PrP: The Wilted Lily
Log Info
- Title: The Wilted Lily
- Emitter: Lenore
- Characters: Virton (Art4)* Arnora (Ftr4)* Landau (Clr3/Wiz1)* Ikavod (Bbn4)* Ezekiel (Inq2)*
- Place: Temple of the Restless Spring - Alexandria
- Time: May 02, 2016
- Summary: A local monastery has been getting some odd threats lately, and haven't a clue what to make of it. They've asked for some help, but have been ignored until recently, as they had no way to pay, and no evidence that a threat was imminent. One of the scouts for the local Order has showed up, however, speaking nonsense about some 'perversion of belief' or some such nonsense. Sheesh. What's with these guys?
- APL: 3
- Encounter 1: 2 Human Jiang-Shi Monk 5, CR6, Skeletal Champion 2, CR4
ST:
'The withering blossom can bear no fruit.'
It was repeated again and again by the monastery scout that managed to make his way to the city of Alexandria before collapsing at the gates at the periphery of the city, bloodied and bruised, his sight ruined and his mind in shambles.
When he awoke, it was all he would say, again and again. Only by virtue of crumpled, torn pages shoved into one of his many pouches is the mystery simultaneously revealed, and only just beginning. It is an account of the happenings within the Temple of the Restless Spring:
Korday, Bernfleur 14;
We can no longer hold them at bay, and the sun sets. I can hear them, clawing, scratching at the walls, pounding at the doors, calling for something. Someone. Some unholy thing. I can ... and they are ... save us all.
Tariday, Bernfleur 19;
Again we have sent for aid. Once more we cry out our devestation. We have no funds, and no rescuers come. Surely, we will ... in death ... absolution ...
Variday, Bernfleur 25;
They have broken through their isolation, and Brother Ashfeld went to face them, despite my pleas that he stay with us and wait. We have reached out to neighbouring towns, and many have suggested ... can only hope ... mercy ... surely they will not ...
Ceriday, Bernfleur 30;
Why are we forsaken?! Why do none answer our prayers?! We are alone, and we are damned. It won't be long now. I hear only the desperate, final cries of good men I have known since youth that have given their all to cotain an evil not ours to face. When will the Order ... Wilted Lily ... damned us for their sins.
The last is particularly mangled, but all of them have been hastily torn from some tome or another that someone has been using to keep a journal in what is clearly a time of dire need that was ignored by far too many for far too long. The City Guard has delivered all that they have found to the Adventurer's Guild, reaching out for more readily available hands to go and assist what is likely already lost.
The last remaining monk, the scout that had fled with news, remains unconcious now in the care of the Altheans within the city, and is expected to recover from his wounds, with time. They hope. Or such is the case, according to the Guard that has delivered the task.
As always, a mode of transportation is provided to those brave enough to take the task, greedy enough to take the pitance allowed as reward, or hopeful enough to think they can be of some help. It isn't far, and the journey is an uneventful one; it's not long before the frosty-pink blossoms of the multitude of orchard trees come into view, and the towering, yet spartan temple is spied. It looks so peaceful, water features burbling crystaline flow from the mouths of stone fish and into placid pools with languid koi, dotted with the fallen petals of various fruit trees.
Perhaps this was all an elaborate ruse.
Unless... there's something inside...
"Fookin temples aye" Arnora grunts as she hops down from the transport "Temples, monasteries fookin whatever mages have. All fooked" she adds. The short dwarves wisdom shared she taps her pipe on her wide hips and grinds the embers out under a heavily armored boot. She pulls her shield from voer her back and draws a rather huge, and intricately decorated, axe that she wields easily in one hand.
Ezekiel watches with a wary eye the entire trip, preternatural paranoia the man's typical state. Grey eyes look to the dwarf and take a brief hint of amusement before his hands rise up to adjust his collar. "Quite." He hops down from their transportation as well, gaze falling to the fountain and the petals.
Being transported when you're an Artificer is a wonderful thing, because it gives you time to tinker with things that really you shouldn't be tinkering with in a wagon. Virton, for example, has half of his arm detatched and is currently pumping oil into a joint with a small canister, *creaka* *creaka*. A few more pumps. The creaking stops.
Virton shoves his arm back into place, automated repair systems latching onto eachother as they begin the process of reanimation to the limb. His fingers twitch a few times, and then stretch out.
