Copperheads: Betrayal and Strange Runes and Burning Dead, oh my (short update 02/12)
- Thread starter arwink
- Start date
arwink
Clockwork Golem
Lela said:
I believe that's what's known as being "a diversion." If you don't want people to notice your agents sneaking into the territory, you put something bodly obvious out the front with the illusion of it being sneaky
And, in the long run, 10 gp isn't as much as it sounds in DnD economics. On average, a 1st level commoner making his living as a baker will earn about 6 or seven gold a month (assuming a craft skill with 4 ranks and an average weekly roll of 10). Even assuming that this is a particularly poor area, so the baker is obviously not greatly skilled, Thamos is probably doing okay for himself. 3-4 gp a week, which puts him a little above his neighbours. On a good week, when the gods roll a natural twenty, he can probably push the 10 gp mark all on his own.
It's the untrained laborers that have it tough in DnD economics, earning a silver a day (which, incidently, is what the bulk of Petrev's half-orc population does). The professionals and crafty types are hardly adventurers, but they get by okay.
Short version: 10gp is generous, it's flashy, and its cuts through quite a bit of tedious negotiation and haggling, but it's not going to make Thamos a wealthy man. In all likelihood, it'll be set aside for his daughters dowry or spent on a better quality of baking tools.
Last edited:
Lela
First Post
Still it's a lot of money. What I find most intreging about it though is that he said per week. This implies that he'll be there for more than one. In fact, he may be there three or four days. This alone should throw the orcs off.
I'm not sure how good a diversion a fully armored Justicar is though. Even an orc is bound re realize he's a little too conspicious. If they're skilled in such arts they'll see it as it is.
Hopefully, though, they won't and this will all come off without a hitch. And a bar fight. Gotta have a bar fight.
I'm not sure how good a diversion a fully armored Justicar is though. Even an orc is bound re realize he's a little too conspicious. If they're skilled in such arts they'll see it as it is.
Hopefully, though, they won't and this will all come off without a hitch. And a bar fight. Gotta have a bar fight.
arwink
Clockwork Golem
In fact, it takes four. By day Geoffrey makes a point of being seen, using the Bakers room as a watch place where he can observe the Tavern until the mid evening. By night Blarth and Halgo make the rounds, making their way in and out of the tavern while being as vocal as possible about their dislike of the humans of the city and their desire to see orcs elevated to a new station. Their efforts are occasionally hampered by the short duration of Halgo’s magic, with the dwarven wizard often having to leave every half hour or so to recast the spell and continue his disguise.
It’s on the fourth night that they’re approached by a tall, dark-haired orc dressed in burned amber robes. He strides purposefully towards their table, settling into a seat opposite Blarth without asking permission.
“Halgar not say you could sit there,” Halgo menaces.
“Gromeck not care,” the stranger says. “Gromeck need speak with you.”
“Blarth not care,” Blarth snarls, leaning close to stare the orc in the eye. “You not sit at Blarth table unless you buy Blarth beer.”
Gromeck locks gazes with Blarth for a few moments, then breaks into a wide grin.
“Excellent,” Gromeck says. “What you drinking?”
He gestures, and the harried barkeeper hurries to bring three tankards to the table. Halgo watches the barkeep as he approaches, reading a look of pure terror on the orcs face.
“What you want?” Halgo demands. “Halgar and Blarth busy.”
“Gromeck hears stories about you two,” Gromeck rumbles, still smiling. “Hear you mighty warriors, hate humans, want to join the Children of Fire.”
“Yeah,” Blarth says.
“Well, Gromeck might be able to help you. Gromeck may know people, if you interested.”
“Yeah,” says Blarth.
“But first Gromeck need your help. Need you to prove you worthy. Gromeck only need strong orc, smart orc. Otherwise no good to Targ. You look like smart orc, you look like strong orc. You smart? You strong?”
“Yeah,” says Blarth.
“No-one here strong enough for this,” Gromeck grumbles. “All afraid. Don’t want trouble. Gromeck need shadowy-orc, not afraid of law. Gromeck need orc who don’t mind hurting people.”
“Yeah,” says Blarth.
“You know Bakery across road?”
“Yeah,” says Blarth.
“Justicar in Bakery. Justicar looking for Gromeck. Justicar with necklace, can follow Gromeck when he leave. You bring Gromeck Justicar head, you get gold. Good gold. Maybe then Gromeck take you to Targ.”
