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<blockquote data-quote="Destan" data-source="post: 923432" data-attributes="member: 12157"><p><strong> Death on the Mountaintop</strong></p><p></p><p>From his position below the wyvern’s nesting ledge, John was yet unable to see the creature. He could hear it, however, all too clearly. The sound of claw on stone foretold the serpent’s approach. John wedged himself further into a vertical crevice as dislodged pebbles began to cascade over the lip above him. Dozens of the stones splattered onto his steel cap like rain, sending a cacophony of <em>pings</em> and <em>tings</em> that seemed to reverberate across the entire Balantir Cor range. </p><p></p><p><em>Many thanks, Kellus, for allowing me to borrow your extra helmet.</em> John grimaced as the last few pebbles finished their metallic drumbeat upon his head. <em>What kind of an ass carries around a second helm, anyway?</em> John promised himself to ask the former priest should they – unlikely though it seemed – survive the night.</p><p></p><p>A blanket of anticipatory silence settled about the mountaintop. Odd, but there was nearly no wind – even at such an altitude – though the air was frigid enough. John listened to labored breathing from above – the sound made Vath’s snoring seem pleasant in comparison. The bard wondered idly if wyverns had a decent sense of smell. An alerted, guttural hiss answered his unasked question. <em>Lovely.</em></p><p> </p><p>John frowned as he felt fear tickle his bowels. Dozens of pinpricks danced across his skin as his sweat beaded within pores. <em>Courage, singer, courage. Handhold, foothold, and you’re over the lip. Better to die on flat ground than here, clinging to the mountain like a beetle. No tales are told of-</em></p><p></p><p>John suspected – no, he was certain – that his bout of self-encouragement would have eventually convinced him to move upward. Would have convinced him, that is, if Raylin hadn’t disrupted his silent rally. The ranger was already moving above him. John craned his neck to witness the fool pull himself over the ledge in one easy motion.</p><p></p><p><em>The hell with it.</em> The Pellman was not about to let some mud-between-his-toes clansman garner all the glory; there were ladies’ embraces to be won. John was acutely aware of the relatively inglorious figure he cut, oversized helm askance on his head, as he slipped the rapier from his belt and scampered upward. He needed to get on even ground, and quickly. John grabbed a protruding rock, took one final breath, pulled himself over-</p><p> </p><p>And froze. A pair of hooded eyes, black and large as onyx dinner plates, regarded him but for an instant before returning to Raylin. The ranger was moving sideways, swords drawn, shoulders squared to the beast. <em>What in the name of Beshaba are we doing?</em></p><p></p><p>A gray-green blur rushed past John from behind. Vath leapt toward the wyvern but was batted aside, almost casually. John watched, fascinated, as the half-troll’s body flew through the evening air and slammed against the rocks near the cave mouth behind the wyvern. <em>Not good.</em></p><p></p><p>Raylin stepped beneath the monster’s outstretched arm – the same arm that had tossed Vath. Both his blades struck home. Swords cut through scale. Green-amber blood the color of snot splattered onto the stones.</p><p></p><p>The wyvern moved backward like a cat, eyes focused solely upon Raylin. John, rapier in hand and buckler raised, circled to his left, away from the ranger. The bard saw an opening and took it. He lunged forward beneath a leathery wing. For a moment John thought his rapier’s tip would be unable to pierce the beast’s hide, but the thrust slipped between two scales. John withdrew his weapon and continued to move.</p><p></p><p>His come-lately companions began to gain the ledge. John was nearly at the rear of the beast now, apparently forgotten. Raylin moved forward, gaining the ground that would allow his companions to safely reach the ledge. John watched Baden, followed by Kellus, pull themselves over the lip. The wyvern lashed out – claw, claw, bite – yet Raylin blocked the attacks directed at his vulnerable comrades. The ranger’s defense was successful, but he bled for it.</p><p></p><p>The three of them – mailed dwarf, bleeding clansman, and somber-faced priest – now presented a unified front to the wyvern who – <em>dared John hope?</em> – seemed taken aback by the number of intruders now upon its ledge. The creature continued to slowly give ground, the tips of its wings dragging rearward along the stone. A grisly trail of odd-colored blood stained the ground between the combatants. The battle was far from over, however. With feline speed and cruelty, the wyvern halted its retreat and tore at Raylin with another barrage of tooth and talon.