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NOW LIVE! Into the Woods--new character species, eerie monsters, and haunting villains to populate the woodlands of your D&D games.
Carnifex's SH - Updated July 24th, Light and Questions
- Thread starter Carnifex
- Start date
Carnifex
First Post
"Doesn't really seem as though anything has changed." Sebastion muttered, quietly. "I say we do the same again - Ebri and Kale sneak up to see what you can find out, and we'll back you up."
Suddenly, there was movement above.
From the gloomy recesses of the gallery above, hidden in shadow and osbtructed from the direct sight of those below, a cloaked figure moved forwards to look down over the gathered group below, hands resting on the ornate stone balustrade. The hands looked human, but the face of the shrouded man could not be seen, even by those with sight that pierced the darkness; the hood simply kept his features secret as yet.
"So... we have more interlopers, then." The voice of a young man, but confident. Carthagian in accent, carrying well across the open space between himself and the party. And... there was something about that voice that caught Melisande's memory, though she could not recall exactly where she had heard it before...
The gathered sages looked up in alarm, a number squinting to peer at the robed man intently. The magically augmented vision that several possessed, their magesight incantations still in effect, brought whispers of alarm. "It's a Manipulator," said Johanne quietly, while besides him Jarvis seemed to be looking for quick ways up to the gallery, though none were apparent.
A moment longer and Melisande would have gone invisible. She wasn't sure if that would have been better. Maybe this way she had a chance....
She'd been mulling it over all the way up. She had to admit it: no one would ever believe Melberry had been assigned to a top secret spy mission on behalf of the Church of Toran to keep on eye on Professor Akarsis, even if she tried to make it seem her blundering nitwitedness had been but a disguise. Great gods, even the nerdy necromancers at the lab didn't want her at their parties. Some spy. She felt herself turning dark blue with shame and anger. Whoever it was, he probably knew enough about her already.
Who was it? She could not place the voice--one she had heard, but perhaps not often enough. Cold flippers of amphibious anxiety groped in her mind, making it hard to think.
Her heart was beginning to pound. If she said the right thing right now, it might save everyone a lot of pain and bloodshed, if not death. If she said the wrong thing--
--it would just accelerate the process a little.
"Hello! My goodness, you're hard to catch up to."
Melisande held up a fist in the symbol of Toran, even though her whole arm seemed like it went icy with the gesture. "We weren't sure we'd make it in time. I see you've taken a few losses, in fact--ironic, that if you hadn't been so quick and efficient we would have been there to help, maybe saved some resources. Hold on, we're coming up."
Turning to look upward, Sebastion instinctively stepped backward and to the right, ready to shield his face with his left hand if he needed to, but nothing came down except words. He recognised the accent well enough, having seen more than his fair share of Carthagians passing through his home-town, talking down to anyone and everyone they met. And here it was again - figuratively and literally, being spoken down to. He was about to reply when Mel whipped out some emblem and began to babble, bringing forth a resigned sigh from Sebastion.
We're in for it now... he thought, lowering his face for a moment. I hope to the Nine Hells she can pull this off.
He waited a moment, watching Jarvis' eyeing the walls for an avenue of attack, and pitched his voice low, counting on proximity to carry his words only as far as those he was talking to.
"Kale, Ebri... see if you can't get somewhere close to him in case we need to act..."
"More interlopers?" Wyshira muttered almost inaudibly. So had the Carthagians encountered opposition from outside the Tower before now? Did he mean the people who had made the less organized camp outside, the camp that they had effectively sacked? It seemed that the Carthagians dealt harshly with perceived interlopers.
She scowled when she heard that the cloaked figure above was a Manipulator. Those fleshtwisters! she thought with distaste. She had no wish whatsoever to ally or cooperate with people like this. Of course, Melisande had been on her way to becoming a Manipulator herself at one time, hadn't she? The sorceress had fled that life, but she still carried around a two-headed toad with her. Wyshira shook her head, not liking the way things were going.
She liked them even less after Melisande spoke up. What was the crazy girl doing now? Pretending that the crew had business with the Carthagians? That they were trying to catch up and join with them?
"Is this the one you were talking about?" she whispered out of the corner of her mouth to the sorceress. "Your mentor?"
The hooded figure above shifted slightly, and Melisande could feel his gaze fall upon her. "Melisande?" the man asked incredulously, and from the tone of his voice, perhaps caught a little off-guard. "No, stay right where you are. I certainly wasn't expecting to meet one of the rogue Manipulators here. What on earth are you doing here, aasimar? What is your purpose here? Are you..." He hesitated, almost... fearfully. "Are you in league with the Hashrukkites? Is that the truth, where the rogue mages went? Move, make one wrong move, and I'll fireball you all. Tell me... now." His voice had taken a dangerous edge.
Much like Jarvis, Cazamir was scanning the walls for ways to reach the Manipulator. Perhaps if he could leap and reach the balustrade, he could flip onto the gallery. No, he grumbled, the time and effort in that would be better spent standing by the mages. He knew little of the Manipulators, but guessed that they relied more on enhanced servants than actual blasting magicks. He stood firm beside Johanne, ready to interpose himself yet again if more searing flames came his way, as the mage above was threatening to deal out.
For all her faults, Melisande wasn't slow. Very rapidly, in spite of her growing discomfort, she pieced together the situation. It was what to do about it that was the puzzler. And who was he? It was on the edge of her mind, maddeningly out of reach. If only she could recall his name!
She forced out an icy, solid voice through a genuinely humorless smile. "Ah. I suppose we're at an impasse, then."
"I was not a rogue for long."
Whoever the rogue Manipulators are.... I wonder....
"As you may imagine, I was re-captured very soon after defecting and taken back to the Church for re-education. The iron hand of Toran set my mind straight. And lords know it needed it. Some time after your departure it was decided your mission was even more important, and more imperiled, than foreseen, and I was among the detachment of reinforcements sent. A courier rode out to warn you of our arrival but I gather now that he never reached you. Since most of the detachment was lost in a regrettable encounter with a Solar Beholder in the mountains, Captain Cornell and I were forced to hire mercenaries and try to catch up to you. It is understandable, in the circumstances, that you would be prudent. Captain Cornell and I will come up to join you, and the mercenaries will remain behind to watch for any further interlopers. What else can we do, I wonder, to reassure you that we are not Hashrukkites, so that we can get on with this and avoid any further waste of Carthagia's time and resources?"
She realized then that Pierre was going to bail out again and placed a hand firmly over her pocket. We'll be fine. And I may need you.
Captain Cornell? Sebastion had spent the few moments since the threat had arrived looking for a way out, and just as he'd been about to speak, Mel blurted out more unbelievable drivel to compound the problem.
It was like the sudden rush of the spring floods that poured down the rivers near his home when the mountain ice and snow that had dammed the flows suddenly let go. You could either get out of the way, or ride the flow and see where it took you.
"Where's the staircase?" he asked, gruffly. The corridor was too narrow to get out the way of a fireball - going with the flow was the only choice, now.
The Manipulator had remained coldly silent for a moment, then shook his head, the cowl shadowing his features rippling with the movement. "I don't think so, Melisande. Captured and re-educated? If they'd caught any of the rogues, somehow I doubt they'd be willing to send you back out again, oh no. If the Manipulator's Guild had caught a rogue, I don't think anyone would see them again at all."
"If you really want me to believe that you're telling the truth, then show me some proof, eh? Until you do, don't try to go running anywhere, certainly not the stairs up. I know enough battle magic to immolate the lot of you."
With the man above threatening to hurl fireballs down at the party if he didn't get some answers to his questions, Wyshira was afraid to let Melisande say anything more.
"I give you my word as a priestess of Ishrak that we are not in league with the Hashrukkites." Wyshira stepped forward in order to let the Manipulator see her better. She wondered at his fear, for she was not aware that the Daemonflesh had any followers to speak of anymore. "I am Wyshira of Cryosia, one of the mercenaries that Melisande mentioned. May I ask your name? Melisande has not spoken to me of you before."
What Mel did then was to take an even greater risk--but Wyshira had provided her with a vital opportunity she hardly hoped for.
Turning her head to look at the short priestess, she angled her face away from the hooded figure above. Using the (albeit strained) bubbling-brook sound of Wyshira's voice as cover, she muttered a single word, and performed a gesture as if sweeping back the hang of her rabbit-fur cloak. It might not fool him.
She needed the "proof". A timely alter self spell on her arms could do the trick. With the distraction provided by Wyshira, Melisande's incantation took effect without her words reaching the ears of the hooded Manipulator on the gallery above.
Then suddenly she turned on Wyshira sharply.