“Yeah,” Blarth says, drinking deeply from his ale.
“Why head?” Halgo demands. “Why need kill justicar? Just make Clerics mad, bring more to hurt orcs. Why not steal symbol, make Justicar unable to follow.”
“You good thief?” Gromeck demands. “You steal symbol from Justicar neck?”
“Yeah,” Blarth says.
“If you hit him hard enough to knock ‘im out first,” Halgo adds.
Gromeck beams wildly.
“You smart orcs,” he says. “Kind of orcs Gromeck needs. You bring Gromeck symbol, Gromeck give gold. Tomorrow, okay?”
“Yeah,” Blarth says. They shake hands on the deal, and watch as Gromeck leaves the tavern.
“Right,” Halgo says. “Who’s going to convince Geoffrey he needs to give up that shiny new holy symbol for the good of the mission?”
“Yeah,” says Blarth. He pauses for a moment, considering his response.
"Er, Blarth mean not me."
It’s on the fourth night that they’re approached by a tall, dark-haired orc dressed in burned amber robes. He strides purposefully towards their table, settling into a seat opposite Blarth without asking permission.
“Halgar not say you could sit there,” Halgo menaces.
“Gromeck not care,” the stranger says. “Gromeck need speak with you.”
“Blarth not care,” Blarth snarls, leaning close to stare the orc in the eye. “You not sit at Blarth table unless you buy Blarth beer.”
Gromeck locks gazes with Blarth for a few moments, then breaks into a wide grin.
“Excellent,” Gromeck says. “What you drinking?”
He gestures, and the harried barkeeper hurries to bring three tankards to the table. Halgo watches the barkeep as he approaches, reading a look of pure terror on the orcs face.
“What you want?” Halgo demands. “Halgar and Blarth busy.”
“Gromeck hears stories about you two,” Gromeck rumbles, still smiling. “Hear you mighty warriors, hate humans, want to join the Children of Fire.”
“Yeah,” Blarth says.
“Well, Gromeck might be able to help you. Gromeck may know people, if you interested.”
“Yeah,” says Blarth.
“But first Gromeck need your help. Need you to prove you worthy. Gromeck only need strong orc, smart orc. Otherwise no good to Targ. You look like smart orc, you look like strong orc. You smart? You strong?”
“Yeah,” says Blarth.
“No-one here strong enough for this,” Gromeck grumbles. “All afraid. Don’t want trouble. Gromeck need shadowy-orc, not afraid of law. Gromeck need orc who don’t mind hurting people.”
“Yeah,” says Blarth.
“You know Bakery across road?”
“Yeah,” says Blarth.
“Justicar in Bakery. Justicar looking for Gromeck. Justicar with necklace, can follow Gromeck when he leave. You bring Gromeck Justicar head, you get gold. Good gold. Maybe then Gromeck take you to Targ.”
“Yeah,” Blarth says, drinking deeply from his ale.
“Why head?” Halgo demands. “Why need kill justicar? Just make Clerics mad, bring more to hurt orcs. Why not steal symbol, make Justicar unable to follow.”
“You good thief?” Gromeck demands. “You steal symbol from Justicar neck?”
“Yeah,” Blarth says.
“If you hit him hard enough to knock ‘im out first,” Halgo adds.
Gromeck beams wildly.
“You smart orcs,” he says. “Kind of orcs Gromeck needs. You bring Gromeck symbol, Gromeck give gold. Tomorrow, okay?”
“Yeah,” Blarth says. They shake hands on the deal, and watch as Gromeck leaves the tavern.
“Right,” Halgo says. “Who’s going to convince Geoffrey he needs to give up that shiny new holy symbol for the good of the mission?”
“Yeah,” says Blarth. He pauses for a moment, considering his response.
"Er, Blarth mean not me."
Mathew_Freeman
Adventurer
Bwahahahahahahah! Oh, that's priceless. 
randomling
First Post
Tallarn said:Bwahahahahahahah! Oh, that's priceless.
Completely.
arwink
Clockwork Golem
Geoffrey is unwilling to relinquish his holy symbol under any circumstance, explaining this loudly and clearly when the three adventurers meet later.
“It’s my symbol of authority,” he seethes. “I can’t believe you agreed to give it away.”
