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Message: <blockquote data-quote="(contact)" data-source="post: 1234524" data-attributes="member: 41">“On the evening before a battle one thinks of a thousand things forgotten till then; those who are indifferent to one another become friends and those who are friends become brothers. It need not be said that if in the depths of the heart there is a sentiment more tender, it reaches then, quite naturally, the highest exaltation of which it is capable.”Alexandre Dumas, Twenty Years After.96—Mortal fear and Holy Terror; not the same thing at all.In the years to come, the massacre of the Blood Solstice would be seen not just as a conflict between ideologies made brutally manifest, but also a great tactical mistake by the forces of good; an opening that allowed the evil faiths and cults of Faerun to gain a more tenacious stronghold in the wake of the uprising.  Alliances that had been strong became subject to doubt—with each act of destruction, suspicions were sown, and despite pledges of allegiance and friendship, each member of the alliance was left to wonder, could we be next?-----In Waterdeep, Baldur’s Gate, and Suzail the children of the Ermathan Pantheon die in heated and chaotic house-to-house fighting; individuals run from, stand up to, or throw themselves at the mercy of the mobs, but the outcome is the same.  In the Dalelands and other small communities across the Heartlands, Lathander’s faithful are accosted one family at a time—pulled from their hearth-fires and beaten, sent into exile en masse.The mobs are composed of a motley smattering of the most hardcore followers of Faerun’s good-aligned faiths.  The hard-charging crusaders and paladins of Helm, Tempus, Tyr and Torm lead the way, but are followed by a surprisingly blood-thirsty assemblage of clerics and lay-followers representing Illmater, Waukeen and Kelemvor.  Many of the evil faiths also participate in the rioting, although most are careful to disguise their true motivations.Elgin Trezler is openly weeping as he relates the news, and the Champions of the Risen Goddess race to Thelbar’s study where they gather around his newly-crafted mirror of mental prowess and scan the communities of the Ermathan faithful one by one.  Lathander’s temples at Myth Drannor and Suzail are spared.  The former due (presumably) to its isolation, and the latter to the fact that the recent upheaval in Cormyr meant that few non-Lathenderites remained. As they watch the events unfold, Elgin’s tears are shared by Ilwe and Gorquen.  Khuumar nods to himself, as if he had been expecting this sort of thing all along (and as a drow, he probably was).  Thelbar is quiet and composed, and Taran’s expression slowly changes from grimly determined, to frantic. “Well,” Thelbar turns to his companions.  “What do we do?”  He seems not to be asking so much as testing his companions.“We get in there, and we save those people.” Taran says without hesitation.  “We split up and do what we can for as many of them as possible—then we bring them here.”“No,” Elgin says.  “We find the leaders responsible for this horror, and we kill them.”“Yes,” Gorquen says.  “We take vengeance.”“I agree,” Ilwe says.Khuumar says, “We must kill them all, Tar-Ilou, lest we be seen as weak.”  Taran begins to argue, then trails off as he considers his companion’s words.  “This is like some kind of freaky mirror-reality,” he mutters.  “Fine, we fight.  We scry and raid, one after the other, until we’ve killed them all.”-----As the companions scramble to their quarters and prepare themselves for the assault, each one of them becomes aware that the disturbing sensation felt upon awakening is beginning to intensify.  At first, it might be confused for battle-fear, or perhaps the numbness and shock of the day’s events wearing thin, but over time it becomes clear—a supernatural force of fury and overwhelming power is directed at each one of them.  The growing clouds that hang over New Ithor block the sun, but do nothing against this heavenly radiance.Taran and Gorquen exchange worried glances as they meet in the hall outside her room.  She starts to move toward Thelbar’s quarters, but Taran shakes his head no, and motions upward.  The burly fighter leads the way to the large open-air arboretum kept on the roof, where they join their companions.  The day is unseasonably hot and humid, and the thick, clinging heat is carried upon the eerie yellow-tinged air.  