Favors Owed
House Ahl. The Veyshanti house caught in the midst of the Goblin Troubles just a pair of months ago. You've been sent (invited) to meet a clan prince in his tent in Alexandria. Tent, in Alexandria. A fanciful thing of Veyshanti design, with sand flooring. The sand is warm--not as warm as the southern lands such traditions hail from--but warm enough to warm the air of the dwelling, and warm enough to comfortably, go sandal'd, were one to take of Veyshanti custom.
Upon the sand are places to sit? Expensive carpeting, as one might place in a travel-tent. To some of you, a familiar figure paces at the front of the room. Jack, of Clan Ahl, the clan prince, if one is to be believed, paces.
"Well, we owe him a fair sum, I'm afraid," he says, when he sees you. He smiles, the expression warm but sharp. "Please sit with me. I know a few of you; others I have yet to meet."
There are sitting-blankets for each of you. At the side of the room, a servant stirs; the clink of a plate. Jack frowns at the noise. Just a quick movement, a sudden look to the doorway. And then--he takes a seat.
Murder peeks her head inside the tent, and then slowly steps inside, looking around curiously. She offers a bow to the Prince, since she was told he was some kind of royalty, if it were to be believed. The Gobbo finds an empty sitting-blanket, and settles down upon it. Her clunky boots come off and she warms her bare feet upon the warm sand. "I am Murder. Nice to meet you...er, sir? Prince?"
Erendriel isn't one of those who is so familiar with the political dealings of goblins and clan princes. Generally glad to attempt diplomacy or... stories... in a pinch, this doesn't seem to be a pinch. Having been hired after all, she follows in in, and quietly goes to sit where suggested.
Of those that have been engaged with these particular Veyshanti in the past, there is a blue-scaled sith-makar in the back, his green eyes occassionally shifting toward the servants uncomfortably. He declines to sit down with just a few demere words, but stays to the back where his standing is less noticeable than it might be otherwise. In fact in spite of the fact that he should stick out rather badly he is good at blending into the background. Becoming one with the shadows and keeping his words to himself.
Bors sits down somewhere towards the back, or else out of focus, and says his name. Or the one he's using anyhow. "Bors." If he was named Bors by his parents, he's much more cosmopolitan than he looks. He looks like an old Xian fisherman, and smells a bit like one, too, if it comes to it. Strangely enough, he stays out of politics. And polite society. He spends a fair amount of time on fishing boats, which explains the smell.
Thankfully Serraphine's Fullplate was a very comfortable set of fullplate, so as she rummaged around for cookies in her pouch that never seems to run out (except when it does) she looked around. Curiously turning her head this way and that until she was asked to sit down on the expanse of rugs and blankets. The scrape of metal plates running over each other as she half-flops down and her cookie already in hand.
Crunch-munch-munch-munch.
erraphine might be eating away at that Acleese coffin cookie, but she is still paying attention. A swallow of her cookie then a wave with the same half-eaten coffin-shaped confection, "I'm Grand General of Demon Finding, Demonic Spotter Extraordinaire, Countess Serraphine the Demon Hunting Expert of the Blar Region on detachment to Alexandria by way of Vandalheim with the highest esteem of Serrielites." sage-nod.
The doorway stirs. A servant enters, bearing a warmed tray. The trays are set in front: treatbits of spiced meat. A cup of tea to wash them down.
"My name is Jack. I am the prince of Clan Ahl. I have met some of you, before. You helped chase the hags, miss Erendriel, I remember, alongside--ah, are you dating, now? There seemed such a spark between you and the Seldan fellow. Forgive a prince; his mothers always told him to inquire of such things. And your scales, sith-makar, one recalls them. You were there when my cousin had his...incident. And ah, Murder. Ghazi. It warms my heart the Troubles are past us. The rest of you, I am likewise pleased to meet," Jack says. He lifts the cup as it's given to him--the cup smells of the spices of a thousand worlds. Tlagi tea. Expensive, rare. Fought over.
A tea to provoke a war, if ever there was one. To Ilmig, he inclines his head. Things in Veyshan have an order, however--and this, jackal though he is--is a prince.
"The unfortunate Incident," the Goblin Troubles, a pseudo-war between the goblins and merchants guilds of Alexandria, spurred on by the interference from witch-hags and 'cursed shipments,' "I am afraid we are still addressing. A friend of the clan came to our aid in the midst of it--and I am afraid we owe this dragon a few favors. ...he could perhaps, have picked a time less inconvenient to call them due. I do not recall if any of you have ever owed favors to a dragon. It is an experience. Have you...ever experienced such?" he asks of you in turn.
