Xorn
First Post
“Flank!” cried out the warlord, twirling his stance about to circle one of the heavily armor skeletons, crashing his greataxe into the rib cage of the undead fighter as it tried to follow Daichot’s movement, followed by the dwarf’s warhammer crushing its right hip from the opposite side, having used the warlord’s attack to press his attack from the other side. As the undead bones of the wicked creature splintered and cracked at the points of impact, Omar noted the fiery backdrop of the western half of the chamber, where they had entered.
Vrax’s robes were whipping about him in the wind gusting about him from the heat of the inferno he was struggling to control. As another heavy clack of stone preempted a new eruption of skeletal fighters, the wizard yielded another step backwards towards the other three heroes, who were busy dealing with the two largest of the skeletons. As a wicked sneer creased his face, Vrax leveled his staff at the new pair of skeletons to the west, who quickly sighted him and began to charge. A deceptively small ball of flame, about the size of a marble, launched away from the head of his staff, exploding violently into a shockwave of fire fifteen paces across, shattering the skeletons into separate limbs and torsos, which crashed apart against the walls of the crypt.
Behind him, Percy leaned back awkwardly as the heavy, rusted blade of a warrior crashed into the edge of the coffin the halfling had pressed himself against, and then the rogue ducked under the momentarily stuck blade to somersault between the attacker’s legs, kicking at the ankles of the living dead to propel himself across the dusty floor on his back, before kicking his legs into the air and pushing over his head into the floor, completing a backward handspring back onto his feet, standing in the widened altar at the end of the room, and looking back at his companions. Omar had shattered the skull of the warrior that attempted to kill the rogue as it devoted too much of it’s attention to the halfling, instead of the formidable fighter.
“That’s four waves!” announced the dragon-wizard, his rasping yell nearly drowned out by the howling fury of his own magic.
“Can ye hold!?” Omar called back to the west.
“For now…” Vrax gasped, and the dwarf noticed the wizard seemed to be wavering on his feet, though it was difficult to be sure with the heat distortion washing over the chamber with every spell he unleashed.
“How many are there!?” asked Daichot, jamming the butt of his axe into the skeleton that pressed him, then counter swinging the axe back into the unloving thing’s skull. No one answered his question, but by his own count, the tiefling was sure that Vrax had slain at least a dozen of the skeletons, as he and the dwarf dealt with the larger two, one of which refused to go down, despite half its skull now crashing to the ground with the warlord’s blow.
From the far west of the room, through the clinging flames and growing smoke, two more skeletons rushed at the wizard, partly ablaze as they charged through the flames. One of their wild, ungainly sword swings clipped the wizard across the arm, and he shrieked in a dragon-squawk of pain, reflexively unleashing a torrent of fire breath upon the attacker, consuming it in a cone of flame. As whatever dark source that animated the form perished with the fire, Vrax motioned his staff towards the further skeleton, unleashing a blast of arcane energy into the thing’s chest, blowing the bones apart and ending its horrific undeath.
“Hurry!” shrieked the wizard, feeling his sleeve cling to the hot slick of blood sliding down his left forearm.
“Daichot,” yelled Percy, quickly looking at the altar they had directed him towards during the fighting, “there’s some words above the altars, and some people kneeling.”
As the warlord tried to picture the halfling’s description, Omar shoulder blocked the skeleton they were fighting, leading with his shield and driving the warrior into the wall before crashing his warhammer into the creature’s sternum, crushing its chest in and apparently driving out whatever animated the undead to begin with. Another crashing collision of stone prompted another pair of skeletons erupting from the coffins, right next to the wizard this time.
“Five!” cried Vrax, backpedaling rapidly from the swinging blades of the new attackers. As one of the skeletons missed with a swing of its sword, it twirled about and brought its shield crashing into the wizard’s ribs, and he painfully gasped as the air was driven out of him. Feeling the strength of his legs giving out rapidly, Vrax cried out in frustration and denial of his predicament, clawing at a fire deep inside him. “No!” he snapped and raised to his full height, above his normally hunched posture, and spread his arms wide. The space directly in from of him exploded violently, with no apparent source other than the dragonborn’s desire for it to burn. The skeletons were obliterated as the detonation rocked the chamber.
