Black Whole Moon
The totems are gone.
A voice in the night had declared that “The Black Moon Rises”, and then the totems - each and every one of them had shattered into dust and nothingness. It had hailed an exodus of those with totems. Gear gathered, messages sent so quickly and with such purpose that the messengers were practically tripping over one another to get to everyone. In the end those who had been fighting the werewolves in one form or another had agreed to meet just outside Alexandria.
With everyone here now, the time has come at last. To make one last attack against the forces of the werewolves and hopefully throw them into enough chaos to rethink their efforts against the array of adventurers in Alexandria. That’s not the real goal though, not the one that sits within the hearts of at least a few of those gathered. The real goal is to bring down Marsward. To make him pay for all the heartache and pain that he’s caused.
For that, and for so much more; you have gathered here today. Even knowing you face a veritable army. Even knowing that you face uncertain odds against their commander and the forces that he commands. Now is not the time for doubts and worries. Today you strike back.
GAME: Telamon casts Mage Armor. Caster Level: 17 DC: 19 GAME: Telamon casts Overland Flight. Caster Level: 17 DC: 23 GAME: Telamon casts Mind Blank. Caster Level: 17 DC: 26 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Mage Armor. Caster Level: 15 DC: 18 GAME: Harkashan casts Blessing of Fervor. Caster Level: 8 DC: 19 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Overland Flight. Caster Level: 15 DC: 22 GAME: Telamon casts Mind Blank. Caster Level: 17 DC: 26 GAME: Harkashan casts Magic Vestment. Caster Level: 8 DC: 18 GAME: Harkashan casts Owl's Wisdom. Caster Level: 8 DC: 17 GAME: Harkashan casts Lesser Angelic Aspect. Caster Level: 8 DC: 17 GAME: Harkashan casts Shield of Faith. Caster Level: 8 DC: 16 GAME: Harkashan casts Shield of Faith. Caster Level: 8 DC: 16 GAME: Harkashan casts Shield Other. Caster Level: 8 DC: 17 GAME: Harkashan casts Bless. Caster Level: 8 DC: 16 GAME: Harkashan casts Archon's Aura. Caster Level: 8 DC: 18 GAME: Rune used a Silversheen. GAME: Harkashan casts Divine Power. Caster Level: 8 DC: 19 GAME: Harkashan casts Magic Weapon. Caster Level: 8 DC: 16 GAME: Harkashan casts Comprehend Languages. Caster Level: 8 DC: 16 GAME: Dolan casts Flames of the Faithful. Caster Level: 9 DC: 15 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Haste. Caster Level: 15 DC: 20 GAME: Dolan casts Shield of Faith. Caster Level: 9 DC: 14 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Shield. Caster Level: 15 DC: 18 GAME: Harkashan casts Bull's Strength. Caster Level: 8 DC: 17 GAME: Dolan casts Divine Favor. Caster Level: 9 DC: 14
No more time. That's the thought that haunts Telamon, though his face doesn't show it. As he and Lana had scrambled to get dressed, and send those messengers, he wonders if he'll see the morning -- or have to face it without Lana.
And yet... there's still hope. Friends and allies, family and sworn comrades. Not alone, and not without their own power. And so Telamon's fingers move in the practiced gestures of spell after spell, invoking protection around himself, around Lana. He looks at his wife, and something passes between them. Silent but no less tangible.
GAME: Verna casts Holy Aura. Caster Level: 19 DC: 25
It hadn't taken Dolan long to appear at all. He'd already known, and indeed had already been gearing when the messenger arrived. Swift goodbyes were said, kisses exchanged, and he is now among the first to arrive at the appointed meeting spot. His own protective spells and prayers join Telamon's, and only when they're done does he speaks. "What in all the green garden hells happened, Tel?"
He tucks the leather harness that holds his greatsword into his haversack, and rests the blade over his good shoulder. No point in doing anything else.