Erendriel covers her mouth and snickers as Jack starts right in. She looks at him, then biting her lip, as she shifts a little. "Thank you but not... quite. I don't think he'd be allowed to. We're friends, but it's more casual than that. And.. I had never met a dragon before meeting that one. So I've never owed one anything. I guess that's lucky?"
The Gobbo puffs up at the term the Prince uses to address her, and she grins toothily at mention of the troubles. "Hmm, are things still not yet settled, then? Are there still rumblings going on, between the Gobbos and your merchants?", Murder wonders. She pauses a moment to blink at Serraphine. "You spend an awful lot of time in Alexandria eating cookies for someone who's a count of Blar." Murder blinks a few times and shakes her head, looking back to Jack. "No, can't say I would want to be indebted to a uh dragon. Never deal with a dragon 'sa rule I adhere too."
Bors is one of the newcomers, he supposes, he doesn't really know anyone. He just shows up sometimes. Generally on fishing boats, when they need help with the catch. Sometimes when someone needs to be killed messily. They don't put it like that, generally, and he's a bit particular about these things, truth be told. Or at least, he doesn't show up except when he does. He certainly doesn't deal with dragons. Dragons have much more class than that.
Ilmig won't turn down a snack and plucks up a meatbit or three to chew, though he uses the tankard lashed to his belt, filled from his own skin, for washing them down. "Eh. Dragons. Never sought favors from 'em so never owed 'em." He motions to the gobber with his mug. "Sounds a good rule."
It seems to surprise Zeke being offered tea, which he graciously accepts and huddles over it in the manner one might over something one is fond of. The tea is offered little enough attention though as Zeke is equally surprised to have been remembered by the prince, blinking his green eyes rapidly to clear the startlement from his bones. His tail flicks once. Others answer the question in turn and out of politeness he shakes his head. "Thissss one hasss not. Thisss one would repay sssssuch debt very quickly though." Who would want to owe a dragon?
Serraphine looks At Murder, tilting her head to the side, "No... No... I am Countess Serraphine the Demon Hunting Expert of the Blar Region on detachment to Alexandria by way of Vandalheim. I'm not a Countess of Blar." She shakes her head. Dismay. She sniffs at the tea, then dunks her cookie in it before squish-munch-munch'ing away on it again. Her eyes turning back to Jack to watch him and listen to the proposal.
"...Well. I imagine Friend Dragon means to test us," Jack says, from over his cup. There's a flash of neat, white teeth over his cup. He sets the cup down neatly, the gesture fluid without being light or delicate. "A pretty game of his, don't you think? A debt called in the midst of fall shipping season. Only just after recent rumors," he says, and inclines his head to Murder. An indirect answer to her question: they are working on it. It would be nice to get the dragon's request out of the way, so that they might continue to. "--were settled. I wish to formally apologize for any misunderstandings on behalf of my clan during the troubles. The relations between our people are normally more cordial, and I was sorry to see them harmed. The goblins have a...innovation? to them that we find quite fascinating," he says. Again, the neat show of teeth.
"...the debt. Yes, I'm afraid my clan owes the dragon a fair sum. Have you ever found yourself in such a situation, I apologize. If you have, I am sure you understand my gratitude for coming this evening, though--I also hope, you may see it as I do. A delectable challenge," Jack says. The raven brows draw down, then relax. A deep flash within dark eyes. "Because we do not owe this dragon funds at all."
"What is interesting to this dragon--is a rare crate of tea seeds. He swears this is to be found in a rival's claws--stolen from a merchant who had traveled to trade with him a thousand years ago, and had never made it. At the time, my friends, our friend, Merchant Tangisir, was but a youngling in his clan. He had arranged, he tells me, this trade at some difficulty."
"The merchant was to travel from, I am told, Khazad Duin, through the Myrrish lands and--oh, friends. Here, the tale becomes delectable. Such is this spice that our young merchant friend," young dragon, "would meet him at the sanded coast."
"...then, through this convoluted plan, he would fly the tea seeds deep into the southern caves of Veyshan--to the accolades of his family. This was not to be."
"And yet--pirates. A thousand year pirate king. A young dragon, rival to our dear Merchant Tangisir overheard this plan--and snatched the merchant, and snatched the seeds."
The prince sets down his cup, his dark eyes stormy. Laughing. "That dear friends, is the Merchant's wish, in exchange for his aid. My clan has the location of the pirate's island. I shall trust in your good graces to do the rest."
Erendriel raises a hand. "So we need to go on a boat, find this island, get the tea, and bring it back? Will we go on a boat of yours, or do we need to find our own?"