Daichot frantically strode into the altar and looked to where Percy was pointing. The mural was an oft-used scene of the First Dragon, looking down upon his people, protecting and guiding them. Two tapestries hung from the walls, north and south, above an altar placed below each, and the script, written in ancient Draconic, contained the Sire’s Prayer, a common oath of service and protection to Bahamut. Embossed upon the walls of the chamber were kneeling soldiers, all bowed before the Sire, and an army of the undead being destroyed by the light.
“Pray!” the tielfling reasoned, and dropped to one knee, loudly calling out the prayer to the First Dragon. Before he had finished the first line, the altar room began to glow harshly, and even as another crash of stone down the hallway signaled more skeletons coming, the warlord shouted out the prayer of protection, feeling the presence of the dragon god in the chamber with them.
Vrax could barely hear his old friend at the end of the altar, more of a nagging presence in his mind that Daichot was speaking. The wizard’s attention was focused on four more skeletons charging towards him. The heavy clomp of Omar’s short strides were getting closer, but he wouldn’t be there in time to keep the wicked metal of the skeletons from getting to Vrax, this time. The fire of the Chaos was calling to him, begging to be unleashed again, but even the wizard knew there wasn’t enough time to stop all of them. They reached him in a blinding flash of light, and then… silence.
Realizing he had closed his eyes at the moment they reached him, Vrax noticed the impact he expected never came. Omar had stopped charging, and the only sound was Percy, cheering at the end of the chamber, which suddenly sounded like it wasn’t as far away as it had been. Opening his eyes cautiously, Vrax saw a wholesome, revealing light, unquestionably divine, illuminating the tomb from every angle. There was no source for the light, but there was no question it existed. The remains of the skeletons had been whisked apart into sparkling dust, and now flowed in twisting channels of reflecting particles back into the coffins, then everything was calm.
As they looked to the east, Daichot finished saying something quietly as he gripped the holy symbol of Bahamut that he wore about his neck, and rose majestically. “Is everyone alright?” asked the warlord.
“Hell yes I am!” yelled Percy. “That was awesome! Did you do that!?” Daichot didn’t have an answer, and just shrugged.
“Aye lad, good work.” Omar turned to the sagging wizard; blood was dripping from his left arm, and his ribs were burning as badly as the chamber had been moments before. “Ye did good to, wizard. I cinnae say we’d be here if’n ye hadn’t done what ye did.” The dwarf nodded approvingly, and Vrax held his gaze a moment before nodding back, unaccustomed to such praise, as most just showed him pity.
As the two of them reached the altar, Percy was checking the altars carefully for any sign of a trap, or possibly a mechanism for the ten feet tall stone double doors set into the east wall, which glimmered with silver piping. Daichot was warning the rogue that this was a sacred area, and not to defile the First Dragon’s temple.
Percy waved a dismissing gesture at the warlord, not looking up from behind the altar. “Pshaw. That’s painted on silver. Wouldn’t even pay for the blade I’d ruin to collect it. Besides, I found something much better—these!”
The halfling produced a pair of small dragon statuettes from a side panel of the altar, holding them up as his prize. “Nice weight, good craftsmanship—and dragon statues sell well—they’d probably go for at least sixty pieces of gold, each!”
Daichot held his hands out for the statues, “Those aren’t dragon statues! Those are idols, blessed by the First Dragon, and we’re not selling them!”
Percy handed him the idols and nodded. “Of course we’re not. That would be, uh, wrong. I was just saying, that’s probably what they’re worth.”
“Hey, there’s three more in this altar,” added Omar, finding the panel that slid away beside the shrine.
Daichot looked at the two idols in his hand, and the three that Omar was retrieving from the south altar. “There were only two in that one, eh?” asked the tielfling, curious.
“Yeah. Just those two. Weird.” Percy flipped his cloak back to reveal his tiny, leather-clad frame, and an astonishing number of daggers, pouches and straps, producing a slim prybar. “So, let’s see if I can figure out how to break into these doors.”
