PrP: Free Hugs
Log Info
- Title: Free Hugs
- Emitter: Lenore
- Characters: Virton (Art5)* Amythyst (Sor3)* Ikavod (Bbn4) Landau (Clr3/Wiz1) Kalkorth (Bbn4) Sebropert (Bbn2/Rng3)
- Place: Stillmarsh Farm - Alexandria
- Time: May 13, 2016
- Summary: The Fire Dance turned out to be trouble, but the trail has been followed and new threats emerge. Though the trail runs contrary to the one that those involved previously had found, leaving them all to wonder if the two are actually connected at all, or if someone noted the similar aspect and pushed them together. Either way, something has been immolating the livestock, and it needs to stop. Side note: BBQ Sunday at Dawnslight Farm.
- APL: 4
- Encounter 1: CR6 (EACH), 2 Hell Moths, CR2 (EACH), 6 Human Cleric 3 Cultists
ST:
It seems such a straight forward situation: Farmers have been complaining that their livestock have been found burnt to a crisp and left there on their lands -- it's not poachers, it's not just beasts, and they're rather at a loss of who or what is doing it, and perhaps more importantly: Why?
Answers have not been easy to come by, the poster of the contract has mentioned. Nobody in the neighbouring areas has any trackers, nor specialists in anything that has proven helpful. Even the witches of the neighbouring Haghill region seem to be rather at a loss. All of this and more is explained upon the arrival of the group meant to aid in understanding what is happening in this quiet little village.
Such is another drawback of the local routes being burdened by the influx of monstrous activity, and the newness of the farms and other communities this far out. They're making leaps and bounds in the direction of linking their forces, but these things don't happen overnight.
You are lead out into the fields where the latest of oddities has occured. Out by the largest barn, farthest from the main farm house, there is a curiously positioned heap of bovine carcasses, burnt so hot and so fast that their hides have more or less melted and tightened into some sort of sarcophagus, their bellies bulging and strained, filled with gasses and more, granting that unnatural distended appearance. The smell is not necessarily what one would expect; it smells less of burnt hair and singed flesh, but more like one might expect of some warm evening barbeque event, sans sauces. The meat is fresh, and the juices created by melted fat dribble from tiny tears where the flash-braised flesh peels apart.
"I mean, we can still use 'em, really. Bit young, mind, this lot... could have provided much more in the way of milk, too. Weren't really gunna eat 'em, but... you know, I would rather this than them bein' zombies or, you know, just... cut up and left to fester, or be diseased, or what have you." The farmer shrugs his shoulders, then gestures toward the ground, "But, ya see the strange markin's? The way they're positioned?" It is a little strange, religious symbols and strange scripts here and there, and then one last oddity:
A chrysalis on a branch, left on the ground beside a large tree that looms by the side of the barn -- likely where they hang their meat in the colder months.
"Oh! There was a note left, too! Uh, er... somethin'... about change bein' comin'."
Helpful.
He stands there for a few moments, peering off into the noonday sun with an obvious squint, "Look, I really gotta get back to my work, so... I'm gunna leave ya to yer business. Sure you'll do faster without me in yer hair!"
With that, he's gone, and our adventurers are left to their mystery.
"Well this is going to be something to toss your cookies over." Amythyst says bluntly. "Undead. Well...this'll be a hoot. Hopefully it's not." She says as she looks at the rest of her compansions.....
"I reckon no undead gonna be doin' this like. It's gonna be some fellas with some strange notions up in them there heads of theirs, considerin' the note." buzzes Virton. His head bobs gently to the farmer as he goes to head back to his own work. "Much obliged, fella. Best you be stayin' outta the way. Don't want no folks gettin' hurt by none accidents."
The golem makes an attempt at sniffing the air, before tilting his head as he stares at the pile of rather savagely BBQ'ed cows, before there's a soft 'skreek skreek skreek' as his metallic finger scratches at his cheek. "I have no idea why folks be doing this kinda nonsense. Ain't they knowin' that it's hard for life out here without someone burnin' up all the cows and crops? Reos preseve me, they a bit mad."