GAME: Telamon casts Silk to Steel. Caster Level: 17 DC: 20 GAME: Dolan used a Silversheen. GAME: Harkashan casts Light. Caster Level: 8 DC: 15
Though Rune had never held a totem, she had seen the weight that so many of her friends and allies had carried, holding that power against the forces of darkness. That, alone, is reason enough to rise to the occasion when the call to arms is sent out. She had told the Sky-singer that she would see this through, cemented that promise and taken full responsibility for that role that fate had in bringing herself to this point. Now is the time to step up, or shut up.
Rune stands with her swords out, just finishing applying a coating to one of the blades and then igniting a strange set of glowing green runes upon the edge. The other seems little more than a silvered blade of no magical importance, but it should still bite against the werewolves. "I'm guessing shit went bad. Very bad." She murmurs, taking a steadying breath. "This is where I'm supposed to be. Fighting at your side." Her eyes move between individuals, acknowledging each, but settling longer on Cor'lana, Telamon, and then Harkashan. To the later, she presses her lips together, gives a nod, and then braces herself for the fight to come.
Cor'lana is dressed for war, spells cast over herself that protect her and grant her wings. Her violet cloak flaps in the wind as she finishes augmenting the group with her own magics and receiving benedictions from the group that has assembled here.
Her hands are raised for the final spell, the one that will take them where they need to go. She nods in silent regard to her husband, her eyes roiling with emotions of all kinds.
"Dace Zinskas has completed his mission, almost certainly a suicide mission, when Telamon and I gave him a scroll of mage's disjunction for him to destroy what was giving Marsward his demonic aid," Cor'lana explains for all, including Dolan. "He is almost certainly dead, for--according to Dace, when we gave him the scroll--Marsward has killed the resurrected Zalgiman and turned him into a shade. A thing that is of Nightmare."
She takes a breath. "Our mission now is to stop Marsward Seraquoix. He has the Red Maw. He has that which will consume our world. This is our most defiant stand against the darkness yet. We will go in only a breath more."
The lycanthropes in general. The Nightmare as a whole. Marsward. The portal. The Red Maw. There are many, many reasons to go where all seem to currently co-locate. There were always plans. The sudden disintegration of totems with a slightly ominous warning simply ... expedited matters. Significantly.
Verna is prompt to arrive, already preparing as word spread. She is robed, as expected, yet not cloaked. She is armed, her pistol visible for a change. There is also a glint of chain at the neckline and cuffline of her robes.
"The totems are gone. We must act quickly." She knows not where they have gone, but that they no longer have them is worry enough. Her eyes widen at Lana's words of recent events and her face then hardens further.
Dirk's coming is heralded by the thudding of hoofbeats. From the forest he comes, astride his pony Thistle. Always before, the shaggy golden-maned pony had seemed like a docile, placid, easy-going creature. Always happy to pull Dirk's little cart to market, never temperamental or cantankerous. But now, his master has impresed upon him the urgency of this day. Now, Thistle gallops along the road out of the forest, tossing his mane as he calls a whinny to the gathering heroes. Gliding alongside Dirk and Thistle, Lulu's wings send her racing forward. She too knows, for her master has trained her well. She has fought deadwalkers and demons. And now, she is ready to lend her aid against the lycans that threaten the balance of the world, and the lives of her owlets.
Dirk grips Thistle's reins in one hand, and his thunderbelcher in the other, his cloak streaming behind him as his gaze fixates upon the gate. His face is stony, his jaw tight and making his beard bristle. As his pony canters to a halt, he swings out of the saddle and approaches his dear friends. "Telamon. Cor'lana. Dolan. Verna. I came fast as I could," he says. He looks up and around at them all. "My totem's gone. Turned tae dust right in me satchel." He squares his shoulders and grips his thunderbelcher. "It's time, innit?" he says. "Time tae stand, an' put an end tae all o' this." He puffs up his burly chest, eyes narrowed. "I'm ready," he says. There is no longer any doubt in him. Not after all he has faced with these people, his battle-siblings. He's no longer the simple woodsman he once was, when he started his hero' journey, so long ago. He is the voice of the Green Word. He is the champion of the wood. It's time for Alexandria's heroes to bring their all.