“The other option was your head,” Halgo reminds him blithely. “And that’s going to be a lot harder to fake.”
“Fake?”
“Sure. You’ve got a spare holy symbol, don’t you? One that looks close enough to the magic one?”
“Yes, but wont they check.”
Halgo just grins.
“Trust me.”
Gromeck meets Blarth and Halgo at the tavern, rubbing his hands together and muttering eagerly.
“You get symbol?” He asks, his eyebrows arched.
“You got gold?” Halgo demands.
“Symbol first.”
Halgo shrugs and holds the symbol up for Gromeck to examine. The half-orc mumbles softly in excitement when he sees the symbol, reaching forward with one hand to touch it. His fingers pause a few scant inches from its surface, and Gromeck quietly mutters the words to a detect magic under his breath.
“You do good,” Gromeck wheezes happily, placing two pouches of gold on the table. “You kill Justicar too?”
“Hurt bad,” Blarth says with a grin. “Justicar Puny, no match for Blarth.”
“Good. Yes,” Gromeck gloats. “Gromeck very pleased. Take symbol to Targ, tell him about you. Targ reward Gromeck, reward Blarth and Halgar. Meet Gromeck tomorrow, and Gromeck take you to the fire-god.”
“Halgar can’t wait,” Halgo says, unable to keep the joy out of his voice. He allows himself a mental chuckle at the success of his ploy.
They watch Gromeck leave, sipping at drinks and counting the half-orc’s gold.
“He gone?” Blarth asks, his back to the door.
“Gone,” Halgo says. “Geoffrey, follow him. We’re heading out.”
Outside Geoffrey has already activated the power of his Justicar’s Amulet, following the insistent tug of the holy symbol as it follow the half-orc's path down the street. He’s traveled less than half a block when Halgo and Blarth join him.
“Got him?” Halgo asks.
“Heading left at the corner,” Geoffrey says. “How in hell did you convince him it was magic?”
“Nystul’s aura,” Halgo says with a smile. “Never really used the spell before, but it turned out to be pretty handy.”
Geoffrey feels another tug from his holy symbol, another change in direction.
"Quite."
They follow the pendent for the better part of an hour, trailing after Gromeck as he walks along streets and disappears into the sewers. Eventually they find themselves in a section of the city known as Old Town, a place where ancient buildings and wide manor houses sprawl off in all directions. Gromeck enters one of the more run-down buildings, and Geoffrey feels his pendent go limp.
“Magically protected from divination,” he says. “I’m guessing that’s where we want to go. Shall we?”
“They’ll have guards,” Halgo warns him.
“We have Blarth.”
They move as quietly as they can up to the front door, Blarth in the lead. Blarth hammers on the door with his fist.
“Let Blarth in,” he yells. “Blarth have message for Gromeck. Move fast. Justicar coming to kill Targ.”
An orcish guard sticks his head through the door.
“What you say?” He demands.
“Justicar coming to kill Targ,” Blarth repeats. He points over his shoulder to the glaring form of Geoffrey waiting on the steps below.
“See.”
The orc gapes for a moment, then tries to slam the door shut. Unfortunately Blarth is faster, his sword clearing its sheath and flashing through the narrow gap. Blood fountains as the guard is thrown backwards by the force of the blow. There’s the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath behind the door, and the three adventurers force their way in to face a second guard. The orcs attack is clumsy, more brawn than skill, and he’s quickly cut down.
“Symbol’s active again,” Geoffrey says, feeling a sudden tug of movement at his neck. “The barrier must be the doorway. Seems Gromeck’s heading down.”
“Lets find the kitchen then,” Halgo sighs. “Tunnels underground are always in the kitchen.”
They sweep through the manor anyway, taking care that all the upstairs rooms are empty before they search the kitchen for a trapdoor. It doesn’t take long – the upper levels are essentially empty and the trapdoor in the kitchen is crudely hidden behind some sacks of flour.
“I keep thinking it shouldn’t be this easy,” Geoffrey mutters, looking at the iron rungs leading down into the dim red light below. “Then I remember we’re dealing with orcs.”
They climb down the ladder, Blarth in the lead. The ladder drops down nearly fifty feet, below the level of the city sewers and into an older set of tunnels that show signs of ancient construction. The air in the tunnels is warm, almost humid, and everyone starts sweating the moment they set foot on the ground. They’re in a small chamber, with a single exit leading off.