With a sigh, Ikavod drops his brows and shakes his head. He learned his lesson the last time about mentioning the undead. That just got him a sface full of nightmarish undead spider-abominations that still made it hard to have an appetite... but the smell is another thing. "I really wish this smell were worse." he grumbled "Now I'm just hungry." From there he simply cracks his neck and lays his glaive over his shoulder.
Kalkorth ambles up as he has his great axe out and slung over his shoulder. He hms "I haven't seen this much cooked meat since the last celebration." He sniffs a little bit, "Smells like it needs some sauce and a little too well done." He moves around the carcasses. He looks around, "Maybe it was some fire happy wizard."
Sebropert, a black and copper Sith'makar, has been salivating for a large portion of the trip to the farm. His broad nostrils flaring at the sweet scent of cooked meat. But before food, one must work, and his keen nose will need be put to it. Dropping to all fours he begins scanning the ground and scenting the air, taking full deep inhales and pausing between each as if deciding if the smell was of interest. "Many feet through here," he rumbles. A giant claw is pointed outwards towards the tree line. One group separate. Went that way and back. Many times." His halting common tongue slurred through a toothy maw.
After some conversing with Amethyst Landau comes to a conclusion, and an accord,"They appear... to be connected to a group called the Muse. This." the Cerenzan scholar sweeps an arm out dismissingly over the symbols,"Appears to be religeous in nature, connected to a rite performed during an initiation by the splinter Ceiranan group." when Sebropert speaks the magic user nods approvingly,"We should follow them to their source, and dissuede them from further action. if you would." he invites with another sweeping gesture before the party.
"Ceinara is the muse, Landau." Amythyst smiles a bit before looking to Sebropert. "Think you can sniff them out after we get to the trees?" She says after Kalkorth speaks.
Virton's head turns towards Sebropert, giving a small nod. "Much obliged." He buzzes, a hand lifting up to the thunderbelcher that remains strapped across his torso. He pats it fondly as he bobs his head to Landau. "I reckon that sounds like the right and proper thing to do," He agrees with Kalkorth, before beginning to walk in the direction that Sebropert had pointed out. "But I reckon we best do it now, 'fore they get the inclination to do anythin' else worse. That, and we're burnin' daylight." *Tink* *tink* go his spurs. The Golem takes a small tube from a pouch on his belt, and screws it in to the side of his mouth - whereupon a blurt of black smoke fliters out from the Golem's internal workings, in a mock up of a cigar.
Sebropert taps his dark snout with a hooked claw. "Maybe. Longer since done, less scent left. Let us move, and sniff what we can." He lopes after the gunslinging golem, galloping on giant gnarled claws. He stops now and then, sniffing the air as they get closer to the tree line. Lope, smell, lope, smell.
ST:
The air here begins to warm up, though it could be creditted to the lengthening day and the brightening sun to those that aren't particularly aware of what has happened. As the group moves to follow the tracks so simply laid, it takes them toward the treeline, where the wind stills and silence overcomes. The smell of the meat can be scented even here, but now it is joined with the smells of herbs and incense, charcoal and thicker smoke. There's a sound in the woods, rustling branches free of the breeze's whisper, footsteps, and conversation in hushed tone. It seems that somehow, whatever is lurking in there has not yet become aware of the party.
That, however, does not last.
It's Virton's speech and the light of his false cigar that has them stop and turn, just barely seen in the shadows of the early foliage.
"What's he doing he--"
"Initiates!" The other calls, though to others, or to the party is questionable.
"The change is upon you! The dawn, THE DAWN..." He begins to spew some belief of flame bringing life, being salvation, what we must all endure. Something like that, anyway. It's hard to tell.
"Gus! Those aren't ours!"
"What?" The man stops to question.
"That's.. they're not with us!"
"... they're .. not.."
"Not. With. Us."
"... Shite."
"Don't come any closer! The great Must answers my call! Our song is legend, our voice is risen! Be reborn!"