Murder listens as best she can, but she is awfully fidgety by the end of Jack's rather long and rambly explanation of a rather 'simple' situation. "I am not even going to pretend to understand even half of what you just said.", she says, her grin exposing far too many teeth to be considered polite. "So you're saying we have to go into a dragon's lair on the behest of another dragon, to steal back a shipment of seeds? Are these seeds made of solid gold or something, and crap out more gold besides, or something? Seems like an utterly bent request you're giving us here."
The Gobbo cants her head to one side, even more teeth showing as she speaks, "And what are you offering up in return?"
Bors tries to follow the complex and convoluted story. Well, it's not -that- complicated, but Bors is a simple man. Fish, he knows. Past that, things get murky very fast. But he can follow the others, that seems doable. They can think for him. Taking tea from a dragon? That's a bit tougher than taking candy from a baby, but ... he doesn't offer any protest at all. Seems he's OK with it.
Alas the tea is gone, so Zeke holds the tea cup in hand empty and listens to the long tale of Jack's. It is some story too, concerning dragons and pirates as it does. Zeke's toes sink into the sands and he lets out a soft sigh hearing of the theft and shakes his head. It seems that they have at last come to their task. Questions form on the edge of Zeke's tongue, but others are speaking so he keeps his peace. Murder's words prompt a low rumble of embarassment in his chest and he ducks his head quickly lettting lose his own question as a distraction. "That issss sssir, what can you tell ussss of the pirate and hissss landssss?"
Ilmig mutters, mostly to himself, "Brigands and thieves, even among dragons..." He then uplifts his head and his voice. "So. We be returnin this dragon's property, mebbe after beatin' it off another dragon 'n his pirates, and all's well?"
"Arvek don't float." Serraphine says this flatly, while dunking her cookie back into the tea once more. She blinks and looks over toward the Gobber, nodding her head in Erendriel's direction. "Pirates, island, go there and get tea seeds back that was stolen from Merchant Tangisir so long ago that if it was just tea would've turned to dust. At least, that's the short version." Dunk-dunk-munch-munch-munch.
"Clan Ahl always repays its debts." The prince lifts his cup, and inclines his head to Murder. "A hefty sum of gold. Weapons. To repay our debt to you, of course--in exchange for repaying our debt to the dragon. My cousin shall accompany you," he says.
Near the side entrance to the tent lurks a low form--a wild, desert jackal. It keeps its head low and doesn't look to you. It stares low and ahead, a quiet challenge to the world.
"...mrmm. Some of you know Raja. Priest, I believe you have met, before. Raja was a victim in the Troubles and, I think...it shall be a poetic sort of finish that he assist in tying off this loose end."
Raja looks so pleased about that. But? Does one gainsay ones prince? The jackal sits down upon a rug, and crosses lean paws, one over the other. So daintly. One might think of Murder and her teeth.
Then to Ilmig and Serraphine, "In so few words, yes. There is a ship--the paperwork," a wave of long fingers. "All arranged. A debt to a dragon," he says then, sounding bemused. "We are only fortunate it is not /more/ complicated. In the scheme of things, my advisors...advise me...that this is relatively simple."
To Zeke: "Aside from the island, it is to my chagrin that I have not a clue. The Merchant speaks and speaks and yet there are no answers--only the ringing of one's ears. Yet, after many hours of conversation, one was able to ascertain that The Merchant and this dragon have been rivals for some time." The jackal prince reclaims his tea. "Yet...to reclaim a debt after a thousand years seems somewhat unusual. Or, perhaps this prince's mind is too used to the dealings of Veyshanti nobles. Were they Veyshanti nobles--one would expect at the least, a /reason/."
"But, dragons."
Raja lowers his muzzle to stare at the sanded floor. He looks disgruntled.
"That's because Arvek cannot swim.", the Gobbo says with a snort. She looks to Jack as he speaks on. "Gold is to my liking. Do the weapons possess magical qualities, then?" Murder's eyes light up a little at this thought. "I suppose that I am in, then. If travel has been arranged, I assume food and such will be covered too?" Only now does she quickly down the tea, and munch on the treats offered to her.
Erendriel sits up, and thinks. holding her face, staring into space. "Then we may need to... well, does anyone have some magic so that we can see what's on the island, before we go? It would be bad to get there and find out there's something, or someone we need, that we don't have."
Bors nods as the Prince explains. He is clueless in the ways of dragons, and nobles, and tea. Maybe this is normal? Certainly not for him to say one way or the other. So he sits there, quietly, nodding once if the Prince looks his way. He's in, even before the mention of gold, though gold is nice. It won't help him the way he'd like. But there's things he can do with it.
"I can swim better than you, I'll bet." Serraphine squints back at the Gobbo, "And after I translated no less." Dunk-dunk-munch-munch-munch. Serraphine nods her head and shrugs, the sound of scraping metal-on-metal as she does this and seems agreeable to the idea of a loaned ship. A much better option than swimming all the way there.