Daichot looked at the halfling sternly.
“Would you prefer, ‘gain entry’, perhaps?”
“Just… just get them open.”
***
Vrax’s robes were whipping about him in the wind gusting about him from the heat of the inferno he was struggling to control. As another heavy clack of stone preempted a new eruption of skeletal fighters, the wizard yielded another step backwards towards the other three heroes, who were busy dealing with the two largest of the skeletons. As a wicked sneer creased his face, Vrax leveled his staff at the new pair of skeletons to the west, who quickly sighted him and began to charge. A deceptively small ball of flame, about the size of a marble, launched away from the head of his staff, exploding violently into a shockwave of fire fifteen paces across, shattering the skeletons into separate limbs and torsos, which crashed apart against the walls of the crypt.
Behind him, Percy leaned back awkwardly as the heavy, rusted blade of a warrior crashed into the edge of the coffin the halfling had pressed himself against, and then the rogue ducked under the momentarily stuck blade to somersault between the attacker’s legs, kicking at the ankles of the living dead to propel himself across the dusty floor on his back, before kicking his legs into the air and pushing over his head into the floor, completing a backward handspring back onto his feet, standing in the widened altar at the end of the room, and looking back at his companions. Omar had shattered the skull of the warrior that attempted to kill the rogue as it devoted too much of it’s attention to the halfling, instead of the formidable fighter.
“That’s four waves!” announced the dragon-wizard, his rasping yell nearly drowned out by the howling fury of his own magic.
“Can ye hold!?” Omar called back to the west.
“For now…” Vrax gasped, and the dwarf noticed the wizard seemed to be wavering on his feet, though it was difficult to be sure with the heat distortion washing over the chamber with every spell he unleashed.
“How many are there!?” asked Daichot, jamming the butt of his axe into the skeleton that pressed him, then counter swinging the axe back into the unloving thing’s skull. No one answered his question, but by his own count, the tiefling was sure that Vrax had slain at least a dozen of the skeletons, as he and the dwarf dealt with the larger two, one of which refused to go down, despite half its skull now crashing to the ground with the warlord’s blow.
From the far west of the room, through the clinging flames and growing smoke, two more skeletons rushed at the wizard, partly ablaze as they charged through the flames. One of their wild, ungainly sword swings clipped the wizard across the arm, and he shrieked in a dragon-squawk of pain, reflexively unleashing a torrent of fire breath upon the attacker, consuming it in a cone of flame. As whatever dark source that animated the form perished with the fire, Vrax motioned his staff towards the further skeleton, unleashing a blast of arcane energy into the thing’s chest, blowing the bones apart and ending its horrific undeath.
“Hurry!” shrieked the wizard, feeling his sleeve cling to the hot slick of blood sliding down his left forearm.
“Daichot,” yelled Percy, quickly looking at the altar they had directed him towards during the fighting, “there’s some words above the altars, and some people kneeling.”
As the warlord tried to picture the halfling’s description, Omar shoulder blocked the skeleton they were fighting, leading with his shield and driving the warrior into the wall before crashing his warhammer into the creature’s sternum, crushing its chest in and apparently driving out whatever animated the undead to begin with. Another crashing collision of stone prompted another pair of skeletons erupting from the coffins, right next to the wizard this time.
“Five!” cried Vrax, backpedaling rapidly from the swinging blades of the new attackers. As one of the skeletons missed with a swing of its sword, it twirled about and brought its shield crashing into the wizard’s ribs, and he painfully gasped as the air was driven out of him. Feeling the strength of his legs giving out rapidly, Vrax cried out in frustration and denial of his predicament, clawing at a fire deep inside him. “No!” he snapped and raised to his full height, above his normally hunched posture, and spread his arms wide. The space directly in from of him exploded violently, with no apparent source other than the dragonborn’s desire for it to burn. The skeletons were obliterated as the detonation rocked the chamber.
