My Starborn King

Log Info

• Title: My Starborn King

• GM: Aftershock

• Characters: Dirk, Ravenstongue, Silmeria, Skielstregar, Telamon

GAME: Ravenstongue used a Scroll of Scry.

Beyond the gates of Alexandria, an army gathers.

Cor'lana Lúpecyll-Atlon, for her petite height and frame, commands a presence as she stands before all the people she has summoned. She stands dressed in garments of war, her violet-black adventuring robes and boots paired with her circlet and cloak, combined with the new addition of a silver dagger on her belt, all declare her intent for this meeting. Her violet eyes are determined, focused only on the task ahead, but she commands a regal presence on account of the floral crown that she wears on her head: a medley of nasturtium flowers, such small and delicate orange flowers, combined with the purple of wolfsbane and the white tendrils of asphodel, wreathed around her head and above the circlet.

She finishes the scrying spell that's in her hands, sighing deeply. "My husband, Telamon Lúpecyll-Atlon, is in the captive hands of Zalgiman Joaki," she says, addressing the crowd before her. "For those of you that do not know him, Zalgiman Joaki is a servant of Caracoroth, the Hound, with whom I have a personal history--hence his decision to take my husband. Telamon has been fed a potion of unknown origin and is currently in a tent with Zalgiman, where he has kept him captive. I suspect Zalgiman is trying to turn him into a lycanthrope like himself."

The sorceress takes a scroll out from within her bag of holding. "Prepare yourselves. When I cast the spell written within, we will be landing right outside of the tent where my husband is kept captive. We will be quick. We will be lethal. We will take my husband back into the clutches of safety."

Her eyes are hard and grim as she says, "And we will kill Zalgiman Joaki."

Dirk came as soon as he got the news. He's here now, decked out in his fine mythril armor, his tricorne atop his head, and his cloak wrapped warmly around his shoulders. Lulu perches atop a shoulder, her golden eyes fixated upon Lana, while her master carefully and deliberately loads glistening silver bullets into his bandolier. His beard bristles, and he's trembling with barely-restrained dwarven rage. "We'll get 'im back, Lana, don't you fret," he growls as he racks the slide of his thunderbelcher. CHK-CHAK! "An' once Tel is safe, I mean tae turn Zalgiman intae a fuckin' -stain- on the ground. He's had this comin' a long damn while, he has." Lulu fluffs up her feathers and gives her fiercest "Hoo-oo!" The old snowbeard looks up and around at his friends, then back to Lana. "Do we know how many lycans we're dealin' with aside from Zalgiman?"

Skielstregar is here. The shiny silverscaled makari completely kitted for war. All implements of death present upon him: spears, javelins, adamantine hammer, and last but not least, Malefic, a sentient halberd with a crack through the axehead, it currently curved in a giant grin.

He listens to Cor'lana with a rumble in his chest with each exhale. One hand, he smears his face with a gold paint before planting a gold handprint on the side of his weapon.

He offers a bundled pack to his weapon, "Here. Thiss one will allow you to-

Malefic, his halberd, open's its jagged maw and crunches the package in its metal teeth. "I know how to use it!" it cackles deeply, it tearing into it as its metallic gleam turns more silver.

With a few growled words, and arcane ink splattering, he stands at the ready, other copies of him standing at attention. "We are ready to exact the Dragonfather'sss jussstice," he growls.

GAME: Skielstregar used a Silversheen.
GAME: Skielstregar casts Shield. Caster Level: 10 DC: 14
GAME: Skielstregar casts Mirror Image. Caster Level: 10 DC: 15
GAME: Skielstregar rolls 1d4+3: (3)+3: 6
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Mage Armor. Caster Level: 13 DC: 18
GAME: Harkashan casts Bless. Caster Level: 4 DC: 15
GAME: Skielstregar casts Fly. Caster Level: 10 DC: 16

And as Skielstregar stands there, a pair of black, boney wings crack and curdle into existence.

Another gunner stands next to Dirk, contrasting his bristle-bearded fury with a semblance of quiet, gentle calm. When the call went out, Silmeria answered without hesitation; both for the chance to rescue a friend of her sister-in-worship, and to provide some of these cultists with a silver-clad snack.