</p><p></p><p>In the interim, John too was moving. He had managed to drift into the shadows beneath the cave entrance. A brief survey of his companions was enough to let the bard knew Raylin was near collapse. His chain shirt was visible beneath a freshly-rent cloak. Two bloody lines, trails left from the beast’s talons, ran down the ranger’s arm from shoulder to wrist. And another wound – concealed to John’s vision – sent a slow current of blood down Raylin’s left leg.</p><p></p><p>The serpent seemed content to ignore John and most of his fellows. It was the cat; it had chosen Raylin to be the mouse. The beast’s head – easily the size of an overripe pumpkin – pulled backward, the slender neck arched like a bent bow. “Raylin, ware his bite!” John lunged forward from the shadows but stumbled on an unseen rock. His thrust skittered harmlessly across scales.</p><p></p><p>John recognized the error of his warning too late. The wyvern was cunning; it did not stretch forward to bite the ranger. Instead, the barbed tail shot over its winged shoulders like an arcing catapult shot. The stinger pierced Raylin’s chest, near his collarbone, puncturing cleanly through the mail shirt. The clansman swooned – John saw the man’s eyes roll back as the color left his face. When the barb pulled free, Raylin dropped to both knees before falling forward onto his face.</p><p></p><p><em>First Vath, now Raylin. Gods be good,</em> John swore, <em>where in the blazing pits was the elf?</em></p><p></p><p>As if on cue, Amelyssan appeared. The elf clung to the vertical rocks above John, near the apex of the arched cave entrance. Arcane words crackled in the air and the same blue-grey bolt that had felled Edric slammed into the wyvern’s back with an audible snap. A roar tore the mountain air. The wyvern twisted his head backward to see the new threat, and Kellus and Baden – as one – stepped forward to land mace and axe against the beast’s hindquarters.</p><p></p><p>Amelyssan was out of reach, unless the wyvern took to wing. John found himself staring alone at the enraged serpent. He crouched, feebly raised his buckler, and prepared to dive aside should the wicked barb be sent his way. It was. John rolled to his left, heard the stinger strike the stone where he once stood. The Pellman came up on one knee and stabbed the tail. Ichor sprayed onto his face, momentarily blinding him.</p><p></p><p>John dragged a shaking hand across his eyes, fighting to see through the viscous fluid. The wyvern was thrashing about madly. John had thought the elf was at a safe distance; he had thought wrong. The barb missed Amelyssan by the slimmest of margins, but the impact was enough to shake the stones above the cave. The <em>horadrel</em> did all he could to maintain his precarious perch, but – magic notwithstanding – rolled down the mountainside in the ensuing rockslide. </p><p></p><p>Before John could think better of it, he stepped forward, shielding the elf’s supine form. The wyvern raked his face with a grasping claw. The brunt of the force was absorbed by his steel cap – <em>May the gods bless Kellus’ largesse!</em> – though the helm was knocked from his head and sent bouncing across the stone. John reached one hand downward to steady himself, palm pressed against Amelyssan’s chest, and readied himself for the death blow.</p><p></p><p>It never came. Baden stepped forward in the confusion and swung his crescent axe in an upward arc. The wicked edge opened the wyvern from naval to armpit. A curtain of intestines spilled out, appearing verily like the colorful festoons of Pell during Midsummer Festivals.</p><p></p><p>The wyvern was as good as dead, John knew. Nothing could survive such a blow. But the battle was not yet over. It only became a question as to whether the party could survive the last few seconds as the beast’s wound rhythmically spurted out its lifeblood. John saw Kellus trot jerkily toward the fallen ranger, watched him as he knelt – his back to the wyvern – and press healing hands against the clansman’s side.</p><p></p><p><em>Should I live,</em> John vowed, <em>I will write a song to let others know of this day.</em></p><p></p><p>The wyvern continued to retreat toward the darkness of the cave, one hind leg hanging limply, entrails following its body like a perverse wedding gown. Yet its other leg – the good leg - lifted and came down upon the dwarf. John cried out as he saw Baden crumple, pinned within the cupped talon like a bird within a cage.