Daichot frantically strode into the altar and looked to where Percy was pointing. The mural was an oft-used scene of the First Dragon, looking down upon his people, protecting and guiding them. Two tapestries hung from the walls, north and south, above an altar placed below each, and the script, written in ancient Draconic, contained the Sire’s Prayer, a common oath of service and protection to Bahamut. Embossed upon the walls of the chamber were kneeling soldiers, all bowed before the Sire, and an army of the undead being destroyed by the light.
“Pray!” the tielfling reasoned, and dropped to one knee, loudly calling out the prayer to the First Dragon. Before he had finished the first line, the altar room began to glow harshly, and even as another crash of stone down the hallway signaled more skeletons coming, the warlord shouted out the prayer of protection, feeling the presence of the dragon god in the chamber with them.
Vrax could barely hear his old friend at the end of the altar, more of a nagging presence in his mind that Daichot was speaking. The wizard’s attention was focused on four more skeletons charging towards him. The heavy clomp of Omar’s short strides were getting closer, but he wouldn’t be there in time to keep the wicked metal of the skeletons from getting to Vrax, this time. The fire of the Chaos was calling to him, begging to be unleashed again, but even the wizard knew there wasn’t enough time to stop all of them. They reached him in a blinding flash of light, and then… silence.
Realizing he had closed his eyes at the moment they reached him, Vrax noticed the impact he expected never came. Omar had stopped charging, and the only sound was Percy, cheering at the end of the chamber, which suddenly sounded like it wasn’t as far away as it had been. Opening his eyes cautiously, Vrax saw a wholesome, revealing light, unquestionably divine, illuminating the tomb from every angle. There was no source for the light, but there was no question it existed. The remains of the skeletons had been whisked apart into sparkling dust, and now flowed in twisting channels of reflecting particles back into the coffins, then everything was calm.
As they looked to the east, Daichot finished saying something quietly as he gripped the holy symbol of Bahamut that he wore about his neck, and rose majestically. “Is everyone alright?” asked the warlord.
“Hell yes I am!” yelled Percy. “That was awesome! Did you do that!?” Daichot didn’t have an answer, and just shrugged.
“Aye lad, good work.” Omar turned to the sagging wizard; blood was dripping from his left arm, and his ribs were burning as badly as the chamber had been moments before. “Ye did good to, wizard. I cinnae say we’d be here if’n ye hadn’t done what ye did.” The dwarf nodded approvingly, and Vrax held his gaze a moment before nodding back, unaccustomed to such praise, as most just showed him pity.
As the two of them reached the altar, Percy was checking the altars carefully for any sign of a trap, or possibly a mechanism for the ten feet tall stone double doors set into the east wall, which glimmered with silver piping. Daichot was warning the rogue that this was a sacred area, and not to defile the First Dragon’s temple.
Percy waved a dismissing gesture at the warlord, not looking up from behind the altar. “Pshaw. That’s painted on silver. Wouldn’t even pay for the blade I’d ruin to collect it. Besides, I found something much better—these!”
The halfling produced a pair of small dragon statuettes from a side panel of the altar, holding them up as his prize. “Nice weight, good craftsmanship—and dragon statues sell well—they’d probably go for at least sixty pieces of gold, each!”
Daichot held his hands out for the statues, “Those aren’t dragon statues! Those are idols, blessed by the First Dragon, and we’re not selling them!”
Percy handed him the idols and nodded. “Of course we’re not. That would be, uh, wrong. I was just saying, that’s probably what they’re worth.”
“Hey, there’s three more in this altar,” added Omar, finding the panel that slid away beside the shrine.
Daichot looked at the two idols in his hand, and the three that Omar was retrieving from the south altar. “There were only two in that one, eh?” asked the tielfling, curious.
“Yeah. Just those two. Weird.” Percy flipped his cloak back to reveal his tiny, leather-clad frame, and an astonishing number of daggers, pouches and straps, producing a slim prybar. “So, let’s see if I can figure out how to break into these doors.”
Daichot looked at the halfling sternly.
“Would you prefer, ‘gain entry’, perhaps?”
“Just… just get them open.”
***
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