As she listens to Cor'Lana's speech, she smiles beatifically, checking the breech of her weapon, then up. Piercing blue eyes crinkle above a warm smile, and the Speaker nods. "Lady willing, all who are deserving shall be safe, this night."

Skiel's weapon having its *own* snack is certainly cause for a moment's distraction, and a quiet chuckle. "At any rate, we stand ready."

GAME: Ravenstongue used a Scroll of Teleport.

"I'm unfortunately not sure how many werewolves we're dealing with," Cor'lana states in dismay, casting a protective spell over herself in the lull between sentences. "But half of us will be dedicated to dealing with the werewolves that will likely be assaulting us on all sides. Zalgiman is a powerful fighter, and I need those with a certain skillset with me."

She points to Silmeria, Dirk, and Skielstregar. "You three," she says. "You're coming with me into the tent to face Zalgiman. Dolan, you're my general on the outside. Harkashan, Leirune, Ous--listen to Dolan. He will direct you as needed with the werewolves.

There's a moment where Cor'lana just takes in a deep breath. "We're coming, my love," she murmurs. Then, she unfurls the scroll and casts it, sending the group far away.

The teleportation does not land you in the middle of a werewolf’s tent.

Instead you find yourselves on the outskirts of a small camp, not an army in the valley below a mountain, but rather a very small camp with little pup tents arranged between you and a much larger tent. It is not however the small camp, nor the large tent that draws the eye.

It is the stage of nooses and the corpses that dangle from them that is to the left of the tent. Six corpses in all, arranged along the line of the terrible makeshift stage. The first in the line so resembles Telamon in clothing and visage that if not for Cor'lana's connection to him, she might have despaired then and there of rescuing him. Even so, it is a heart-stopping moment. The next in line is clearly meant to resemble Cor’lana herself. A haphazard mark resembling her own drawn on the woman’s chest in mimicry. To the other side of this corpse is one of a man with only one eye, his clothing simple and a leather brace on one shoulder. If the similarity to Dolan is not immediately obvious, it is perhaps more so in relation to the others.

Then a corpse that was obviously made up to more closely resemble a member of your friends. A dark-skinned and petite woman with simple gray robes on, her hair clearly dyed badly with bleach. Beside this one another dark-skinned woman, this one with long black hair that has also suffered a bad dye job though this one done in a sickly shade of pink, her dress chosen to match. Lastly is what seems to be a child, this one with a beard of hacked-off hair attached to his face and... well his resemblance is to really no one, but the beard itself might well give a hint as to whom he is meant to represent.

For in truth there is little doubt that this is a ghastly threat. A terribly macabre message left in the wake of where an army once had been.

It seems the werewolves know who their enemies are.

GAME: Ravenstongue casts Haste. Caster Level: 13 DC: 20

Cor'lana's gaze settles on the crowd of corpses for only a moment--in truth, the only one that makes her pause for even a moment is the visage of the one done up to resemble Telamon.

"We will not let them make us falter," she growls. "Front guard, with me into the tent. Dolan and the others, rear guard!" Her command is as natural as anything, the flower crown on her brow seeming to bolster her on as she casts a spell of quickened movement that settles onto the party.

Dirk grunts softly as his boots hit stone. He's gotten used to this means of transport. Immediately, he has his thunderbelcher up to his shoulder, his furious gaze sighting down the barrel as he sweeps it left and right. Lulu takes wing off his shoulder, making a lazy circle over the camp to keep herself out of harm's way. Finding those hanged corpses, however, has the burly old ranger lowering his weapon. His face turns white as milk as he sees the first one. "Beards o' me fathers! Tel--" He cuts off then, squinting as he peers at the body. "Wait a tick. That's not..." He looks down the row, his anger slowly returning. Until the very last one. A child. An innocent child, murdered and made up to look like -him-. His color returns with a vengeance, his cheeks turning red as beets as he bares his teeth in a furious snarl. "Where is 'e? Where -is- the fuckin' bastard?!" he snarls softly. He steps up to take his place by Cor'lana, his knuckles white around the stock of his weapon. "I'm ready, lass!"

When the disorientation of teleportation passes, Silmeria spots the stage, first, and the bodies thereon.