“Carefully,” Geoffrey comments. “We don’t know what’s out there.”
Almost as if cued by the clerics voice, there’s a scream of rage and three sets of eyes can seen moving through the darkness. Geoffrey swears as a trio of red-skinned goblins come into view, their hair dancing madly enough that it seems like it’s on fire.
“Blarth fix,” Blarth says, and his blade cuts down two of the creatures the moment they step within swords reach. Geoffrey finishes the third with his morning star, clubbing it over his head and sending it sprawling. The group starts down the corridor, pausing only momentarily to ensure the goblins are dead.
The heat of the chambers gets worse as they progress, and the corridor ends in a set of red-steel doors that radiate heat like a forge. Everyone sweats profusely in their presence, and in their armor Blarth and Geoffrey almost find the heat unbearable. Blarth moves to shove the door open, but Geoffrey restrains him and casts an endure elements on him before he comes in contact with the metal.
"Better safe than sorry," Geoffrey says with a shrug.
Blarth shoves his shoulders against the door, suffering some mild burns, but magic prevents him taking the worst of the damage. The doors locks, weak and pliable due to the heat, are no match for Blarth’s strength and swing open easily.
Revealing two eight-foot mastiff’s with red fur on the far side, flames spitting out of their mouths as they breath, and an eight foot tall Orc with a leather apron and a battleaxe pointing at Blarth standing framed by the doorway.
“Attack,” it orders, and the hellhounds do so with relish.
“It’s my symbol of authority,” he seethes. “I can’t believe you agreed to give it away.”
“The other option was your head,” Halgo reminds him blithely. “And that’s going to be a lot harder to fake.”
“Fake?”
“Sure. You’ve got a spare holy symbol, don’t you? One that looks close enough to the magic one?”
“Yes, but wont they check.”
Halgo just grins.
“Trust me.”
Gromeck meets Blarth and Halgo at the tavern, rubbing his hands together and muttering eagerly.
“You get symbol?” He asks, his eyebrows arched.
“You got gold?” Halgo demands.
“Symbol first.”
Halgo shrugs and holds the symbol up for Gromeck to examine. The half-orc mumbles softly in excitement when he sees the symbol, reaching forward with one hand to touch it. His fingers pause a few scant inches from its surface, and Gromeck quietly mutters the words to a detect magic under his breath.
“You do good,” Gromeck wheezes happily, placing two pouches of gold on the table. “You kill Justicar too?”
“Hurt bad,” Blarth says with a grin. “Justicar Puny, no match for Blarth.”
“Good. Yes,” Gromeck gloats. “Gromeck very pleased. Take symbol to Targ, tell him about you. Targ reward Gromeck, reward Blarth and Halgar. Meet Gromeck tomorrow, and Gromeck take you to the fire-god.”
“Halgar can’t wait,” Halgo says, unable to keep the joy out of his voice. He allows himself a mental chuckle at the success of his ploy.
They watch Gromeck leave, sipping at drinks and counting the half-orc’s gold.
“He gone?” Blarth asks, his back to the door.
“Gone,” Halgo says. “Geoffrey, follow him. We’re heading out.”
Outside Geoffrey has already activated the power of his Justicar’s Amulet, following the insistent tug of the holy symbol as it follow the half-orc's path down the street. He’s traveled less than half a block when Halgo and Blarth join him.
“Got him?” Halgo asks.
“Heading left at the corner,” Geoffrey says. “How in hell did you convince him it was magic?”
“Nystul’s aura,” Halgo says with a smile. “Never really used the spell before, but it turned out to be pretty handy.”
Geoffrey feels another tug from his holy symbol, another change in direction.
"Quite."
They follow the pendent for the better part of an hour, trailing after Gromeck as he walks along streets and disappears into the sewers. Eventually they find themselves in a section of the city known as Old Town, a place where ancient buildings and wide manor houses sprawl off in all directions. Gromeck enters one of the more run-down buildings, and Geoffrey feels his pendent go limp.
“Magically protected from divination,” he says. “I’m guessing that’s where we want to go. Shall we?”
“They’ll have guards,” Halgo warns him.
“We have Blarth.”
They move as quietly as they can up to the front door, Blarth in the lead. Blarth hammers on the door with his fist.
“Let Blarth in,” he yells. “Blarth have message for Gromeck. Move fast. Justicar coming to kill Targ.”