Harkashan, gathered with the othe warriors, is one of the less experienced ones present. However, that does not some the cleric from making his presence known when he arrives amongst the others. Getting off of an Am'shere Swiftclaw, his heavy armor jingles. The various lavastones gleaming from the light coming from the Lavastone amidst his horns.
"I came as swiftly as I could." He rumbles to the ones gathering, tying up the riding creature. He then glances to Telamon. "What was the saying again? From here-on we... 'wing it'?" As he uses the various Lavastones across his body to start casting spell after spell. Warn pulses of red-grey light shimmering out from him as he enhances those present. Understanding what comes next.
He glances to Rune. "Do not stray too far from my side." Harkashan rumbles to her, right as a set of flaming and translucent wings spawn along his back. Not capable of flight, but ready to go. "I will do what I can." He then answers the rest, as his blade is drawn and his buckler begins to shimmer.
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Greater Teleport. Caster Level: 15 DC: 24
As the twisting magic that Cor'lana casts takes you from where you are to where you are going, you find yourselves in the midst of the werewolf camp. You are surrounded by tents. By people. By giant wolves. Yet none of these things register so much as the mound of black roses up a dune of sand. The black flowers shift and wiggle in their domain, looking like something alive. In their midst is a portal, but this is more known than seen thanks to a massive tent in the mist of the flowers.
The tent is however guarded by massive wolves and a veritable menagerie of beings between here and there.
More importantly, those who can fly will suddenly find themselves quite land-bound and the feeling of greasy evil energy can be felt emanating from all around them. Pulsing forth from the tent. It you know instinctively is the source that you seek.
You'll just have to make it through everything else first.
GAME: Telamon casts Horrid Wilting. Caster Level: 17 DC: 26 GAME: Telamon casts Fireball/Quicken. Caster Level: 17 DC: 25
The arrival is no surprise. The opposition is no surprise. Being forcibly grounded? An unpleasant surprise for someone who really loves flying. Telamon takes a deep breath, focusing his energies. "Together," he says simply. Then, he snatches a handful of Time, and spits out an incantation. "Ganzer lipisbala gaz!" Flipping a fiery spark back into the minions behind the party, where it detonates with a BOOM, a fireball.
But he's not done. Raising his hand above his head, his hair begins to float on an unseen breeze. "Vnimanie, vnimanie," he chants. "Vnimanie lah mulan, sumug namgilima ilim." A ghostly blue radiance gathers in his palm, an unnatural, disturbing glow, that he casts forth into the wolves in front of them. It detonates soundlessly, a wave of bluish light washing over them. There are screams -- then silence, the wolves frozen in place. And then, they crumble into ashes, the star-spawned power having slain them outright.
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+6: (6)+6: 12
The remaining forces between you and the tent look like they'd never imagined something as terrifying as their allies being... evaporated and blown to smithereens. None the less something more powerful gives them fear and action. The remaining draw their weapons, and two of the guardian wolves move in menacingly. Though the one that gets close enough to snap at Verna manages to catch nothing but the air around her.
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Black Tentacles. Caster Level: 15 DC: 21 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Fireball/Quicken. Caster Level: 15 DC: 24 GAME: Dolan rolls weapon1+2 bane+2 bof+3 df+haste+2 bs: (1)+13+2 bane+2 bof+3 df+haste+2 bs: 23 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Dolan rolls weapon1+2 bane+2 bof+3 df+haste+2 bs: (1)+13+2 bane+2 bof+3 df+haste+2 bs: 23 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Dolan rolls weapon1+2 bane+2 bof+3 df+haste+2 bs-5: (5)+13+2 bane+2 bof+3 df+haste+2 bs+-5: 22 GAME: Dolan rolls weapon1+2 bane+2 bof+3 df+haste+2 bs: (17)+13+2 bane+2 bof+3 df+haste+2 bs: 39 (THREAT) GAME: Dolan rolls weapon1+2 bane+2 bof+3 df+haste+2 bs: (2)+13+2 bane+2 bof+3 df+haste+2 bs: 24
The wolves are approaching. The werewolves are cowering. Cor'lana grimaces as enemies from behind approach, however, and she decides to do something about the matter.
