Ashy
First Post
The three companions take off just as the second sun has almost set, casting a blood-red pall over what seems like the entire world. Yarish skillfull banks the gilder up and out and then in a wide turn so that he and his cargo can wave farewell to the party several feet below.
In a single heartbeat, something horrible and indescribable happens. One moment, the gilder is moving forward and there are three smiling faces looking down at the party and in the next, the glider has stopped dead as if it had hit a brick wall. The faces changes to surprise, mixed with fear, save Yarish's - his face is now complete and utter terror and it is framed by a large, mailed hand which grasps his neck cruely.
This massive hand is connected to a massive thing - a creature that seems entirely composed of rusting, oozing metal. From head to foot, it is entirely encased in hard-edged, battle scarred armor, its face hidden behind a four-horned helm, an ancient tome chained to its waist, and the biggest blade you have ever seen upon its back. If it were not for three things, you would assume that it was a living suit of armor.
The first of these things is that it stands upon thin air, high above your heads.
The second is that its form sport two massive, wickedly bladed wings composed entirely of metal.
The third is the harsh and crazed voice which booms outward from the creature; its words make the very ground beneath your feet tremble and hot, copper-scented winds blast around you.
"WEAKLING WORM! YOU SHALL HIDE FROM MY ROYAL GAZE NO LONGER!"
The things words seem solely directed upon Yarish, it seems to utterly disregard the rest of you.
"Gods above..." P.C. whispers dryly, "Barbello..."
Barbello speaks again, and again you must fight to maintain your footing.
"I SEE YOU HAVE WRIGGLED OUT FROM UNDER YOUR ROCK, WORM! NOW YOUR TIME HAS COME - LET US HOPE THAT YOUR GODS HEAR YOU SCREAM!"
With those words, the Mask of Fury tosses Yarish and the glider away from her casually, as one might toss a feather. In less than the blink of an eye, her massive, jagged and serrated blade - stained black by the blood of a billion dead - flashes into her hand and she cleaves Yarish (and the glider) in twain.
Blood - the blood of poor Yarish - rains down upon the party.
Time seems to stand still...
Baja, still strapped to his wing, plummets groundward; with agonizing slowness he sees the faces of his friends pass him as he falls below the level of the spire of rock.
Xerxes, strapped to his wing as well, sees the hard exposed rock - the top of the spire upon which the party stands - rushing up to meet him.
Barbello is gone.
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OOC: Roll initative.
Note: The fall Xerxes is facing is only about 80 or so feet (i.e the glider is about 80 feet above the top of the Spire at this point). Baja is facing a much greater fall, as it is a fair drop from the top of the Spire to the ground, on top of the 80 feet from the glider to the top of the Spire.
In a single heartbeat, something horrible and indescribable happens. One moment, the gilder is moving forward and there are three smiling faces looking down at the party and in the next, the glider has stopped dead as if it had hit a brick wall. The faces changes to surprise, mixed with fear, save Yarish's - his face is now complete and utter terror and it is framed by a large, mailed hand which grasps his neck cruely.
This massive hand is connected to a massive thing - a creature that seems entirely composed of rusting, oozing metal. From head to foot, it is entirely encased in hard-edged, battle scarred armor, its face hidden behind a four-horned helm, an ancient tome chained to its waist, and the biggest blade you have ever seen upon its back. If it were not for three things, you would assume that it was a living suit of armor.
The first of these things is that it stands upon thin air, high above your heads.
The second is that its form sport two massive, wickedly bladed wings composed entirely of metal.
The third is the harsh and crazed voice which booms outward from the creature; its words make the very ground beneath your feet tremble and hot, copper-scented winds blast around you.
"WEAKLING WORM! YOU SHALL HIDE FROM MY ROYAL GAZE NO LONGER!"
The things words seem solely directed upon Yarish, it seems to utterly disregard the rest of you.
"Gods above..." P.C. whispers dryly, "Barbello..."
Barbello speaks again, and again you must fight to maintain your footing.
"I SEE YOU HAVE WRIGGLED OUT FROM UNDER YOUR ROCK, WORM! NOW YOUR TIME HAS COME - LET US HOPE THAT YOUR GODS HEAR YOU SCREAM!"
With those words, the Mask of Fury tosses Yarish and the glider away from her casually, as one might toss a feather. In less than the blink of an eye, her massive, jagged and serrated blade - stained black by the blood of a billion dead - flashes into her hand and she cleaves Yarish (and the glider) in twain.
Blood - the blood of poor Yarish - rains down upon the party.
Time seems to stand still...
Baja, still strapped to his wing, plummets groundward; with agonizing slowness he sees the faces of his friends pass him as he falls below the level of the spire of rock.
Xerxes, strapped to his wing as well, sees the hard exposed rock - the top of the spire upon which the party stands - rushing up to meet him.
Barbello is gone.
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OOC: Roll initative.
Note: The fall Xerxes is facing is only about 80 or so feet (i.e the glider is about 80 feet above the top of the Spire at this point). Baja is facing a much greater fall, as it is a fair drop from the top of the Spire to the ground, on top of the 80 feet from the glider to the top of the Spire.
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