Zeke allows his tea cup to be taken from him, eyes following the person taking the cup away for a long time. Not long enough that he misses his answer however and he nods low to the prince. "We will have to do with what we have then." Which it seems is a very old story and not very much else besides. He exudes an aura of confidence in spite of this. "Thissss one hassss no magicsss which can do sssuch thingsss." This to Erendreil, his tail wrapped around his leg. "We will have to go and sssee for ourssselvess."
"N I be sinkin better 'n most," Ilmig mutters. "If khazadi were meant fer water we'd have gills." He breaks into a laugh. "But a boat be the next best thing." He empties the remainder from his tankard and stows it. "Well, if we're goin we should be goin, isle-peekin or not. I'm guessin this dragon ain't the patient type, and yer wantin this done sooner not later."
Jack inclines his head. "We've incurred a favor," which, perhaps, answers questions both direct and indirect. "Well, then. My cousin shall escort you, with what we know. The clan always pays its debts." The prince stands, a jackal's smooth unwinding from the carpet, signaling the audience is at an end.
Cousin Raja lowers his head, and will follow you out the door flap.
Raja proves to be the BEST of traveling companions. That is--he stays near the priest and refuses to transform. So, one might not need to listen to him, unless one were to understand a jackal's whines and growls.
Zeke, he sticks with day and night--near the priest's door as he rests. A few feet away as he walks about the ship. When he does transform, one has a younger version of Jack--lean, too-quick to move with dark hair and eyes. Jackal.
The trip takes a few days--a trip across the Inmost Sea. From there, down the coast of Veyshan. One might see the glimmering sands, the promise of rich trade-cities vanishing into the distance. ...and instead. Instead, your boat sets course for more shadowy, sandy coves.
"We'll land there in a half our or two. That there ya see--that's the Yensaan Sandsea. There's rock, an' there's sand. Real excitin' place. Looks kinda like a giant sandworm puked itself up. Then did that fer a few hundred years or some shite." Unlike Raja, the captain? The captain is talkative. An aged khazad in sailor's cloth, he smells of brine and pipesmoke--and really, truly bad poetic analogies.
You've got a half hour. Then you don't need to listen to him anymore.
As the trip will take time, Serraphine begins to ration her cookies. Only one every six hours or so.
It's a trial... but after the last time she ran out, she decided it was best to ensure that doesn't happen again. After all, the last time she ran out it felt like she had to adventure for - MONTHS - before refreshing her supplies.
But it's about that time again, and so listening to Raja, she pulls out another cookie. She reclines back into a chair and looks out at the sandworm puked coast, and munches away. Looking over at Murder to comment, "Mmmm, these cookies are DELICIOUS." while frowning at her.
As sea travel goes, this trip isn't half bad... though that's more to do with a captain that he can intrinsically trust, not to mention drink and share tales with through all hours. As for any illness from the rocking of the waves? Well, that's what ale's for, and Ilmig seems to have brought plenty. Enough to offer some to the captain and any who might want a pint or three to calm their bellies.
Bors is, as one might guess, fairly at home on boats. His natural stance moves with the rocking boat, and he seems to know which end is which and where the pointy end goes and all the names for nautical bits. The scent of the salt air makes him almost smile once in a while, perhaps recalling an old memory.
Surprisingly to those that know Zeke, the priest doesn't seem to mind his sudden jackal companion. He keeps his tail wrapped close so that its out of Raja's way and attends to Murder. Mostly he offers her water, and the solace that a healer might provide. It's hard to tell what exactly is on the sith's mind however, for he keeps to himself more than anything. He rarely talks and even more rarely engages. It is quite possibly however the most social he's been in months. As they near the shore of the island he readies himself to leave the ship and eyes Murder one last time to see if she's feeling any better. Soon enough they'll be off her source of sickness though so there's little enough he can do.
Erendriel isn't really sure of what to do about this. Well, except to go along for the ride. Watching the water, shooting fish and trying to bring them back up with a Mage Hand. And well, that's really about it, unfortunately.
Murder nods to Zeke, and for the hundredth time thanks him. "I don't get sick on airships. Guess only seaships. Thank you, muchly, Zeke." The Gobbo glances to Serraphina. "Careful that wide butt of yours doesn't break the chair. Wouldn't want to owe a dragon a chair." She takes a deep breath of air and is very grateful to be able to step off the ship onto solid, nonmoving land.
GAME: Bors rolls profession/fisher: (9)+11: 20
"Careful your passing wit doesn't off-balance you and knock you overboard." Serraphine shoots back at the gobber as she takes another vindictive bite of cookie. CRUNCH-munch-munch-munch.