"These ain't mages, them be monk-types. Y'know, all them prayin' and doin' stuffs not like what folks should be doin'. Mages live up in them big ol' tower types." buzzes Virton as he dismounts from the wagon, straightening himself upright as he flicks his poncho over his shoulder.
"Supernatural phenomena should - and must - be studied." Explains Landau to Anora to counter her explosion, the swarthy-skinned scholar with the slightly unfocused gaze of an academic lecturing apon his favourite esoteria,"The emotive response reflected in the journal scrivenings reflect a lack of knowledge... and when you understand something much of the fear is removed through understanding"
The rythmic wooden thunk of his quarterstaff apon earth has been a constant throughout this trip, but soon to be interrupted as they near the destination of their journey,"Hopefully, we can shed sopme enlightenments apon these monks if recent events has nor scarrred them overmuch or worse."
Ezekiel holds a hand up as his gaze falls upon the door to the monastery, those grey eyes locking in on little details. "Normally most people close the door when it is not in use, yes?" His booted feet move to take him forward, brows drawing downward at such a blatant disregard for common things.
"I don't know, son," buzzes Virton to Ezekiel. "I reckon most folks would make an effort to keep their homes all locked up an' the like though, for sure." The Artificer calmly detatches the front hook from his Thunderbelcher that keeps it strapped to his chest, giving himself the slack to grip the weapon in his hands and aim it towards the ground - you don't just go pointing guns at folk randomly - as he paces after Ezekiel. "But it's best we go an' take a peek an' such."
His bootsteps take him up to the door, upon which he braces his metallic frame and gives a heave to shove it open, thunderbelcher held in a small panning motion all the while.
As far as Ikavod is concerned this is another payday but puttimg 'restless' in any title for any location seems like one would be inviting trouble. He sits not too far from Virton, having found the, well, man has generally been on the ball and had his back more than once. He, himself, sits with his glaive laid over his lap with the haft in hand and a knife in the other that he works (oddly precise) against the wood to continue on etched designs that are apparely slowly working their way down the length of the weapon.
"Aye. I got several ways tae be studying magical shite" Arnora grunts back from ground level, hand hand patting several of the items in the arsenal she carries on her broad form. That said she closes the visor of her helm and stomps foward to try to get in front, then blinks as the golemn pushes past and tries to open the door.
ST:
Them damnable cleric monk mages and their magicy nonsense.
The Monastery is silent, and too still; lost in a perpetual springtime that brings rejuvinating breezes with the scent of a floral bouquet that seems so at odds with the letters that were delivered, and the mayhem that was suggested by whomever it was penned those desperate, and likely final words. When Ezekiel speaks of the door, it does become obvious that the thing is actually cracked open just an inch or two, the insides bright with the light allowed in through numerous windows, just barely clouded by a smokey motif whorled into the glass in gusting swirls. The door, when pushed open, is a simple thing to move, clearly well cared for, not so much as a whine in creaking as it swings wide and tall.
White marble floors are spotted with rich pink rugs, low cherrywood tables and simple cushions, wall scrolls depicting orders of the seasons from around Ea, and scripture inked in seemingly endless scrawl. It is softly warm, pleasant and comforting, with that light granting a blushing hue to the walls and floor as it's cast downward. But something seems... wrong.
There's nobody here.
All the doors are exactly two inches open.
...All but for one.
There is one door that is shattered clean off the hinges, leaving a gaping wound that leads more deeply into the temple, and as the group grows nearer to it, they might notice a sound; laughing, thumping, and muffled cries. It's like somebody is jumping on old wood, and finding it quite an excitement, rather at the expense of others as they wail in half-hearted, failing insistance that they stop.
"One moment, I need time to prepare." Landau begins to chant both prayer and spell one after the other, one hand clasped around a silvered holy symbol of eluna seemingly hardly moved by the sounds eerie nature and instead conjecturing apon what they might represent. Two fingers are gingerly laid apon shoulders of party members as he asks for blessings for the venture ahead.
There's a soft 'vrrumm' noise that escapes from Virton's head, it's not a vocalized noise, it's just the darkvision part of his vision kicks in. He skims his gaze around a little bit, before he turns his head back towards Ikavod. He gives the man a blurt of static noise, rather than a 'Hey, you' - he's a golem, after all. He keeps his boot against the door to ensure it's open, before gesturing rather swiftly at Ikavod. "While that fella's doin' his magicky stuffs, you c'mere, partner, an' I'll give you a bit of magitechnical boostin'."