"And nor shall I, presumptuous fool. You are paid to fight and keep your chattering mouth shut. Another question and I'll Manipulate it shut for you." Her tone was iron. She'd learned it from her mother, and it was effective. Melisande's mother scared priests of Toran into giving up burning her blue baby, just with that voice. Mel did not dare make any apologetic gesture to the priestess, as cold as it made her feel to talk like that to such a dear friend, only turning her icy stare from Wyshira back to the hooded Manipulator above.
"Apologies," she offered him. And now the flush of deep blue in her cheeks came in handy. "I regret you insist on humiliating me in front of my servants, but I have to concede. I was never a rogue Manipulator."
She sighed. "I threw a tantrum in the lab and tried to defect to Naseria. I didn't even make it past the border of the Drakkath before they took me back. I was indeed re-educated -- mildly -- and enhanced as penance."
With this she threw back the sleeves of her gown to reveal two grossly disproportionate muscled arms, laced with very precise but ugly dark blue scars.
"Now may we proceed?" she asked through gritted teeth, feigning wounded pride before her retinue.
The mage shook back his cowl now, revealing the features which finally jogged her memory as to who this man was.
Gaethras, that was it. She'd known him back in the labs; a biothaumaturge not attached to her own group of trainees, but the guild fortress had been a pretty massive place and had held more than her class of apprentices, after all. The young man had not had the same unpleasantly superior attitude to her that her classmates had possessed, even actually being mildly pleasant to her. He seemed to have lacked the cruel streak that many of the other thaumaturges possessed. Professor Akarsis had mentioned once in passing that Gaethras was destined for greater accomplishments than most of the lesser Manipulators precisely because of this, his view and outlook more scholarly and detached. He was a highly talented conjurer, if she remembered correctly.
Gaethras's features were slightly gaunt and tired, and he had a fuzz of hair growth across what was obviously normally a shaven scalp. As he looked down at the collection of people below, seeing Melisande's magically changed arms, she saw a flicker of revulsion cross his face at the twisted limbs. Now he seemed more confused than anything else, but still possessing a healthy dose of suspicion.
"Wait... if these people are your mercenaries, then why is there a priestess of Ishrak? And why..." he gestured at the various members of the band who looked decidedly less mercenary-like, the sages and Burl, "are they here? They don't look much like mercenaries to me. And what in the Nine Hells are those?" he demanded harshly, pointing to the two shadow-shrouded figures of Kale and Ebri. Though they had been well-hidden from the Carthagians when scouting the place out, now the mage had had ample time to survey the chamber and see them clearly. "One looks like a man shrouded by spells, the other like some actual shadow-native. What are you up to, Melisande?"
Mel felt a warm wave of relief wash over her--not just because she'd managed the sleight of hand, so to speak, without being instantly grilled, but because he was not one of the apprentices she remembered as snotty and obsessed with power, and as much as she hated her memories of that lab it still was a sort of home, to a former self perhaps, but still as comfortable in some ways.
It was a dangerous wave of relief, however. Pierre was still having a silently screaming post-traumatic seizure, which helped keep her alert, and clearly Gaethras was not yet comfortable with her presence. She fought the treacherous sense of security, tucking her misshapen arms back under their sleeves. There were still questions to be answered.
What are you up to, Melisande?
It sounded so intimate, so conspiratorial, that she felt a strong desire to answer him honestly.
She didn't, but she did make a concession. Her voice was softer now, having given in to one painful confession and making another. Strange, that the deeper she went into the lie the closer she came to the truth. "We hired the first people we found. I hardly know them. Some truly are mercenaries; others are mere adventurers, and these gentlemen are scholars--they are not so much here to serve us but to benefit from our protection in order to study these ruins, and since their wizardry has been of use to us we struck up a bargain. We lost a whole detachment to that flaming Beholder. We'll probably both be re-educated again when we get back. That's why I'm sincerely hoping we can be of use to you, because maybe someone will put in a good word...."
Mel let her voice trickle away, having lost its ice. "Let me do something for the Homeland, Gaethras."
She was pleading. He did have the cold detachment of a great mage, she remembered, but she'd seen the flicker of revulsion in his features just now. Surely he was capable of some sympathy.
An actual shadow-native...
Gaethras' words cut through the mantle of dread that lay on Ebri more closely than the shadowskin. If we were not about to be 'immolated', that would be fascinating...
He seemed to imply that the Umbrals, if that was what he meant, were not entirely extinct. Or perhaps their descendants still remained...
But the immediate question was whether they were to survive. If she spoke up now, it might upset the balance if the other Manipulator believed Melisande. On the other, if he were about to dispatch them all magically, it might change his mind. In any case, she thought, though she knew it was rather cold, it will buy time for me to get her out of the way-- If the others had to be sacrificed to save Melisande, Ebri would do just that.
This is heaping crazy story on crazier story... she realized, but Gaethras had given her an opening...
She stepped forward, away from the others, and turned her face up to the gallery. "I am not a mercenary, though I have pretended to be thus far. And now that we are met, I have a message for you, Gaethras. And for the aasimar, too. But I will not have this rabble hear it. Shall we send them out of the room, or shall we come and meet you where we can speak more privately?"
The flickers of suspicion at Melisande's tale were still visible on the Manipulator's face, but at least now, he did not seem immediately disposed to hurling a fireball down into their midst. Then Ebri had stepped forwards and said her piece, and the wizard seemed to sag, suddenly letting the tiredness and fatigue to the surface. He looked especially haggard - whether this was because of what the woman had just said was unclear.
"I can't say I believe all of what you've been saying, Melisande, but for now, come on up, all of you - including the shadowman. We'll be ready and waiting in the upper chamber; try anything underhand and I won't hesistate to have you all killed. And you, shadowman, if you've got something to say, you can come up and say it in front of us all. There's no way I'm going to go off alone with two of your band. Now, up. It's the stairs across there."
"Like I said, we'll be waiting."
Next Time: More bluffing, more negotiations, and sudden, shocking events.
Suddenly, there was movement above.
From the gloomy recesses of the gallery above, hidden in shadow and osbtructed from the direct sight of those below, a cloaked figure moved forwards to look down over the gathered group below, hands resting on the ornate stone balustrade. The hands looked human, but the face of the shrouded man could not be seen, even by those with sight that pierced the darkness; the hood simply kept his features secret as yet.
"So... we have more interlopers, then." The voice of a young man, but confident. Carthagian in accent, carrying well across the open space between himself and the party. And... there was something about that voice that caught Melisande's memory, though she could not recall exactly where she had heard it before...
The gathered sages looked up in alarm, a number squinting to peer at the robed man intently. The magically augmented vision that several possessed, their magesight incantations still in effect, brought whispers of alarm. "It's a Manipulator," said Johanne quietly, while besides him Jarvis seemed to be looking for quick ways up to the gallery, though none were apparent.
A moment longer and Melisande would have gone invisible. She wasn't sure if that would have been better. Maybe this way she had a chance....
She'd been mulling it over all the way up. She had to admit it: no one would ever believe Melberry had been assigned to a top secret spy mission on behalf of the Church of Toran to keep on eye on Professor Akarsis, even if she tried to make it seem her blundering nitwitedness had been but a disguise. Great gods, even the nerdy necromancers at the lab didn't want her at their parties. Some spy. She felt herself turning dark blue with shame and anger. Whoever it was, he probably knew enough about her already.
Who was it? She could not place the voice--one she had heard, but perhaps not often enough. Cold flippers of amphibious anxiety groped in her mind, making it hard to think.
Her heart was beginning to pound. If she said the right thing right now, it might save everyone a lot of pain and bloodshed, if not death. If she said the wrong thing--
--it would just accelerate the process a little.
"Hello! My goodness, you're hard to catch up to."
Melisande held up a fist in the symbol of Toran, even though her whole arm seemed like it went icy with the gesture. "We weren't sure we'd make it in time. I see you've taken a few losses, in fact--ironic, that if you hadn't been so quick and efficient we would have been there to help, maybe saved some resources. Hold on, we're coming up."
* * *
Turning to look upward, Sebastion instinctively stepped backward and to the right, ready to shield his face with his left hand if he needed to, but nothing came down except words. He recognised the accent well enough, having seen more than his fair share of Carthagians passing through his home-town, talking down to anyone and everyone they met. And here it was again - figuratively and literally, being spoken down to. He was about to reply when Mel whipped out some emblem and began to babble, bringing forth a resigned sigh from Sebastion.
We're in for it now... he thought, lowering his face for a moment. I hope to the Nine Hells she can pull this off.
He waited a moment, watching Jarvis' eyeing the walls for an avenue of attack, and pitched his voice low, counting on proximity to carry his words only as far as those he was talking to.