An orcish guard sticks his head through the door.
“What you say?” He demands.
“Justicar coming to kill Targ,” Blarth repeats. He points over his shoulder to the glaring form of Geoffrey waiting on the steps below.
“See.”
The orc gapes for a moment, then tries to slam the door shut. Unfortunately Blarth is faster, his sword clearing its sheath and flashing through the narrow gap. Blood fountains as the guard is thrown backwards by the force of the blow. There’s the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath behind the door, and the three adventurers force their way in to face a second guard. The orcs attack is clumsy, more brawn than skill, and he’s quickly cut down.
“Symbol’s active again,” Geoffrey says, feeling a sudden tug of movement at his neck. “The barrier must be the doorway. Seems Gromeck’s heading down.”
“Lets find the kitchen then,” Halgo sighs. “Tunnels underground are always in the kitchen.”
They sweep through the manor anyway, taking care that all the upstairs rooms are empty before they search the kitchen for a trapdoor. It doesn’t take long – the upper levels are essentially empty and the trapdoor in the kitchen is crudely hidden behind some sacks of flour.
“I keep thinking it shouldn’t be this easy,” Geoffrey mutters, looking at the iron rungs leading down into the dim red light below. “Then I remember we’re dealing with orcs.”
They climb down the ladder, Blarth in the lead. The ladder drops down nearly fifty feet, below the level of the city sewers and into an older set of tunnels that show signs of ancient construction. The air in the tunnels is warm, almost humid, and everyone starts sweating the moment they set foot on the ground. They’re in a small chamber, with a single exit leading off.
“Carefully,” Geoffrey comments. “We don’t know what’s out there.”
Almost as if cued by the clerics voice, there’s a scream of rage and three sets of eyes can seen moving through the darkness. Geoffrey swears as a trio of red-skinned goblins come into view, their hair dancing madly enough that it seems like it’s on fire.
“Blarth fix,” Blarth says, and his blade cuts down two of the creatures the moment they step within swords reach. Geoffrey finishes the third with his morning star, clubbing it over his head and sending it sprawling. The group starts down the corridor, pausing only momentarily to ensure the goblins are dead.
The heat of the chambers gets worse as they progress, and the corridor ends in a set of red-steel doors that radiate heat like a forge. Everyone sweats profusely in their presence, and in their armor Blarth and Geoffrey almost find the heat unbearable. Blarth moves to shove the door open, but Geoffrey restrains him and casts an endure elements on him before he comes in contact with the metal.
"Better safe than sorry," Geoffrey says with a shrug.
Blarth shoves his shoulders against the door, suffering some mild burns, but magic prevents him taking the worst of the damage. The doors locks, weak and pliable due to the heat, are no match for Blarth’s strength and swing open easily.
Revealing two eight-foot mastiff’s with red fur on the far side, flames spitting out of their mouths as they breath, and an eight foot tall Orc with a leather apron and a battleaxe pointing at Blarth standing framed by the doorway.
“Attack,” it orders, and the hellhounds do so with relish.
arwink
Clockwork Golem
The half-orc lets go of the chains which restrain the hounds, then uses his free hand to draw a thin dagger and fling it at Blarth. The short blade reflects of Blarth’s shield, and the psi-warrior closes the gap between the door and the closest hellhound with his sword raised high. Luckringer seems to leap forward of its own accord, striking the hound deep in the chest. Burning blood splatters over the flagstone floor, and the dog staggers to one side with a whimper. It almost falls, seeming to regain it’s footing at the last second and launch a half-hearted snap at Blarth’s weapon arm. The teeth clip the edge of Blarth’s cloak, but little else, as the half-orc shuffles out of range. The second hellhound glares angrily at the door, opening its mouth and expelling a stream of burning flame that engulfs Geoffrey and Halgo. Both feel a shock of searing pain run through the bodies, and Geoffrey is quick to turn his attention to his Wizardly companion and heal the worst of the fire damage. Halgo, healing magic flowing through his limbs, fires a crossbow at the half-orc houndsman and drops him to the ground.