This sort of thing was a bit fancier than anything Ikavod cared to be familiar with, it seemed ostentatious but he had also grown up in a different land. Well, mostly. He takes long, casual strides, tapping the floor with the bottom end of his glaive as if he were looking for some kind of false floor or just an old man of exceedingly large porportion. He does not shy from offered aid from Landau and then turns to Virton with his slab-iike brows raised curiously. He closes the distance and speaks quietly. "I don't know if it works that way." he states, glancing around a bit further. "But you may try."
A brief look of surprise comes over Ezekiel's features as someone touches him in the middle of examining near the door frame, his attention peeled back from the noises with a look of confusion bordering on irritation. His fingers reach up and adjust his collar, hiding the scars along his neck and exposing the bracelet with the symbol of Navos on it.
Arnora glances around the others as various magicks are cast. She taps her foot for a bit then falls silent and still at the strange sounds. She snorts faintly and heads towards the door with her shield up "Once you are all bleedin done aye?" she calls back and then looks down past the shattered door.
"Oh it does, fella, it does. Believe you me." buzzes Virton. Who promptly produces an aersol-like can. A push on the activation nozzle, and the air infront of Ikavod is filled with magitech essence, solidifying into a transparent shield of force before the Giantborn. The can begins to crumple and ash away as its essence is removed, and the Artificer drops it without complaint. Before any real arguments can be broached on the subject of Artificer contraptions vs normal good wholesome Magic, the Golem promptly sprays Ikavod's earthshaker with a thin coating of oil - which shimmers for a moment before sinking into the weapon.
"I reckon yer done, now, follow the angry Khazad, I reckon. Since she's so eager t'get goin' an' the like. Yeha."
"Done, and I agree.. we should forge ahead." Landau says wryly, his assurance from earlier levened with self depreciation. The scholar's brows are slightly furrowed in concentration as he follows the Anora and the rest of those more inclined to action instead of reflection... indeed, those whom lived here were reflective, and it didnt help them any.
ST:
The scent of death is on the air -- not necessarily rot, but the smell of hunting; like freshly butchered meat hanging in a cool room, like spilled blood and earth made damp by the former. It isn't long if people continue toward the sounds that they might note the cause.
Several bodies lay strewn down a long hall, broken the same as the Scout, slumped against walls or lain to rest on the floor, the laughing getting louder, and madder as time goes on, that pounding louder and louder until they are all the party can hear, beyond the sound of heavily armoured bootsteps, even above the sound of their thoughts, or the words and prayers of those around them.
"They will come!" A voice cries, desperate. "They will come, they will come..." It repeats through pitiful sobs.
"Uweeee-hehehehe!" Is the only response.
The hall, as you all move further, is decorated with paintings of great heroes that remain unknown to all but the most studious of the religious scholars, various floral depictions behind each, likely with some odd meaning or significance that isn't readily notable to the uneducated. Some of them have been torn from their wooden hangers, ripped in half and left where they were, mangled by what appear like claws, or smashed by heavy fists.
They all represent the Lily.
Nearing a corner, creaking sounds begin to accompany the thumping, never stopping. Thump, bang, thump, bang, thump...
At the sound of the approaching dwarf, there is a momentary pause, before the sound of weapons unsheathing and metal on metal clanging together is heard, and bootsteps begin in hurried rebuttal to her meandering gait. Something wicked this way comes.
In the midst of concentrating when the skeleton pops around the corner Landau blinks and jumps a little, taken off guard by the appearance of mobile opposition even though that was the reason he was concentrating for. Nonetheless he is fairly quick of the mark and spouts of a quick prayer in celestial, imploring his godess directly whom deins to gift him a weapon in the form of a glowing blue animated knife. Straight into the skeleton's ribcage it grunches, cracking bone as it attempts to spin inside the corpse.