Above, giant moths burst forth from the treeline, the dust they shed like embers and sparks, drifting toward the ground as they make their first path.
With one dart wooshing on by, Virton turns to regard Ikavod as he's thunk'ed by one of the darts. In response, the Golem makes its way to Ikavod's side - considering they were close together anyway it's more or less a small step to get himself within touching distance. He proceeds to pull an aerosol-can like device from his belt, giving it a few shakes before spraying the air before Ikavod, the magitechnical essence solidifying into a shield of force for the giantborn. The can is discarded, turning to ash as it's essence reserve is drained and used up. "There y'go, fella."
Already low to the ground, Sebropert launches forward into a dead sprint, his jaws opening into a roar. With a final leap he takes a swipe at one of the cultists, claws sinking into flesh. "Stand or flee, either way you will lose!"
Well, so much for the element of surprise... then again, Ikavod was far too tall too broad to do much sneaking in general. "So it's zealots." he mutters to himself, glancing to Virton. Ikavod knew a few things about flames and he'd never seen them do much of any of that. There was something he was about to say but, well, that's interrupted as a dart is slung at him and nails him in the arm. Almost with the irritation one affords a mosquito, Ikavod slaps the dart and dislodges it from him. "You're going to need something bigger than that." he growls, eyes scanning the lot. Virton has to wait a moment before Ikavod actually notices him and then he's being sprayed down and wrinkles his nose. "I don't know what that is but you usually seem to be on top of things." From then, Ikavod rolls his massive shoulders. "I've got some fire for you but it's not going to be bringing much but pain." he barks, the veins in his neck bulging as he takes his glaive in hand and begins with a sloppy swipe. It would seem he's a bit too eager, the swing going short which, honestly, just makes him angrier.
Seeing Seb flanked and engulfed, Amythyst doesn't worry about defenses and simply throws a pair of blue orbs at the original cultist Sebropert attacked. It DOES do a bit of damage, but.....almost enough....
Despite not being particularily physically conditioned The Elunan magic user is oft quick off the mark when it comes to a spell or reacting to changes to the evironment. This instance is no exception as the fanatics attack the party first, Landau's brow furrowing fractionally as he decides on a course of action in a breath. Words are spoken in the celestial tongue as the dark-skinned caster entreats his godess for a show of favour, and it is ironically sound turned against these particularily agressive Cenarians that explodes in a transparent orb in the back ranks stunning two where they stand.
Kalkorth takes a look around and he spots one of the cultist. He takes a deep breath before he lets his rage slip the leash. He lets out a battle roar as charges towards the cultist and the blade of his greataxe chills over as he slams his great axe through the cultist. He almost cuts the cultist in half with his swing.
ST:
Darts come firing out from the wooded edge, one flying wide, and another sticking into the thick hide of Ikavod; though one might expect poison, there is nothing. It is simply a needle-tipped, steel dart that you might find in an avid player's pocket at the pub. It even has little flame-themed fins on it that flutter brightly with a myriad of firey colours as they spin and whizz through the air.
One hundred and Foooooorty.
The leg is still anyone's at this point.
They begin to push their way through the foliage, some of which has already been burnt away, others catching ablaze as the tiny embers from the moths above settle into dried and dead leaf and compost that rests at the brink of the forestry. Though the fires are small, they are adding an acrid haze to the area already, and it won't be long before it's getting harder to see. Already it begins to sting the more sensitive of eyes.
As Seb gets close enough to claw one of the cultists, he notices now in the light that their skin is charred and twisted by newly healed burns that leave him nearly featureless, aside from the bump of a nose, the tightly pulled lips, and slits where his eyes must be; both a milky blue that suggests blindness, but may not tell the truth.
"You cannot outrun the flame." He states. "You can only surrender, and understand it is the will of the Muse that we be reborn, cast in her image, in beauty. In -perfection-." He 'smiles', skin cracking and bleeding through what was once fragile, healing skin; parchment thin, dry and brittle. "You may cut me down, but I cannot fail. It is in motion."
