Carnifex
First Post
[size=+1]Chapter 2: The Shadows Beneath[/size]
The subterranean levels were dark and dank. Shrouded in thick gloom, it was stifling, claustrophobic. Small creatures scuttled in the shadows, mould clung to the walls, and a faintly unpleasant odour that mixed the tang of rust with... something else... haunted the air.
The stairs led down into a tunnel, some twenty feet wide and high, a semicurcular curve of wall and ceiling that dripped with moisture. It seemed entirely crafted from stone, carved from the rock, rather than the amalgams of metal and stone that the uppre levels were made from. Disappearing into the darkness in two directions, the passage ran straight and purposefully.
The party still had several wychlights to aid their sight down in the depths, and with an arcane spark Gaethras added another, the green-white actinic light spell keeping the area around them illuminated. Jarvis drew and held out his crystal-threaded short sword, concentrating for a moment before it broke out in gleaming blue light. Both Cazamir and Sebastion felt a faint tinge in their heads, not pain but a sense of something, as the blade activated.
"This way," said the steamwork lich, his merchanised arm indicating one way along the tunnel. "The arcane machinery of the umbral emitter is reached by heading in that direction. This is quite a warren of tunnels, from what little I have explored down here before. It would be unwise to get lost," he warned.
"I can imagine, Jarael," Gaethras said quietly.
That was the first time the name of the undead thaumineer had been mentioned, and it seemed Gaethras had already known it... The lich however did not seem to notice.
"The mother spirit has indicated to me that the Hashrukkites have somehow accessed the crystalline network through which she monitors the tower down here, and thus can most likely detect our approach. We should expect resistance to be marshalled against us fairly soon after they realise we are down here. Since a number of the daemons survived your previous encounter, they will be forewarned, and doubtless prepared to some extent."
With haste, they moved on.
* * *
Wyshira listened as Burl and Johanne discussed using fire to fight the Hashrukkites. The thought made her cringe, but as long as they kept the flames well away from her, she didn't object. She also noted that Melisance had the Fire Serpent Rod in her keeping again. The water priestess reminded herself to watch out for the creature it summoned, especially since Mel was apt to the let the thing loose anywhere.
As they walked down the ancient, echoing corridors, and descended the rusting staircases once more, Wyshira also overheard the conversation between the iron lich and Ansas'Turi. She heard them speak of the Sanguinials, which she remembered the ironjack mentioning before. For some reason, Wyshira was reminded of the Bloodkin.
* * *
As they marched down through the tower, Melisande's mind had time to wander a few intriguing mental paths, cataloguing questions for a more relaxed moment--if one was ever to come.
The mimir had declared weal for the passage they had taken; yet what could possibly have been worse than the crystal eye? Not only did it nearly kill half of them, but now it was destroyed and the lich clearly wished it were intact to help against the Hashrukkites. Was the mimir really on their side? Could it be on anyone's side? What kind of clairvoyance did it use--arcane or divine--and could it simply be mistaken?
What was Ebri Zol's connection with the shadow-people? Mel now wondered if there was some link between her and the shadow-man who had visited her in a dream in the gnoll's glade. There were certainly a lot of coincidences.
And then there was talk of Hashrukk the Daemonflesh. Melisande listened, wishing there was time to consult the mimir (if it could be trusted!) on that subject and on element corruption by demons. She wished they'd taken a few more minutes to prepare before heading down here, but that couldn't be helped now.
Presently Gaethras had thrown her another scrap, by casually letting slip the name of the lich. Now she wondered again why Jarael, as he seemed to be called, had been so worried about the Carthagians arriving first at his sanctuary: their mission appeared to be neither scholarly nor defensive, but personal. Did they think the defector had something to do with the other lost Carthagians, these 'rogue Manipulators'? Now that they knew they were wrong, did they intend to let him live, or would they turn on him the moment the Hashrukkites were taken care of? Would they turn on her and her friends? Her eyes could have bored holes in the back of Gaethras' ill-shaven head. There was much she needed to know, and there was a small chance Gaethras would bargain for his own share of information about her, since it was clear he didn't believe much of what she'd made up before. If they both survived this.