All humor falls from her face, and she looks at each in turn, her expression as impassive as the very granite of the mountain Temple. Once she has the face memorized, she moves to the next, lips moving in silent prayer.

Her gun is drawn from its holster, her shield settled in hand, and a prayer to the Lady becomes more audible, as the traceries on the gun begin to glow a bright, orange-red. "Worry not, dear ones," she says to the stage. "I swear you will rest peacefully, this night."

Vardaman vengeance activated.

GAME: Silmeria casts Flames of the Faithful. Caster Level: 10 DC: 14

Skielstregar and all his duplicates land together in an assembled phalanx, Malefic poised defensively as the wicked crack of a grin is roiling in its growl. They look up to the corpses. And freeze.

A long. Silent. Pause. Then-

Black bone wings with no membrane jam into the ground, lifting Skiel up as he grips his weapon, black ink dripping from his arms. "We sshall not falter! We sshall not waver! Dragonfather and Hiss children come ssseeking justice!" he snarls, sliding up to Cor'land with eerie grace, ready to be her guard.

The rear guard does as is suggested, staying behind as the main group and following an order from Dolan to collapse the tents. A man steps forth from the largest of the tents. A huge stormguardian man with a massive blade on his hip which he draws. The weapon despite its normal appearance has a dark aura around it, and he looks out at the approaching army with a grim expression on in his silver eyes. "She comes for you." He says to someone loudly enough to be heard by all.

Just a moment outside, and then he ducks back into the tent, his blade in hand. The rest of his army surges forward, not from the tents, but from behind his own. A force of werewolves armed and ready for battle.

GAME: Telamon casts Greater Teleport. Caster Level: 14 DC: 22

Zalgiman took his eyes off the sorcerer. He's battered. He's bruised. He's near-naked except for pants. But he knows his wife is near, and he knows she's leading an army. And when Zalgiman steps outside... he whispers, "Anungal kaskal, nu siten ula'ulla." He's not going far. Not far at all.

When Zalgiman steps back in, the chains and manacles are empty... and there's a silhouette seated in his chair. Two stars in his eyes, cold and distant. "Zalgiman," Telamon says quietly, but his voice carries clearly. "When you reach the Halls, remember that you could have stepped off this path."

GAME: Ravenstongue used a Scroll of Lunar Veil.

Her king is in position, and she will not allow him to be taken off the board. There's a smirk on her face as Cor'lana retrieves a scroll from her bag and unfurls it. She reads aloud what's written on the page.

The skies above dim. The moon is shrouded in darkness. As she commands the army, so does she command the skies.

The mass of the werewolves pours fourth, blocking exact entrance to the tent and descending on the group of adventurers. None of them are in wolfish form, but rather human in their shape and figure. There's howling in their number just the same, and it's the hair-raising kind that sends shivers down the spine.

The silver-eyed man looks at Telamon, smiles mirthlessly. "We all die Telamon. I've told you that. I'm not afraid of Vardama." His dark eyes are knowing and satisfied. It's an expression that is wrong for the moment.

GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+1: (18)+1: 19
GAME: Skielstregar rolls 3d6: (8): 8
GAME: Skielstregar RAGES!, gaining +2 to melee attack/damage/Will saves and 20 temporary HP

Skielstregar and all his copies stymie, briefly, as all the werewolves-to-be flood out from behind the tent to fortify. And the moon is veiled. Darker.

Heavy footfalls step to guard Cor'lana, multiple makari making it hard to get a bead on him and her. Cold seeps in. Skielstregar inhales deeply. Fog and mist form and race into his lungs. And then a sudden torrent of flash frozen air and wind slices and cracks across most of the mass of werewolves, coating everything in a thin layer of ice.

Malefic rumbles happily, "If there was ever a time to let loose...~"

"It would be-" Ink sloughs off Skielstregar, muscles bulging and eyes growing crimson as his grip tightens on the weapon. He growls "-now. COME AT THIS ONE!"

GAME: Silmeria rolls heal: (11)+11: 22
GAME: Silmeria casts Coordinated Effort. Caster Level: 10 DC: 15

Skiel issues the challenge, and steps forward to cover Cor'lana. Perfect.