"Kale, Ebri... see if you can't get somewhere close to him in case we need to act..."
* * *
"More interlopers?" Wyshira muttered almost inaudibly. So had the Carthagians encountered opposition from outside the Tower before now? Did he mean the people who had made the less organized camp outside, the camp that they had effectively sacked? It seemed that the Carthagians dealt harshly with perceived interlopers.
She scowled when she heard that the cloaked figure above was a Manipulator. Those fleshtwisters! she thought with distaste. She had no wish whatsoever to ally or cooperate with people like this. Of course, Melisande had been on her way to becoming a Manipulator herself at one time, hadn't she? The sorceress had fled that life, but she still carried around a two-headed toad with her. Wyshira shook her head, not liking the way things were going.
She liked them even less after Melisande spoke up. What was the crazy girl doing now? Pretending that the crew had business with the Carthagians? That they were trying to catch up and join with them?
"Is this the one you were talking about?" she whispered out of the corner of her mouth to the sorceress. "Your mentor?"
* * *
The hooded figure above shifted slightly, and Melisande could feel his gaze fall upon her. "Melisande?" the man asked incredulously, and from the tone of his voice, perhaps caught a little off-guard. "No, stay right where you are. I certainly wasn't expecting to meet one of the rogue Manipulators here. What on earth are you doing here, aasimar? What is your purpose here? Are you..." He hesitated, almost... fearfully. "Are you in league with the Hashrukkites? Is that the truth, where the rogue mages went? Move, make one wrong move, and I'll fireball you all. Tell me... now." His voice had taken a dangerous edge.
* * *
Much like Jarvis, Cazamir was scanning the walls for ways to reach the Manipulator. Perhaps if he could leap and reach the balustrade, he could flip onto the gallery. No, he grumbled, the time and effort in that would be better spent standing by the mages. He knew little of the Manipulators, but guessed that they relied more on enhanced servants than actual blasting magicks. He stood firm beside Johanne, ready to interpose himself yet again if more searing flames came his way, as the mage above was threatening to deal out.
* * *
For all her faults, Melisande wasn't slow. Very rapidly, in spite of her growing discomfort, she pieced together the situation. It was what to do about it that was the puzzler. And who was he? It was on the edge of her mind, maddeningly out of reach. If only she could recall his name!
She forced out an icy, solid voice through a genuinely humorless smile. "Ah. I suppose we're at an impasse, then."
"I was not a rogue for long."
Whoever the rogue Manipulators are.... I wonder....
"As you may imagine, I was re-captured very soon after defecting and taken back to the Church for re-education. The iron hand of Toran set my mind straight. And lords know it needed it. Some time after your departure it was decided your mission was even more important, and more imperiled, than foreseen, and I was among the detachment of reinforcements sent. A courier rode out to warn you of our arrival but I gather now that he never reached you. Since most of the detachment was lost in a regrettable encounter with a Solar Beholder in the mountains, Captain Cornell and I were forced to hire mercenaries and try to catch up to you. It is understandable, in the circumstances, that you would be prudent. Captain Cornell and I will come up to join you, and the mercenaries will remain behind to watch for any further interlopers. What else can we do, I wonder, to reassure you that we are not Hashrukkites, so that we can get on with this and avoid any further waste of Carthagia's time and resources?"
She realized then that Pierre was going to bail out again and placed a hand firmly over her pocket. We'll be fine. And I may need you.
Captain Cornell? Sebastion had spent the few moments since the threat had arrived looking for a way out, and just as he'd been about to speak, Mel blurted out more unbelievable drivel to compound the problem.
It was like the sudden rush of the spring floods that poured down the rivers near his home when the mountain ice and snow that had dammed the flows suddenly let go. You could either get out of the way, or ride the flow and see where it took you.
"Where's the staircase?" he asked, gruffly. The corridor was too narrow to get out the way of a fireball - going with the flow was the only choice, now.
The Manipulator had remained coldly silent for a moment, then shook his head, the cowl shadowing his features rippling with the movement. "I don't think so, Melisande. Captured and re-educated? If they'd caught any of the rogues, somehow I doubt they'd be willing to send you back out again, oh no. If the Manipulator's Guild had caught a rogue, I don't think anyone would see them again at all."
"If you really want me to believe that you're telling the truth, then show me some proof, eh? Until you do, don't try to go running anywhere, certainly not the stairs up. I know enough battle magic to immolate the lot of you."
With the man above threatening to hurl fireballs down at the party if he didn't get some answers to his questions, Wyshira was afraid to let Melisande say anything more.
"I give you my word as a priestess of Ishrak that we are not in league with the Hashrukkites." Wyshira stepped forward in order to let the Manipulator see her better. She wondered at his fear, for she was not aware that the Daemonflesh had any followers to speak of anymore. "I am Wyshira of Cryosia, one of the mercenaries that Melisande mentioned. May I ask your name? Melisande has not spoken to me of you before."
What Mel did then was to take an even greater risk--but Wyshira had provided her with a vital opportunity she hardly hoped for.
Turning her head to look at the short priestess, she angled her face away from the hooded figure above. Using the (albeit strained) bubbling-brook sound of Wyshira's voice as cover, she muttered a single word, and performed a gesture as if sweeping back the hang of her rabbit-fur cloak. It might not fool him.
She needed the "proof". A timely alter self spell on her arms could do the trick. With the distraction provided by Wyshira, Melisande's incantation took effect without her words reaching the ears of the hooded Manipulator on the gallery above.
Then suddenly she turned on Wyshira sharply.
"And nor shall I, presumptuous fool. You are paid to fight and keep your chattering mouth shut. Another question and I'll Manipulate it shut for you." Her tone was iron. She'd learned it from her mother, and it was effective. Melisande's mother scared priests of Toran into giving up burning her blue baby, just with that voice. Mel did not dare make any apologetic gesture to the priestess, as cold as it made her feel to talk like that to such a dear friend, only turning her icy stare from Wyshira back to the hooded Manipulator above.
"Apologies," she offered him. And now the flush of deep blue in her cheeks came in handy. "I regret you insist on humiliating me in front of my servants, but I have to concede. I was never a rogue Manipulator."
She sighed. "I threw a tantrum in the lab and tried to defect to Naseria. I didn't even make it past the border of the Drakkath before they took me back. I was indeed re-educated -- mildly -- and enhanced as penance."
With this she threw back the sleeves of her gown to reveal two grossly disproportionate muscled arms, laced with very precise but ugly dark blue scars.
"Now may we proceed?" she asked through gritted teeth, feigning wounded pride before her retinue.
The mage shook back his cowl now, revealing the features which finally jogged her memory as to who this man was.
Gaethras, that was it. She'd known him back in the labs; a biothaumaturge not attached to her own group of trainees, but the guild fortress had been a pretty massive place and had held more than her class of apprentices, after all. The young man had not had the same unpleasantly superior attitude to her that her classmates had possessed, even actually being mildly pleasant to her. He seemed to have lacked the cruel streak that many of the other thaumaturges possessed. Professor Akarsis had mentioned once in passing that Gaethras was destined for greater accomplishments than most of the lesser Manipulators precisely because of this, his view and outlook more scholarly and detached. He was a highly talented conjurer, if she remembered correctly.
Gaethras's features were slightly gaunt and tired, and he had a fuzz of hair growth across what was obviously normally a shaven scalp. As he looked down at the collection of people below, seeing Melisande's magically changed arms, she saw a flicker of revulsion cross his face at the twisted limbs. Now he seemed more confused than anything else, but still possessing a healthy dose of suspicion.
"Wait... if these people are your mercenaries, then why is there a priestess of Ishrak? And why..." he gestured at the various members of the band who looked decidedly less mercenary-like, the sages and Burl, "are they here? They don't look much like mercenaries to me. And what in the Nine Hells are those?" he demanded harshly, pointing to the two shadow-shrouded figures of Kale and Ebri. Though they had been well-hidden from the Carthagians when scouting the place out, now the mage had had ample time to survey the chamber and see them clearly. "One looks like a man shrouded by spells, the other like some actual shadow-native. What are you up to, Melisande?"
Mel felt a warm wave of relief wash over her--not just because she'd managed the sleight of hand, so to speak, without being instantly grilled, but because he was not one of the apprentices she remembered as snotty and obsessed with power, and as much as she hated her memories of that lab it still was a sort of home, to a former self perhaps, but still as comfortable in some ways.
It was a dangerous wave of relief, however. Pierre was still having a silently screaming post-traumatic seizure, which helped keep her alert, and clearly Gaethras was not yet comfortable with her presence. She fought the treacherous sense of security, tucking her misshapen arms back under their sleeves. There were still questions to be answered.