* * *
Sebastion was aware of the noise around them -the mechanisms of both the tower and their 'host', the stones in the base of Kale's boots, the gentle hiss of steel links over one another as he himself climbed step after step...
Loudest of all, though, was the silent disapproval in the back of Sebastion's head. At this time before other fights it had been his father's voice he'd heard, his father's lessons he recalled to prepare himself. They were still there, but there was the imagined ghost of another voice there too - Wolf.
I know, he thought, placatingly, Be ready.
The little black sphere? Well, it's... it's... no, it's not just that it's magic, it's... well, it's dishonourable, hiding like that and striking from the shadows.
I know they do it, but we're supposed to be better than they, that's why we fight. If we were just like them we'd join in, wouldn't we.
No, that's different. Pitched battles with armies is a different set of...
No, I know the tactics are the same. The accepted behaviour's different.
Why? I don't know why... no, I don't suppose it does make a lot of sense, but...
It will mean a lot if we lose, yes. More than I think I probably understand.
Yes... yes, I might just do that.
He slowed a little, dropping in between Melisande and Meg'anna and clearing his throat gently. The sorceress turned distractedly away from staring at Gaethras, Sebastion interrupting her attempts to read the mage's mind by sheer will power. "Uh, Mel... that... that little black orb, do you still have it? When we get down there, perhaps it would be a good idea if you wore it. It will give you some defence if you need to stop to cast anything. Striking from that sort of cover... well it's no more dishonourable than archers using the advantage of a hill in battle, really, is it?" He pointedly ignored the silent laughter of the wiser voices in his head.
"Dishonourable! Is that what you're worried about? Against Hashrukkites? Sebastion. If they strike at us first, any method we use to prevent them from killing us is perfectly honourable. I wish you'd keep it. I have other ways of making myself unseen if I need to get out of trouble."
Sure of herself as she may have sounded, now there were more questions, questions of honour and what was acceptable and what wasn't, that she would have to address later. She still felt a certain pang of guilt for the lies she'd told Gaethras, even if they had (she thought) helped prevent him from fireballing them all. What would Naskha, sorcerer-trickster god, think of that? And how could she know, having so little to base her faith on?
Sebastion turned to Meg'anna then. "And if..." His voice trailed off slightly, and he cleared his throat again. "If that offer of a boost of power is still available... what exactly does it do?"
Meg'anna had been keeping to herself, knowing that she did not want to draw more attention to herself than possible. She had begun to put together in her head exactly what had happened to the gnoll that had come here, and she was pretty sure that either Gaethras' group had gotten a hold of him, or that whatever was waiting for them in the bottom of this tower had the remains of the trepid explorer. She would have to keep an eye out for him. It was the least that she could do.
She turned from her thoughts to look at the man standing in front of her. Sebastion had never been one much to talk to her, though it was probably something to do with his rather odd feelings towards magic-users in general. However, his question was still unanswered and she was still simply looking at him. Shaking her head for a moment, Meg'anna pulled her tablet from her satchel once again and began scribbling quick notes to the best of her ability as to what the spell did, or at least what she had felt when using it in the past.
The sensation is hard to explain. However, it is best described as heightening one's physical strength at the cost of agility. Your blows would fall harder, causing more damage, though you would loose some ability to dodge those blows that came your way. It is akin to gaining the strength of an oak, but also gaining its rigidity.
* * *
They walked some short way, the air in the tunnel breezing past them slightly and carrying on it an increasingly foul smell, causing the organic members of the band to wrinkle their noses in disgust and sometimes cough from the thin miasma. Then, ahead in the gloom, noise.
Ebri, with her magical earring, and the steamwork lich Jarael were the first to hear the foe. The sound of feet and metal, shouts and orders, and a faint and distant hum. Soon it was loud enough for the others to hear as well; it sounded like many were approaching them at high speed, running footsteps echoing along the stone passageway.