Ikavod recoils almost in fright as the spray hits the air. "What are y-" he goes quiet then as he seems to understand what is going on. It takes a few momnets before he seems to relax and the oil to his Earthbreaker has him frowning. Virton had not yet failed to seem as if he knew what he was dong so he apparently decides to go with it. As the lot of them make their approach or, rather, the rest catch up with the one who has forged ahead, Ikavod seems only mildly put off by the smell. It's a something one never quite gets used to but it never lacks a punch when it hits the senses. As for the sounds, well, that's kind of unnerving.
"Someone is having a good time, here, it seems..." he mutters, initially going for his glaive but remembering the substance Virton had placed upon his Earthbreaker where he hefts it from his hip with surprising ease, hefting it lightly as he begins to slow his approach into something a bit more combat-ready.
"It's always something dead..." he mutters to himself. And, well, it IS something dead or something like it. While the swipe from the srange figure does miss him it still catches him off-guard and his in tapping his firery bloodline he's a bit -too- quick to respond and what looked to be a dangerous swing turns into a complete pre-emptive miss as an amateur might make. Embarassing, really.
- Zzzzappow!*
A red laserbeam of crackling electricity goes flying past the Jian, scoring a line of scorched ash upon the wall down the hallway. Virton blurts out a crackle of static, which is probably a curse of some sort that has been internalised cause it ain't polite to be swearin' constantly out in public and the like. "HOLD STILL, YA VARMINT." He decides to buzz his aggrivation anyway.
A low 'ooum' follows the voice, as the cannon begins it's charge up sequence once more.
Ezekiel inhales sharply as the skeleton comes around the corner, straight for the stalwart Khazad. Things about him turn into a flurry of movement from the others, giving him enough time to whisper a soft word in Celestial. White motes flicker into being like a whirlwind before dying down, his skin taking on a healthy pallor.
Arnora braces her shield as the skeleton's descend on her. She laughs derisively as their blows clatter off her stone and steel armour and shield "That the best ye be having ye boney fucks" she says then as the Jian attacks, and bounces off again, she spins with a surprising turn of speed for a heavily laden dwarf, but the axe blow goes wide and she mutters a curse in khazad.
ST:
Charging around the corner is a skeletal figure, draped in armour and chain, shield on one arm and a sword brandished by the other. With a creaking pop, the jaw opens and snaps shut as though it were surprised to see Arnora, and then upset by her unladylike behaviour.
He's an old-fashioned boner.
The sword swings down at her, glancing off her armour, coaxing a rather disappointed groan from the skeletal figure, a soft 'aahh...' as the jaw swings open again, and it stands there staring down at her with those vacant sockets. Hearing the racket, a second much the same comes around the corner and does roughly the same thing, but it doesn't even hit her armour, he just is really bad at his job. Their skulls turn to look toward each other in unison before returning to Arnora with a confused canting of their heads, like this somehow just did not compute.
Thump, thump, thump...
Rhythmic, slow, calculated.
Around the corner comes another thing, draped in fine white robes, its decaying fists wraped tightly like a boxer's, feet wrapped almost the same, golden decoration in embroidery trailing over his only vaguely dirtied robes in the form of some odd circle and cross that peels off into a representation of a lily, its petals over-open, at the end of its life. A striking fist fires toward the bronzed giantborn, missing barely, the fabric it wears fluttering by his head as the strange tight-skinned thing hops in place, empty gaze focused on the barbarian with a palpable rage that radiates from its point by way of a staggering chill that sucks the comforting warmth from the resting air.
Hop, hop, hop...
If only it were Peter Cottontail -- but, no. Another of those robed figures comes bounding around the corner, its feet together, its purpose clear. At least that awful pounding has stopped, though the sobbing, muttered words of something just beyond another door is now all the more clear. Its fist comes flying toward Arnora, glancing once more off that armour.
Stupid dwarves and their stupid armour.
They are unmoved even as they are assaulted en masse by the party, though the skeletal ones do seem awfully interested in the red lightning that comes arcing around them, bouncing here and there, scorching up the walls until it fizzles away. It's like fireworks, and their dark little sockets light up with false life in retort.
"Ooooouuhhh..."
"Aaaaaahh..."
Very exciting for the little things.
There is no response to Arnora's mockery. Their feelings are too hurt. Or they're dead.
Apparently the skeletons will be delighted to witness another show of the red lightning Virton firework display, as the Golem apparently has trouble locking onto the hopping monstrosity that is attempting to beat in Ikavod's face. There's a loud 'BRRRKZKZT' of energy as it comes snapping out of the cannon, which scores through the air and misses completely, scoring another deep mark in the stonework.