Bors actually makes himself useful in odd ways. Unexpected ways. A kerchief full of saltines finds it's way to Murder. It's something even a seasick person can hold down, generally. And he'll help with the nets. Apparently the crew use it to get fresh food on the journey, so they're not reliant on stale old stores. He seems to know his way around the nets, and the haul is decent, despite the disturbed waters, which he mutters about from time to time.
A half hour. Well...a half hour to gather items. And, it's good Zeke and Bors are there to help with things like seasickness, because half an hour's very little in the scheme of things, to put your land-legs back on.
As you prepare to disembark, as the boat prepares to dock, one of the sailors comes jogging up. A younger khazadi--well. He hasn't said much. Raja avoided him, but--that isn't new.
"Captain, we're--"
"Well, take care of it," the captain says. The aged khazadi waves away the crewfolk, and turns back around. "They know how ta land a boat. Now, as I was sayin'. There's a few tales as how tha place ended up like this. I like tha sandworm tha b--"
"Captain--"
"...Escril," the khazadi says, warningly.
"I understand, captain. It's important ta share tha tales of history an' learnin'. An' it's a real fascinatin story, sir. But--captain, there's hands crawlin' upside tha boat." The young khazadi glances towards the cookies, and his stomach rumbled, but he looks back towards his captain. "Whats tha protocol fer disembodied, fleshcrawlin' hands, ser, climbin' upside of tha boat?" He addresses the captain, of course--but it seems more, he addresses the lot of you.
Serraphine gives the young khazadi a cookie while shrugging, "Burn the boat just to be sure? Probably not the best answer of course." She frowns and scratches at her chin. "Oh! How about a little bit of channeling of the Gods." Serraphine claps her hands together, rubs them back and forth, and then looks at Zeke.
"You doing it or me?" Serraphine shrugs as she gets her hands ready in case it was up to her.
The Gobbo sighs and rubs at her face. "Well, colour me surprised." She moves to peer over the side, eyeing things curiously. "Fire, you say? I can do that!"
Bors peers sidelong at the mate as the alert for disembodied hands comes. That's definitely something outside the usual seafaring tradition, but he'll go to the gunwhale and look over the side, to see what may be seen. And to slash what may be slashed, he's got those back-curved blades in either hand now.
Ilmig blinks and looks around at the boat. "Don' s'pose it be the welcomin party, offerin ales 'n shakes with em hands..." Appropriately, be brings out the Welcoming Axe.
Zeke's green eyes widen as the young khazad speaks about disembodied hands coming up out of the water. Serraphine's suggestion, well the second part at least has the sith-makar nodding quickly. "We mussst learn where they are coming from." Hands do not just rise as they will from the water after all. "But firsssst." This last is a low rumble in his chest and he waves his staff slightly. "Perhapssss together." Just to be on the safe side, the boat isn't a small craft after all. He quickly makes his way to the edge of the ship and begins to call silently upon the dragonfather's aid.
The aged captain looks over, and nods. Once. "Set'em on fire!"
"That would...set the boat on fire, sir."
At that, the disgruntled khazadi captain squints at him. Then, turns to squint at YOU. "He's ma sister's kid," he explains. With a sigh.
...the sides of the boat? When y'all go to look: have you kicked over an anthill? Perhaps gotten angry, or upset--and just--kicked one over? That's what this looks like. Disembodied, fleshy, decomposing hands crawling out of the sand. Venturing into the water, and then upside the boat. The water boils with them.
Serraphine looks to where Zeke is going, then sort of angles herself for the 'other side of the ship' compared to Zeke. Try and get the most coverage she can with him. She frowns deeper, not that she ever stopped frowning, She uses the cookie as a means to lure the Captain's sister's kid toward one of the safer areas of the boat before clapping her hands together. Serraphine throws her hands up into the air and calls out "PRA-A-A-A-A-A-AISE /SERRIEL/!" with a little wiggling of her hands as they reach the apex of her reach.
And then she draws her sword at her hip.
Erendriel was listening to the captain when things start to happen. "Oh no," she murmurs, at the talk of hands and all of that. She then turns, points her finger and mutters something magical as a pair of fire shots go right out at the nearest hand she can see!
The Gobbo's eyes widen. "DAMNED RIGHT SET THEM ON FIRE!!", she yells out. "There's a HORDE of these things!" Murder reaches into a small pouch at her side and pulls free a large jalapeno pepper, which she shoves into her mouth. With eyes watering, she chews thoroughly, and then belches fire over the side of the ship. And again. And a third time.