The lich, Gaethras, Burl and Johanne began to push through to the front. "Sounds like there are many of them coming," said Burl quietly, tensely. "In these confinsed tunnels they should provide a good target for our spells. We'll see how cultists fare against magic," he added with uncharacteristic fierceness.
"If there are any Air creatures with them - like those elementals the l-, uh, the Master told us about," Wyshira looked sidelong at the steamwork lich as she said this, "leave them to me. I may be able to take control of them," she explained. Then she readied herself to face the oncoming host, clutching a prismatic javelin in each hand.
Kale could smell a taint, a foulness ushering towards them on in the air. It was time. "Melisande, make me invisible, if you would." He offered to the blue woman. Curious, she was. Small, but firey. No doubt she was anxious to use the sword that swayed at her side. Oblivious that her woolen robe and dress were the only barriers between her and her enemy's blades. If only she had some protection...
"Wait!" the mercenary said quickly in a revelation. "Burl, it's about time to use that armor wand."
All magicked up, Kale finally got his wish and was truly invisible. It was a marvel. Magic didn't seem half-bad. He threw a glance at the Manipulator and lich ahead. No, half bad. At least.
The party readied themselves for the oncoming assault, weapons and spells prepared. Meg'anna finished casting the might of the oak on Sebastion, the faint noise of creaking boughs and leaves in the wind whispering in the tainted air around her wordless gestures. He felt empowered by the strength, infused with living energy that brought strange reminders to him of bark and sap, sunlight and unyielding timber. Nearby, the invisible Kale slipped on his magical ring and the shadows shrouded round him; so shielded, he slipped a short way ahead to lurk in the gloom, unseen and unheard.
The first wave of foes came forth from the darknes, howling and chanting.
The cultists were clad in heavy, ragged robes of dark green cloth, draped over hardened plates of boiled leather and straps that acted as armour. Simple wooden shields and spiked metal flails made up their armaments, what was visible of their features underneath their heavy cloth cowls being contorted with battle rage and bloodlust. The mob swarmed forwards, flails swinging, accompanied by the cackling cacophony of the little daemons that had aided the previous assault higher in the tower as the diminuitive fiends bounced in and out of reality with short teleportations, puffs of smoke tracing their movements.
Even as the air around the party began to ring with the insane laughter of the daemons and the warcries of the zealots, the mages opened fire.
Johanne recited the arcane formulae on the scroll he had been given, voice strong with magical power as warm wisps of energy began to dance around his hands. As the parchment finally gave up in the face of the fiery magic burning within it, crumbling into ash, his chant rose to a strong crescendo and he thrust out both hands, for a moment unfeeling of the ache in his limbs. With a bright pulse of flame, the tunnel was lit by the explosion of the fireball, the inferno devouring cloth and skin, searing flesh and igniting hair. The flare of orange light, so powerful against the darkness, was accompanied by the structure of the tunnel shaking from the detonation, and a roaring blast of noise and air. Men staggered, caught by the blast, flames licking across them.
Burl narrowed his eyes and wove dark strands of energy from the air before him, coalescing into dark bands of magic around his fists. With a last muttered word, he unleashed a necromantic pulse of negative energy into the midst of the reeling crowd, a muted, quiet wave of death after the roaring blaze of the ball of flame. Some of the zealots simply dropped dead, others paled and gasped as if deprived of air.
Both Gaethras and Jarael followed this up with their own blasts of crackling, roaring lightning, sending sparking tongues of electricity coursing through the mob. Limbs jolted with shock, spasms running through flesh as it seared again.
After the crack of such thunder unleashed, the tunnel seemed suddenly quiet, except for the snap of static energy slowly discharging. Almost all of the cultists had toppled, dead and lifeless, except for one last man who staggered forwards, flames dancing across his robes as he frenziedly tried to get to grips with the party. The twang of Sebastion's bowstring marked an arrow sent to flight, hitting the man full in the chest; he clawed at it for a moment as blood bubbled from the wound before falling to lie amongst the rest of his kindred.