</p><p></p><p>The Pellman stepped over Amelyssan toward the serpent, even as the elf murmured something and grabbed his shin as he passed.* Suddenly – everything was <em>slow</em>. John felt a warmth rush through his system as Amelyssan released his hold. <em>Slower, slower.</em> His senses grew acute – he watched, as if in a trance, as the wyvern’s flank heaved for each gasp of air. Somehow he knew – knew with each and every fiber of his being – where the wyvern would next move. It was the easiest thrust he had ever made. The point of his rapier slipped between two of the wyvern’s ribs, burying the blade to the hilt.</p><p></p><p>The wyvern’s shriek ripped him from his trance. The beast’s jaws opened wide as if to swallow the moon that had only now begun to peer downward at the tableau. A claw knocked John off his feet. His head – his helmetless head – bounced off rock and the world swam. </p><p></p><p>One of them would die, if not more. John felt warm blood rush upward beneath his hair like a mountain spring. The wyvern was near death, certainly, but it would be the easiest thing in the world for it to tear its teeth into the pinned Baden or the prone Pellman. The head pulled back for just such a strike.</p><p></p><p>And Vath, the half-troll devotee of Ilmater, once more entered the fray. The monk had regained his feet during the madness. He sprinted across the stone, bared feet soft upon the rock, and loped up the wyvern’s deadly tail. The half-troll wrapped one massive arm around the beast’s slender neck and gripped its chin with his other hand. Vath pulled, slowly, the muscles in his arms bulging beneath his gray-green hide. </p><p></p><p>The wyvern released Baden and frantically tried to reach the monk with either claw. To no avail. The half-troll forcibly swiveled its head, degree by degree, inch by inch. Vath’s face was contorted with the effort. Long moments passed. All John could do was stare upward in amazement.</p><p></p><p><em>Crack.</em></p><p></p><p>And then, as if the puppeteer had simply dropped the strings of his serpent doll, the wyvern’s body went limp. It fell to the side as Vath let loose his hold and rolled free. The beast’s great body settled with a dull thud.</p><p></p><p><em>No,</em> John thought as blackness fought to overcome him, <em>I am not worthy to write this song.</em></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>* Customized first level arcane spell <em>Horadrel's Strike.</em> As <em>True Strike</em>, except the conferred insight bonus is +10 and the range is Touch.</p><p></p><p><em>Edited: Had to change the spell, since I blew it during the game.</em></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Destan, post: 923432, member: 12157"] [b] Death on the Mountaintop[/b] From his position below the wyvern’s nesting ledge, John was yet unable to see the creature. He could hear it, however, all too clearly. The sound of claw on stone foretold the serpent’s approach. John wedged himself further into a vertical crevice as dislodged pebbles began to cascade over the lip above him. Dozens of the stones splattered onto his steel cap like rain, sending a cacophony of [i]pings[/i] and [i]tings[/i] that seemed to reverberate across the entire Balantir Cor range. [i]Many thanks, Kellus, for allowing me to borrow your extra helmet.[/i] John grimaced as the last few pebbles finished their metallic drumbeat upon his head. [i]What kind of an ass carries around a second helm, anyway?[/i] John promised himself to ask the former priest should they – unlikely though it seemed – survive the night. A blanket of anticipatory silence settled about the mountaintop. Odd, but there was nearly no wind – even at such an altitude – though the air was frigid enough. John listened to labored breathing from above – the sound made Vath’s snoring seem pleasant in comparison. The bard wondered idly if wyverns had a decent sense of smell. An alerted, guttural hiss answered his unasked question. [i]Lovely.[/i] John frowned as he felt fear tickle his bowels. Dozens of pinpricks danced across his skin as his sweat beaded within pores. [i]Courage, singer, courage. Handhold, foothold, and you’re over the lip. Better to die on flat ground than here, clinging to the mountain like a beetle. No tales are told of-[/i] John suspected – no, he was certain – that his bout of self-encouragement would have eventually convinced him to move upward. Would have convinced him, that is, if Raylin hadn’t disrupted his silent rally. The ranger was already moving above him. John craned his neck to witness the fool pull himself over the ledge in one easy motion. [i]The hell with it.