What are you up to, Melisande?
It sounded so intimate, so conspiratorial, that she felt a strong desire to answer him honestly.
She didn't, but she did make a concession. Her voice was softer now, having given in to one painful confession and making another. Strange, that the deeper she went into the lie the closer she came to the truth. "We hired the first people we found. I hardly know them. Some truly are mercenaries; others are mere adventurers, and these gentlemen are scholars--they are not so much here to serve us but to benefit from our protection in order to study these ruins, and since their wizardry has been of use to us we struck up a bargain. We lost a whole detachment to that flaming Beholder. We'll probably both be re-educated again when we get back. That's why I'm sincerely hoping we can be of use to you, because maybe someone will put in a good word...."
Mel let her voice trickle away, having lost its ice. "Let me do something for the Homeland, Gaethras."
She was pleading. He did have the cold detachment of a great mage, she remembered, but she'd seen the flicker of revulsion in his features just now. Surely he was capable of some sympathy.
* * *
An actual shadow-native...
Gaethras' words cut through the mantle of dread that lay on Ebri more closely than the shadowskin. If we were not about to be 'immolated', that would be fascinating...
He seemed to imply that the Umbrals, if that was what he meant, were not entirely extinct. Or perhaps their descendants still remained...
But the immediate question was whether they were to survive. If she spoke up now, it might upset the balance if the other Manipulator believed Melisande. On the other, if he were about to dispatch them all magically, it might change his mind. In any case, she thought, though she knew it was rather cold, it will buy time for me to get her out of the way-- If the others had to be sacrificed to save Melisande, Ebri would do just that.
This is heaping crazy story on crazier story... she realized, but Gaethras had given her an opening...
She stepped forward, away from the others, and turned her face up to the gallery. "I am not a mercenary, though I have pretended to be thus far. And now that we are met, I have a message for you, Gaethras. And for the aasimar, too. But I will not have this rabble hear it. Shall we send them out of the room, or shall we come and meet you where we can speak more privately?"
The flickers of suspicion at Melisande's tale were still visible on the Manipulator's face, but at least now, he did not seem immediately disposed to hurling a fireball down into their midst. Then Ebri had stepped forwards and said her piece, and the wizard seemed to sag, suddenly letting the tiredness and fatigue to the surface. He looked especially haggard - whether this was because of what the woman had just said was unclear.
"I can't say I believe all of what you've been saying, Melisande, but for now, come on up, all of you - including the shadowman. We'll be ready and waiting in the upper chamber; try anything underhand and I won't hesistate to have you all killed. And you, shadowman, if you've got something to say, you can come up and say it in front of us all. There's no way I'm going to go off alone with two of your band. Now, up. It's the stairs across there."
"Like I said, we'll be waiting."
Next Time: More bluffing, more negotiations, and sudden, shocking events.
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Broccli_Head
Explorer
I thought there was going to be a fight there! I still don't trust the Carthagians, though...
You know what they say..."The only good Carthagian is a dead Carthagian."
Stinkin' Manipulators!
You know what they say..."The only good Carthagian is a dead Carthagian."
Stinkin' Manipulators!
Carnifex
First Post
The Upper Chamber
The steps rose up into a broad, open room, light brightly; not from torches but from the sunlight. Much of the domed ceiling here was blue-tinted stained glass, playing soothing shapes across the ivory tiles of the floor. Other metal doors, including a sizeable mechanised steel iris, led away; the iris was tightly closed, two Carthagians crouched nearby and attentively examining the workings of the door.
Large metal pipes criss-crossed around the ceiling-dome and around the walls; a steady breeze blew threw vents and a whirring fan that pierced the blue glass, its rotating form shedding spinning shadows. Various pieces of mechanical equipment and tables, looking like the paraphernalia of another laboratory, had been cleared towards the walls. The centre was now taken up by the crates and equipment that had been moved up from the lower chamber.
Most of the Carthagians were carefully watching the top of the stairs as the party come up through it; crossbows and spears were readied. Their mage-captain had a longsword carefully gripped in one hand, the other glimmering with the arcane sparks of some prepared spell. A little to the side, Gaethras stood, one hand gripping a light crossbow whose bolt seemed slick with some dark substance. His other hand held the chain leads of two eager manipulated warhounds, skeletaly thin yet their frames wrought with wiry muscles, metal parts worked into the flesh.
"Talk, shadowman." He gestured for the shadow-clad Ebri to step forwards and speak.
On the very edge of her augmented hearing, she caught noise from below; from lower in the tower, and approaching, the sounds of movement. Above the noises of the fan and the faint humm of machinery that permeated this part of the tower, she was surely the only one who could even vaguely hear it; the Carthagians' attention was still all focused on her and the party. And if they were all up here, all of the Manipulator's band and the Truthseeker's band... then who was below them?
"Charming hounds..." she observed, with a thin though not unappreciative smile, and sounding like it. "It's not our way, but we nonetheless remain impressed at the research going on in your Carthagian labs..."
Pausing, she listened again for the sounds from below, wondering what it could mean. Aid? In which case, she should draw this out. And yet, if it were more enemies... If this fails, our chances are less than good... She consoled herself that her wit, discipline and training were superior to any of the others'; it seemed there were few good plans from which to choose.
Thankfully, she had had some practice at projecting unconcerned confidence.
"The message..." she began. "We have reliable intelligence that this mission, --your endeavor in this Tower-- is crucial to the ultimate victory of your 'Homeland'. Let us say that we are, for reasons of our own, interested in the victory of Toran. My superiors foresaw that the risk would be particularly great for the aasimar, and I was dispatched to guard her until the two of you could join forces. At that point, I was to reveal my purpose, and offer you our -- and by our, I do not mean this motley crew-- collective aid in whatever you require. As I have now done. "
* * *
Isn't that funny, Melisande would have said to Ebri Zol. He thinks you're a shadow-man!
But as the conversation continued, Melisande realized Gaethras believed it, and realized how little she was able to find out about the Umbral people and how they seemed to be shadowing her (so to speak) for a long time now, and how she had suspected before that Ebri Zol knew more than she was saying about such things. Could some of what she said be true? Could she really have been sent by some "Order" to watch over her? No--no--that was just a clever cover lie to let Ebri take over the negotiations, for which Melisande was actually grateful.
But the camouflaging effect the priestess wore really was odd--Mel had never seen anything like it. It reminded her of the little vial of shadowy black potion that had stayed in her pocket since she woke up in the gnolls' grove with the dream of the shadow-demon (shadow-man?).
She patted around until she found it, but refrained from bringing it out while Gaethras and the other Carthagians could see. She had a few more questions for Ebri Zol, if they survived joining forces with Carthagia.
For a moment she saw a pained expression pass over Gaethras' haggard features, and she smiled to herself because where he stood his face bathed in the light from stained glass overhead looked nearly as blue as hers.
* * *
Ebri's smile was of course lost on the Manipulator, cloaked entirely as she was with shadows. The rest of her words seemed to, if anything, rather confuse the mage. "But surely this is your..."
He stopped.
"Can you hear that?"
The manipulated warhounds sniffed and drooled, giving low growls. The Carthagian warriors paused to bring still quiet to the room, listening carefully.
Now everyone could hear the faint clamour that Ebri had already noticed. The sound of movement over metal; the pipes that pierced the room brought faint vibrations of noise along them. Whispers of sounds floated up the stairway. Sounds that were getting closer.
Gaethras looked around wildly. "Must be the Hashrukkites, finally coming up from the bowels of this place for a fight!" As his men scrambled for cover, he snarled, "Try and capture one alive, I'll wring information out of them. You!" he gestured at Ebri and her band. "If you think my mission is so important, now's the time to prove it! The Hashrukkites have foul diseased beasts with their mangy cultists, and they'll be as eager to slay you as us!"
Suddenly there was a crack and a puff of miasmic smoke, as a diminuitive figure materialised out of thin air, perched up on one of the pipes above them. Some three and a half feet tall, its humanoid, squat body was clad in dark cloth robes, but its head was uncowled; a head of toadlike features, scraggly hair sprouting out in bunches and a ludicrously wide mouth full of large, sharp teeth; it was grinning insanely.
"Daemon!" Gaethras yelled.
In response, the daemon started cackling and giggling insanely; the noise jarring the minds of the listeners like the sound of scratching glass.
Ebri reacted fast and first, hurling shuriken that scythed through the air at the diminuitive fiend; one striking true but simply bouncing off the grinning, maniacal creature. Melisande gritted her teeth to overcome the cacophonous, distracting laughter and hurled sapphire bolts of energy at it; this time the beast really was hurt, the impact almost knocking the daemon from its perch, and it began to spit and curse vituperously at her. A couple of the Carthagians also loosed crossbow bolts at it, but it easily dodged such mundane atacks, moving with worrying speed and swiftness as it scampered around atop the metal pipe.