Bors is apparently not bothered very much by disembodied hands. He eyes the shore, so close now, and he does a couple knee-bends, as if limbering up. Then he climbs up onto the railing, as if preparing to jump over the side. He looks back to see the others frantically trying to ... do what they're doing. Well, he's got no magic, he's just a man. And if the boat sails back home, he can just swim ashore, right?
GAME: Serraphine spends TWO uses of LAY ON HANDS. GAME: Erendriel casts Scorching Ray. Caster Level: 6 DC: 17 GAME: Erendriel rolls ranged: (7)+8: 15 GAME: Erendriel rolls ranged: (7)+8: 15 GAME: Murder casts Fire Breath. Caster Level: 7 DC: 15
It's a terrible sight to see, but Zeke doesn't hesitate upon seeing it. If anything his resolve grows. Green eyes stare down at the choppy water made so by many fingers agitating the surface and the many more that clamor up the sides of the ship. He bares his teeth at them, a low growl buried in his chest somewhere and he lifts his staff, it slams once into the floor of the ship. "Dragonfather!" The word echoes from his throat low and powerful and full of force.
GAME: Serraphine rolls 5d6: (23): 23 GAME: Murder rolls 4d6: (17): 17 GAME: Zeke rolls 3d6: (12): 12 GAME: Erendriel rolls 4d6: (8): 8 GAME: Erendriel rolls 4d6: (7): 7
"Perhaps they're here to lend a hand with th' docking, sir," the young mate suggests. Swallows.
The captain glowers at him.
The holy fire, and otherfire, slams into the hands--sending them reeling back. Flesh peels away from bone, leaving behind...just bone. Just bone, that sinks into the earth. There's a few of the handcrawlers left--a few left crawling, lurching up the sides of the boat--but your tactics were effective.
From the shoreline, there's a rough-throated howl. Three creatures stumble from around one of the dunes, their flesh putrid and marked by pus. Two of them hold bows, and fixate on the boat with yellowed eyes. More of the hands crawl around, in front of them.
They appear to be shouting something, but it's too far, the wind's too cutting, to hear.
GAME: Bors rolls profession/fisher: (6)+11: 17 GAME: Bors rolls bluff: (18)+13: 31 GAME: Erendriel casts Fireball. Caster Level: 6 DC: 18 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (10)+12: 22 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (12)+12: 24 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (4)+12: 16 GAME: Erendriel rolls 7d6: (21): 21
Bors looks ashore, but we're not really headed that way, are we? He looks to the helm, at the panicking captain and shouting mates. He hops off the rail and up to the helm, mumbling something like, "I've got this." He shoos them off, his confidence so unshakeable that they actually defer to him for just a moment. But a moment is all it takes, and with a mighty heave, he hauls the wheel over, and the ship heels, and starts heading into shore.
Erendriel thinks about helping Bors, but he seems to have it well in hand, so she runs to the rail, yells magic at the shore droolers, and launches a blast at them, exploding in fiery fire.
Ilmig eyes the railing and the water, but now that the ship seems to be turning for the beach, he tromps his way to the bow. He'd rather walk more and sink less. "Oi! Lookin a wee bit crispy out there!" he calls to the now-burning archers on the shore. "That all yer good fer? Kindlin?" With archers, there's arrows, and so his shield is readied for cover of those on deck.
GAME: Serraphine rolls Knowledge/religion: (11)+13: 24 GAME: Serraphine rolls weapon11: (3)+15: 18 GAME: Serraphine rolls 1d10+6: (4)+6: 10 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (5)+8: 13 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (9)+8: 17 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (2)+8: 10 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (14)+8: 22 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (17)+8: 25 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (15)+8: 23 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (20)+8: 28 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (11)+8: 19 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (15)+8: 23
Serraphine frowns still, even as she looks about and watches the rest of the people move to do their various actions. The work on saving the crew, the blasting of the things on shore. And Serraphine starts striding to the bow as she feels (and sees) The ship lurch to head toward land. She had read about this before and knew what to yell when such things happened, her hands on the sword swiping at one of the genteel hands -- flinging it back to its watery grave -- before pointing with the tip at the land.
"BEACHED WHALE!" Serraphine is headed to the bow to be one of those getting off the boat.
GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (15)+8: 23 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (16)+8: 24 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (12)+8: 20 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (2)+8: 10 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (18)+8: 26 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (6)+8: 14 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (10)+8: 18 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+8: (7)+8: 15 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+11: (20)+11: 31 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+11: (4)+11: 15 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d5: (2): 2 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+11: (20)+11: 31 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 3d8+9: (16)+9: 25
The three on shore snarl and howl--they scramble as the fire arcs towards them. One stares at it--hungrily, slavering--too long a fascination until it hits, and engulfs his form.
