Minions of Evil
It was a simple enough briefing. A Mourner-acolyte from Vardama's temple came before the Adventurer's Guild, pleading for assistance. There is an old graveyard, located in one of the darker parts of the Felwood, that has been traditionally used by a number of the lesser fief-lords and nobles of the area. Usually, the Mourners have little trouble performing their caretaker duties. But the threat of the Dragonieri wights has made travel to the area more hazardous. To make matters worse, some of the local scouts and rangers have reported sightings of curious trespassers on the grounds. With everything going on in the wider area, the Mourners do not have the manpower to send investigators to this smaller graveyard.
"An' that's where -you- lot come on," growls your Guild contact. A great, hulking, brutish bear of a man who must clearly have some Jotunn somewhere in his ancestry. His right eye is covered by an old leather eyepatch, and a great walrusy handlebar mustache bristles over his mouth. A stout dwarven cigar tucked in the side of his mouth rolls up and down as he chomps the end of it. Reaching over the counter, he thunks a heavy iron censer atop the wood planks. THUD. "Get to the boneyard. Clear out any hostiles. Then burn this incense in the center. That's wot the Mourners is askin'."
He squints at the lot of you, taking the cigar from his mouth as he peers a bit more closely. "Any o' you lot are Vardamites, suppose ye might feel free to spout any o' yer Mourner yawping," he grunts. Seems like the big man's not too keen on Vardama--but a coin's a coin, and he's nothing if not a professional mercenary.
GAME: Nemori rolls knowledge/religion: (4)+6: 10
There's a dark-haired man in black-painted armor standing before the guild contact. He's got a scowl on his face that's deeper even than his usual persistent hostility toward others. He notably has a pair of golden scales painted on his chest. Impossible to miss and he seems to take the man's words somewhat personally. "It's not yawping." His words are stiff and his purple eyes flash as he speaks. "They're prayers to ease the dead so that they don't rise from the earth."
He picks up the incense and tucks it into a pouch hanging from his belt. Every movement is barely contained ire. The dark-haired man doesn't bother to look at his companions for this mission, just adjusts his sword and heads for the door.
Gurtrud is in a poor mood. Such is not rare, but the dwarf woman in her blue and gold finery frowns a little deeper at the explanation. "Clear out is an imprecise objective." She says, "Are we to kill them, capture them and hand them over to the authorities, or just chase them away? And do we have a list of names for any Vardamites or supporting personnel who are allowed to be there and whose untimely demise would be frowned upon?"
She looks briefly to the rest of the group to see if her concerns are shared - it's always important to gauge whether you are on the same wavelength as your fellows... or whether your level of paranoia and grumpiness is above the general curve.
The big man snorts derisively at Aragos. "If you say so, chum," he grunts flatly, flicking the ash from his cigar onto the floor. He turns his cyclopean gaze on Gurtrud and shrugs his beefy shoulders. "Contract says 'clear 'em out'. I 'spect any Vardamites who -are- there are -meant- to be. But then, they wouldn't be comin' to us fer help if they had their own folk out there. Use yer own judgment. Long as the incense gets waved in the graveyard, the Mourners should be happy an' you can get paid. An' you can keep any spoils ye find fer yerselves, per Guild SOP."
Sjach for his part had heard of stirrings in the fellwood- it's not where he typically ranges, being more familiar with the woods surrounding Mictlan. But still, as unnatural as the fellwood feels at times, the undead are more unnatural still so it was not difficult to convince this Sith-makar to take the job. His bow, presently unstrung, hangs from his back and he carries a wicked glaive, the tip of its haft resting on the ground like a walking stick.
He glances about the other adventurers reptilian lids not quite blinking, but the translucent nictating membranes beneath do occasionally whet his eyes, but Gurtrud's question seems to warrant a response. "Necromancy iss outlawed. If they yield we can capture them. If they do not, we kill them." he says. "Thiss one has no questionss." the greenscale utters sillibantly.
Nemori is still relatively new to this city.. but at least she's swapped out her city going dress for something more journey appropriate. A sleeveless leather vest over a simple blouse, almost hiding the silvery chain underneath. Leather trousers tucked into high topped boots. And, of course, the wide brimmed hat and the plain rapier at her hip. "I have yet to hear if the undead horde has made its way to that area yet.. so if we are swift, we may need only deal with the troublemakers."