The noises of incoming beings were growing louder, animalistic bellows and hoots echoing confusingly up from the staircase and resounding through the metal pipings that laced the structure.
Kale moved with speed down the stairs, liberally dousing them with caltrops before seeking cover. Thus he was the first to see the enemy coming.
Two hulking monstrosities led the Hashrukkite assault. Each massive and bulked with immense muscles, the broad-chested beasts seemed like some nightmare reshaping of an ape, appearing like exotic creatures called gorillas yet sporting four arms, not two, each tipped with rending claws; the feral, snarling faces bore mouths filled with barbed fangs. Their fur was thick and white, but diseased and scabrous in many places, and in others instead there grew patches of tough scales. They drooled and slobbered viscous ichor, which also exuded from their claws.
Each loped forwards with alarming speed for something eight feet tall, and behind the four-armed abberations came the cultists, over half a dozen robed and cowled men hissing and shouting threats and warcries as they waved barbed flails with enthusiasm. Behind them two more cultists came, these clad in the scabrous, toughened hides of some foul beast, the face of each man covered in scars as if they had been repeatedly cut across their features. Both carried flails with hollow heads, incense within burning and filling the air with putrid, miasmatic smoke. They spoke firmly and loudly in litanies and prayers to Hashrukk as they strode forwards.
The occasional puff of smoke and echoes of insane giggles indicated that more of the little daemons were accompanying this group.
It took mere moments for the massive monsters to sense Kale, even shrouded in shadows as he was. One sniffed the air with savage interest, picking up the scent of the man right away, and the entire entourage broke into a charge, forcing the scout to retreat as fast as he could back up into the main chamber.
Even as the bulk of the assault was about to boil up the staircase to assault the Carthagians and mercenaries, two more of the daemons appeared in the room, amidst the confused bunching of sages and soldiers, laughing deliriously as they ran about, tripping and disorientating the bigger beings around them. Then there was an almighty scream of tortured metal as, from the largest of the metal pipes that protruded into the room, another of the four armed creatures appeared, simply tearing its way out and snarling with bloodlust, claws reaching out for the nearby men.
Melisande had seen a girallon before; creatures created through biothaumaturgy, fleshtwisting gorillas into vicious, four-armed killing machines. But these were different, as if they'd been even further fleshtwisted, and they looked ridden with disease and infection. As the others charged up the staircase, it was apparent that being diseased wasn't making them any less angry than usual. Kale's caltrops hadn't hindered the beast's either, it seemed.
To add to the confusion, the massive steel iris began to grind open...
Next Time: A liberal dose of carnage...
Broccli_Head
Explorer
Yes! This was one of my favorite battles! Gotta love girallions 
Carni's almost caught up to the action....and the introduction of my character
Carni's almost caught up to the action....and the introduction of my character
Carnifex
First Post
Broccli_Head said:Yes! This was one of my favorite battles! Gotta love girallions
Carni's almost caught up to the action....and the introduction of my character
Which will be happening very soon... just as soon as tactics for the final assault are put together
Should be quite amusing to watch...
Carnifex
First Post
We are in fact relatively close to being caught up, with only a single fight after the current one between where the SH is and where the players have gotten to right now. Hopefully I'll have the time to put up another update today, so look out for one later on...
While I'm at it, I may as well also put up the picture by Brom which inspired the appearance of the fleshtwisted warhounds. Hopefully there are no legal problems with doing so, since its a damn cool pic.
While I'm at it, I may as well also put up the picture by Brom which inspired the appearance of the fleshtwisted warhounds. Hopefully there are no legal problems with doing so, since its a damn cool pic.
Attachments
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Carnifex
First Post
Without hesitation, the hulking, armoured Toranite warrior bellowed his defiant warcry and countercharged towards the oncoming Hashrukkite assault, metal clashing as he stomped forwards with the massive bladed warmace prepared to strike. With a grisly crunch he swept it down into the foremost girallon, the weapon rending the flesh of the monster badly and sending glistening arcs of blood scattering across its diseased fur. Behind him, Jarvis moved to fend off the abberation that was pulling itself out of the shattered metal pipe, blocking its access to his wards; his crystal-bladed short sword flickered out and scored a deep strike into one of the reaching arms, but the beast didn't even seem to notice.
At the back of the pack of festering disease-worshippers, the two flail-carrying clerics paused to utter more loudly their prayers, moving their hands in ritual gestures through the thick, incense-filled air around them and invoking the power of Hashrukk. With a shimmer of divine energy, an unholy wash of magic spread across their allies, bolstering them with the blessing, and then they imbued the nearest of the girallons with even more divine power, calling on the aid of the Daemonflesh to sustain it and to crush their foes. The massive beast roared with the invigorating power rushing into it.
Shifting through the band like a skittering shadow, Ebri dove over towards her own ward, Melisande, where with quiet but holy incantations she called upon her deity to protect the aasimar from further harm. With a quiet hum, the air around the woman took on a dulled hue, slightly more shadowy than the rest of the room even in the light through the glass above.
Meanwhile, Gaethras the Manipulator was yelling orders and cursing. He let go of the chain leads that kept the warhounds close to him; with snarls of delight, the twisted creatures leapt forwards towards the girallon that was already assailed by the Dread Slayer, but the ape-like beast easily fended them off with its powerful arms. Then, finally with his hands freed up properly, Gaethras fell back into an invocational gesture, one arm held high and the other out in front, and with an actinic gleam of light, sharp electricity began to dance down from his hands to his shoulders, highlighting his grin as the energy ran through him. Then he let the build-up loose, and the energy danced across the charging cultists and girallons. Two of the berserk men simply toppled, their corpses twitching as their robes caught fire, while others screamed in agony or jolted bizarrely. One girallon was seared badly by the bolt, but the other seemed virtually unharmed.
Ansas'Turi was feeling more than a little out of place in the insane combat breaking out all around her, and backed off, trying to find a corner to hide in until this was all over. Nonetheless, she kept her weapons-bracer up and tried to keep an aim on the flitting movement through the mob that signified the diminuitive daemons, just in case one came her way.
Recovering from their former surprise, the Carthagian militiamen now moved to fight back. Those with crossbows let loose a flurry of bolts into their attackers; another cultist fell, transfixed by a quarrel through the neck, and one of the girallons looked like it had arrows growing out of its shoulders, though even now the beast still seemed more angry than anything else. Led by their mage-captain, who conjured up a glowing shield of energy to protect himself, the remaining warriors swept forwards with swords and spears to engage their foe in melee, the girallons swatting at the assailants all around them with enraged bellows as their flesh was struck again and again.
"I'll see if I can slow them down," Cazamir barked as he moved away from Johanne. "Be wary of that steel door!" Pushing through the melee, he forced his way to the front, and brought up his foot to stamp down and send out a shockwave of mental force... only to find his concentration broken by the damned daemons! The little fiends giggling seemed magnified by the increased number now running around the place, and it reverberated around the metal pipes, grating against his mind. At the critical moment, his concentration - his focus of will - had failed.
Then the entire place resounded not with the daemons laughter but with the empowered speech of Wyshira, raising up a powerful prayer to Ishrak herself for aid and protection. All around her, her allies gelt suddenly bolstered and strengthened by the prayer, while all her foes seemed to shrink back in fear for a moment; all, that was, except the berserk girallons. But even the daemons seemed to falter for a moment.
But it was only a moment, before they sprang back into action, quite literally. One danced through the confusion, scurrying through people's legs up to the Ishrakite priestess, and with a moment's evil cackle, bit her leg with its quite considerable row of teeth. Wyshira felt the little fiend tear through the skin, biting down hard before... it was gone again, laughing and giggling as it dove away. Blood flowed freely from the injury, as did pain.
Another, grinning insanely as it went, saw Sebastion loose off an arrow into the Hashrukkite mob, and pointed towards him menacingly, sending a stream of dark magic whispering out at him. Suddenly, the Huronese man found the laughter of the daemons infectious, hilarious, and saw no reason not to collapse into a pile of mirth himself. Sobbing with laughter, he fell to the ground, helpless. Meanwhile, the remaining cultists fought back against their assailants frenziedly, howling calls to Hashrukk as they swung their flails with abandon; under the sheer ferocity of the assault, the bloodied Carthagians could not help but falter and step back.