He stands there burning, fire sloughing off his fur. He snarls at Erendriel. Laughs, really, a shaking, heaving, rattling thing. "Preciouss mage," he rasps, and takes a step forward.
He's still on fire. "Do that AGAIN."
The other two scramble, and draw their bows. Meanwhile, the remaining hands crawl over the side of the boat. They swarm around Erendriel, the fingers tapping, scrabbling. Zeke and Serraphine are worse off--the hands crawl, swarming over the forms of the priest and warrior.
Their rotted fingers scramble for purchase, scrambling to strangle--but armor, scale, defeats them. Prevents them from grabbing hold. For now. For now.
And then the arrows fly--from the burning figures on the shore. One misses. One lands, flying towards the priest's heart. It strikes Zeke in the chest, and the zombie hands smear, grab at the wound. Hungry. Undead.
Starving.
GAME: Zeke rolls will: (11)+6: 17 GAME: Zeke casts Zone of Truth. Caster Level: 5 DC: 14 GAME: Zeke rolls 1d20+9: (7)+9: 16 GAME: Erendriel casts Grease. Caster Level: 6 DC: 16
GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+5: (18)+5: 23 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+5: (4)+5: 9 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+5: (2)+5: 7
Erendriel grunts and very carefully casts a spell onherself, leaving her whole body shimmering with an arcane oil. She then starts shaking and spinning like a crazy person, trying to shaeke them all off, slowly backing away from the rail as she does so, to avoid slipping and falling off the boat!
Hands. Crawling up his legs and tail and clamoring up his sides. It makes his skin crawl and not just in the obvious non-metaphorical sense. The world draws close and narrows down. He can't breathe. There's one on his /arm/ and he lets starts slapping at it with his staff mindlessly; hopefully. But it clings to him and then... There's this stabbing pain in his chest. It matches the fact that he can't breathe and the poor sith-makar goes down in a heap of black robes howling and rolling on the ground. The staff clatters to the deck in a quiet noise that can't be heard over him.
It's clear from the suddenly /gone/ expression in his eyes that it's not safe to be near him. He's trying to get away. To flee but the hands... they won't let him. The pain won't let him. There's a prayer to the Dragonfather on his lips for relief but he can't remember the words. Can't formulate the /thoughts/. Claws dig into his own scale, crystal flashes in the bright light as his robes are pushed aside uncaringly. "AHHHHHHHAHGGGGGRRRHA!"
Bors's distracting comments to the helmsman and crew has left them completely unaware of where he's steering them, which is right up on shore. So, he's completely a fisherman, and only knows the basics of boats, but he knows how to hang on, which he does as the vessel slams HARD into the beach and rides up a bit on shore. That ought to get everyone's attention.
Ilmig goes over the rail when the ship slams into the shore; half being ready to go and half from the momentum when the ship stops moving and he doesn't.
THUD
TROMP
TROMP
"Ey ye rotten jerked cretins!" He briskly tromps his way to them, hoping to reduce the amount of incoming dangerous things upon the ship.
GAME: Serraphine rolls 5d6: (24): 24
Serraphine pauses in her advance toward the bow. The hands crawling all over her was annoying, but not enough to make her want to stop drop and roll. And then... then there was the shriek. Like a velociraptor going after prey. And she turns to see... nope, not a swiftclaw, but instead a heap of black robes.
"Oh." She frowns, tilting her head and then shoots her arms up into the air again, "CAN I GET A -SERRIEL-?!" Serraphine cries it out with a burst of energy emitting from her that seems to hone in on all the undead little Thing(s). Send them flopping over onto their backs and curling up like a spider does.
Serraphine frowns and holds her hand out to Zeke, "Get up."
GAME: Zeke rolls 3d6: (9): 9 GAME: Erendriel casts Prestidigitation. Caster Level: 6 DC: 15
Erendriel finds herself freed of the hands. Then she looks at her feet, realizes she can't really walk, and cleans off her boots so that she can walk and get back to fireballing.
GAME: Bors rolls athletics: (16)+15: 31
Zeke is gone. Far off into his head where the hands have him and the pain has him. But not so far gone that he has left the Dragonfather behind. No, with blood on his breath he prays. "Please, please..." Warmth pools inside him and spreads out, healing who it will neaby him though he is the only one injured. It clears his vision somewhat. Enough to see Serraphine. Her mouth moves and she holds out a hand that he recoils from. Can still /feel/ on him. But she's not touching him. The sith-makar lays coiled around his pain and his fear, with the barest edge of warmth to give him sucress. Blood stains his claw where it had lain on his chest trying to free the arrow pushed out now by the healing power of his faith. "Where am I?" The words are a mere whisper. <draconic>
GAME: Ilmig RAGES!, gaining +2 to melee attack/damage/Will saves and 16 temporary HP
GAME: Ilmig rolls weapon7-4: (19)+15+-4: 30 GAME: Ilmig rolls weapon7-4-5: (7)+15+-4+-5: 13
Bors lurches and hangs on to the helm as the ship rides up on the beach. With the hands gone, he looks out and sees the enemy on the beach. They will pay for this. Oh yes, they will. He leaps ashore, hitting the ground at a dead run, blades coming free from the sheaths at his waist, and he dashes at them with a ferocious expression that says that they will regret today for as long as they live. Which will not be very long.