"I'll keep them occupied," she hisses, before murmuring her spell. Black tentacles rise up around the wolves that advance on the group's rear, ensnaring and trapping them so that they cannot harm her friends.
She tosses out another spell, an inferno to consume the pack off to the right. Only a couple small wolves and the larger wolves remain.
GAME: Harkashan rolls Diplomacy+2: (16)+14+2: 32
"Sweet and holy gods, Tel, remind me never to get on your wrong side," Dolan breathes as the destruction flowers into being before them. One of the wolves snaps at Verna, and his attention is immediately grabbed by the creature. "Oh no you don't, you overgrown cur." Leaping to Verna's aid and reversing the blade over his head, he brings it down instinctively with the exact swings he'd been struggling months earlier to master without pain.
Sadly, he's still struggling with it.
A sharp, audible pop fills the horrified silence that is left in the wake of the twin mages' spells, followed closely by Dolan's scream as the sword slams awry into the ground. Frustrated, he yanks the sword out of the ground and tries again, to no avail. "Hold still, you diseased little furry PRICK!" he shouts, and this time, throws the massive greatsword at the massive creature.
The throw is straight and true, pinning the creature through the eye, slamming through what's left of his brain, and sticking it into the blood-soaked earth at its feet like a macabre bug on a pin. "Still enough," he chuckles, staring at it, then pulls the sword free, left arm limp at his side for a moment.
The sight of literally watching werewolves freeze and die within seconds of arrival, as Telamon brings his arcane might to bear, shows why they refer to him as an Archmage. Ravenstongue detonates a fireball ahead, and Telamon behind. The smell of seared fur hangs in the air immediately.
Harkashan glances at Rune for a moment.
"Your Children are being held against your will. Your family being threatened! Today, this ends! Stand and die, and you will be buried by this Deathsinger - or flee and chance that we will ensure this man will never touch your families again - Hope that you will get to hug your Brothers and Sisters once more!"
As he begins to move forward, passing by the large wolf, staring at the Werewolves who remain.
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+6: (18)+6: 24 GAME: Dirk casts Spike Growth. Caster Level: 11 DC: 15 GAME: Rune rolls weapon1+2+1+1+1+2: (6)+13+2+1+1+1+2: 26 GAME: Rune rolls weapon1+2+1+1+1+2-2: (14)+13+2+1+1+1+2+-2: 32 GAME: Rune rolls weapon4+2+1+1+1+2-2: (19)+12+2+1+1+1+2+-2: 36 (THREAT) GAME: Rune rolls weapon4+2+1+1+1+2-2: (9)+12+2+1+1+1+2+-2: 26 GAME: Rune rolls weapon1+2+1+1+1+2-7: (15)+13+2+1+1+1+2+-7: 28 GAME: Rune rolls weapon4+2+1+1+1+2-7: (9)+12+2+1+1+1+2+-7: 21
Dirk is up and ready as soon as his boots hit the ground. He swings his thunderbelcher left and right, taking in the battlefield conditions. For a moment, the magickal might brought forth by Telamon and Cor'lana awes the old snowbeard. "Great Gilead's Ghost!" he gasps softly, seeing the devastation wrought by his two friends. And then there's Harkashan, making his most heartfelt plea to the lycans and actually reaching through to some of them. Another miracle, in its own way. He turns just in time to see Dolan making his swing on the great wolf. His eyes get wide and his face pales as he hears his friend's shoulder pop. "Och, laddie..."