There's a sharp nod from Gurtrud at Nemori's assessment. "There are many more reasons to be in a graveyard than necromancy. We may be about to disturb mourners, refugees seeking shelter, or simple graverobbers. But if it's simply our judgment they're paying for, that's what they'll get." She folds her arms across her chest, apparently thinking this a very profound thing to have said.
"Then let us be swift." Says Aragos, back still turned and stride carrying him to the door. He opens it without preamble, and clearly doesn't have any questions for the man. Once the door is open he mutters a curse under his breath. He seems like a happy camper.
"It iss usually necromancerss" Sjach responds, but since he doesn't seem to have any further questions, he lopes after Aragos as well, dipping the tip of his glaive and ducking his head a mite so neither catches on the door frame as he passes through it.
Nemori pushes away from the wall she was leaning on to follow the big dragoon... though the stops by the held open door to look at the mission giver. As if studying his features, committing him to memory. Then she nods once and resumes her pace, heading outside. "Best hurry, lest shorter legs have us fall behind," she calls back to the ones who have yet to leave.
And so, your party has set out. Once clear of Alexandria, the traveling is pretty easygoing. But there are leaden clouds hanging low overhead, and the wind is slow and humid. Every now and again, a rumble of distant thunder rolls across the landscape. All along the roads, the faces of haggard refugees fleeing the countryside, streaming their way towards the relative safety of the city. There is a tension in the air that one could cut with a knife. Even here, in broad open daylight, the dread of the Dragonieri wights hangs heavily upon the people.
That tension does not abate as one approaches the glowering eaves of the Felwood. In the distance, atop a low hill, one can make out a sprawling country manor, with pastureland and paddocks arrayed around the main house. A fairly prosperous looking little estate, though the Felwood's proximity makes its rustic shabbiness seem even more pronounced. But soon enough, you find your path leading you into the glooming wood. You have the graveyard's location marked on your map, which is fortunately easy to follow. You just have to get there, clear the place out, and burn the blessed incense. Simple, right?
Only perhaps twenty minutes have passed before hopes of simple begin to fade. The humidity grows oppressive as you're surrounded by dismal gloom. The buzzing of midges and chirring of cicadas join the trilling of frogs and the low grunting of reptiles. The ground is soon a mushy, unpleasant slurry that squelches noisily with every step and cakes your boots, making every step that much heavier. What a charming place to lay one's beloved forebears to rest.
GAME: Gurtrud rolls perception: (16)+5: 21 GAME: Aragos rolls perception: (13)+1: 14 GAME: Nemori rolls perception: (3)+9: 12 GAME: Sjach rolls perception: (8)+7: 15
Gurtrud follows the others, of course, and as they walk she talks. "I am Gurtrud Bludstein. I am a wizard, not long arrived in Alexandria. I am not well versed in the necromantic arts, even on a theoretical level, so I doubt my insights shall be worth much if this is a necromantic ritual, but we shall see. If we encounter resistance, I can enlarge one of you or perhaps hinder the approach of the enemy if we prefer ranged assault. It would be best to decide that in advance."
When the going gets tougher, the woman turns her attention to keeping herself clean as much as is feasible; magic peeling away the muck from her clothes every few paces. Until, suddenly, she pauses in her step. "Company, from the left." She declares before flexing her fingers and digging into her component pouch, her head snapping in the direction of the sound she had heard as shimmering magic briefly, visibly, coats her form in a network of intricate runes before fading back into nothingness.
Aragos' attitude does not improve as the group progresses. Nor does it particularly worsen however. He simply seems settled into a distinctly displeased mood. As everyone tromps forward through the muck, he says nothing, but something stalls his steps and he unlimbers his sword from it's place on his back and moves toward the source of something that has his attention. "We're not alone out here." He says cautiously.
Sjach trudges along dutifully, remaining silent but eyes unblinking peering across the surrounds. He pauses as they draw nearer the fellwood proper to string his bow, the glaive slung across his back so that he can keep both hands free for the bow. The humidity does not seem to bother him- his chin lifts as though basking in the sensation, the spines running along his scalp palpating almost imperceptibly. He deftly avoids the issue of sodden boots by not wearing any, the soft soil yielding to his clawed toes.
Although it might seem his attention has drifted as he enjoys the warm, humid air and the sounds of nature he suddenly stops in his tracks. Those spines suddenly stand to attention, and he lifts a hand in an universal gesture of 'stop'. "Ssomething. That way." he issues in a low hiss, his hand gesturing off the track in the same direction as Gurtrud. Gestures executed, that hand drops to the quiver at his hip, an obsidian-tipped arrow produced and knocked against the bowstring, but not yet drawn.