Reaching toward the shadowed moon, Silmeria calls down the blessing of the Death-Singing Dragon upon herself... and directs a blessing in equal measure upon the sorceress.

Then another prayer, as she brings the barrel of her gun down, to whisper a benediction over its mouth. Smoothly, she turns, points the weapon into the ground, and fires. A ripple of silvery light follows the bell-like report of the pistol, washing over her allies and bringing with it, a whisper of encouragment, of the strength found in comradeship.

"Stay together!" her voice peals over the din of howling, fervor-addled werewolves. "They cannot bring you down, if you fight as one!"

GAME: Dirk rolls Stealth+2: (15)+17+2: 34
GAME: Dirk rolls Melee: (20)+11: 31 (THREAT)

Dirk glances at Silmeria as she lays that blessing. Then looks to Cor'lana, in all her starlight majesty. Then to Skielstregar, the very vessel of Daeus' mighty wrath. "I won't be far," he says softly, before he turns and ducks away. Hunkering low to the ground, he glides like a phantom, stepping from thin shadow to scraggly bush. Hefty dwarves like him should -not- be able to move with such liquid grace and silence, and yet the old ranger is deep in his element. It may not be the depth of the woods he loves so dearly, but it -is- a mountain, and his genetic memory is deeply ingrained. It will serve.

He sidles up to the side of the tent, reaching for the handaxe tucked into his belt. He twirls the camp tool up and catches it by its handle. Usually is helps him put -up- a tent. But right now, it'll serve him well to take this one down. He cocks back his hand and swings with all his might. "HYARGH!" The sharpened blade catches tent canvas and tears through with a SHRRRRRIP! Hurling the axe down so it chunks head-first into the earth, he steps forward, swinging up his thunderbelcher.

"ZALGIMAN! YOU -DIE- THIS DAY, YE CLEAN-SHAVEN SHITE!" he thunders.

GAME: Telamon rolls intimidate: (19)+22: 41

Telamon looks entirely unfazed by the larger man, as he rises to his feet from the chair. Even in his state, he looks surprisingly poised, marred by a cough. "Yes, yes, I've heard that line before. They all say that. But the real insult comes after, Zalgiman. Because for all your efforts it will be for naught. The scars you leave will fade. You will be forgotten, save as a footnote." Telamon's hair begins to float around his face. "Nothing you have done will be of consequence. I will see to that--"

And then Dirk tears through the tent, and Telamon can't help but grin. "--or my friends and family will pick up the gauntlet. Even my death will not stave this off."

GAME: Ravenstongue casts Greater Invisibility. Caster Level: 13 DC: 21
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+25: (7)+25: 32
GAME: Aftershock rolls 2d4+23: (5)+23: 28

Cor'lana sees the opening that Dirk has made. "Alright," she says. "Going in."

She murmurs a spell and turns invisible, stepping quietly into the path to be reunited with her husband. But--for all of the time she'd spent with Zalgiman, all of those letters and that moment in the snow in the dream, she doesn't know that Zalgiman could see through her. In a way, he always has. He's always been watching.

The blade goes down and it burns her skin without burning, and she cries out in pain, a large gash torn through her dress and finding purchase in her leg.

Zalgiman pulls the blade out in a splurt of blood, the wicked blade looking all the more dangerous for the fact that it is now covered in crimson. He almost looks sad. His eyes dark as he takes in the grievous wound that he has given Cor'lana. "I knew you would come for him. Fool that you both are." He takes the weapon in both hands. "I have struck the first blow, we will see who stands at the end of this."

GAME: Skielstregar rolls cmb+1+1: (6)+15+1+1: 23
GAME: Skielstregar rolls cmb+1+1: (9)+15+1+1: 26
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+25: (5)+25: 30
GAME: Aftershock rolls 2d6+23: (10)+23: 33

Skielstregar's head whips over to Cor'lana as she rushes off into the tent. "Go together-!" Gone. A high pitched scream. His crimson eyes turn to slits.

"What are you, little whelp? Grounded?" Malefic eggs him. "What do dragons do?"

The half-Forgotten makari shifts to look at the defensive line. Black-bone wings spread. And before reason hits thought, he gallops forward, leaping and soaring into the air. "DRAGONFATHER'S SHADOW COMES!" he bellows. Before unceremoniously crashing into the tent, tearing at it and the column holding it up. But his body is bunted by something keeping it from tearing it down proper. And then blackish blood sprays from a sudden rupture on his side. He roars.