He casts his gaze around, and his eyes narrow. There's still too much open ground in this parched land. And though most of the lycans are dealt with, the giant wolves still remain. Narrowing his eyes, he reaches into his hip satchel and draws out a long, thick thorn. "By Dana an' by Gilead, rise," he growls. He sets the thorn between his teeth, and sweeps his hand up in an imperious gesture. As his arm reaches full extension, he snaps the thorn in half. Behind the party, the dusty soil rumbles and quivers. The gods of the Green Word hear their ranger's call, and thick coils of gnarled, thorny brambles erupt from the ground. They sweep out across the ground like water rushing from a burst dam, catching at legs and feet and making the ground treacherous to cross. "PTHPT!" He spits the broken thorn out, flicking his gaze skyward. "Thank you," he whispers, before turning his attention back to the remainder of Marsward's forces before them.
GAME: Verna casts Horrid Wilting. Caster Level: 19 DC: 26 GAME: Telamon casts Greater Shadow Conjuration. Caster Level: 17 DC: 26
Verna expected many wolves.... but perhaps she did not expect quite so many, or the arrival in the literal center of the encampment. She is taking note of the situation when some are irradiated, others immolated, grabbed... and then she is snapped at. "Back, you-" and then Dolan steps in to promptly apply permanent corrective action. "My gratitude... yet mind the shoulder!"
It is not quite a scolding before she moves one ahead towards the tent and portal; this latter is perhaps her most focused goal. She stops just shy of the rise to the tent from her sprint to lift gloved hands and gesture. It is as if the desert sun is amplified on the large wolves and flowers between then and the gate; moisture rapidly evaporates to desiccate the plants... though not as much as Verna would prefer.
GAME: Verna rolls will: (10)+24: 34 GAME: Dirk rolls will: (4)+8: 12 GAME: Rune rolls will +4: (12)+5+4: 21 GAME: Dolan rolls will+4: (8)+11+4: 23 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Will+8: (9)+16+8: 33
Telamon walks forward. His boots kick up the ash of what were once living beings. But he can't think about that now. He doesn't dare, not when Marsward is still in play. At that thought, his expression becomes thoughtful, and he incants, "Anungal silig gissu namsimug gesse." A billow of smoke comes out of his hands, then fades to reveal... nothing? A faint shimmer in the air. Something that is, but is hard to see.
"Find the familiar of Marsward Seraquoix. It is a scarab." Telamon's dark, starry eyes are cold as space. "Kill it."
GAME: Telamon rolls Will+7: (9)+16+7: 32 GAME: Harkashan rolls Will+4: (17)+12+4: 33
The tent collapses as the flowers die. There's not enough inside to block your view of the gate as it begins to shimmer and reveals Marsward walking through. At his side is... Something insubstantial. A thing. A... spirit.
It flickers in and out of visibility so it takes a moment to realize that it's there. What it is. It's Zalgiman. His form is torn, half in reality and half not, only his silver eyes remain what they once were. His presence is terrifying in a way that's wholly inexplicable. You know that he's not of this world. That he's wrong. So wrong. So very, very wrong.
Marsward laughs. "Hungry Zalgiman? Look, it's your love. Your friends. All that joy... Don't you need it? Long for it?"
"Frieeeeendssss." His voice is a hollow echo of what it once was and the world grows dark all around you, as you're pulled into something, somewhere else. A Nightmare. You feel love leaving you. The memories of those you hold dear becoming distant. You feel coldness stealing into your heart. Drawn away by Zalgiman's tormented presence.
Marsward looks... concerned though. "You weren't supposed to bring me idiot." He complains, but Zalgiman doesn't seem to notice.
Cor'lana had allowed herself to go into this realm of nightmares, knowing that someone waited for her here, someone who she'd made a vow to if Marsward stole him away and made him into something that he should not be. And yet the moment she lays eyes on him, she...
She cannot.
Cannot comprehend, cannot understand, will not comprehend, will not understand. How Marsward had taken this man who had only ever been used--who Marsward had used--and made him into this thing. This thing that shouldn't be. This sad thing that she loved earnestly in the way that a soul can love another without the typical sentiments of a lover.