Nemori possibly looks the least at home here, with neither the magic to keep clean, the natural racial qualities to make one seem at home, or the straight-up stoicism to just plow on through. The distaste is plain on her face, which might make one wonder why she is even here.. but she doesn't offer any verbal complaint. She'd returned Gurtrud's introduction with an abbreviated one of her own. "Priestess Nemor'i." But she was otherwise little for conversation... As neither Aragos nor Sjach felt much like talking and, well, the shadow elf's discomfort around the dwarf is not easily hidden.
She stops, however, when the others indicate the presence of... something else. One hand goes to a pocket, but her rapier remains undrawn. She avoids the useless question of asking what it is... for they would have spoken had they known. But still, her normally sharp eyes try to pierce the foliage, questing for whatever it is that's spooked her companions.
They come shambling out of the shadowy undergrowth. Rags of some kind of noble livery hanging from their frames. Three bony skeletons, pinpoints of icy blue light dancing in their blackened eye sockets, jaws gaping in a cruel sneer as they grip their rusted swords. Two zombies, molded flesh hanging in ropy strands off their rotting corpse-frames. "Gruuuuuuugh..." moans one, lifting its arms as it lurches with its undead brethren towards the party. Thanks to the sharp eyes of your comrades, you are not surprised!
GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20: (3): 3 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20-3: (7)+-3: 4 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+3: (9)+3: 12 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+3: (6)+3: 9 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+2: (14)+2: 16 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+2: (10)+2: 12 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+2: (19)+2: 21 GAME: Nemori rolls 2d6: (8): 8 GAME: Gurtrud casts Mage Armor. Caster Level: 2 DC: 14 GAME: Sjach rolls weapon1+1: (13)+5+1: 19 GAME: Sjach rolls damage1+1: aliased to 1d6+2+1: (6)+2+1: 9
The others' warning is surely to thank for Nemori's quickness to react.. even as one of the skeletons shambles forward to attack Aragos, Nemori pulls a polished disk from her pocket while she also draws her rapier. The latter seems a pathetic thing to combat these undead with, but the power she begins to channel is otherwise. As she invokes her deity, she jerks, as if struck by a bolt... her eyes go white, bleeding light.. and a second later a pulse of pure light blasts away from her, washing over the risen dead. Bones crumble, rotting flesh smokes and blackens. And then Nemori staggers as the power leaves her, the elf breathing heavily.
GAME: Dirk rolls 1d4: (4): 4 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+4: (20)+4: 24 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d6+4: (1)+4: 5 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+4: (13)+4: 17
The readied arrow is drawn back as the undead appear. Sjach turns his gaze away for a moment at the searing radiance, but as soon as it passes a predatory glare fixes upon one of the shambling, rotting things and the arrow is loosed.
It sails clean through the air with barely a whisper as it spans the gap between him and his target, and the obsidian tip strikes the zombie in the socket of one of its festering eyes. The arrow passes almost through and through the target, sinking in so that fletching alone protrudes from the front. The obsidian tip shatters along with the rear of the creature's skull, so only a bare and splintered shaft wet with fetid gore emerges from the back of it's head.
It falls to the ground, lifeless once more as whatever magicks animated it leave its broken form.
The sacred radiance of the gods sweeps out over the blighted ground, leaving an echo of a heavenly choir to hang in the air for the brief instant it takes for the flash of light to fade! The three skeletons are briefly visible as after-images as that light consumes them, leaving their sodden rags to flutter to the ground as they crumble to dust. One of the zombies, too, is felled by Sjach, in a masterful display of archery. It may be that the final zombie felt some sort of kinship for its fallen brother. Whatever the reason, it lurches forward towards the sith, swinging its arms. "Nguhhgh!" Sjach gets struck a solid blow, leaving his ears (or whatever sith-makar have that serve in place of ears) ringing!
GAME: Gurtrud rolls 1d20-1: (9)+-1: 8
Gurtrud draws her axe from her belt and takes careful aim. Thankfully for Sjach this means ensuring that when her axe is flung, and it becomes clear that it is not going to hit its mark, she twitches her fingers and the heavy length of dwarf-forged steel blinks out of existence to return immediately to her hand with only moderate muttering.