The small daemons paused in their manic activity, gazing surprisedly over the slain mob of cultists. One of them gave a nervous, tentative giggle, only managing a few moments of the mind-scratching noise before Wyshira was able to draw a bead on it and hurl one of her prismatic javelins. The weapon energised in flight, shifting to a bolt of pure electricity that slammed into the daemon, sending crackling tendrils of light dancing across its body before it discorporated into a foul mess of black smoke and tar-like goo.
The other daemons stared at the remnants of their comrade, and then disappeared away, fleeing back down the tunnel with short warps through reality.
Yet another background noise, that of the low hum, was growing louder and stronger, resolving itself into a loud buzzing punctuated by the clamour of armoured footsteps on stone floor. A new wave of enemies was following up to the foiled attack by the cultists.
From the darkness, a seeming wall of noisome flies emerged, a cloud of them thick in the air as they whirred and darted, their tiny dark bodies arcing erratically around. Kale was caught in the cloud as it moved forwards, unable to react quickly enough from the emerging miasma of living insects, and flies smacked against the invisible man, massing on him, stupidly bouncing off him and trying to fill his eyes and mouth, nose and ears. The nauseating cloud of flies filled him with revulsion as he tried to brush them away and fend them off.
And from the gloom emerged the new foe; three tall, figures that gripped the hafts of great, two-handed flails. Each was clad in plates of heavy, thick armour, the metal rusted and corroded, and they wore some strange amalgam of helms and filter masks, perforated nodules and great glass eyeplates letting the warriors within see out across the tunnel before them. The flail heads were hollow and perforated, spikes stabbing out and holes opening up from within, where foul incense burned with a dark glow; and from the censers poured the cloud of flies that filled the air. Each bore upon their breastplates a dark emblem; yet not that of Hashrukk, but Kevayek, the deity of disease and plague.
With the heavy flails swinging intimidatingly through the air in slow arcs, shedding trails of buzzing flies as they went, the three began to stride menacingly forwards, the spots of rust and drools of corrosion that pockmarked and etched their full plate clearly evident as they closed in.
Next Time: Embroiled in battle against the chosen of Kevayek...
The subterranean levels were dark and dank. Shrouded in thick gloom, it was stifling, claustrophobic. Small creatures scuttled in the shadows, mould clung to the walls, and a faintly unpleasant odour that mixed the tang of rust with... something else... haunted the air.
The stairs led down into a tunnel, some twenty feet wide and high, a semicurcular curve of wall and ceiling that dripped with moisture. It seemed entirely crafted from stone, carved from the rock, rather than the amalgams of metal and stone that the uppre levels were made from. Disappearing into the darkness in two directions, the passage ran straight and purposefully.
The party still had several wychlights to aid their sight down in the depths, and with an arcane spark Gaethras added another, the green-white actinic light spell keeping the area around them illuminated. Jarvis drew and held out his crystal-threaded short sword, concentrating for a moment before it broke out in gleaming blue light. Both Cazamir and Sebastion felt a faint tinge in their heads, not pain but a sense of something, as the blade activated.
"This way," said the steamwork lich, his merchanised arm indicating one way along the tunnel. "The arcane machinery of the umbral emitter is reached by heading in that direction. This is quite a warren of tunnels, from what little I have explored down here before. It would be unwise to get lost," he warned.
"I can imagine, Jarael," Gaethras said quietly.
That was the first time the name of the undead thaumineer had been mentioned, and it seemed Gaethras had already known it... The lich however did not seem to notice.
"The mother spirit has indicated to me that the Hashrukkites have somehow accessed the crystalline network through which she monitors the tower down here, and thus can most likely detect our approach. We should expect resistance to be marshalled against us fairly soon after they realise we are down here. Since a number of the daemons survived your previous encounter, they will be forewarned, and doubtless prepared to some extent."
With haste, they moved on.
* * *
Wyshira listened as Burl and Johanne discussed using fire to fight the Hashrukkites. The thought made her cringe, but as long as they kept the flames well away from her, she didn't object. She also noted that Melisance had the Fire Serpent Rod in her keeping again. The water priestess reminded herself to watch out for the creature it summoned, especially since Mel was apt to the let the thing loose anywhere.