He bleeds, he is obviously staggered by the attack, but still his improptu sermon goes on.
"Be reborn!" He demands of the Sith'makar.
As his demand is issued, one of those brightly coloured, oddly whorled and massive moths descends to bite at the lizard fellow. Bet you didn't know moths have teeth. As they sink into the bits between his scales, needling down into him as those huge and pillowy wings wrap solidly around Seb in a nice warm hug -- all for free, just as advertised. Within that embrace, it begins to heat up; it's almost comforting to a cold blooded thing, might even make him a little sleepy. Surely nothing could be wrong. Aside from the fact that it is now going to town with those teeth, biting him over and over, like a flock of mosquitos at a bikini bash.
As Kalkorth absolutely destroys one of the cultists, another charges for him with their sickle drawn, Digging the cruelly curved blade into his flesh before yanking it free with a cry of what he considers victory. "Be reborn!" He commands, as well, as the second of those giant moths descends to bite and cuddle the savage barbarian, engaging in what will come to be known as the great Snuggle Struggle of 2016.
The blast of sound that Landau unleashes upon the cultists is very effective, stopping two of them dead in their tracks, with the third only barely managing to overcome with a wince and both hands raising to cover his ears. Teeth gritting, he stands and holds aloft his holy medallion, a withering blackness tearing through the nearest of the party, sapping their life, wicking it through their shuddering bodies, "Give in to the embrace, rest and know peace!"
Taking stock of the situation, Virton's orange glowing eyes roam around the battlefield as it begins in its full. His gaze settles upon one of the stunned Cultists, still reeling fron Landau's attack. His shoulder cannon begins rising and charging, emitting an ominous 'ooum' sound as the scent of o-zone fills the air. As Culti5 may finally come to his senses, he's given yet another burn to add to his collection - this one fatal. It strikes the Cultist from his feet, leaving a scorched hole in his robes and chest.
Within the fiery embrace of the moth Sebropert can hear the rage of other barbarians call forth. His own blood boils, and claws and teeth spin like a whirlwind. "Rawwwr!"
Continuing to rely apon prayer, Landau continues murmuring the divine language free hand clasped around his symbol of faith. Finishing the prayer he turns his attention to Kalkorth and the silken enclosure that binds him. For a moment it shivers but fails to fall away from the barbarian. This elicits a curse QUITE unlike his pious offerings of before.
Amythyst sees the cultist go down, so she turns her attention to the moth that engulfed Sebropert and hits it with a pair of blue bolts.....which does quite a bit of damage.
No one puts Kalkroth in any kind of cocoon. He is not some dainty butterfly as he proves as he grabs a hold of the silky threads that seek to bind him and calling upon the strength of his ancestors he rips apart the chrysalis that had formed around him. His eyes wild with rage as he looks around for his next target.
Fire engulfs Sebropert within the giant moth's wings. It spins and uses the Sith'makar's body as a shield against the attacks of his allies. He growls and claws and squirms, and when the flames lick to harshly he goes limp, held in its scorching grasp.
ST:
It's gettin' hot in here. So, take off all your clothes!
Er... maybe not.
But, it is getting hot. That is to say, the cuddly moth that's got Seb tenderly in its embrace ... bursts into flames. The inside of that snuggle coccoon is a sudden, tight heat that is clearly what happened to the skin of those baked-from-the-inside cows, and Seb can feel his healthy lizard fats begin to sizzle, his scales dry and crack, that reptillian skin begging to shed.
The itching will soon drive him to madness.
If the party doesn't kill him first.
It is damaged by the slings, arrows and mean words of those around it, but it seems quite content to keep at it with Seb -- it seems that the moth is rather uneducated in the sexual harassment department -- he's from a different age, you know how it is. And Seb IS kinda pretty.
Now is cultist 1's time to shine! Finally free of the stunning blow of sound that Landau had offered, it staggers forward with hands outstretched to the moth that now finally releases the bleeding, burnt, unconcious sith-makar. Unfortunately for the overzealous zealot, a spear comes out of bloody nowhere and skewers it like a shishkabob, drawing a gurgled cry from its burn-peeled lips before it slumps onto the ground, skidding to a stop, head knocking against Seb's as it comes to a casual halt.