GAME: Aragos rolls 1d20+6+2: (8)+6+2: 16 GAME: Aragos rolls 1d10+7: (3)+7: 10
Aragos grunts as the skeleton that flailed at him gets fried by holy power, there's still a zombie left standing though, and he glares at it for choosing to attack someone other than him. "Coward!" He curses at the zombie. He finally seems almost... happy. A flash of white teeth showing in a grim grin as he cleaves the zombie's head from its body. Neatly, the thing falls to the ground and he lowers the blade to look around and make sure that no one was injured. "Anyone hurt? If not we should hurry." All good humor has flown that quickly.
Sjach flinches back as he's struck by the zombie, his spines laying flat for a moment as his fang-toothed maw grimaces at the pain. However, the zombie is swiftly dispatched and he casts his gaze about to see if there are any more coming. "Not badly." Sjach assures at Aragos's question, once he is satisfied there are no more shambling undead coming their way. He nods once in agreement with Aragos, and notches another arrow, moving towards the fore of the group and hunkering down to keep an eye out while waiting for assent from the other two.
Nemori slips her disk back into her pocket, still taking deep breaths.. it's probably a very good thing the remaining undead hadn't chosen to go after her. Her rapier still remains free, though it is held loosely at her side as she recovers.
The elf slowly straightens as strength returns to her, allowing her to survey the battlefield... and see that none of the risen are left... risen. "This does not bode well," she agrees with the Vardaman Paladin. "We may tend to wounds on the way."
"Let's move." Gurtrud agrees, dourly, as she tucks her axe back into place at her waist. She spares a glance to Nemori. "Good work with the positive energy." She says, "That would likely have required far more effort if you had been slower off the mark. How many more times will you be able to call upon your deity to de-animate these corpses?" Though, even as she's asking the questions, she's trudging again; relying on the thin barrier of force now coating her to protect her from muck, slime, congealed blood and any surprise corpses.
"It is still new to me," Nemori admits, grudgingly, to Gurtrud. "And it is taxing. I do not know. I imagine we may find out." As Sjach doesn't seem to hindered by the blow he took, she turns her attention away from the Makari and resumes the trek towards the graveyard.. on higher alert now, as well, judging by the darting glances she keeps throwing to the left and right, off of the path. Her fingers tighten and loosen around the hilt of her blade.
Walking dead in the Felwood is never a good omen, but particularly so when the threat of wights is on the rise. A moment is spent taking stock and getting your bearings before the party resumes its trek. The swamp-song of the flora and fauna never even skipped a beat--this is just another day for the natural (and mostly-natural) denizens of the darkling wood. Soon, though, your party passes a pair of graven columns flanking the feeble path. Their stone long since crumbled and overgrown with curling ivies, but it's the only landmark you have to show where the graveyard begins. Sure enough, there's a couple of hoary old mausoleums set back into the overgrowth.
But... what's this? Around a bend in the path, a frail yellow-orange light glows, flickering in the shadows. A lantern? A candle, perhaps? And there's voices as well. "Are you -sure- this is gonna work?" says one--high-pitched and feminine. "These are brand new Eigo Falconterri boots, you know. Fifty -gold- for these and now they're all yucky and -gross-..."
"I don't like this," says another, lower voice. "My gran-gran always said there was zombies n' things out here and--
"Shut -up-, both of you! -Gawds-. You guys are like, -such- a buzzkill?" This last voice is stronger, commanding. "We're gonna get what we deserve, all right? Nobody's gonna make fun of -us- anymore! Now hold it down!"
There's a hissing and yowling--sounds like a -very- angry cat.
GAME: Sjach rolls stealth: (1)+4: 5 (EPIC FAIL)
Aragos hears the voices ahead and frowns. It _sounds_ like a group of kids. He glances at his companions and sighs. He particularly lingers over Gutrud and Nemori before shaking his head and thumping forward. He doesn't bother with trying to hide his presence. It'd do little good with his armor clattering against itself in any case. He thumps forward without any pretense, his sword held in one hand and his voice calling out to the group ahead. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"
It's a distinct 'dad voice'.
Sjach attempts to stay quiet, even if the others don't- if nothing else, perhaps it will allow him to better position himself to make use of his bow. However, it is not to be- he misjudges the sturdiness of a root, long since rotted through, which crumbles beneath his step with a noisome crunch. Giving up the pretense, Sjach picks up his loping stride to move along after Aragos- quite certain he's been heard now. He looks to the back of Aragos as he confronts the group with a lack of steel, and gets the message.
He stows the hunting arrow he had readied, and draws an unusually whittled one. It lacks a tip. But the reason for the engraved shaft soon becomes apparent. He draws it back, and fires it in the general direction of the group. It emits a piercing howl as it sails through the air.