"The answer is SOAR. Not uncouthly crash into- Oh I'll lecture you later- GIVE ME A BITE!" the halberd jabbers.

GAME: Silmeria casts Spiritual Weapon. Caster Level: 10 DC: 14
GAME: Silmeria rolls 1d20+2+7: (19)+2+7: 28
GAME: Silmeria rolls 1d8+3: (3)+3: 6

With the way into the tent now blockaded only by a furious, death-dragon of a Makari, Silmeria hurries closer to the tent, sliding to a halt the moment she can spot Zalgiman around the mantling rager. Shouting an entreaty to her goddess for aid, she points at what of Zalgiman she can see, and a curved, sickle-like sword composed of gray light shimmers into view, sweeping around and grazing the werewolf.

GAME: Dirk rolls shoot+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2: (2)+14+1+-3+2: 16
GAME: Dirk rolls shoot+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2: (14)+14+1+-3+2: 28
GAME: Dirk rolls 3d12+2d6+6: (22)+(9)+6: 37
GAME: Dirk rolls shoot+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2: (5)+14+1+-3+2: 19
GAME: Dirk rolls shoot+2-5: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2-5: (11)+14+1+-3+2+-5: 20
GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (5)+1+6+(7): 19
GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (9)+1+6+(5): 21
GAME: Dirk used a Silver Bullet.
GAME: Dirk used a Silver Bullet.
GAME: Dirk used a Silver Bullet.

Dirk's thick handlebar mustache twists as he bares his teeth in a furious snarl. Seeing his friends getting slashed by this most hated of his enemies makes the old dwarf see red. He takes a step back, slamming his foot down to firm his stance, and lifts his thunderbelcher. "Eat silver, ye orc-fucker!" he snarls. CHK-BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Golden dwarven runes light up along the length of his weapon's barrel, and each muzzle-flash shines like pure sunlight. Blessed bullets encased in liquid silver slam into Zalgiman's form, opening up bleeding wounds. A most palpable hit, though his foe still stands.

GAME: Telamon casts Suggestion/Quicken. Caster Level: 14 DC: 22
GAME: Telamon casts Suffocation. Caster Level: 14 DC: 20
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+17: (12)+17: 29
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+24: (16)+24: 40

And then his friends pile in like the cavalry. Telamon lets out another cough, and staggers a bit as he shifts away from Zalgiman. But he reaches out, and grabs a tiny bit of Time. "Nigak duga tam," he murmurs swiftly, before snarling at Zalgiman, "Your sword looks heavy -- maybe you should drop it!" But it's a ruse for the follow up, as Telamon invokes the killing magic. "Pagta, zuh nam-kud, kilul!" But for once, the strangling spell fails to pull the air from Zalgiman's lungs, and the sorcerer's brow furrows in anger.

GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Knowledge/Arcana: (9)+23: 32
GAME: Dirk rolls Knowledge/Arcana: (3)+3: 6
GAME: Telamon rolls knowledge/arcana: (7)+14: 21
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Hideous Laughter/Persistent. Caster Level: 13 DC: 21
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+17: (15)+17: 32
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+17: (12)+17: 29
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Magic Missile/Quicken. Caster Level: 13 DC: 22
GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 5d4+5: (14)+5: 19

Cor'lana's eyes glint with recognition. "Cold iron? And an unholy blade? I suppose you want to finish what I wanted to do to myself those years ago in the snow," she remarks, almost bitterly as she takes a step back.

But one of the reasons she's alive is here now. She has to do something. She pulls on the powers of her bloodline to amplify the spell that she casts. A spell with only one word: "Woof."

The punchline doesn't land. Zalgiman's impartial to her in at least this regard, it seems. So instead, she creates a set of magic darts in hand and throws them at him in blindingly fast speed.

GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+20: (10)+20: 30
GAME: Skielstregar rolls 1d7: (5): 5

The werewolf stabs at an image of Skielstregar, watching the image evaporate into thin air. It's a blow that has little care behind it, his eyes on Cor'lana. "I never meant... I didn't want this Cor'lana. I didn't want your blood on my blade. I didn't want your friends at my heels. You wrote this story; and I am bound by your silken words to the course we have driven."

GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+25: (17)+25: 42
GAME: Skielstregar rolls 1d6: (3): 3
GAME: Skielstregar rolls weapon25+1+1: (2)+18+1+1: 22
GAME: Skielstregar rolls weapon25+1+1: (19)+18+1+1: 39
GAME: Skielstregar rolls damage25+9+3-1+1d10: aliased to 1d10+10+9+3-1+1d10: (4)+10+9+3+-1+(8): 33

The Forgotten makari ducks low as one of his images shatters from Zalgiman's swing, another vanishing in a wisp of black miasma as another blinding hit whiffs past he himself. Seizing this opportunity, Skiel throws Malefic to one side as he skirts around the werewolf the other way.

Cresting around to body block for his friends, his hands grip at nothing in the air as he winds back.

Malefic suddenly melts into black miasma, and reforms in his grip midswing in one devastating strike!

Malefic rips free, bloody. "One!" it counts.

GAME: Silmeria rolls ranged+2: (14)+10+2: 26
GAME: Silmeria rolls ranged+2: (12)+10+2: 24
GAME: Silmeria rolls 1d8+1d6+2+2d6: (2)+(1)+2+(8): 13
GAME: Silmeria rolls 1d8+1d6+2+2d6: (2)+(5)+2+(5): 14

"Mori," Silmeria says to her gun, as Skeil moves out of her line of sight. "Protocol: Dark Moon."

<<ACKNOWLEDGED>> comes a multi-tonal voice from within the gun, and the burning red traceries of the gun shimmer with silver pulses of light.

The gun is leveled at Zalgiman's back, and the report is loud in these close quarters, a silver bullet sinking into Zalgiman's flesh. In a practiced movement almost too rapid for the eye to follow, teh Speaker breaks her pistol, pushes another bullet into place, then fires again, a second shallow pit appearing next to the first.

GAME: Dirk rolls shoot+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2: (10)+14+1+-3+2: 24
GAME: Dirk rolls shoot+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2: (4)+14+1+-3+2: 18
GAME: Dirk rolls shoot+2-5: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2-5: (12)+14+1+-3+2+-5: 21
GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (12)+1+6+(8): 27
GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (7)+1+6+(7): 21

Dirk hawks and spits as he listens to Zalgiman. "What a load o' shit," he growls furiously. "Suppose ye dinnae want tae murder those poor innocent folks ye dolled up tae look like us? Eh? That poor wee little bairn? Eh?! DID YE NOT WANT THAT, YE FUCKIN' BASTARD?!" Up comes his thunderbelcher again. He might not have the supernatural rage that some barbarians unleash, but his is pretty damn close. "HYARRRRGH! DIE! DIE! DIE!" BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! His thunderbelcher kicks mightily in his grasp as he fires off three shots in quick succession. The recoil sends his second shot flying a bit wide, but two slam into Zalgiman. "I'm goin' tae kill ye, ye sick, twisted fuck!" he snarls as he racks the slide. "I'm goin' tae kill ye an' bury ye!"

GAME: Telamon rolls sense motive+3: (12)+15+3: 30

It's like Zalgiman just keeps sopping up the abuse, even with the silver weapons and rounds tearing through him. Telamon is actually unnerved, but as he watches... his eyes narrow. Swiftly, he races over to the desk, yanking open the drawer and pulling out a silver dagger within. "Zalgiman!" he yells, planting a foot on the desk top and vaulting up and forward... flying towards the werewolf lord, dagger-first even as Zalgiman is swinging at Skielstregar. "I KNEW IT ALL ALONG! IT WAS BOTH OF US!"

The shock of Telamon's voice turns Zalgiman's eyes toward the man. There's time to react. Time to defend himself. He does nothing. The blade strikes true. It sinks deep and Zalgiman's eyes trace to Dirk. "Marcus..." Silver eyes look at Telamon. "His name..." He falls to his knees the scent of burning flesh filling the tent. He drops his sword and opens his mouth. But all that comes out is blood. He falls to the ground, eyes gone dead and distant.

The werewolf is dead.