A friend.
A friend who has fallen so very far and--
"It's all my fault."
The words fall from her lips so gently. And she wants to lift her hand, to scream, to call for him, but no part of her wants to respond except for her mouth. Not even tears will well up in her eyes.
"It's all my fault. It's all my fault. I... I..."
No poetry from the poet. Only guilt.
Searing lightning and fire shoot down Dolan's left shoulder as they're all drawn into this - whatever it is. Cold. It recalls a cold stone cave. Distant. Only him and a madman, and a prayer that his allies can find him before it's too late. The Corona drops to his knees, pins and needles unbidden trickling down his marked back - or is that just sweat? It doesn't matter. He's unconsciously waiting for the next stroke to fall. The next knife.
Daeus tests you, the inner inquisitor whispers. You need only hold out.
Dimly, his ears process Zalgiman. The thing that he has become. Marsward's voice, sneering and domineering.
Daeus tests you.
Fuck that guy in particular, the farmboy whispers back.
And yet, he cannot yet move, clinging desperately to the blade in his hand, the only thing outside of himself that has any meaning in these moments.
A shift. He can feel something take effect the moment the flowers die, and Marsward begins to step through that portal. Something stepping alongside him. "Rune, be careful, he~" But then there's that tether or magic. That sensation that she is being taken into the waves of the dreams once more.
"Rune!" He quickly moves over the corpse she left behind, grabbing at her hand before they are swept away into the darkness. Drawing her close. Looking into her eyes during that transition, before his heart quivers.
That look in his eyes fading, ever so slightly at first. But it begins to leave him further. Memories shifting. Departing. Coldness entering him...
As his armor begins to grow heavier. As his grip on Rune doesn't let go. Even if love leaves him, there's still other ties to her. Warrior comrade. Even were they not Chihua, he grips onto her more firmly. That radiant lavastone amidst his horns shining still. Her lava-stone. Even as the memories try to leave him, the lavastones across his body bear /weight/.
The weight of so many departed. If not love, there is loss. There is sadness. As he turns, he still bears his blade. For at a loss of all of it...
When there is no love. No life. That is a place he has stood before. The echoes of the cries of brothers and sisters around him, as the pyres were lit time and time again.
There is Duty. But then... something else. As memories begin to be stripped, something else begins to flood in. The embers of flame along his back - as those strange spiritual wings seem to flare. A fire that begins to flood and fill through his veins. The red markings on his body growing fiercer. As Harkashan draws his hands away and suddenly throws his arms aside, and lets out a /terrifying/ roar, as memories flash before his mind.
New memories. Memories that are not his own. Memories of death. Memories of people being lost. Memories of those watching people being buried. Memories of fierce battle as memory after memory floods /INTO/ Harkashan, and the Cleric roars more loudly in utter /RAGE/.
Dirk staggers as he feels the unnatural influence of the Nightmare sucking him into its clutches. He strives to resist with all that he is. And... it's not enough. Like so many times before, his will fails him. He is strong of limb, sharp of eye, and stout of body... but his enemy knows how to exploit his weaknesses all too well.
Into that bleak place he is taken, where there is no light or love. Where the green growing things cannot shelter him. Where he cannot take pride in his place as the last Stormgrip, where being the voice of the wood means nothing. His grip trembles and his knees shake. "Please," he whispers hoarsely, squinching his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. Anything to block out that horrible emptiness. That soul-draining nothing.
But then that nothing is no longer nothing. It is filled by sound. His eyes snap open, and he beholds the dread visage of what remains of Zalgiman. For a moment, he's back in his cabin. Cowering behind his door, praying that Demontry Kol and Zalgiman will pass him by. But then, the door is being torn open. The rain slashes inward. The howls of lycans fill the air, and that sneering face fills his gaze.