Gurtrud simply doesn't think to try and sneak. She's still clomping and still happy to continue her conversation with Nemori, even as the group close in on the others. "Here's hoping, then, that your faith holds out longer than the supply of corpses in the vicinity. There was little evidence of intellect, so there is at least --" She's cut off with a flinch when the whistling arrow fires into the woods, and she's forced to pay attention to what is happening up-path. Dealing with fools is very much not her forte; the young, if that is what they are, even less so.
When Aragos and Sjach step forward, the former bellowing and the latter sending a shrieking arrow into the air, Nemori is almost relieved. Though she does offer Gurtrud a look that seems to suggest -Well that happened.- Since the two larger party members have committed them, she slowly slides her rapier away as she follows.. making a very obvious and distinct effort to keep the makari and vardaman between her and the troublemakers.
The party rounds the bend, Aragos leading the way. There, your suspicions to be confirmed. Three youths in their late teens. One of them tall and slender, with a regal cast to his features. At his side, a perpetually bored-looking girl with bright blonde hair that couldn't possibly be a color found in nature. And across from them, a large, thuggish lump of a youth with a curly red mop and buckteeth. It's the third who's holding a black cat by its scruff, while the 'leader' of the trio holds a sharp dagger high overhead in both hands. Arranged before them is a ramshackle altar, marked with the inverted pentagram of the Dark Powers. "Now, by the Black Powers of Hell, I -command- you, bestow your powers upon m--"
That's when Aragos gives his challenge, punctuated by Sjach's screeching arrow. The three youths looks up with wide eyes. Blink blink. At that moment, the cat hisses and swipes, leaving a nasty scratch on the big teen's hand. "YEOOW!" The cat scrabbles away and bolts off into the undergrowth. The three teens all share a look of shock. The girl and the thug both bolt off in opposite direction, leaving their leader looking rather silly as he holds his knife over a now-empty altar. "H-hey! You -guys-!" he wails plaintively.
Aragos sheathes his blade on his back and his purple eyes flash angrily at the leader of the group. "Just wait until I find your parents and tell them about this." There's a nasty look of satisfaction on his face. "Do you have any idea how _stupid_ you are?" His voice is a growl now, and he storms toward the boy with EVERY intention of grabbing him by the scruff and hauling him back to the temple with him.
Nemori's expression is... irritated. Time and effort spent getting here, through the undead.. only to find this. "Are we going to kill them?" she asks. "I seem to recall one of you saying necromancy was illegal. It does not seem like they will put up much of a resistance."
Sjach hisses a breath as the group breaks up, "If they do not yield." he replies to Nemori. He clicks his tongue as the group spread out, "There are beasts in the woods! They care not for your birth, they will eat you all the same." he warns those that flee. But after a moment's thought, he doesn't follow. Survival of the fittest, after all.
The teen shrinks away from Aragos as the paladin comes towards him. He holds up his hands, the knife clattering to the overgrown flagstones. "Hey! You can't do this to -me-! My -dad- owns a -stableyards- and he's -totally- rich! -And- he's a baron lord!" he yammers. Nemori's quip has the youth looking -right- at her. His eyes get wide as tea cups as he turns the color of sour milk. His black-dyed hair fringe flails back and forth as he shakes his head. "If you hurt me, you're -so- going to regret it?" he squeaks. So much for the Dark Powers, right? But... off in the distance, where the two accomplices fled, there comes a rustling. A moment after that.... "EYAAAAGH! HAAAAAAALP! SOMEBODY! ANYBODYYYYYY!"
"We're not killing children, regardless of what the law says."
Gurtrud's voice is *quite* unyielding on that point, and she begins to move to a position where she can put down a hindrance to present the children fleeing. Too late, apparently. So with her shoulders down and more grumbling she tromps after them.
GAME: Gurtrud rolls spellcraft: (5)+11: 16 GAME: Nemori rolls spellcraft: (15)+6: 21
Sjach looks surprised at Gurtrude- surprised that she's unwilling to kill children, perhaps? But he clarifies a moment later. "These are children?" he asks. "Thiss one hass trouble knowing, with ssoftskinss." he admits. The entirely expected call for help draws his attention. He doesn't actually say it, and his expressions are difficult to read unless one knows the ins and outs of sith-makar facial morphology. But one might guess he's thinking 'I told you so.' however, after the briefest hesitation, he takes off towards the sound, knocking a new- lethal- arrow to his bow.