[/i] The Pellman was not about to let some mud-between-his-toes clansman garner all the glory; there were ladies’ embraces to be won. John was acutely aware of the relatively inglorious figure he cut, oversized helm askance on his head, as he slipped the rapier from his belt and scampered upward. He needed to get on even ground, and quickly. John grabbed a protruding rock, took one final breath, pulled himself over- And froze. A pair of hooded eyes, black and large as onyx dinner plates, regarded him but for an instant before returning to Raylin. The ranger was moving sideways, swords drawn, shoulders squared to the beast. [i]What in the name of Beshaba are we doing?[/i] A gray-green blur rushed past John from behind. Vath leapt toward the wyvern but was batted aside, almost casually. John watched, fascinated, as the half-troll’s body flew through the evening air and slammed against the rocks near the cave mouth behind the wyvern. [i]Not good.[/i] Raylin stepped beneath the monster’s outstretched arm – the same arm that had tossed Vath. Both his blades struck home. Swords cut through scale. Green-amber blood the color of snot splattered onto the stones. The wyvern moved backward like a cat, eyes focused solely upon Raylin. John, rapier in hand and buckler raised, circled to his left, away from the ranger. The bard saw an opening and took it. He lunged forward beneath a leathery wing. For a moment John thought his rapier’s tip would be unable to pierce the beast’s hide, but the thrust slipped between two scales. John withdrew his weapon and continued to move. His come-lately companions began to gain the ledge. John was nearly at the rear of the beast now, apparently forgotten. Raylin moved forward, gaining the ground that would allow his companions to safely reach the ledge. John watched Baden, followed by Kellus, pull themselves over the lip. The wyvern lashed out – claw, claw, bite – yet Raylin blocked the attacks directed at his vulnerable comrades. The ranger’s defense was successful, but he bled for it. The three of them – mailed dwarf, bleeding clansman, and somber-faced priest – now presented a unified front to the wyvern who – [i]dared John hope?[/i] – seemed taken aback by the number of intruders now upon its ledge. The creature continued to slowly give ground, the tips of its wings dragging rearward along the stone. A grisly trail of odd-colored blood stained the ground between the combatants. The battle was far from over, however. With feline speed and cruelty, the wyvern halted its retreat and tore at Raylin with another barrage of tooth and talon. In the interim, John too was moving. He had managed to drift into the shadows beneath the cave entrance. A brief survey of his companions was enough to let the bard knew Raylin was near collapse. His chain shirt was visible beneath a freshly-rent cloak. Two bloody lines, trails left from the beast’s talons, ran down the ranger’s arm from shoulder to wrist. And another wound – concealed to John’s vision – sent a slow current of blood down Raylin’s left leg. The serpent seemed content to ignore John and most of his fellows. It was the cat; it had chosen Raylin to be the mouse. The beast’s head – easily the size of an overripe pumpkin – pulled backward, the slender neck arched like a bent bow. “Raylin, ware his bite!” John lunged forward from the shadows but stumbled on an unseen rock. His thrust skittered harmlessly across scales. John recognized the error of his warning too late. The wyvern was cunning; it did not stretch forward to bite the ranger. Instead, the barbed tail shot over its winged shoulders like an arcing catapult shot. The stinger pierced Raylin’s chest, near his collarbone, puncturing cleanly through the mail shirt. The clansman swooned – John saw the man’s eyes roll back as the color left his face. When the barb pulled free, Raylin dropped to both knees before falling forward onto his face. [i]First Vath, now Raylin. Gods be good,[/i] John swore, [i]where in the blazing pits was the elf?[/i] As if on cue, Amelyssan appeared. The elf clung to the vertical rocks above John, near the apex of the arched cave entrance. Arcane words crackled in the air and the same blue-grey bolt that had felled Edric slammed into the wyvern’s back with an audible snap. A roar tore the mountain air. The wyvern twisted his head backward to see the new threat, and Kellus and Baden – as one – stepped forward to land mace and axe against the beast’s hindquarters. Amelyssan was out of reach, unless the wyvern took to wing. John found himself staring alone at the enraged serpent. He crouched, feebly raised his buckler, and prepared to dive aside should the wicked barb be sent his way. It was. John rolled to his left, heard