on the tower. The following morning I awaken early, eager to get away for a bit and spend some time hunting. Quail and rabbits are plentiful in the fields surrounding the tower and I easily catch four bairns, setting two of them sizzling on hot rocks for breakfast and cut and cook the other two, wrapping them for travel. Rabbit meat and quail eggs fry upon the rocks, their succulent scents mingling with the crisp morning air, and we eat well before breaking camp. The grasses and fields give way to scrub brush and damp peat as we approach the forest around midday. Twisted trees rise up to the overhead sun, looking unhealthy and cancerous. A dank haze emanates from the dim shadows under the trees, and we can smell swamp rot and decaying muck. As we cross the tree line, Cyridon seems to be visibly relieved. I seem him throw back the hood of his cloak and take several deep breaths, gaining strength and color with each one. Sometimes I think Cyridon himself is something from the Realms Beyond. Its past midday when we enter the forest and the thick trees cut off much of our sunlight, bringing an early dusk to our travels. I crouch to inspect the mud, easily spotting large humanoid tracks, though they appear both bare-footed and clawed. Additionally I find the webbed tracks of amphibians, though at least as large as my own hand. Owlbears riding salamanders. Right now, I’m willing to believe anything. The thrumming of great bullfrogs is deafening, and the dull bassy rumbling is pierced by the sharp chirps of crickets and cicadas. Its almost as if we are herded along through the perverted trees towards an empty clearing where we find two long forgotten shrines, covered in moss and creeping vines, stonework broken and crumbling. Both shrines have stone altars and ancient statues in their center. One is to Amantir and the other Torm, two of the eldritch gods only Cyridon and Theros seem to care about. As we climb the worn stone steps up to the shrine of Amantir, it becomes apparent these holy places have been defiled. Mud, feces, and graffiti in what can only be animal entrails cover every surface, and scrawled, repulsive signs and symbols mar the ancient altars. Damn my innate curiosity. As Cyridon and I approach Amantir’s alter, I put my foot down on one of the stone cobbles. A cold numbness shoots through my leg and into my gut, sucking strength from my very core. I crumple to the ground, weak and helpless, my bow clattering on the cool stone. Cryidon and Theros cry out and rush to my side, looking for blood and wounds. They find nothing. I crossed an ancient ward of some sort, and once Theros realizes this he sets about finding others, marking the cobbles with small piles of sticks and stones. Cryidon seems untroubled by these wards, actually setting one off intentionally, deliberately stepping on the pavestone. It causes him no harm. Indeed, he seems to enjoy it. I’m not sure I like this death cleric. Helpful enough, but… still… We uncover a line of celestial runes engraved upon Amantir’s altar, buried under the encrusted muck and grime. It seems to hint at some clue to activating the statue nearby. I remain unconvinced solving this riddle is a good idea. Nonetheless, Theros announces that he understands this cryptic puzzle and needs but to prepare a spell for the morrow. In the meantime, he suggests, we investigate the other shrine, Torm’s altar. Approaching Torm’s shrine angers the skeletons resting the shadows of the ruined and defiled columns. They rise to attack us [I]en masse[/I]. Again, Cyridon is able to hold them off for a while, but this time neither my nor Balderic’s blows seem to do them much harm. The aura of the defiled temple gives these undead ravagers unholy strength, and they shrug off all but our mightiest blows. Finally Balderic brings his flail to use, and under the pounding force of his blows the skeletons crack and splinter. Just as Cyridon loses his slim control the last of them flies to pieces, smashed through by Balderic’s crushing blows. I sheath my useless scimitar, cursing under my breath. If this keeps up I’ll need to find a club or mace, and soon. We’re several days from any smithy though, and I despair of finding anything useful before we are set upon again by these ubiquitous skeletons. After the battle, Cyridon and I take a closer look at these skeletons… their bones are dyed or painted red, and they are covered in muck and filth. I ask Cyridon about their apparent strength. [COLOR=DimGray]The unholy defiling of these temples empowers them, [/COLOR] he explains. And what of you, Cyridon? Do you too feel empowered? I need to find that mace. Soon.[/FONT][/SIZE] [/QUOTE]
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