GAME: Aragos rolls Intimidate: (19)+8: 27
Aragos doesn't stop his stride a moment. He simply keeps moving forward. His fist colliding with the leader of the rag-tag little group. There's a firm cracking noise from the metal hitting nose and he leans in, whispering something to the young man that has him paling like he'd seen a ghost. A moment later Aragos is moving forward again, motioning with his hand for the others to follow him toward the sound of screaming. "I told him to stay put. We should attend to the others."
"Or... we could do what we came here to do," Nemori puts forth. "Place the incense and burn it and leave." Not killing children doesn't mean she has to help them. "Whatever they were doing, it was not magic.. so I suppose they are not guilty of breaking any laws. But they certainly seem to be guilty of stupidity." A look at the now cowering 'leader' of the group. "And an overinflated sense of self worth." But it is unlikely Aragos nor Gurtrud are going to be swayed by such a suggestion, and Sjach is already on the move.. so she sighs, drawing her rapier once again and gesturing with it. "I suppose not. Then lead the way, oh imposing one."
GAME: Aragos rolls survival: (2)+1: 3 GAME: Gurtrud rolls survival: (7)+3: 10 GAME: Sjach rolls survival: (10)+7: 17 GAME: Nemori rolls survival: (16)+3: 19 GAME: Nemori rolls perception: (7)+9: 16 GAME: Gurtrud rolls perception: (18)+5: 23 GAME: Aragos rolls perception: (2)+1: 3 GAME: Sjach rolls perception: (9)+7: 16
The kid curls into a ball as Aragos decks him, blood streaming from his broken nose. He whimpers and sobs quietly, hugging his knees as he rocks back and forth. "But my -dad- owns a -stableyards-," he whimpers, snurrking as he scrubs the blood from his face. But one fearful look at Aragos has him shrinking back against some crumbling masonry. He's not going -anywhere-.
The party hurries after the panicked cries coming from the wood. Through a break in the cemetary's crumbling stone wall you go and into the Felwood's gloom. Down a dip in the land, before breaking out into a clearing. The branches high overhead form a dismal gray-green canopy. So intent are you on your pursuit that it's easy to miss the peril until it's too late. And for Aragos, it's even later than that. The paladin suddenly finds himself plunging into thick, churning mud, burying him to his hips in a heartbeat. Further into the clearing, Big Guy has sunk even deeper. He flails his arms overhead as the leaf-strewn mire ripples around him. "SAVE ME, PLEAAAASE!" he wails between bouts of piteous blubbering.
But the quicksand is hardly the party's largest concern. At least, it isn't for those not actually sinking in it. Aragos, unfortunately, -is- sinking, and alarmingly fast given his heavy armor. But for the others, -their- biggest concern is the pair of long, slender, delicate black legs that roll out from beneath the canopy overhead. A glossy black spherical body with a lurid red hourglass that daintily trips its way along a barely-visible web strewn between the branches. Six ruby-red eyes focus upon the flailing teen, mandibles clicking as the great black widow begins to descend, forelegs outstretched.
GAME: Sjach rolls weapon1+1: (20)+5+1: 26 (THREAT) GAME: Sjach rolls weapon1+1: (3)+5+1: 9 GAME: Sjach rolls damage1+1: aliased to 1d6+2+1: (2)+2+1: 5
Sjach digs his heels in when he spies the quicksand at the last minute- not his first time encountering this particular hazard and he's in no great rush to make it his second. "Still yourself, struggling will sink you faster." he calls out to them as he draws back his knocked arrow, lining the shot up he looses it. It sails over the sinking duo's heads towards the large spider, and catches it in one of the joints between its armored exoskeleton.
GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+7: (6)+7: 13
The spider bounces in its webbing as the arrow CHUNKS into its carapace. With a fluttering of legs, it rights itself with a near-silent hiss. Upending itself, it grips its dragline with its forelegs, while its rear legs flicker over its abdomen. A milky-white strand of silk fires from its spinnerets, whipping around Sjach's legs and binding him fast! "OH GODS, OH GODS I DON'T WANNA DIE!" wails the teen as the burbling mire rises to his shoulders.
GAME: Nemori casts Liberating Command. Caster Level: 4 DC: 14 GAME: Sjach rolls escape artist+8: (16)+-1+8: 23
Nemori fumbles the token out of her pocket again. "You will not be restrained," she intones, flinging the magic towards Sjach. She doesn't wait to see if he manages to get free or not; instead she's pulling the rope from her pack and stepping up to the closest tree to secure it. "Aragos! Rope!" she yells, tossing the free end towards the paladin.