The sky is completely overcast, but to human eyes, the day is as bright as any other; floating in the sky directly above the citadel is the holy symbol of Tyr—a golden shield, hundreds of feet across, and blazing like the sun.“Now that . . . ” Taran thinks through the group’s telepathic bond.“Yeah,” Gorquen agrees out loud.  “We’re f-cked.”“It’s just like my last life,” Taran moans.  “But more.”As the radiance from the holy symbol increases to a point where none of the assembled heroes can look upon it, a divine voice is heard from the skies.  “Heretics of New Ithor,” it booms, “your judgment is upon you.  Curse your tongue for its blasphemies, and denounce your wicked gods, for this day you die.”As the pronouncement echoes and fades away, the clouds above part, as if fleeing from some unseen presence. A blinding wedge of light arcs earthward from the opening, terminating just yards away from the Champions of the Risen Goddess.  As the light bloom fades, the heroes can see that a trio of angels have appeared, each one writhed in white-hot flames and fanning huge wings.  Directly behind them, a massive brass dragon winds about in a tight spiral, keeping one baleful eye upon the Champions the whole while.  Directly in front of the angels is a giant-sized man dressed head to toe in ceremonial armor, brandishing a monstrous greatsword.  It doesn’t take an expert in religion to recognize the avatar—merely being near it imparts the knowledge of its identity.  Helm. “Helm!”  Taran says, in case no one was paying attention.“No, no.  Helm and Tyr are not allies!” Elgin cries.  A small part of his mind simply refuses to believe that this day is happening—slowly but surely, Elgin is checking out.“Look friendly enough to me,” Gorquen thinks.  “Now what?”  The swordswoman may be at a loss, but her sword is not.  As the avatar of Helm is stiffly raising a mailed fist in preparation for a speech, Solodrun activates a dimension door, and places Gorquen directly behind the dragon!  Gorquen rises to the moment in spectacular fashion, cleaving scale from flesh with Corellon Larethian’s former sword, and provoking a surprised bellow of pain from the creature.Thelbar shimmers and is gone, returning to normal-time on the far side of the rooftop, leaving behind him a deafening symphony that marks a barrage of withering sonic spell effects*: a sonic-substituted meteor swarm,  a horrid wilting, and a pair of prismatic sprays, along with several quickened spells; sonic-substituted fireballs, cone of cold and chain lightning.  The moaning projectiles of the meteor swarm impact with a roar directly into the chest of one of the angels, blowing chunks of desiccated flesh from the entity as the horrid wilting tears the moisture from its skin, and wave after wave of sonic force shred what remains into several pieces.  A second angel is petrified outright, and the third, nearly crushed by the deafening assault, stumbles away bleeding profusely from the face, unable to press the fight.  The dragon, gravely weakened by Gorquen’s surprise assault, is large enough to extend fully into the ranges of all of Thelbar’s spells—the top half of the creature along with one wing are completely destroyed, and the dragon plummets to earth, smashing a hole into the roof of the stronghold, then slipping partially within. “Curse Mystra,” the avatar of Helm blasphemes, as he charges at Thelbar, swinging his glowing two-handed sword in a crushing overhand arc.  But Mystra’s gift will foil Helm twice this day, as Thelbar’s abjurations are just sufficient to keep him alive as the sledgehammer blow shudders home.Taran shouts in fear and rage, and leaps at the avatar, but for all his fury, his strikes cannot be made to count; the avatar is too strong, too fast, and too well armored.  Khuumar cunningly uses Taran’s attack as an opening to slip around behind Helm, but even from this advantageous position, he cannot pierce the avatar’s otherworldly protections.  Elgin notes this and looks inward for a brief moment, before growing to nearly twice his normal height as a vessel for the might of Lathander.  He charges forward and strikes Helm squarely in the chest with his mace—a trifling blow to a god, but a success nonetheless!Helm’s hollow voice rings in Elgin’s mind.  “You are the most disappointing, Trezler.  These outworlders are capable of little better, but you?  