Well this is concerning.

Silver bullets, fire, all sorts of attacks meant to absolutely *ravage* the supernatural, being shed like a light spring rain. Frowning to herself, Silmeria raises her weapon to make another attempt...

And Telamon solves the puzzle, and now the werewolf is dead.

Curious.

Tilting her head, the Speaker keeps her gun trained on the corpse. Because after all, death often doesn't stick, if you're vile enough.

"So... what was that?" She asks, conversationally. "Is everything nominally all right...?"

Yelling from Telamon gets the necromatically-wired Half-Forgotten to whirl around, eyes wide. "No! Stay back you SPARKLY FOOL-!" He holds an arm out to stop him-

-aaaand its one of his duplicates, the half-sil man getting by just fine. Played yourself, Skielstregar.

He watches with wide eyes as nothing more than a mere silver dagger kills some that was taking chunks out of him not a moment before. His maw opens, jagged, wicked, dripped with black ink. Then clicks shut. "... is... there issss more? We want-"

"-you-" Malefic quips.

"Yesss, me, no we, I-ugh shut up!" He bangs his head against the side of the halberd.

"No. You're stuck with me. Be a good noodle and guard so the minions don't interfere," the weapon growls at Skiel, tugging him towards the front of the tent.

Begrugingly, the roided out makari shakes and trembles in obligation, adrenaline still pumping through his barely beating heart. Keeping any eye out for any others that would interfere.

Dirk slowly relaxes, his shoulders heaving as he pulls deep, snorting, snarling breaths through his large dwarven nose. "Is 'e dead?" he growls softly, stepping forward. He reaches out and gives the corpse a couple stiff pokes with the barrel of his weapon. Just in case. But... it's true. Zalgiman is dead at last. Dirk stares balefully down at the corpse for a tense moment, before he hawks and spits. "Good fuckin' riddance." He gives himself a shake, then looks up and around. "His totem. It's got tae be here!" He looks over at the desk, and trundles over. He starts rummaging around, searching high and low to see if he can find the very-late, not-great Zalgiman's totem.

Thunk. The feel of the dagger sinking into Zalgiman's chest will stay with Telamon for a long, long time. And for all that he hates the man, he'll never be one to take pleasure in a kill. As Zalgiman crumples, Telamon wobbles on his legs, before suddenly sitting down with a thud as the events of the last day or so finally catch up with him. Seeing Dirk start to rummage around, he waves a hand a bit weakly. "See if you can find my stuff as well." Slowly, he looks up at Lana, and offers her a brave smile. "...Hi honey. Sorry I put you to all the trouble..."

He's dead. Cor'lana comes back into full vision, the invisibility falling off of her like a shroud. She offers Telamon a small smile, going over to kiss him on the cheek. "Hi honey," she says. "Sorry, just a moment. I... I have to pay my respects."

There's something dark in her violet eyes as she looks down at Zalgiman's body, giving Dirk a surprisingly stern glare when he pokes Zalgiman with his gun. She gets down on her knees and... She picks up the werewolf, cradling him. Closing his eyes with her fingers. Smoothing down his hair. Like she's paying her last respects. She doesn't appear to have the heart to answer Silmeria's question, because maybe she, herself, doesn't know the answer. "If only you accepted my offer," she murmurs for the dead Zalgiman. "If only. It's true that Telamon knew all along, but I--I had you mistaken entirely for a monster when you were only a noble wolf trapped inside one. I was not lying when I told you I loved you as a friend, Zalgiman--and when you told me all of those darkened words in the snow, wishing for death, I tried to grant you a loving and gentle death."

The tears begin to fall. "And I'm sorry I failed." So she sings in the way that words can be sung without singing:

"In the hours in which I write these words,

my heart is worn to the seams with grief:

For you, a friend with wounds so deep,

So close to mine--

Where I hoped, you declined.

Your heart is a darkness I couldn't follow;

The woman you wanted me to be

Is a lie and a story, a fiction for which

Could never be true, nor see the light:

Yet I hoped for hope--

And you declined.