Blarth snarls at the hellhound and finishes it off with a single strike, his momentum carrying him through to strike the second hound even as the first one falls. The hellhound lets out a frightened yelp, wraps its teeth around Blarth’s leg and lets loose with another gout of flame. Fortunately, Geoffrey’s protective magic keeps Blarth’s leg from becoming charcoaled, but it does little to stop the hellhound teeth from breaking the skin. Blarth feels blood seeping down his leg, and it’s all he can do to keep the dog from pulling him off his feet. Geoffrey moves in to help, his morning star crushing several of the dogs ribs, and Halgo targets the creature with a ray of frost that draws one of the loudest howls of pain yet. Even as the dog’s wild eyes look for Halgo and his cold magic, Blarth plunges a blade through the creature’s neck.
Everyone pauses for a moment, catching their breath, before Geoffrey points down the corridor.
“Gromeck and Targ,” he grunts. “Keep moving. I’ll heal as we go.”
The path splits within a few dozen feet of the hellhound lair, one path leading into the darkness while a second echoes with the sound of orcish chanting and softly flickering flames. Everyone looks at one another for a moment, but it’s hardly a choice. With weapons at the ready, they follow the path towards the flames and chanting. Blarth concentrates carefully as they walk, using his newly acquired mastery of his own body to take control of his own blood flow. He manifests biofeedback, mentally closing down the blood flow around his wounds and enjoying the feeling of mastery the technique gives him.
In the room at the end of the passageway there are nearly a dozen chanting orcs, all kneeling before a giant pit of fire and swaying back and forth in a state of religious ecstasy. On the far side of the room, Gromeck is handing the holy symbol over to an eight-foot tall orc with a Mohawk of pure flame. Red skin ripples as it reaches forward to take the symbol, turning it over in his hands for a few seconds before it melts in its hand.
“Fool,” the red-skinned orc seethes. “It is fake.”
“But Gromeck checked,” Gromeck offers quickly. “Used magic, like Targ said. Orcs said they stole from Justicar…”
“Then you were tricked,” Targ announces. His head swings towards the entryway, where the Copperheads are listening in the shadows. Everyone’s hands tighten around weapons as the flaming red eyes focus in on them, squinting through the smoke of the fire pit.
“Intruders,” Targ rumbles. “Kill all. Do not let them stop us.”
The orcs don’t need any further urging, rising to their feet and charging forward with short, sharp daggers clenched in their fists. They get no more than a few feet from where they started before Blarth reacts, instinctively putting his whistle to his lips and sending a shockwave of pure sonic force through the room. The charging orcs are scattered, some falling to the ground with broken limbs and bleeding ears while the rest are swept into the fire pit by the force of the blast. Gromeck and Targ are both rocked by the blast, but neither fall.
“Fool. You ruin everything,” Targ snarls, and he scoops his oversized hands into the flames before him and pulls forth a burning palm of flame. With a roar he lobs the flames at Blarth, covering him with fire that burns through the protection of Geoffrey’s spell. The bulk of the damage is cosmetic, Blarth pulling as much blood and muscle away from the flesh as he can with biofeedback, but its enough to give Blarth pause.
Halgo steps calmly into the room, ignoring the sweat soaking his face, and casts a color spray that leaves Targ stunned and Gromeck momentarily blind. Geoffrey takes the opportunity to circle around the fire pit, hitting the stunned orcish fire-cultist with the Hammer of St Gustav. It’s a clumsy strike, fully displaying Geoffrey’s unfamiliarity with the hammers weight and techniques, but it glows brightly as it strikes and the red-skinned orc screams in rage. Gromeck, blind and panicking, rips through the words of a healing spell and backs up against the curved wall of the chamber. It does him little good, as an angry Blarth circles around and cuts him down with a single strike.
Targ starts to shake off the effects of Halgo’s spell, but not before the wizard hits him with a ray of frost. Targ glares across the fire pit, but the more pressing concern is the cleric with the hammer nearby. He lashes out with sharp claws, his touch tearing through Geoffrey’s skin and burning at the same time. Geoffrey, already fighting awkwardly with the hammer in hand, swings uselessly in retaliation and Targ starts to laugh in amusement.
“You will pay, mortals,” he rumbles, burning eyes glaring coldly over the flaming pit. “You have ruined my plans, but I will take your souls.”
Then Blarth’s sword appears through his throat.
“Puny demon orc,” Blarth says, then decapitates Targ with a second stroke.