GAME: Ilmig rolls damage7+2: aliased to 1D10+7+2: (4)+7+2: 13
"Ello!" Ilmig greets the nearest member of the burning rotting welcome party. With his axe. Twice, though the backswing is avoided from the impact of the first.
GAME: Serraphine spends TWO uses of LAY ON HANDS. GAME: Serraphine rolls 5d6: (12): 12 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+5: (9)+5: 14 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+5: (14)+5: 19 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+5: (19)+5: 24 GAME: Serraphine rolls will: (8)+12: 20
Serraphine looks down at Zeke for a second longer, he is saying stuff about rainbows and chomping and hissing. It makes no sense to her, she shakes her head and then jogs off toward the bow. A grunt as she hoists herself over and then lands heavily on the ground. She points her sword off to the three undead ones, "HEY! Serriel says stop that!" She channeled again, then grabbed her sword in both hands - ready in case one of them charges at her.
GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+11+3: (5)+11+3: 19 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+11: (12)+11: 23 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d8+7: (4)+7: 11
"...you ssmell like flesh!" one near Ilmig snarls. This close, one can see the ears--long ears, not unlike Raja's, not unlike a gobber's. Long, batlike. The skin is rotted, and pusmark'd. The creature throws its bow away, and draws an axe--the axe crackles with infernal energies.
It slices the air, just over the khazad's head.
Another cackles, a whooping, coughing laugh before turning and locking eyes with Serraphine. The other's faith however, pushes the effect away, and whatever the creature was looking for, it does not get. It flinches, backing up.
The third takes a swing at Bors--this time, this time? The axe cuts deeply.
GAME: Zeke rolls 3d6: (12): 12 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+5: (6)+5: 11 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+5: (11)+5: 16 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+5: (20)+5: 25 GAME: Erendriel rolls perception: (14)+15: 29 GAME: Erendriel casts Scorching Ray. Caster Level: 6 DC: 17 GAME: Erendriel rolls ranged: (1)+8: 9 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Erendriel rolls ranged: (1)+8: 9 (EPIC FAIL)
Blood splatters to the ground as Zeke rolls himself onto his front so that he can crawl to his feet. He has the aid of his staff, grasped in his crimson-stained hand. His breathing is harsh, roiling out of his chest in a halted fashion that shows just how injured he is. More so than the surprisingly steady steps he takes after Serraphine. She hadn't offered him a word, but by being there she reminded him. Reminded him of where he was and that there were those in danger.
The blue-scaled sith reaches the bow of the ship and pulls himself fully upright there, looking down at the enemies; one of which had shot him through the chest. - Yes that's what had happened. It hadn't just been fear. - And grimly he points his staff at them. "Go back to your ressst, walk no more among the living." His words are accompanied by a pulse of warmth that knocks two of the undead off of their feet; never to rise again.
Erendriel can walk again, so she walks back to the railing. Seeing one more walking, she points and shouts arcane words, sending TWO fiery rays at it, slamming into it to burn it. She then yells "We need to burn them all after so they don't come back. They're regenerating."
Splish. Rotted hands float around the ship--rotted flesh and finger bones, where your fire, holy and magical, had roasted undead flesh. The shore is little better--a sandy shoreline littered with undead corpses.
Three large ones, and then the hands--spread around them like so many 'ants.'
"...update the books, Escril," the captain is saying to the young khazad, as he stares at the littered shoreline. "Update the...protocol for...undead..." His voice fades to a mumble.
Bors looks for more enemies to face, but there are none. Good. They don't have the nerve to face, him, then, he decides, and he'll scowl and kick sand on one of the bodies. He chunks his blades back into the sheaths at his waist and looks around to see what we do next?
With Erendriel's advise, you set the corpses on fire. There's truth sometimes, to the 'It could be more on fire' whispered among old adventurers. Other times, mayhap not the wisest course.
Here, though?
The corpses shine like beacons on the island. The holy among you notice the stench first--the eyes water. You blink, as the flames really, truly begin to take hold.
And then there's the VERY NEARBY flap of wings.
-TBC