The skeletons aren't new to Ikavod but the hopping pugilists certainly are. It's so odd a movement that he wants to find the time to show some amusement but, well, his mind is a bit cloudy with all that bloodrage riled up having missed on his initial strike. He would just have to hit it twice as hard. The light being shot around by Virton only briefly registers as Ikavod slips further into focus on the fight. Mostly he part where he hits things until they can no longer stand back up. Then, perhaps, maybe a kick for good measure. Such focus does come at a cost, sometimes it hurts kind of badly. Ikavod takes two strikes with admirable stoicism but his attempt to reply to the creature fails. The Giantborn takes the massive weapon and winds up to swipe viiciously through the air, coming up just a bit short of connecting with the creature and showing it a Bad Time. "Stop jumping around, you look like a idiot!" he snarls out through clenched teeth.
Closing his eyes Landau begins a silent entreaty, a moment passes but not longer than that before a faint aura of light begins to wax and wane about his silhouette even as it casts no illumination apon anything about. Delving onto the spiritual plane he seeks the connections between life and death, and gives it a /twist/
Some have a greater hold apon undeath than others, but his efforts send a wave through the very essence of those things that stand against them, disrupting their hold apon this plane and the objects which house them.
Ezekiel narrows his eyes as the creatures come in hot and fast against his companions, blows ringing off armor and whiffing alike. He moves amongst the din, hand touching on the back of the Khazad's armor as a brief whisper of the divine passes his lips, hand alighting with the telltale white motes. They sink into the armor with a brief reflective shimmer.
Arnora is a tiny blizzard of cursing and defence. Sadly as she lifts her shield to block a blow one of the skeleton's weapons finds a gap and scores across her. She hisses in pain then spits on the skelly through her helm, whilst dodging the Jian. She nods a quick thanks to Ezekiel, and with a glance looks for a way out "Fook me" she mutters then spins to try to hit one of the robed figures.
ST:
Apparently, they COULD do better.
Arnora has unwittingly managed to spur one of those sparkly-entranced Skeletons to hit her a little harder. The way its jaw opens again makes it seem as though it was surprised that it managed, however, and as the blade dents her armour and pinches harshly into the body below, it just stares down at her with ever-grinning expression, looming over her short and sturdy frame like a chubby chaser at last call.
And then there's more lightning, bouncing here and there, and everywhere -- like gummi bears -- that distracts them for just long enough for others to attack them as they please. It's just so beautiful. It hits the walls and explodes in a shower of harmless sparks, casting crimson light over everything in the area, flashing and dazzling like a strobe at a German nightclub.
You are wanting to dance, ja?
They certainly are.
The hopping menace still wails on Ikavod, its strikes precise and devestating, but not enough to bring the barbarian low. Bony fists dig into bared muscle and leather, somehow hot despite their obvious status as those among the undead, the breezing fabric licking about his form in tangling tails that dance and settle with their actions, igniting in a blaze as the light from Virton's deathray screams across, catching the golden threading in just the right light.
The second Jiang-Shi is still assaulting Arnora, fists pounding against metal, never making it through to a proper connection, ringing out like a bell through the hallways. Beyond the door, there's a shuffling, and those using mundane senses can hear a sniffling hesitation, "H-hello? Hello! Oh, by the Word, they've come. Ikaido, they've come!" A sense of utter relief, desperate and complete, washes over Landau in his thought detection, more than one beyond the door, rushing forward in a torrent of tear-springing emotion.
Arnora's attempts at striking the Jiang cut nothing but some fabric, almost losing her weapon to the billowing silks that drift and hang in an unearthly beautiful contrast. It looks at her as though to say 'that all you got?'
Another sharp breath from Ezekiel as he moves to avoid the incoming Giantborn, his hand reaching out with the same divine motes, just barely gracing him to soak into some of the wounds.
Continuing to channel the very power of life itself Landau makes himself a bridge between the higher planes and the prime, the light continuing to grow in surges as he tugs away at their unnatural existence. It proves too much for one skeleton, and it crumbles to the floor bonelessly like the puppeteer just left. The others however still have their nonlife confirmed, their continues existance defiantly and malevolently remaining to afflict the adventuring party.