the stinger strike the stone where he once stood. The Pellman came up on one knee and stabbed the tail. Ichor sprayed onto his face, momentarily blinding him. John dragged a shaking hand across his eyes, fighting to see through the viscous fluid. The wyvern was thrashing about madly. John had thought the elf was at a safe distance; he had thought wrong. The barb missed Amelyssan by the slimmest of margins, but the impact was enough to shake the stones above the cave. The [i]horadrel[/i] did all he could to maintain his precarious perch, but – magic notwithstanding – rolled down the mountainside in the ensuing rockslide. Before John could think better of it, he stepped forward, shielding the elf’s supine form. The wyvern raked his face with a grasping claw. The brunt of the force was absorbed by his steel cap – [i]May the gods bless Kellus’ largesse![/i] – though the helm was knocked from his head and sent bouncing across the stone. John reached one hand downward to steady himself, palm pressed against Amelyssan’s chest, and readied himself for the death blow. It never came. Baden stepped forward in the confusion and swung his crescent axe in an upward arc. The wicked edge opened the wyvern from naval to armpit. A curtain of intestines spilled out, appearing verily like the colorful festoons of Pell during Midsummer Festivals. The wyvern was as good as dead, John knew. Nothing could survive such a blow. But the battle was not yet over. It only became a question as to whether the party could survive the last few seconds as the beast’s wound rhythmically spurted out its lifeblood. John saw Kellus trot jerkily toward the fallen ranger, watched him as he knelt – his back to the wyvern – and press healing hands against the clansman’s side. [i]Should I live,[/i] John vowed, [i]I will write a song to let others know of this day.[/i] The wyvern continued to retreat toward the darkness of the cave, one hind leg hanging limply, entrails following its body like a perverse wedding gown. Yet its other leg – the good leg - lifted and came down upon the dwarf. John cried out as he saw Baden crumple, pinned within the cupped talon like a bird within a cage. The Pellman stepped over Amelyssan toward the serpent, even as the elf murmured something and grabbed his shin as he passed.* Suddenly – everything was [i]slow[/i]. John felt a warmth rush through his system as Amelyssan released his hold. [i]Slower, slower.[/i] His senses grew acute – he watched, as if in a trance, as the wyvern’s flank heaved for each gasp of air. Somehow he knew – knew with each and every fiber of his being – where the wyvern would next move. It was the easiest thrust he had ever made. The point of his rapier slipped between two of the wyvern’s ribs, burying the blade to the hilt. The wyvern’s shriek ripped him from his trance. The beast’s jaws opened wide as if to swallow the moon that had only now begun to peer downward at the tableau. A claw knocked John off his feet. His head – his helmetless head – bounced off rock and the world swam. One of them would die, if not more. John felt warm blood rush upward beneath his hair like a mountain spring. The wyvern was near death, certainly, but it would be the easiest thing in the world for it to tear its teeth into the pinned Baden or the prone Pellman. The head pulled back for just such a strike. And Vath, the half-troll devotee of Ilmater, once more entered the fray. The monk had regained his feet during the madness. He sprinted across the stone, bared feet soft upon the rock, and loped up the wyvern’s deadly tail. The half-troll wrapped one massive arm around the beast’s slender neck and gripped its chin with his other hand. Vath pulled, slowly, the muscles in his arms bulging beneath his gray-green hide. The wyvern released Baden and frantically tried to reach the monk with either claw. To no avail. The half-troll forcibly swiveled its head, degree by degree, inch by inch. Vath’s face was contorted with the effort. Long moments passed. All John could do was stare upward in amazement. [i]Crack.[/i] And then, as if the puppeteer had simply dropped the strings of his serpent doll, the wyvern’s body went limp. It fell to the side as Vath let loose his hold and rolled free. The beast’s great body settled with a dull thud. [i]No,[/i] John thought as blackness fought to overcome him, [i]I am not worthy to write this song.[/i] * Customized first level arcane spell [i]Horadrel's Strike.[/i] As [i]True Strike[/i], except the conferred insight bonus is +10 and the range is Touch. [i]Edited: Had to change the spell, since I blew it during the game.[/i] [/QUOTE]
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