Taking a page from his book, however, is the none-too-smart OTHER cultist that draws on the energies of the Muse to breathe new life into the thing that moments ago had burst into flames, now flickering with hypnotic patterns across its still-glowing wings.
The moth that had Kalkorth, then was denied, now goes back for another bit of necking, that saucy mink.
"He is reborn!" Cries one of the remaining cultists of Seb, now dying on the ground.
The moth begins to tongue Kalkorth's super manly face, mlemlemlem, his anguish is delicious.
Watching one of his fellow party members get lit up like a pinyata at a frat house, Virton moves into action. Heavy bootsteps thump violently as he pounds through the space between himself and the falling Sith'makar, whereupon Virton produces a long metal needle from inbetween his second and third fingers on his right hand. It's promptly rammed into Sebropert's chest, where the poor fellow is subjected to two things: A bolt of static is shot through their form, and the magitechnical essence of the healing of Reos is injected straight into Sebropert's heart. Kinda like a shot of adrenaline. Only a bit more painful. Virton yanks his arm back as the needle rapidly dissolves and breaks apart.
"Up an' at em', partner!"
The large scaly Sith convulses and sits bolt upright, a big magitech needle stuck in his chest. He reaches into his pocket and pulls forth a small vial and downs it. "Grah!"
Ikavod seems content to whip his glaive around where it begins to buzz again, Ikavod giving it a quick twirl. Until the whole... fire thing. He attempts to shake the flame free to find it is rather stubbornly clinging and apparently speading. Cursing, Ikavod continues to try and shake it off. There were more pressing matters like that stupid burn victim he had just ran through with his glaive. Ikavod's glaive whips around in a quick reversal of momentum and travels in a hard, fast orbit that sends air whistling through the bored head of his glaive. Pitching low, the weapon cuts and crushes its way through the innards of the large moth that had been so set on Frenching Sebropert. "We'll both just have to burn!" Ikavod snarls as a ghostly flicker forms around his left hand before moving to quickly spiral upward along the length of his glaive where it flies off and hits the moth with a spark that ignites into a blossom of fire. It doesn't seem to really hit particular hard and quickly dissolves, a ghostly flicker forming on the haft of the glaive again.
His spells are puissant! At least thats what Landau would have you beleive as a determined glint enters his eyes as he affixes a cultist with a glare. Murmuring beneath his breath his hand clutches his symbol feircely, his hand tightening causing the tendons to rise as he attempts to yoke the will of the cultist, to bind him to attack his own. The bloodthirst of the robed figure however has to contend with blind fanatasism, and the cause proves stronger than the urge leaving the target unmoved.
Seeing the cultist heal the moth, Amythyst does was any sane adveturer would do....kill the healer. Two blue bolts fly out and.....make one cultists head explode. "That's gotta sting."
Kalkorth is fighting one of the moths up close now and he drops his greataxe. He manages to get a dagger out and he stabs at the moth instead of trying to escape from it.
ST:
Moths do not like being stabbed.
Warning: When stabbed, said moth may EXPLODE IN FIERY MAYHEM.
This concludes our announcement from the Bureau of Better Businesses Against Combustion In The Workplace.
They've been sued so many times.
The other moth has gone to chewing happily upon Ikavod, wings warm, yet not on fire as they caress and fondle the giantborn desert-dweller. That strange, spiral tongue unfurls and feathers over his face almost lovingly, as the cultists continue their mad game of see who can scream 'reborn' more times. Currently, 6 is in the lead, but he's fading fast.
"Re-...reboRN!"
He's really pushin' through the fear at this point, folks.