GAME: Aragos rolls Athletics: (11)+-3: 8
It's not easy slogging through the muck. Harder in armor. Aragos does his able best to... swim through the muddy quicksand, but every motion forward has him sucked down another few inches. He manages to stop the kid from sinking any further, but it's everything he can do to stop them. In the effort he hardly notices that he's being pulled deeper into the mud himself. That doesn't matter beside making sure that this kid makes it out. The spider doesn't even register.
Gurtrud purses her lips as she surveys the scene. She doesn't see the blonde. That's concerning. But she can't immediately do anything about that; she can do something about this situation unfolding before her. As Aragos wades into the quicksand and moderate chaos is unleashed around her, Gurtrud calmly reaches into her component pouch and produces a vial of powdered iron. She squints at Aragos, gauging roughly how much she reckons she'll need to enhance a man of his physique. When she flings this into the air and speaks aloud the arcane words, the filings ignite into green flame and Aragos's form - and thankfully his belongings - magnify in a heartbeat until he dwarfs child and spider alike. "Don't think she was so short she'd be below the surface already..." Gurtrud mutters to herself absently.
GAME: Gurtrud casts Enlarge Person. Caster Level: 2 DC: 14 GAME: Sjach rolls weapon1+1: (6)+5+1: 12
Sjach draws back his bow once more, and looses another arrow in the direction of the looming spider- his allies seem to have the quicksand well in hand, for now, but that may well change if the spider decides to go for them while they are stuck within it. The spell allows him to kick his feet free from the sticky webbing, but the movement disrupts his aim and his arrow sails wide of the mark, disappearing into the trees beyond.
GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+6: (10)+6: 16
The spider is a simple creature (despite the fact that it's a venomous arachnid the size of a cart horse). As Aragos rises out of the mire, his shoulder brushes one of the spider's tripwires. Feeling the vibration, it wheels around with astounding speed. With a skittering of limbs, it scuttles over to Aragos, darting in to snap its fangs at him. SNEP SNEP! The dagger-sized fangs plink against the paladin's armor, unable to penetrate!
GAME: Nemori casts Spiritual Weapon. Caster Level: 4 DC: 15 GAME: Nemori rolls 1d20+3+3: (12)+3+3: 18 GAME: Nemori rolls 1d8+1: (1)+1: 2
Nemori has done what she can for the pair in the quicksand, at least for now.. and with Gurtrud's magic enhancing the large paladin, it's unlikely he'll need further help. So she turns her attention to the spider just it turns its attention upon Aragos. "Lady Dancer.. it is time to dance," she says softly, still grasping her disk as she summons a translucent weapon of force, appearing much like the rapier in her hand, only tinged red. The floating weapon slashes at the spider while the shadow elf moves to take cover behind Sjach. No sense in leaving herself exposed.
GAME: Aragos rolls Athletics+1: (6)+-3+1: 4 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+6: (20)+6: 26 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+6: (2)+6: 8 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d8+6: (5)+6: 11 GAME: Aragos rolls Fortitude: (14)+9: 23
Aragos twists in the mud, putting himself between the spider and the kid. The spider reacts quickly. Biting down and piercing his armor even as he struggles to get the kid to calm down enough to let him pull them out of the muck. He grunts, knowing that poison is being pumped into his body but he can't think about that right now. Can't think about how a chunk of his shoulder is... gone. Torn off by the spiders mandibles. The pain turns his vision black around the edges but he doesn't give up. "Come on Vardama. Gimme a break."
GAME: Gurtrud rolls intelligence: (19)+3: 22 GAME: Gurtrud rolls 1d4+1: (4)+1: 5
Gurtrud touches her amulet, and focuses her power briefly, then extends her hand outwards. A bright streak of blue light shoots from her fingertips and strikes the spider directly between all of its many eyes.
GAME: Sjach rolls weapon1+1-4: (13)+5+1+-4: 15 GAME: Sjach rolls damage1+1: aliased to 1d6+2+1: (4)+2+1: 7
Sjach wastes no time lamenting his missed shot- another arrow is knocked to the bow, the bow is lifted and the string drawn back in one fluid motion. It's held there, for several long moments as he waits for an opportunity to fire it into the chaos- and hopefully not strike his ally. When the opportunity arises, Sjach releases the string and the arrow sails through the air, whipping past Aragos and slamming into the spider, punching deep and shedding more of the creature's Ichor.