Reason prevails, briefly, as Ikavod weighs insult and sense and he pauses to raise one meaty hand up with his index finger before Jian2 in the 'Give me one moment' gesture before he slips past it toward it's similarly dressed companion.
Ikavod makes a gesture toward Arnora to indicate he will help pull the creatures attention off of her alone. Pivoting on his heel as he moves back into proper posture, Ikavod rears back and swings the massive hammer with it's strang blunt points, four to a side. The sound it makes when it connects is satisfying but the feeling of the weapon crushing it's way into the creature is even more satisfying.
Arnora is getting used to the clatter of undead weaponry off her armour and shield. Almost soothing to the slightly angrier dwarf. Her teeth grit as she focuses and then takes a few test swings at the Jian. "Can yer mother sew yee fuck?" she questions then THUMPS her weapon into it, crunching through solidly "Tell her tae stitch that then" she adds with a feral grin.
ST:
ATATATATATATA!
There is a lot of swinging and punching going on. Primarily against the dwarf, really, whom had this misfortune of coming around the corner first and drawing their undivided and single-minded attentions. Still, her armour keeps her more than safe, though certainly the ringing of steel on steel has to be grating on her by now, trapped in that tin can as she is. Though there is relief, delivered by way of the Cleric that remains in the back, wailing away with spiritual arms (wacky waving inflatable spiritual arms flailing tube man that he is), the radiance granted by his God in all his divine wisdom tearing through the horde of undead, peeling away at them layer by layer.
Literally.
Their skin sizzles and flakes away like burning parchment, drifting away like a leaf on the wind, visible in their embers as wrathful enlightenment makes itself known, erupting from the mouth and sockets of one of the skeletal champions in gouting vibrance, spewing now-liquid rot across the dwarf's helmet, pouring through the slit in a bathing of luke warm decay that now trickles down her facemask as it collapses on itself with a shrieking wail that lasts only seconds before it garbles out fades with an echoing sigh.
The sick, hollow sound of fists meeting barbarian continue to ring out, some of the wounds made by that scorching glory knitting up before their very eyes as their own twisted form of divinity heals their undead flesh with an audible hiss. There are no words from the creatures, not even the moaning typical of the undead, they merely continue to bounce and let fly with their cracking blows.
Though their hands are wrapped and blood no longer flows, the damage from impacting against the dwarf's nigh impenitrable defenses is obvious; bones do break, but repair themselves, and the wraps that they wear are fraying away, sawed by the protrusion of bone, before new skin unnaturally stretches over the jagged spines to pull them back into place. When Arnora strikes out at the monk before her, however, she finally manages to score a hit, slicing through one of the panneled pieces of cloth that whirl about it, causing it to drift to the floor silently, the threading that graced it set alight, burning its pattern into what remains, before it is gone.
There is still no response to her masterful mockery.
Even now, that wound begins to close. Maybe their mother is nearer than she thought.
The sound of electricity and venting steam is now a constant in the havoc of battle, as Virton holds his ground and blasts away with his cannon as if he was a decepticon trooper in the 80's Transformers movie. It looks pretty, but sadly the blasts of electricity seem to be going wide as the Golem cannot hope to draw a bead on the oddly quick moving hopping monstrosities that now present a more deliberate challenge than their skeletal assistants!
The spiritual weapon fades away untended as the Elunite magic caster continues to wield the positive energy that is still granted him. It was never his strong suit, but one uses what tools one has available to them and that shall be enough. The last skeleton crumbles, its tenous grasp apon undeath finally giving way as the power laps up against the robed figures uncomfortably wearing away like water does rock.
Ikavod continues in the assault on Jian1 and brings the Earthbreaker up over his head to make a downward strike but a combination of movement between himself, the undead, and the Dwarf has him striking nothing of any consequence. He would thank Ezekiel if he were not so frustrated at missing his strike, "Go down!"
Ezekiel focuses his attention on the injuries before him. His mind whirls, noting the deep bruise here, a cut there. Applying the word of the divine in such a way for maximum efficiency is his goal. The motes flicker and zip from his hand into the raging Giantborn's skin, knitting wounded flesh.
With the Skeletons gone Arnora stretches just a little, only one undead on her now. She flashes a nasty grin through her helm "Just you are me now ye undead fook" she snarls out then starts in with her axe, and despite her words she can't get though to hit it, so Khazad cursing tinges the air.