With Sebropert no longer at death's door, Virton manages to cover his eyes as the other moth promptly immolates itself and manages to bring down Kalkorth. With a tut in static, Virton makes a mental note to try and bring Kalkorth back from the very brink of death. After trying to kill the moth, that is. One thing before another. The shoulder cannon gives an 'ooum' as it's battery manages to finally recharge itself, and Virton's hands grasp it, tweaking a few dials and injecting a new dose of magitechnical essence before aiming it at the moth. With a cry, the weapon discharges in a high pitched tone, sending a bolt of red electricity slamming into HMoth1.
Knowing the giant flaming moth will hurt those it grapples, the Sith'Makar takes out a bag of spices and tosses it as hard as he can at the moth's face. The bag bursts in a shower of chili-peppers and cinnamon. Unfortunately the tiny little moth nose doesn't mind it, and the Ikavod nose probably does.
Amythyst changes her focus to the other cultist and fires a couple of magic missiles at it. Sadly, it doesn't explode his head like the other one.
Leaving behind his divine arts for the time being, Landau turns to his more arcane skills gesticulating rapidly with his free hand and switching languages to a harsher tone. Twin missiles fly forth and impact apon the remaining cultist with foce conveyed hammerblows! It fails to fell him, but does leave him with a mighty hache of heads.
There are better places to be than where Ikavod is, right there with gnashing teeth and fire, all that fire. No one moth should have all that fire. It's a thunderous bellow the erupts from Ikavod as his stance changes and through the brief channeling of his ancestry. The burst of strength gives Ikavod enough power to push himself from the giant creature and angle hie glaive to catch the next attempt the thing tries to gnash with. Ikavod then stumbles backwards without any semblance of grace and digs into a leather pounch on his back, pulling free a clear cylinder of liquid that he simply crushes in his hand rather than bothering to open it properly. He lets the contents dribble into his open moth and flings the broken vial's remains aside. Well, that helped a little. Ikavoid simply aims his glaive at the large moth and that spectral flame fires off like a spiraling wisp and upon impact with the moth it swells and comes to life with vibrant color before disappearing. Not quite such an impact.
ST:
Kcheh!
The moth sneezes, once. Flames gout out in lashes of brilliance once, missing those around it, coating its hairs in those awful spices. Which, in turn, coat Ikavod in those awful spices. Which, in fact, turn out to be wonderful spices -- if you intend to eat the one covered in them. Which it may, given the way it chews on the large man with those spiny gnashers.
The second moth has suitably scorched Kalkorth, and moves on to the thing that keeps shooting it with fricken laser beams. Teeth screech through metal, sending up sparks and other nastiness it seems to ignore, its little moth jaw working away to try to get free of the punctured chassis to no avail. It gives up, and the two are united in the holiest of matrimony, pronounced man and moth, and are now getting to the consumate consumations. How it's going to work, we don't really want to know. The simple fact of the matter is, however, they've gotten close.
The last cultist wildly swings for Amythyst, "You leave them alone! They are harbingers of a brighter future! A better tomorrow! You must be," Wait for it, "REBORN!" He takes a commanding lead.
Alas, Ikavod may be free, but now Virton knows the sweet, sweet embrace of Mothy death. Those little mothy teeth start working on his chassis, and he blurts out noise which must be his own meothod of exclaiming his /immense/ dislike of the whole situation -- rounded up by the fact that he now has a morningstar clutched tightly in his hand, and he's swinging it violently in the air.
"OFF ME YA VARMIT!"
And that tears it. Sebropert lashes out at the spice covered moth, his claws reaching for its wings. "Stupid bug! Die, die, die!" He roars. "Bugs not supposed to like fire!"
Ikavod drops his glaive uncermeoniously and hauls the massive-headed hammer at his side with it's blunted series of spikes on either end. What do you do with bugs? You crush them. Except you succeed instead of just plain whiff. Thankfully the spirit of the flame is on the ball and abandons ship mid-swing to cover the minimal distance between it and the moth. The pale light once more explodes to life but doesn't do much but singe it. This is a war of attrition.
The weapon makes Amythyst stumble back and she's far enough away to bounce a pair of blue bolts off of the cultists head....which makes it explode. "Welp...no more healing."