As they walked down the ancient, echoing corridors, and descended the rusting staircases once more, Wyshira also overheard the conversation between the iron lich and Ansas'Turi. She heard them speak of the Sanguinials, which she remembered the ironjack mentioning before. For some reason, Wyshira was reminded of the Bloodkin.
* * *
As they marched down through the tower, Melisande's mind had time to wander a few intriguing mental paths, cataloguing questions for a more relaxed moment--if one was ever to come.
The mimir had declared weal for the passage they had taken; yet what could possibly have been worse than the crystal eye? Not only did it nearly kill half of them, but now it was destroyed and the lich clearly wished it were intact to help against the Hashrukkites. Was the mimir really on their side? Could it be on anyone's side? What kind of clairvoyance did it use--arcane or divine--and could it simply be mistaken?
What was Ebri Zol's connection with the shadow-people? Mel now wondered if there was some link between her and the shadow-man who had visited her in a dream in the gnoll's glade. There were certainly a lot of coincidences.
And then there was talk of Hashrukk the Daemonflesh. Melisande listened, wishing there was time to consult the mimir (if it could be trusted!) on that subject and on element corruption by demons. She wished they'd taken a few more minutes to prepare before heading down here, but that couldn't be helped now.
Presently Gaethras had thrown her another scrap, by casually letting slip the name of the lich. Now she wondered again why Jarael, as he seemed to be called, had been so worried about the Carthagians arriving first at his sanctuary: their mission appeared to be neither scholarly nor defensive, but personal. Did they think the defector had something to do with the other lost Carthagians, these 'rogue Manipulators'? Now that they knew they were wrong, did they intend to let him live, or would they turn on him the moment the Hashrukkites were taken care of? Would they turn on her and her friends? Her eyes could have bored holes in the back of Gaethras' ill-shaven head. There was much she needed to know, and there was a small chance Gaethras would bargain for his own share of information about her, since it was clear he didn't believe much of what she'd made up before. If they both survived this.
* * *
Sebastion was aware of the noise around them -the mechanisms of both the tower and their 'host', the stones in the base of Kale's boots, the gentle hiss of steel links over one another as he himself climbed step after step...
Loudest of all, though, was the silent disapproval in the back of Sebastion's head. At this time before other fights it had been his father's voice he'd heard, his father's lessons he recalled to prepare himself. They were still there, but there was the imagined ghost of another voice there too - Wolf.
I know, he thought, placatingly, Be ready.
The little black sphere? Well, it's... it's... no, it's not just that it's magic, it's... well, it's dishonourable, hiding like that and striking from the shadows.
I know they do it, but we're supposed to be better than they, that's why we fight. If we were just like them we'd join in, wouldn't we.
No, that's different. Pitched battles with armies is a different set of...
No, I know the tactics are the same. The accepted behaviour's different.
Why? I don't know why... no, I don't suppose it does make a lot of sense, but...
It will mean a lot if we lose, yes. More than I think I probably understand.
Yes... yes, I might just do that.
He slowed a little, dropping in between Melisande and Meg'anna and clearing his throat gently. The sorceress turned distractedly away from staring at Gaethras, Sebastion interrupting her attempts to read the mage's mind by sheer will power. "Uh, Mel... that... that little black orb, do you still have it? When we get down there, perhaps it would be a good idea if you wore it. It will give you some defence if you need to stop to cast anything. Striking from that sort of cover... well it's no more dishonourable than archers using the advantage of a hill in battle, really, is it?" He pointedly ignored the silent laughter of the wiser voices in his head.
"Dishonourable! Is that what you're worried about? Against Hashrukkites? Sebastion. If they strike at us first, any method we use to prevent them from killing us is perfectly honourable. I wish you'd keep it. I have other ways of making myself unseen if I need to get out of trouble."