You and your god are the traitors.”As Helm castigates the gigantic priest, Ilwe casts a quickened true strike, and uses it to place a single arrow between the slits of Helm’s visor, where it sinks home with an audible clang.  Helm brushes at the missile, and shatters the shaft with the back of his mailed hand.As Helm is swarmed by adventurers, the symbol of Tyr above the fight begins to flare and then fade.  As it fades, a vast whirlwind-like cloud formation appears in its center and grows, the overcast clouds parting before the front ranks of an angelic host; hundreds of angels and celestial knights fly in orderly ranks through the newly-made gate and begin to form battle-lines in the sky above New Ithor.  On the ground, there is surprisingly little panic—drow rarely look up.  Possessed of a deep and abiding fear of the sky, the drow of New Ithor react to strange weather phenomena by getting inside and staying there.  Thus, by and large, they do not see the armies massing against them.“Now would be a good time to run,” Taran thinks to his companions, trying without success to keep his mind on the fight at hand.“If we flee, everyone will die!” Gorquen shouts.“And that would be different, how?” Taran shouts back.  “We can’t win here, Gorquen.  We should cut our losses.”“Where is Mother Talendiira?” Gorquen demands. Taran shakes his head.  “She’s a prophet—she can see the f-cking future!  Of course she isn’t here!”Gorquen is not given to panic, and she resolutely places herself in front of the divine juggernaut.  She feints at his legs, but reverses direction, and brings Soludrun up in a scything arc directly into the base of Helm’s blade, just above the hilt.  There is a resounding crash, and a bright shivering sound that lingers long after Helm’s sword falls into two pieces.“You!  You . . .” the avatar of Helm finishes his sentence with a low, throaty growl.  Gorquen exults, but is not so naïve to believe that she has won.  In an instant the armored knight has shifted his sundered blade to one hand and charged for Gorquen.  Helm ignores the fruitless attacks made by her companions as he seizes her by the neck, and prepares to saw her head off with his jagged and broken edge.“Enough.”  The voice is low and calm, but it is easily the loudest sound on the battlefield.  As the combatants turn one by one to investigate, they notice that Elgin has spontaneously grown another three feet!  The cause for this must be the proximity to his god; Lathander has taken the field.  The god is seen to mortal eyes as a tall, long-bearded human male clutching an unassuming walking-stick, his face lined with an ancient wisdom.  His simply-cut robes are a riot of color:  the dawn sky made cloth“That is not an avatar.” Elgin whispers through the telepathic bond.“You are a coward and a fool,” Lathander addresses Helm.  “And I will not fight a figment.”  There is a moment of divine communication, an exchange of unknown length taking place beyond time, then Helm speaks.“You have made a fatal mistake, Sun-Prince.”  Helm’s sword has replaced itself.  Somehow, even with  ten pairs of mortal eyes upon him, Helm has changed without anyone noticing how.  He has grown larger, and more radiant; more . . . real.Lathander regards Helm coolly.  “You have made the mistake,” he replies, “and the sorrow you thought to inflict upon my followers will be upon you threefold.  This day, you face oblivion.”It was only much later that Thelbar, alone among his companions, came to realize that this conversation and the ensuing struggle were entirely for the benefit of the mortals present.  What was to be had in fact already been in whatever timeless space exists between the gods.  The event that followed in the mortal-realm was a shadow; a figment, indicating the real thing, but only imperfectly.-----*Meta-game note:  This fight took place immediately prior to our 3.5 conversion, and was Thelbar’s “last hurrah” time stop.  Fittingly, it was also his most devastating.  In one round, he single-handedly destroyed an encounter meant to punish a group of 19th and 20th level PCs.  My DM had that, “are you sure? ” look on his face as the damage was calculated—and so did I.  When the 3.5 change to the spell’s effect was made, we were glad to see it—this encounter in particular made us feel downright dirty.  So. Much.  Damage.</blockquote>

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