At Cazamir's shouted warning about the iris, Johanne stepped away from the melee to watch it suspiciously, himself and many other of the wizards casting lesser protection spells; a host of shimmering shields and ethereal armours sprung up around them. As the metal aperture finally finished opening, revealing the gloom beyond, a massive metal figure strode through with a hiss of steam escaping pistons - another arcanofex, much like the one they had met in the tower entranceway; in fact, nearly identical. The head swept from left to right, assessing the situation, then began to stride towards the melee, pushing Carthagians out of the way with ease.
Melisande brought up her hands to fling more sapphire bolts at the capering daemon atop the pipe that she had hurt before; but this time, even as she began to cast, it gibbered some insane incantation of its own, and with a push of abjuration magic, disrupted her spell. Its laughter at this minor triumph was even more irritating than before.
Meg'anna too stepped up to bring battle to the enemy, her hands weaving nature magic together even as around her the air resounded with the cold hiss of glacial winds and the tinkle of ice falling to the ground; she let loose a blast of icy cold air that snapped and frosted across the cultists and a girallon; one cultist fell, literally frozen to death, and the girallon's fresh wounds crusted over with frozen blood as it staggered from the chilly assault.
And then the girallons gathered their wits together and struck back. The beast assailed by the Dread Slayer, warhounds and numerous Carthagian warriors lashed out in pure rage; one of the Manipulated hounds was sent flying towards a wall where it lay, still and crumpled, in a pool of its own blood, and a punishing punch to the Dread Slayer left a permanent dent in the Toranite's heavy armour, blood seeping through the rent metal as the man staggered. Then it leant forwards and sunk its teeth into the shoulder of a nearby Carthagian, hoisting him up into the air as it worrried at the flesh until the entire arm came free and the screaming man dropped to the floor. The other girallon that had born the brunt of the spells, bolts and spears screamed and piled forwards, smashing men aside like ragdolls, leaving them limp and broken. The final beast managed to get itself free of the pipe at last, and unable to hit the dodging form of Jarvis, simply reached over him and rent one of the wizards behind him in two. Seeing the carnage they were wreaking, Burl flung out a spray of magical missiles towards the most injured one; even in its pure rage it stumbled now, badly injured. Then the arcanofex met with it head on, and with a resounding punch knocked it back, stunned; the impact of the attack pulverised flesh and bone, and one of the abberation's shoulders was left useless and crushed. Its animal eyes glared out at its attacker, but the impassive construct just moved in for more.
Deeply tempted to stay by Melisande, Ebri nonetheless felt conflict over her next course of action. Normally she might trust to Sebastion to protect Melisande, but the man had now lost all shred of mental discipline--
For herself, she could not help but feel a small shock at having seen their scholar companion torn in two. It was over for him now, however, while she must survive this less physical rift--
Protected and less visible as she was by the shadowskin, it only made sense that she move forward to the offensive...
She reached into her wrap for one of the shadowskin globes, pressing it into Melisande's hand. "If the spell is insufficient--" she said, and darted towards the melee.
Melisade found it impossible to keep track of what else was going on around her; the vast hall echoed deafeningly with hideous roars, screams, demonic giggling, pounding, crashing and worse--ripping and splashing. She was aware Ebri had cast some sort of spell on her, and had noticed the light dim around her--another shadow-spell?--as well as the appearance of another tower arcanofex. She now implicitly trusted that if the arcanofex downstairs was their friend, then this one would be too, and decided to concentrate her energies on the daemons again.
Then something smooth and cool was pressed into her palm.
"If the spell is insufficient...."
Mel looked at the dark little globe in suprise. There was no time to stop and wonder. She stuffed it into her pocket and turned another blast of magic at the daemon up in the pipes. Surely it couldn't do that twice....
In the midst of the chaos, Cazamir believed he was losing his sanity. Deadly fires and lightning, hulking beasts, and the unceasing laughter of those little daemons swirled all around him, distracting him and causing the flames inside to falter.
Concentrate, Caz… Concentrate. You will help no one if you cannot conquer the mind! To drive the point into his mind, Cazamir watched as one of the four-armed beasts casually slew one of the sages. It was subsequently punished by the Arcanofex, but that did little for his piece of mind.
He quickly surveyed the scene, looking for the nearest opponent. He found one of the gorilla-beasts, and set off towards it. He couldn't allow it to grab him, so he would have to bring it down with quick, sharp kicks.
As Sebastion continued to roll around on the ground in helpless mirth, the savage battle continued all around him. The Toranite warrior's heavy mace struck true again and again, the massive bladed head of the weapon empowered further since the Dread Slayer seemed to have entered a state of berserk rage; Ebri and Wyshira could feel the dark energy roiling off him, divine power filling him with furious energy as the blood of the girallong before him spattered far and wide. The massive creature, besieged by men, howled in agony and thrashed around it, slaughtering more of the Carthagian warriors and the last warhound but unable to get its claws through the thick, heavy armour of the berserker. Jarvis continued to lash out at the lumbering behemoth that stood now before him, the blood of one of the men he was supposed to be guarding all over its claws, and desperately tried to get its attention onto him. Blades flashed and struck, one skittering off the diseased creature's toughened skin while the other brought forth a stream of blood, but it simply wasn't enough, for the beast seemed to have learned that the pathfinder was just too evasive to strike, and reached out once again for the wizards behind him. It was met with a hail of arcane attacks; bolts of energy and force, a host of minor hexes and curses, all cascading over it, and the assailed creature echoed its brethren's howl of pain, but charged into the band with pain-fuelled strength. Like a reaper it scythed through the aged men, claws and teeth flashing as it cut through them like corn, eyes glazed with insane rage.
The foul ecclesiastics supporting the Hashrukkite assault wove forth new prayers and beseechments to their dark lord, and a blanket of cursing magic fell forth across their foes. All beneath the influence of the sinister spell felt their strikes falter and their morale waver, but then the superior of the two clerics stepped forth and thrust forth his hands, and with a grotesque ripple of the skin, they sprouted forth heavy barbs. Those who had faced the crazed wizard Cancer beneath Tarravus had a moment in which to recognise the spell from when it had been used then; and like a hail of darts, the barbs blasted forth. Most of the remaining Carthagian warriors fell beneath the assault; the thick press of combat turned out to be advantageous for those behind the front-runners, the corpses of those in front of them protecting them from the bulk of the agonising spray. Even so, both Wyshira and Meg'anna found themselves caught in the blast, both injured but Wyshira especially so. Every movement she took, the spines that had bitten through her flesh and protruded from her as if she was a pin cushion caused absolute agony.
But then, darting from the shadows once more, Ebri struck forth at the censer-wielding zealots; her kama flashed in the blue light shed through the glass above, and with a gasp of pain the lesser of the two clerics fell, clutching at the slash across his throat.
Angered at the death of his fleshtwisted warhounds, Gaethras prepared to hurl another powerful incantation, but the closely packed battle prevented him from being able to do so without striking his own side. Instead the Manipulator flung forth a flurry of force, arrow-like projectiles arcing in to strike unerringly the nearest of the girallons, the one assailed by the Dread Slayer; the bolts tore into it with small bursts of gore, and with a gurgling groan the beast finally toppled into a blood-sodden heap.
Now the only one of the Carthagian warriors left was the mage-captain, who leapt gleefully forwards to join Ebri's assault on the last cleric, his glimmering magical shield filling the air around him. With a flash of steel, his blade bit, scoring a painful strike on the Hashrukkite who staggered and was now caught between two foes.
The nearest of the girallons to Cazamir was now the one butchering his wards, and he set off towards it at pace, launching into the air at the final moment to assault it with a flurry of kicks and strikes. Repeatedly he struck true, rewarded with the noise of cracking bone several times, and the blood-soaked monster turned its fearsome eyes upon him, staring down with animal ferocity. “Face me, you overgrown kurg!” he said to the towering girallon, using the colorful Huronese term.
Nearby, Wyshira quickly ran to the side of the incapacitated Sebastion, hoping to protect him from any attention diverted his way. She drew forth a prismatic javelin and held it ready; her pose seemed to ward off the mischievous daemons and they stayed clear of her. In fact, with the tide of battle seemingly turning, the little monsters disappeared completely, seemingly shifting out of existence with little puffs of smoke and fire. Melisande found herself deprived of a target just before she was about to hurl more arcane missiles in the daemon's direction. Instead she redirected the spell towards one of the girallons, the sapphire bolts biting into it. Nearby, Burl conjured forth a magical knifeblade of freezing ice, hurling it at the girallon assaulting the scholars; yet his aim was poor in the confusion of battle, and the arcane weapon shattered against the wall of the room.