Switching back to a more priestly role, Landau comes to the Sith-Makar's aid. Converting a prayer into pure positive energy he charges forward behind Serbropert and places a hand briefly apon a shoulder, there and gone again leaving reduced hurt in its wake.
ST:
"Re..... booooorrrnnnn...." The final cultist dies, with his victory well in hand -- a hand that twitches and curls up in his final moments like a spider with its legs curling under it, his palm marked with a branded scar that suggests an allegience to the Ceinarite church, but something's... off.
Probably nothing!
The moths continue in mindlessly chewing on folk, or at least trying to in some cases. Ikavod just barely manages to get away from the muffymaw'd snuggle monster, whilst Virton is still in lover's lane with the other moth. The spark from Ikavod's flame spirit does... nothing, aside from land softly on its wings, and seep into the brightly dancing patterns already in play.
It's pretty.
Pretty stupid. -_-
One of the moths seems just about done with this phase of its life, ready to follow the cultists into whatever it is that awaits them; its wings are tattered, and they barely beat, but even still they bite all the same.
With the flailing of a morning star, Virton is not having a good day(tm). He is infact, having a bad day(tm). More holes are being punched in his chassis with each passing 'om nom' of the moth, and Virton's flailing of his morningstar is doing very very little in getting himself out of this predicament. Infact, he's probably helping it somehow, knowing his luck.
Don't leave a job half-done. Or, well, even 5/6ths done. Ikavod spends a moment glancing between the creatures. "Do me a favor and hang on just a second." he said to Virton without waiting for an answer and whips around to close minor gap to the nearly dead moth and steps up as if he were at home plate. Except he plans on smashing the ball into the ground. Which is, actually what he does. The massive, blunt-spiked head of the hammer crashes into the moth and catches it with a small thump before Ikavod rudely introduces the moth to the ground. It's an earthbreaker and it does exactly that. The ground beneath the mouth is pulverized into a lumpy crater crowned with the prettiest little moth-corpse one ever did see. Flame erupts from the head of the weapon before Ikavod hauls the weapon up and turns to regard the one still living after a brief check to make sure his weapon is clear of moth-cloggage.
Sebropert's frame cracks and groans as he grows to monolithic Sith'Makarian heights. A giant javelin is pulled from its quiver and he throws. But size has its disadvantages, and his throw falls short. Wasting the gift bestowed upon him.
Switching back and forth between traditions seems to be a thing for Landau in this hard-fought battle, and the two seem to have blended into the other the longer the conflict draws out. Almost as an afterthought he casts another spell apon Sebropert, one that will case the lizardlike humanoind to grow to truly impressive level... but it does take a while to cast.
Two more bolts go for the moth after the cultist dies, and Amythyst tries to do her part with the magic missiles...even if it's not much.
ST:
The second moth is off to be reborn, its wings folding around its body as it meets the ground. The second, however, continues to eat the robot for some reason. He can't taste that good. However, true to moth form, it -is- chewing a hole in his favourite poncho.
"Bzzt." buzzes Virton. "I DON'T CARE HOW YA DO IT, KILL THE DANG THING." Comes the second buzz, far angrier in tone than the first. He swings his morningstar in the air with that same wild abandon and lack of training, missing everything completely. "Dangit! My poncho!"
Sebropert's new size shakes the ground as he even dwarfs the giantborn around him. With a low sweep of an arm he steps and lashes out and across the moth's frame, glittering gossamer coming off with his his rage.
Amythyst...now out of magic missile spells, starts spitting acid globs at the moth. She's trying to bring it down, but she doesn't have much.
ST:
The cultists are dead.
The moths are dead.
The world is saved.
If you like.
Once the group returns to the farmer that had hired them, and everything is explained, the man looks rather disturbedf. He congratulates them all on their victory, invites them to partake in the tasty pre-cooked cattle that they have now appropriately seasoned, and explains over dinner why this is such a curious thing. To learn more... legworks must be done. Work them legs.
Suffice it to say, it has been an interesting day, and more yet remains for those with the drive to dig and dig deep.
~ Fin