ST:
Another spewing of matter right onto that dwarf as the second of the champions falls to the prayers of the Cleric, gushing a luminescant goop that spews over Arnora, full coating her in a mush of what was once steel and bone, now nothing more than slime and ash.
More punching, more pounding of bone to metal, and absolutely fruitless gestures from the monks.
From the other side of the door: "Is... is it going well? It sounds like it's going well."
"Don't bother them, they're busy!"
"Are you winning?"
"What did I JUST say?!"
"I wasn't listening, Brother, I'm sorry, it's... it's been days of THUMP, THUMP, THU--"
"SHUT... UP!"
A long pause.
"Let the Green Word guide your blows like the summer's ra--MMFRMRF!"
Ikavod follows through on the momentum from his previous swipe, letting the massive heat of the weapon nearly hit his own thigh, Ahead of the motion, Ikavod turns hips, and and lets the weapon's trajectory seep it high in the air and, for a moment, it looks as if the Giantborn is pulled off his feet by the force it all. That's before he wrestles the momentum from the swing and raises the weapon high over his head, arching his back with a frustrated, furious roar. Gravity combined with the raw strength of Ikavod brings the blunted spikes on the weapon down with cringe-worthy force.
There is nothing graceful or elegant about the connection, there's no real resistance, to be honest. Instead of colliding and slowing with the force of impact eating up inertia the body of the creature just seems as durable as air and the weapon makes sickening contact with the floor in one furious vertical smash. Just like hammering a nail. A hopping, undead nail. Ikavod has to take a second before he begins to raise the weapon a glance around for his previous dance partner.
"Repugnant creatures," Ezekiel snarls between clenched teeth, his cool finally slipped, eyes ablaze as his zeal leeches out. "Navos send you back whence you came." White and brilliant blue motes whisk from his hand as he touches the back of Arnora's armor, lending the might of truth and justice.
Arnora blinks with a faint trace of surprise as her remaining opponent goes down. She nods a thanks upwards. Waaaaaaay upwards to Ikavod and with that scans the battlefield with a professional regard. With one thing up that decision is kind of easy, but she does move into a position to flank the monster. A feral grin spreads across her face as she hefts her axe, spinning it in a bright arc before slamming it into the remaining Jian.
Battered, bloodied, bruised. Virton is none of these things -- because he's made of metal, and doesn't really get bloodied or bruised. We'll give you battered. His chassis is battered open and his internal 'organs' are on view for all, glowing pipes and buzzing contraptions held within from an age of technological magic far beyond the ken of minds nowadays. His movements are sluggish and slow, but a final discharge from his cannon scores a wound on one of the Jian -- before it is swiftly brought down by another.
"I ain't down yet. C'mon now."
ST:
A fountain of sparks flies over the group, landing in the goop that covers Arnora with a sizzling 'pff', as one of the hopping monstrosities goes about pounding its fists into the poncho-covered chassis of the cowboy wargolem with the dragonsbreath fireworks. Apparently annoyed over the whole shooting it thing, it has gone after Virton with all the fury its little undead heart can manage, which is apparently a surprising amount. Those sparks singe the edges of his prized poncho, and as oil and grease begins to seep from his 'wounds', that, too, begins to colour the fabric with an orange-brown stain that ever so casually begins to spread as the fabrics wick it away through each of the colours.
'... Uweeeee-HEHEHEHEHE!' It unleashes in glee, sudden, shocking in its piercing sound.
"What's happening?!" A familiar voice by now.
"I will smother you as winter smothers the rose."
"Winter is necessary!"
"And -deadly-!"
"But, so beautiful..."
"What is wrong with you?! Get ahold of yourself!"
"I'm SORRY! I haven't been sleeping!"
When the one is brought down to the ground, it withers and explodes into glorious flame, the cloth that draped around its disturbing form coiling upward in the form of that wilted lily seen before, the threads drifting in a bluish smoke that's severed by the swinging return of Ikavod's weaponry, shattering the imagery as he had shattered the thing responsible for it.