Sure of herself as she may have sounded, now there were more questions, questions of honour and what was acceptable and what wasn't, that she would have to address later. She still felt a certain pang of guilt for the lies she'd told Gaethras, even if they had (she thought) helped prevent him from fireballing them all. What would Naskha, sorcerer-trickster god, think of that? And how could she know, having so little to base her faith on?
Sebastion turned to Meg'anna then. "And if..." His voice trailed off slightly, and he cleared his throat again. "If that offer of a boost of power is still available... what exactly does it do?"
Meg'anna had been keeping to herself, knowing that she did not want to draw more attention to herself than possible. She had begun to put together in her head exactly what had happened to the gnoll that had come here, and she was pretty sure that either Gaethras' group had gotten a hold of him, or that whatever was waiting for them in the bottom of this tower had the remains of the trepid explorer. She would have to keep an eye out for him. It was the least that she could do.
She turned from her thoughts to look at the man standing in front of her. Sebastion had never been one much to talk to her, though it was probably something to do with his rather odd feelings towards magic-users in general. However, his question was still unanswered and she was still simply looking at him. Shaking her head for a moment, Meg'anna pulled her tablet from her satchel once again and began scribbling quick notes to the best of her ability as to what the spell did, or at least what she had felt when using it in the past.
The sensation is hard to explain. However, it is best described as heightening one's physical strength at the cost of agility. Your blows would fall harder, causing more damage, though you would loose some ability to dodge those blows that came your way. It is akin to gaining the strength of an oak, but also gaining its rigidity.
* * *
They walked some short way, the air in the tunnel breezing past them slightly and carrying on it an increasingly foul smell, causing the organic members of the band to wrinkle their noses in disgust and sometimes cough from the thin miasma. Then, ahead in the gloom, noise.
Ebri, with her magical earring, and the steamwork lich Jarael were the first to hear the foe. The sound of feet and metal, shouts and orders, and a faint and distant hum. Soon it was loud enough for the others to hear as well; it sounded like many were approaching them at high speed, running footsteps echoing along the stone passageway.
The lich, Gaethras, Burl and Johanne began to push through to the front. "Sounds like there are many of them coming," said Burl quietly, tensely. "In these confinsed tunnels they should provide a good target for our spells. We'll see how cultists fare against magic," he added with uncharacteristic fierceness.
"If there are any Air creatures with them - like those elementals the l-, uh, the Master told us about," Wyshira looked sidelong at the steamwork lich as she said this, "leave them to me. I may be able to take control of them," she explained. Then she readied herself to face the oncoming host, clutching a prismatic javelin in each hand.
Kale could smell a taint, a foulness ushering towards them on in the air. It was time. "Melisande, make me invisible, if you would." He offered to the blue woman. Curious, she was. Small, but firey. No doubt she was anxious to use the sword that swayed at her side. Oblivious that her woolen robe and dress were the only barriers between her and her enemy's blades. If only she had some protection...
"Wait!" the mercenary said quickly in a revelation. "Burl, it's about time to use that armor wand."
All magicked up, Kale finally got his wish and was truly invisible. It was a marvel. Magic didn't seem half-bad. He threw a glance at the Manipulator and lich ahead. No, half bad. At least.
The party readied themselves for the oncoming assault, weapons and spells prepared. Meg'anna finished casting the might of the oak on Sebastion, the faint noise of creaking boughs and leaves in the wind whispering in the tainted air around her wordless gestures. He felt empowered by the strength, infused with living energy that brought strange reminders to him of bark and sap, sunlight and unyielding timber. Nearby, the invisible Kale slipped on his magical ring and the shadows shrouded round him; so shielded, he slipped a short way ahead to lurk in the gloom, unseen and unheard.
The first wave of foes came forth from the darknes, howling and chanting.
The cultists were clad in heavy, ragged robes of dark green cloth, draped over hardened plates of boiled leather and straps that acted as armour. Simple wooden shields and spiked metal flails made up their armaments, what was visible of their features underneath their heavy cloth cowls being contorted with battle rage and bloodlust. The mob swarmed forwards, flails swinging, accompanied by the cackling cacophony of the little daemons that had aided the previous assault higher in the tower as the diminuitive fiends bounced in and out of reality with short teleportations, puffs of smoke tracing their movements.
