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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 2058969" data-attributes="member: 143">Hey, thanks Richard!  I appreciate you registering here in order to post in my thread. And NWK, if anything you have a talent for understatement. The morkoth has, in particular, one sure tactic that is almost unstoppable. Which we'll get to, shortly; but first we need to soften up the heroes a bit...* * * * * Chapter 334 The horrid wilting spell was a terrible magic, capable of ripping the moisture that facilitated the basic processes of life right out of a living being.  The fiendish morkoth’s spell, a gift of its dark ancestry, hit them with its fullest potential of power.  The injured men in the shadow of the ruined inn behind them screamed and collapsed, reduced in a heartbeat to desiccated husks that only barely resembled men.  The dwarves were made of sterner stuff, but even they could not fully resist the dark energies of the spell.Or at least two could not; Arun and Hodge gritted their teeth as their bodies screamed in protest against the moisture torn from them by the potency of the spell.  Arun’s skin sank close against his skull, and blood flowed from his fingers as the suddenly-dry flesh burst within his gauntlets.  Hodge stumbled, tears of blood trailing from his eyes as he blinked, trying to clear his vision. But Beorna, her mettle bolstered by the power of her faith, and the sheltering hand of Helm, fought off the dire effect of the wilting.  Her face twisted into a snarl as she jammed her sword point-down into the ground at her feet, and reached around to the small bow still slung across her back.  In part, her ire was directed at herself, for while she possessed the power to send such an infernal monstrosity back to its plane of origin, she also knew that her chances of affecting it with her magic were almost nil.  That was the price of her chosen path, sacrificing the power to wield spells for the toughness and dedication of the templar.  It was a choice she’d made freely, but at this particular moment it grated. The morkoth let out a shriek as a missile stabbed into its body.  The shot had not been Hodge’s, as the bolt from his crossbow had missed cleanly.  Rather, Dannel and Mole were running back down the road toward them, forced now almost onto the far shoulder by the advancing waters of the lake.  The buildings on the lakeward side of the avenue were now surrounded by boiling water, and the crash of breaking glass and splintering wood sounded now almost constantly from all around the edges of the lake.  Dannel paused long enough to loose another shaft, which the creature was able to dodge.  It had erected a dark field of energy around it, a familiar unholy aura that the companions had faced before. It beat its wings to gain more altitude, but none of the adventurers would have wagered that it was retreating from the fray. The vrocks let out their terrible shrieks and dove toward the dwarves.  Cautious, the avian fiends did not immediately dive into range of their blades, but instead drew upon dark currents of power to bolster themselves prior to engaging their foes.  Beorna fired an arrow at one, but the missile barely stuck in its thick hide, not harming it.  The vrocks, now maybe twenty feet above them now, circling them in a wide sweep, responded with a mocking cackle as they surrounded themselves with shifting cloaks of mirror images.  Arun, who had not gone for his bow, only held his sword ready, waiting for the inevitable attack. Dannel drew out a handful of arrows from his magical quiver as the morkoth angled back toward him, spreading them onto the bed of a nearby ruined wagon that had been left beside the road.  Mole had been beside him a moment ago, but she’d disappeared somewhere, naturally.  Dannel only hoped she’d gotten clear; he’d seen what effect the morkoth’s initial attack had had, and he fully expected to draw something similar down upon himself. Drawing his first arrow to his cheek, he set about stimulating that response.  His first shot missed, to his frustration, but he did not spend any time berating himself.  The arrows were close at hand; each was fit to string, drawn, and fired in a heartbeat.  The morkoth’s thick, oily hide and the evil aura of power surrounding it were potent defenses, but Dannel was one with his bow, the song filling him, infusing his arrows with magical power.  The creature flinched noticeably in its flight as the elf’s second arrow vanished into its torso, and even as it recovered the third clipped its wing, punching through the membrane as it passed through.  The creature howled in rage and drew its wings close around its body, plummeting toward Dannel like a stone.  Still Dannel fired, and his fourth shot stuck in the creature’s leg, trailing fat drops of black blood that splattered on the stones at his feet. He reached for another arrow, but before he could ready another shot, the morkoth spread its wings and let loose another spell upon its tormentor. The vrocks, content with the potency of their defensive preparations, finally unleashed their assault.  They opened with a paired screech, a sonic assault intended to stun their enemies, and leave them completely vulnerable to attack.  Unfortunately for them, their enemies were dwarven veterans, who were easily able to resist the terrible sound.  Hodge had reloaded his bow and shot one of the vrocks, a square-on impact to the chest that unfortunately connected with a mirror image.  Beorna’s arrows likewise struck only empty air, although she did manage to remove several of the images from one of the creatures before they both wheeled and dove to the attack. Arun waited in a ready position until he actually felt the impact of claws tearing at his shield, trying to find an opening in his defenses.  In that instant he released the attack he’d been holding, driving his sword through the body of the demon, smiting it with a critical strike that tore through its ribcage, drove through a lung, and then erupted out from its back.  The demon seemed shocked, opening its beak soundlessly as the holy power of the sword seared its corrupted essence from within.  It managed to get one of its hind legs up between itself and the dwarf impaling it with his sword, and pushed off of the blade, flopping awkwardly to the ground made slick with its own blood.  Hodge rushed up, ready to finish it, but the vrock still had a bevy of mirror images protecting it, and the dwarf’s axe clove through one of those instead of the real creature. “Blast ye!” Hodge cursed, almost losing his balance as his foot landed on a cobblestone slick with demonic ichor. Beorna, meanwhile, was closely engaged with the second vrock.  As it drew within reach she dropped her bow and drew forth her own holy blade, hefting the weapon with both of her muscled hands wrapped around its hilt.  She was cautious, wary of overextending herself with a strike against a false image, and that caution allowed the vrock to get in the first strike.  As it dove at her it lashed out with one of its hind legs, clipping her solidly across the right side of her face.  Her helm prevented her from losing an eye, but the sharp talons still dug painfully across her brow, opening gashes that trailed blood down the side of her face.  The templar merely shook her head and countered with a series of expert cuts that formed a weaving pattern of light between her and the demon.  Several more of the mirror images vanished as she tore through them with the holy blade, but they served their purpose, keeping the demon safe from harm, for the moment. Dannel screamed in agony as the morkoth, now a mere fifty feet above him, spread its wings and extended a webbed hand down toward him.  Black flames erupted around him, slashing into his slender body, threatening to tear the very fabric of his soul asunder.  But even as the destruction spell took hold, a clear thought sounded in his mind, a picture of the woman he loved, her fate dependent on them, on him, surviving to find her...He screamed again, but this time there was more frustration and rage than pain in the sound.  He realized that he’d fallen to the ground, and that while wisps of black smoke rose from his body, he was alive.  His bow was still in his hand, his fingers white around the smooth shaft.  Then an echoing scream drew his attention up, and he saw the morkoth, its wings spread wide like some avenging angel, descending upon him, his death shining in its eyes.</blockquote>

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