Blarth snarls at the hellhound and finishes it off with a single strike, his momentum carrying him through to strike the second hound even as the first one falls. The hellhound lets out a frightened yelp, wraps its teeth around Blarth’s leg and lets loose with another gout of flame. Fortunately, Geoffrey’s protective magic keeps Blarth’s leg from becoming charcoaled, but it does little to stop the hellhound teeth from breaking the skin. Blarth feels blood seeping down his leg, and it’s all he can do to keep the dog from pulling him off his feet. Geoffrey moves in to help, his morning star crushing several of the dogs ribs, and Halgo targets the creature with a ray of frost that draws one of the loudest howls of pain yet. Even as the dog’s wild eyes look for Halgo and his cold magic, Blarth plunges a blade through the creature’s neck.
Everyone pauses for a moment, catching their breath, before Geoffrey points down the corridor.
“Gromeck and Targ,” he grunts. “Keep moving. I’ll heal as we go.”
The path splits within a few dozen feet of the hellhound lair, one path leading into the darkness while a second echoes with the sound of orcish chanting and softly flickering flames. Everyone looks at one another for a moment, but it’s hardly a choice. With weapons at the ready, they follow the path towards the flames and chanting. Blarth concentrates carefully as they walk, using his newly acquired mastery of his own body to take control of his own blood flow. He manifests biofeedback, mentally closing down the blood flow around his wounds and enjoying the feeling of mastery the technique gives him.
In the room at the end of the passageway there are nearly a dozen chanting orcs, all kneeling before a giant pit of fire and swaying back and forth in a state of religious ecstasy. On the far side of the room, Gromeck is handing the holy symbol over to an eight-foot tall orc with a Mohawk of pure flame. Red skin ripples as it reaches forward to take the symbol, turning it over in his hands for a few seconds before it melts in its hand.
“Fool,” the red-skinned orc seethes. “It is fake.”
“But Gromeck checked,” Gromeck offers quickly. “Used magic, like Targ said. Orcs said they stole from Justicar…”
“Then you were tricked,” Targ announces. His head swings towards the entryway, where the Copperheads are listening in the shadows. Everyone’s hands tighten around weapons as the flaming red eyes focus in on them, squinting through the smoke of the fire pit.
“Intruders,” Targ rumbles. “Kill all. Do not let them stop us.”
The orcs don’t need any further urging, rising to their feet and charging forward with short, sharp daggers clenched in their fists. They get no more than a few feet from where they started before Blarth reacts, instinctively putting his whistle to his lips and sending a shockwave of pure sonic force through the room. The charging orcs are scattered, some falling to the ground with broken limbs and bleeding ears while the rest are swept into the fire pit by the force of the blast. Gromeck and Targ are both rocked by the blast, but neither fall.
“Fool. You ruin everything,” Targ snarls, and he scoops his oversized hands into the flames before him and pulls forth a burning palm of flame. With a roar he lobs the flames at Blarth, covering him with fire that burns through the protection of Geoffrey’s spell. The bulk of the damage is cosmetic, Blarth pulling as much blood and muscle away from the flesh as he can with biofeedback, but its enough to give Blarth pause.
Halgo steps calmly into the room, ignoring the sweat soaking his face, and casts a color spray that leaves Targ stunned and Gromeck momentarily blind. Geoffrey takes the opportunity to circle around the fire pit, hitting the stunned orcish fire-cultist with the Hammer of St Gustav. It’s a clumsy strike, fully displaying Geoffrey’s unfamiliarity with the hammers weight and techniques, but it glows brightly as it strikes and the red-skinned orc screams in rage. Gromeck, blind and panicking, rips through the words of a healing spell and backs up against the curved wall of the chamber. It does him little good, as an angry Blarth circles around and cuts him down with a single strike.
Targ starts to shake off the effects of Halgo’s spell, but not before the wizard hits him with a ray of frost. Targ glares across the fire pit, but the more pressing concern is the cleric with the hammer nearby. He lashes out with sharp claws, his touch tearing through Geoffrey’s skin and burning at the same time. Geoffrey, already fighting awkwardly with the hammer in hand, swings uselessly in retaliation and Targ starts to laugh in amusement.
“You will pay, mortals,” he rumbles, burning eyes glaring coldly over the flaming pit. “You have ruined my plans, but I will take your souls.”
Then Blarth’s sword appears through his throat.
“Puny demon orc,” Blarth says, then decapitates Targ with a second stroke.
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