When Arnora redirects her attentions, she steps through that odd-smelling smoke in order to get to that which batters about the robotic cowboy, her blade digging deep until it reaches the figure's spine, its flesh trying to heal up around her sword, ripping apart like so much paper as she withdraws it from its unrighteous form. Its robes flutter and flail, and its attentions begin to shift toward that slimy lump of metal, eyes glowing with a dim blue light, like distant moons through a foggy night.
Sparks sizzle out from Virton's torso as he staggers, his poncho, spark-burnt, torn, oil-stained, looking much, much more like it's owner than anyone might have thought in the first place. The wash of positive energy causes some of the sparks and oil leaking from it to dissipate, flowing backwards and up and into his body.
"Mmm-Mmm.. Much obliged, fella."
He buzzes, before a blast from his shoulder cannon scorches into the side of Jian2, leaving it with something for it's memory as it turns away from the Golem.
Finding Jian2 in his sight again he sees that it has unfortunately hopped itself all over Virton's face. It's a quick movement that closes the distance as Ikavod winds back for another strike. "I told you I'd be back." Ikavod growl-grumbles, swinging in and colliding the head of the massive weapon into its hip and demolishing something underneath that fabric. One would gues bone. Probably bone. "Now, go down!" he snarls.
"Cast your foe back to where it belongs," Ezekiel mutters again, his eyes alight with religious fervor as his fingers touch the armor of the khazad once again.
Switching his focus, Landau's divine channels are about to be spent for the day. Still he focuses, turning his attention inward ignoring the cackling dervishes to meet the places where his deity and his own ethos meet to turn that attention to the living. The light strengthens, fades then returns to flare into one last surge of healing energy that washes over those here... healing hurts, blunting pain and even closing rents where it can. Finally with a stuttering pulse it dissapears as the caster brings up his hands in a classic dwoemercrafting pose... and then it is all over.
Arnora's rough laughter rings out again as the creatures blows skitter off her stone plated and slime coated armor "I think ye be needin a bit more training aye" she says with another harsh peal of laughter. With that she dodges around the last of it's flurry and lifts her axe high. It slashes down and across the creature, destoying the last of them in an explosion of goo.
ST:
As the final Jiang-Shi hits the mat, the door creaks open before a small man in bright pink and blue robes comes charging out, bags under his eyes like he's missed sleep for the last several days, housing wounds long since stopped in their seaping flow, his fabrics stuck to his skin by virtue of the drying blood. There's an explosion of white as fistfuls of rice begin being fired out of his hand as though his best friend had just gotten married and he alone was in charge of celebrating the union.
"And STAY down, you... you BASTARDS!"
"BROTHER Ikaido!" Scornful, that other voice comes.
"I... they... are so destructive, I..." He starts.
Thinking he sees something, he spins on his heel, firing off another fistful of rice from one of his pouches, peppering Ikavod with a spray of grains, some tiny stones, and what can only be moisture from stress sweat.
It's tougher than ordinary sweat.
An old man shuffles out from around the corner, gray eyes scanning the mayhem, making a bit of a face at the goopy dwarf, but bowing his head deeply toward those gathered, his hands both disappearing within the bells of his enormous sleeves, his white hair wild and tangled, his wrinkled skin purpled with bruising, covered and blood, and marred by what most certainly would have been the fists our adventurers have faced. His head lifts and he takes in a deep breath through his nose, his eyes closing lightly.
"Winter," He begins, "Is destructive. Life withers, and even in its most peaceful moments, serene as the snow falls, it claims all that is in its path. So too is true of the Wilted Lily." He offers to the young man that is now dutifully making his attempts at dusting off the rice from Ikavod, a truly apologetic expression on his face as he picks off the last bits, piece by piece.
"It is long, and it is dark, the nights of winter... and there is no comfort but for company." He waves a hand toward the members of the party that has come to be their saviour, a kindly smile creasing his lips. "Come, let us heal your wounds... and we will answer what questions you might have for us."
The young man quips, "I knew someone would come. I knew we wouldn't be abandoned. Didn't doubt it for a second!" He lies.
The old man lets out a soft chuckle, before he begins to hobble his way past the group and down the hall they had travelled down, his robes dragging around his feet and trailing off behind him, collecting the remnants of the battle without concern as he meanders on.
"Let me tell you what happens when Spring cannot be sprung..." He begins, the conversation to follow taking hours, and offered only so long as others wish him to keep talking.
It seems the job may not yet be done after all.
~Fin ... FOR NOW.