Meg'anna's creeping cold continued to work its magic, and the final of the berserk cultist warriors fell, frozen to death in its icy grip; the girallon facing the arcanofex, who had also been caught in the spell, also continued to suffer as the rime continued to expand across its skin, coating much of it in a layer of ice. Then the druidess moved forwards to engage it in melee, flanking it and striking out with her enchanted spear; the flames of Rhaeygar flared up brightly, but even so injured, the monstrosity managed to evade her attack. It retaliated, the bulk of its ire directed at the arcanofex, but managing to sink a claw into Meg'anna as well, slashing deep wounds into her. With its other arms it sought to rend the construct before it apart, claws sparking across the metal foe. It managed to catch them on one of the construct's plates and with a scream of tortured metal, the panel tore off, revealing the pistons and gears of one of the arcanofexes shoulders beneath. In retaliation, the mechanised warrior struck back with hammer blows, repeatedly pummelling the corrupted abberation before one final punch shattered its skull and it toppled.
Pain engulfed her; it was all Wyshira knew. How many of the magical barbs had struck her? It felt like a half dozen or more, mostly in her upper body, although none had lodged in a vital area. Her eyes swam with tears, and the slight movement of wiping them away sent another wave of agony through her.
When she could see again, she looked for a target for her javelin. Death was everywhere. Sebastian was still wracked with hysterical laughter on the floor, but at least no enemies were near enough to threaten him. One of the four-armed monstrosities still stood a distance away, and Wyshira steeled herself to launch the javelin at it.
More pain than she had ever imagined possible followed. It was too much, and with a cry she fell to her knees. Sebastian's laughter echoed in her ears.
The berserk armoured Toranite; his first opponent crumpled before him, turned and ploughed into the last remaining girallon. A pulverising smash from his bladed mace reduced half of the monster's bestial face to red ruin, and then with a flicker of his shortsword, Jarvis darted across in front of it and sent its guts spilling out to the floor. It gurgled pathetically as it too hit the floor.
Caught between the mage-captain and Ebri, the last Hashrukkite cleric was quickly finished off, his flanking foes hitting him repeatedly before the scarred cultist could recover.
With the berserk howling of such fiendish monstrosities once again quelled, the chamber was dominated by the quiet sounds of the whirring fans, the quiet hiss of the arcanofex's steam vents, and the groans of the dying.
Next Time: The aftermath. So many dead...
At the back of the pack of festering disease-worshippers, the two flail-carrying clerics paused to utter more loudly their prayers, moving their hands in ritual gestures through the thick, incense-filled air around them and invoking the power of Hashrukk. With a shimmer of divine energy, an unholy wash of magic spread across their allies, bolstering them with the blessing, and then they imbued the nearest of the girallons with even more divine power, calling on the aid of the Daemonflesh to sustain it and to crush their foes. The massive beast roared with the invigorating power rushing into it.
Shifting through the band like a skittering shadow, Ebri dove over towards her own ward, Melisande, where with quiet but holy incantations she called upon her deity to protect the aasimar from further harm. With a quiet hum, the air around the woman took on a dulled hue, slightly more shadowy than the rest of the room even in the light through the glass above.
Meanwhile, Gaethras the Manipulator was yelling orders and cursing. He let go of the chain leads that kept the warhounds close to him; with snarls of delight, the twisted creatures leapt forwards towards the girallon that was already assailed by the Dread Slayer, but the ape-like beast easily fended them off with its powerful arms. Then, finally with his hands freed up properly, Gaethras fell back into an invocational gesture, one arm held high and the other out in front, and with an actinic gleam of light, sharp electricity began to dance down from his hands to his shoulders, highlighting his grin as the energy ran through him. Then he let the build-up loose, and the energy danced across the charging cultists and girallons. Two of the berserk men simply toppled, their corpses twitching as their robes caught fire, while others screamed in agony or jolted bizarrely. One girallon was seared badly by the bolt, but the other seemed virtually unharmed.
Ansas'Turi was feeling more than a little out of place in the insane combat breaking out all around her, and backed off, trying to find a corner to hide in until this was all over. Nonetheless, she kept her weapons-bracer up and tried to keep an aim on the flitting movement through the mob that signified the diminuitive daemons, just in case one came her way.
Recovering from their former surprise, the Carthagian militiamen now moved to fight back. Those with crossbows let loose a flurry of bolts into their attackers; another cultist fell, transfixed by a quarrel through the neck, and one of the girallons looked like it had arrows growing out of its shoulders, though even now the beast still seemed more angry than anything else. Led by their mage-captain, who conjured up a glowing shield of energy to protect himself, the remaining warriors swept forwards with swords and spears to engage their foe in melee, the girallons swatting at the assailants all around them with enraged bellows as their flesh was struck again and again.
"I'll see if I can slow them down," Cazamir barked as he moved away from Johanne. "Be wary of that steel door!" Pushing through the melee, he forced his way to the front, and brought up his foot to stamp down and send out a shockwave of mental force... only to find his concentration broken by the damned daemons! The little fiends giggling seemed magnified by the increased number now running around the place, and it reverberated around the metal pipes, grating against his mind. At the critical moment, his concentration - his focus of will - had failed.
Then the entire place resounded not with the daemons laughter but with the empowered speech of Wyshira, raising up a powerful prayer to Ishrak herself for aid and protection. All around her, her allies gelt suddenly bolstered and strengthened by the prayer, while all her foes seemed to shrink back in fear for a moment; all, that was, except the berserk girallons. But even the daemons seemed to falter for a moment.
But it was only a moment, before they sprang back into action, quite literally. One danced through the confusion, scurrying through people's legs up to the Ishrakite priestess, and with a moment's evil cackle, bit her leg with its quite considerable row of teeth. Wyshira felt the little fiend tear through the skin, biting down hard before... it was gone again, laughing and giggling as it dove away. Blood flowed freely from the injury, as did pain.
Another, grinning insanely as it went, saw Sebastion loose off an arrow into the Hashrukkite mob, and pointed towards him menacingly, sending a stream of dark magic whispering out at him. Suddenly, the Huronese man found the laughter of the daemons infectious, hilarious, and saw no reason not to collapse into a pile of mirth himself. Sobbing with laughter, he fell to the ground, helpless. Meanwhile, the remaining cultists fought back against their assailants frenziedly, howling calls to Hashrukk as they swung their flails with abandon; under the sheer ferocity of the assault, the bloodied Carthagians could not help but falter and step back.
At Cazamir's shouted warning about the iris, Johanne stepped away from the melee to watch it suspiciously, himself and many other of the wizards casting lesser protection spells; a host of shimmering shields and ethereal armours sprung up around them. As the metal aperture finally finished opening, revealing the gloom beyond, a massive metal figure strode through with a hiss of steam escaping pistons - another arcanofex, much like the one they had met in the tower entranceway; in fact, nearly identical. The head swept from left to right, assessing the situation, then began to stride towards the melee, pushing Carthagians out of the way with ease.
Melisande brought up her hands to fling more sapphire bolts at the capering daemon atop the pipe that she had hurt before; but this time, even as she began to cast, it gibbered some insane incantation of its own, and with a push of abjuration magic, disrupted her spell. Its laughter at this minor triumph was even more irritating than before.
Meg'anna too stepped up to bring battle to the enemy, her hands weaving nature magic together even as around her the air resounded with the cold hiss of glacial winds and the tinkle of ice falling to the ground; she let loose a blast of icy cold air that snapped and frosted across the cultists and a girallon; one cultist fell, literally frozen to death, and the girallon's fresh wounds crusted over with frozen blood as it staggered from the chilly assault.
And then the girallons gathered their wits together and struck back. The beast assailed by the Dread Slayer, warhounds and numerous Carthagian warriors lashed out in pure rage; one of the Manipulated hounds was sent flying towards a wall where it lay, still and crumpled, in a pool of its own blood, and a punishing punch to the Dread Slayer left a permanent dent in the Toranite's heavy armour, blood seeping through the rent metal as the man staggered. Then it leant forwards and sunk its teeth into the shoulder of a nearby Carthagian, hoisting him up into the air as it worrried at the flesh until the entire arm came free and the screaming man dropped to the floor. The other girallon that had born the brunt of the spells, bolts and spears screamed and piled forwards, smashing men aside like ragdolls, leaving them limp and broken. The final beast managed to get itself free of the pipe at last, and unable to hit the dodging form of Jarvis, simply reached over him and rent one of the wizards behind him in two. Seeing the carnage they were wreaking, Burl flung out a spray of magical missiles towards the most injured one; even in its pure rage it stumbled now, badly injured. Then the arcanofex met with it head on, and with a resounding punch knocked it back, stunned; the impact of the attack pulverised flesh and bone, and one of the abberation's shoulders was left useless and crushed. Its animal eyes glared out at its attacker, but the impassive construct just moved in for more.