Even as the air around the party began to ring with the insane laughter of the daemons and the warcries of the zealots, the mages opened fire.
Johanne recited the arcane formulae on the scroll he had been given, voice strong with magical power as warm wisps of energy began to dance around his hands. As the parchment finally gave up in the face of the fiery magic burning within it, crumbling into ash, his chant rose to a strong crescendo and he thrust out both hands, for a moment unfeeling of the ache in his limbs. With a bright pulse of flame, the tunnel was lit by the explosion of the fireball, the inferno devouring cloth and skin, searing flesh and igniting hair. The flare of orange light, so powerful against the darkness, was accompanied by the structure of the tunnel shaking from the detonation, and a roaring blast of noise and air. Men staggered, caught by the blast, flames licking across them.
Burl narrowed his eyes and wove dark strands of energy from the air before him, coalescing into dark bands of magic around his fists. With a last muttered word, he unleashed a necromantic pulse of negative energy into the midst of the reeling crowd, a muted, quiet wave of death after the roaring blaze of the ball of flame. Some of the zealots simply dropped dead, others paled and gasped as if deprived of air.
Both Gaethras and Jarael followed this up with their own blasts of crackling, roaring lightning, sending sparking tongues of electricity coursing through the mob. Limbs jolted with shock, spasms running through flesh as it seared again.
After the crack of such thunder unleashed, the tunnel seemed suddenly quiet, except for the snap of static energy slowly discharging. Almost all of the cultists had toppled, dead and lifeless, except for one last man who staggered forwards, flames dancing across his robes as he frenziedly tried to get to grips with the party. The twang of Sebastion's bowstring marked an arrow sent to flight, hitting the man full in the chest; he clawed at it for a moment as blood bubbled from the wound before falling to lie amongst the rest of his kindred.
The small daemons paused in their manic activity, gazing surprisedly over the slain mob of cultists. One of them gave a nervous, tentative giggle, only managing a few moments of the mind-scratching noise before Wyshira was able to draw a bead on it and hurl one of her prismatic javelins. The weapon energised in flight, shifting to a bolt of pure electricity that slammed into the daemon, sending crackling tendrils of light dancing across its body before it discorporated into a foul mess of black smoke and tar-like goo.
The other daemons stared at the remnants of their comrade, and then disappeared away, fleeing back down the tunnel with short warps through reality.
Yet another background noise, that of the low hum, was growing louder and stronger, resolving itself into a loud buzzing punctuated by the clamour of armoured footsteps on stone floor. A new wave of enemies was following up to the foiled attack by the cultists.
From the darkness, a seeming wall of noisome flies emerged, a cloud of them thick in the air as they whirred and darted, their tiny dark bodies arcing erratically around. Kale was caught in the cloud as it moved forwards, unable to react quickly enough from the emerging miasma of living insects, and flies smacked against the invisible man, massing on him, stupidly bouncing off him and trying to fill his eyes and mouth, nose and ears. The nauseating cloud of flies filled him with revulsion as he tried to brush them away and fend them off.
And from the gloom emerged the new foe; three tall, figures that gripped the hafts of great, two-handed flails. Each was clad in plates of heavy, thick armour, the metal rusted and corroded, and they wore some strange amalgam of helms and filter masks, perforated nodules and great glass eyeplates letting the warriors within see out across the tunnel before them. The flail heads were hollow and perforated, spikes stabbing out and holes opening up from within, where foul incense burned with a dark glow; and from the censers poured the cloud of flies that filled the air. Each bore upon their breastplates a dark emblem; yet not that of Hashrukk, but Kevayek, the deity of disease and plague.
With the heavy flails swinging intimidatingly through the air in slow arcs, shedding trails of buzzing flies as they went, the three began to stride menacingly forwards, the spots of rust and drools of corrosion that pockmarked and etched their full plate clearly evident as they closed in.
Next Time: Embroiled in battle against the chosen of Kevayek...
)