"You can finish thiss, yes? Thiss one will find the other." he calls out to the group. Without waiting for an answer, he's away, dashing through the brush back the way they came, bow still in hand.
GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+6: (19)+6: 25 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d8+6: (8)+6: 14 GAME: Aragos rolls 1d6: (3): 3 GAME: Aragos rolls Fortitude: (13)+9: 22
The spider hisses as Sjach's arrow chunks into its carapace. Like most arachnids (aside from the adorable jumping kind) its eyesight is limited, so it can only focus its ire on the target before it--Aragos. With a fierce jab, it stabs its fangs into his armored torso once again. This time, it hits a critical blood vessel, sending an arterial spray misting onto the muddy ground. The paladin is surely in dire straits!
GAME: Nemori casts Compassionate Ally. Caster Level: 4 DC: 15 GAME: Nemori rolls 2d8+4: (7)+4: 11 GAME: Nemori rolls 1d20+3+3: (12)+3+3: 18 GAME: Nemori rolls 1d8+1: (8)+1: 9
The summoned phantom weapon seems to hone in on the spot Gutrud's spell hit, thrusting deep and penetrating the spider's carapace. Meanwhile Nemori is faced with a choice.. abandon people to their fate? The paladin is all but done for, the kid possibly dead already... the spider is likely to make short work of the dwarf, and the makari is already gone. But then she sighs. A voice in her head (most certainly not her own) chides her, and she turns to the direly wounded Aragos. Once again she calls upon her divine benefactor, then moves to the edge of the quicksand pit, staying out of the spider's attention (she hopes) and delivers a spot of healing energy.
GAME: Aragos rolls 1d20+6+1: (20)+6+1: 27 GAME: Aragos rolls 1d20+6+1: (20)+6+1: 27 GAME: Aragos rolls 1d10+7: (5)+7: 12
There's a point. A point where rage and duty meet. Aragos _can not_ abandon the boy. But every time he moves the spider attacks him again. He's seeing red alongside the black. The spray of his own blood and the edge of death. He almost loses consciousness, but stubbornness keeps him from fading out. The paladin grasps his sword and lets loose a blood-curdling scream. Twisting and - in truth he doesn't even look - he prays. He prays for this blasted thing to be _ended_ already.
The blade strikes true with the certainty of Vardama's service and sends the spider to the Gray Halls. Its ichor rains down on him but Aragos doesn't care. He snarls and bites his lip to remind himself not to keep killing. Not to let his rage carry away. The blade sinks home into it's sheathe and he'll regret that later with all the blood and gore and muck on it, but now... Now he just needs to rescue this kid.
And with that final masterful stroke, the spider is indeed ended. Its body bisected nearly perfectly by Aragos' enlarged sword-blade, it drops to the ground. The legs curl inward with a few last feeble twitches, before the quicksand draws the carcass under. After that, it's just a matter of dragging Big Kid out of the center of the deadly mire. By the time Aragos has him hauled out and back on solid ground, Gurtrud's spell has had enough time to lapse, returning him to his natural stature.
The kid is, to put it bluntly, a mess. A shaking, sobbing, blubbering mess. He hugs Aragos' mud-caked legs, bally-hooing as he shudders like a bowl of pudding. "OH THANK YOU THANK YOU I'M SORRY I'M SO SO SORRY," he bawls. It takes a minute to get him calmed down enough to walk, which he does eagerly enough. He follows the party back to the cemetery, still sniffing and snuffling as he goes.
Picking up the ringleader where you left him also goes without a hitch. A moment is taken to light the iron censer and waft the pungent incense around the cemetary's center. As you do, the oppressive gloom seems to lighten just a touch. Felwood's ominous tension is eased, leaving only the quiet repose of the departed. Then, with the two youths in tow, you're able to pick up Blondie's trail. She's clearly not wood-wise, leaving a trail that a gobber high on gunpowder fumes could follow. Gurtrud's estimation turned out to be correct--she headed straight for the country manor.
And there at the gates, you're met by a dour, stern-looking older man with bristling muttonchops and a fine cavalry uniform. There's nary a hair out of place, from his gold epaulets to the sash bearing its many medals and ribbons slung over his chest. He walks with the help of an ebony cane, and he's tapping his foot as he glares daggers at the three youths.
"-Well- then," he says as the party deposit the two boys with their accomplice. "I was -going- to ask where you three had gotten off to, but... it would appear to be plainly obvious."
-End