* * *
Deeply tempted to stay by Melisande, Ebri nonetheless felt conflict over her next course of action. Normally she might trust to Sebastion to protect Melisande, but the man had now lost all shred of mental discipline--
For herself, she could not help but feel a small shock at having seen their scholar companion torn in two. It was over for him now, however, while she must survive this less physical rift--
Protected and less visible as she was by the shadowskin, it only made sense that she move forward to the offensive...
She reached into her wrap for one of the shadowskin globes, pressing it into Melisande's hand. "If the spell is insufficient--" she said, and darted towards the melee.
* * *
Melisade found it impossible to keep track of what else was going on around her; the vast hall echoed deafeningly with hideous roars, screams, demonic giggling, pounding, crashing and worse--ripping and splashing. She was aware Ebri had cast some sort of spell on her, and had noticed the light dim around her--another shadow-spell?--as well as the appearance of another tower arcanofex. She now implicitly trusted that if the arcanofex downstairs was their friend, then this one would be too, and decided to concentrate her energies on the daemons again.
Then something smooth and cool was pressed into her palm.
"If the spell is insufficient...."
Mel looked at the dark little globe in suprise. There was no time to stop and wonder. She stuffed it into her pocket and turned another blast of magic at the daemon up in the pipes. Surely it couldn't do that twice....
* * *
In the midst of the chaos, Cazamir believed he was losing his sanity. Deadly fires and lightning, hulking beasts, and the unceasing laughter of those little daemons swirled all around him, distracting him and causing the flames inside to falter.
Concentrate, Caz… Concentrate. You will help no one if you cannot conquer the mind! To drive the point into his mind, Cazamir watched as one of the four-armed beasts casually slew one of the sages. It was subsequently punished by the Arcanofex, but that did little for his piece of mind.
He quickly surveyed the scene, looking for the nearest opponent. He found one of the gorilla-beasts, and set off towards it. He couldn't allow it to grab him, so he would have to bring it down with quick, sharp kicks.
* * *
As Sebastion continued to roll around on the ground in helpless mirth, the savage battle continued all around him. The Toranite warrior's heavy mace struck true again and again, the massive bladed head of the weapon empowered further since the Dread Slayer seemed to have entered a state of berserk rage; Ebri and Wyshira could feel the dark energy roiling off him, divine power filling him with furious energy as the blood of the girallong before him spattered far and wide. The massive creature, besieged by men, howled in agony and thrashed around it, slaughtering more of the Carthagian warriors and the last warhound but unable to get its claws through the thick, heavy armour of the berserker. Jarvis continued to lash out at the lumbering behemoth that stood now before him, the blood of one of the men he was supposed to be guarding all over its claws, and desperately tried to get its attention onto him. Blades flashed and struck, one skittering off the diseased creature's toughened skin while the other brought forth a stream of blood, but it simply wasn't enough, for the beast seemed to have learned that the pathfinder was just too evasive to strike, and reached out once again for the wizards behind him. It was met with a hail of arcane attacks; bolts of energy and force, a host of minor hexes and curses, all cascading over it, and the assailed creature echoed its brethren's howl of pain, but charged into the band with pain-fuelled strength. Like a reaper it scythed through the aged men, claws and teeth flashing as it cut through them like corn, eyes glazed with insane rage.
The foul ecclesiastics supporting the Hashrukkite assault wove forth new prayers and beseechments to their dark lord, and a blanket of cursing magic fell forth across their foes. All beneath the influence of the sinister spell felt their strikes falter and their morale waver, but then the superior of the two clerics stepped forth and thrust forth his hands, and with a grotesque ripple of the skin, they sprouted forth heavy barbs. Those who had faced the crazed wizard Cancer beneath Tarravus had a moment in which to recognise the spell from when it had been used then; and like a hail of darts, the barbs blasted forth. Most of the remaining Carthagian warriors fell beneath the assault; the thick press of combat turned out to be advantageous for those behind the front-runners, the corpses of those in front of them protecting them from the bulk of the agonising spray. Even so, both Wyshira and Meg'anna found themselves caught in the blast, both injured but Wyshira especially so. Every movement she took, the spines that had bitten through her flesh and protruded from her as if she was a pin cushion caused absolute agony.
But then, darting from the shadows once more, Ebri struck forth at the censer-wielding zealots; her kama flashed in the blue light shed through the glass above, and with a gasp of pain the lesser of the two clerics fell, clutching at the slash across his throat.
Angered at the death of his fleshtwisted warhounds, Gaethras prepared to hurl another powerful incantation, but the closely packed battle prevented him from being able to do so without striking his own side. Instead the Manipulator flung forth a flurry of force, arrow-like projectiles arcing in to strike unerringly the nearest of the girallons, the one assailed by the Dread Slayer; the bolts tore into it with small bursts of gore, and with a gurgling groan the beast finally toppled into a blood-sodden heap.
Now the only one of the Carthagian warriors left was the mage-captain, who leapt gleefully forwards to join Ebri's assault on the last cleric, his glimmering magical shield filling the air around him. With a flash of steel, his blade bit, scoring a painful strike on the Hashrukkite who staggered and was now caught between two foes.
The nearest of the girallons to Cazamir was now the one butchering his wards, and he set off towards it at pace, launching into the air at the final moment to assault it with a flurry of kicks and strikes. Repeatedly he struck true, rewarded with the noise of cracking bone several times, and the blood-soaked monster turned its fearsome eyes upon him, staring down with animal ferocity. “Face me, you overgrown kurg!” he said to the towering girallon, using the colorful Huronese term.
Nearby, Wyshira quickly ran to the side of the incapacitated Sebastion, hoping to protect him from any attention diverted his way. She drew forth a prismatic javelin and held it ready; her pose seemed to ward off the mischievous daemons and they stayed clear of her. In fact, with the tide of battle seemingly turning, the little monsters disappeared completely, seemingly shifting out of existence with little puffs of smoke and fire. Melisande found herself deprived of a target just before she was about to hurl more arcane missiles in the daemon's direction. Instead she redirected the spell towards one of the girallons, the sapphire bolts biting into it. Nearby, Burl conjured forth a magical knifeblade of freezing ice, hurling it at the girallon assaulting the scholars; yet his aim was poor in the confusion of battle, and the arcane weapon shattered against the wall of the room.
Meg'anna's creeping cold continued to work its magic, and the final of the berserk cultist warriors fell, frozen to death in its icy grip; the girallon facing the arcanofex, who had also been caught in the spell, also continued to suffer as the rime continued to expand across its skin, coating much of it in a layer of ice. Then the druidess moved forwards to engage it in melee, flanking it and striking out with her enchanted spear; the flames of Rhaeygar flared up brightly, but even so injured, the monstrosity managed to evade her attack. It retaliated, the bulk of its ire directed at the arcanofex, but managing to sink a claw into Meg'anna as well, slashing deep wounds into her. With its other arms it sought to rend the construct before it apart, claws sparking across the metal foe. It managed to catch them on one of the construct's plates and with a scream of tortured metal, the panel tore off, revealing the pistons and gears of one of the arcanofexes shoulders beneath. In retaliation, the mechanised warrior struck back with hammer blows, repeatedly pummelling the corrupted abberation before one final punch shattered its skull and it toppled.
* * *
Pain engulfed her; it was all Wyshira knew. How many of the magical barbs had struck her? It felt like a half dozen or more, mostly in her upper body, although none had lodged in a vital area. Her eyes swam with tears, and the slight movement of wiping them away sent another wave of agony through her.
When she could see again, she looked for a target for her javelin. Death was everywhere. Sebastian was still wracked with hysterical laughter on the floor, but at least no enemies were near enough to threaten him. One of the four-armed monstrosities still stood a distance away, and Wyshira steeled herself to launch the javelin at it.
More pain than she had ever imagined possible followed. It was too much, and with a cry she fell to her knees. Sebastian's laughter echoed in her ears.
* * *
The berserk armoured Toranite; his first opponent crumpled before him, turned and ploughed into the last remaining girallon. A pulverising smash from his bladed mace reduced half of the monster's bestial face to red ruin, and then with a flicker of his shortsword, Jarvis darted across in front of it and sent its guts spilling out to the floor. It gurgled pathetically as it too hit the floor.
Caught between the mage-captain and Ebri, the last Hashrukkite cleric was quickly finished off, his flanking foes hitting him repeatedly before the scarred cultist could recover.
With the berserk howling of such fiendish monstrosities once again quelled, the chamber was dominated by the quiet sounds of the whirring fans, the quiet hiss of the arcanofex's steam vents, and the groans of the dying.
Next Time: The aftermath. So many dead...