In the hours that follow these words,

I know your fate, for it is as dark and thick

In my mind as ashes roll in clouds overhead

And as the tears roll down from my eyes,

I proclaim my hope:

I wish for you

To awaken in an elysium with a bride-to-be;

Her eyes that remind you of violet moons,

Dark waves of hair flowing down her back,

And a voice that charms and keeps you

So that you feel lost no more in the dark

And feel at home in the light with the life

That you share with her--

For she loves you.

And all you ever needed to learn

Was how to love someone kind

With the kindness they give back.

And all you ever needed to be

Was to be born to someone kind

With their love given freely.

And while this world and life could not,

I hope for hope, that one day yet:

You will know it in the next."

She pauses only a moment, collecting herself, before she says, "Go gently into the Halls, Zalgiman. Goodbye, my friend." For that was what he needed in the end, but not what he wanted--and that is why he is gone.

Dolan leads the way up to the tent, but peering through told him that Telamon is safe, and he fairly slumps in relief. "The rest of them ran for it," he informs those inside.

Dirk pauses in his rummaging, holding up some familiar looking gear. "Found yer gear, Telamon," he says, lumbering over and offering the goods up to his friend. He's doing his -very- best not to look over at Cor'lana, nor her display towards the fallen Zalgiman. His voice is deep and gruff. Something about all of this is -not- sitting well with the old snowbeard. "I cannae find his totem. It's not here. He must've hid it somewhere. He had tae know we were comin'." Only now does he chance a glance at the perished lycan, and his friend who cradles him. He burly old ranger fidgets on his feet, his whiskers ruffling. Suddenly, he feels... nervous. Out of place. Like he doesn't belong here. Whatever this is, it feels -wrong- somehow. Like he's intruding. When Dolan arrives, he's grateful for the distraction. "Good work, laddie. How's our folks holdin' up?"

The pistol slowly lowers, and after a moment, is holstered. As Cor'lana recites her poem, the Speaker steps forward, watching, listening intently, as if committing the verse to memory. Nodding slowly, she lowers herself into a crouch, examining the cooling body of Zalgiman. "...It's my hope he *will* pass gently into the Halls," she says. "But he'll be there for a good while, I expect. A soul tends not to move out of the Halls of its own will, until it's come to terms with all its regrets, in life. I'll be sure to add his name to the Archive, Cor'lana. And your words will make an excellent epitaph."

Rising, she turns, adjusting her spectacles and greeting Dolan with a wide smile. "Excellent work, Justice! And-- oh."

Leaning to one side, she looks to the pyre, by the stage. "...I see I have duties to attend to, yet. Pardon..."

Tel's reaction to Lana's kiss is completely wrong. Instead of a smile, a blush, his face turns gray, and he gasps for air. He shudders, and then he looks at Zalgiman. "...Oh, you son of a bitch," he rasps.

And then his eyes roll back in his head, and he collapses to the floor of the tent, unconscious.

Forgotten-Skielstergar is still going in his mind's eye. Tunnel vision, high strung, twitchy and huffing. But Cor'lana's poetry and display gets him irritated. Something that is nearly spoken on after she is done, and yet-

"Compassion," Malefic intones on a gravely rumble to the still-seeing-red makari. "Is the hardest tenant of our Radiant Lord. It is difficult to see the rays of it in the glorious justice. Praise be, Cor'lana, for your actions. And Telamon for your-... Telamon?"

Skiel, his weapon having talked him down, sags as he comes back to normalcy. He looks over to Dolan, nods haggardly, swings back to Telamon. Blinks. "... thisss one will carry the sparkly one."

"TEL!" Cor'lana screams, letting go of Zalgiman (gently) and running over to him. She doesn't manage to catch him as he falls, on account of holding a dead body of a large man, and she sheds more bitter tears for it. The man on the floor has the last laugh in the end, doesn't he.

And yet one thought courses through her head. I deserved that in the end for what I did. The tears feel even hotter on her cheeks for the miserable thought. No amount of poetry nor well-wishes for Zalgiman's soul will fix that.

"We're getting everyone out of here," she says, once Skielstregar offers to carry Telamon out. "Now. Skielstregar, you're carrying him to the Temple of Eluna with me once we teleport out."

One of the flowers on her head is supposed to mean victory in battle--and while she did win, the victory feels tainted. That was the way it was always going to be. Tainted by the love of a man who went beyond love into obsession.