"No," he growls. The fear and despair is seared away as fury kindles in his stout dwarven heart. He shakes his head, blinking his eyes furiously. "No, no, no, no, NO!! We killed ye! We killed ye dead an' buried ye!" He struggles to lift his thunderbelcher. Nothing works. He's trapped. He's helpless.
But he isn't giving up. Not now. Not ever. "Hrrrh.... HRAAAAAAGH!!"
Rune is just taking the first steps forward, drawing close to Harkashan over the fallen heap of the dead wolf when the world starts to grow dark at the edges. There is something eerily familiar about it. That sense of the looming nightmare drawing in around her vision. Her hand reaches out, grasping... Though he can touch her physical form in the moment before they are swept away, Rune simply sees her hand vanishing into a shadowy place where Harkashan had been only a moment before.
He is gone.
It leaves her unbalanced, stumbling and tumbling to her knees as that cold feeling creeps inside. It starts like ice at that place along the center of her back and radiates outward, a chill that forms to the tips of her fingers. The blue palor of death takes on her skin, a dribble of inky blood leaking from her lips as she coughs once, twice, sending a spray of ichor forward onto the ground.
There is a feeling like stepping on glass. Like the world slowly shattering, splintering into pieces. The ground extends out like pieces of a broken mirror, reflecting horrific images from all angles. Rune kneels in the Shattered Place, the place of her nightmares, and she is the visage of death. Black blood leaks from her back, her chest, her mouth and nose. One eye is gone, one arm is shredded by dark magic, left with deep gouges.
This is the Rune of the moment of death. The Rune that is trapped in the Shattered Place of her nightmares. This is the Rune without love, without friendship, without the joy of finding people to call her own. This is the endless cycle of her nightmares.
Nightmares that begin to play out in each of those shattered planes of glass. Harkashan ripped apart, his body in pieces. Cor'lana sprawled with dead eyes staring skyward, the twisted form of Apotheosis beside her. Telamon lying in a pool of blood. Dolan speared through by his own blade, the one forged by his beloved.
She can't even scream. Her voice only burbles dark ichor from ruined lungs.
Verna has visited the Realm of Dream and/or Nightmare far too often, in her preferences. All of the experiences were, at best, ... decidedly unpleasant. Yet as she initially fights against the pull, she watches others fall within. Friends. Allies. Who are then followed willingly by one half of her own family. Whatever her worries, her fears, it is best that they remain together. She knows the one elsewhere would understand... No. More than that: Auranar would kick her gray buttocks to Quelynos and back if she left them. Not that she would... and so she allows herself to fall into its dark embrace.
Suddenly, those worries and thoughts vanish. Verna's expression flattens to a hard neutral. Is it her girding her mind and emotions against the reactive nature of this realm? A sapping of the same by the hungry shadow of a man denied both a second chance and the peace of death a second time? Some combination? It matters not at present. Cold truth and logic have been comforting to her for decades. The facts: they are here, wherever this may truly be; they are all here.
One gloved hand moves lightly to Dolan's shoulder. "We are here, Corona. You are not alone." It is a cool statement of fact in tone, rather than rousing, before her gaze shifts to the shade, "Your judgment is unduly interrupted, once more... and yours," her eyes fix upon Marsward, "has come due. The Cycle cannot be denied."
When the Nightmare gaped wide, Telamon thought he knew what to expect. He went into it with Lana, because they could never be separated.
He may have been right on the second, but he was oh so wrong on the first.
It's not the dark surroundings -- when was the last time a place looked -dark- to him? -- that disturb him so. It's the sight of Zalgiman, a horrific abomination, a tortured, twisted creature trapped between life and death. Warped by Marsward Seraquoix into something anathematic to life itself, drawing in all light and happiness. And the pain of his own guilt -- how he should have pressed harder, kept Zalgiman from going back into the camp, sent him on to the Elunite monastery and damn the man's desires. He should have... should have...
A tiny little flicker in his mind. A little spark. Voices from a memory. Every soul has to choose its own destiny.
Sucking in a breath that he doesn't need anyways, because he has to be heard. "Zalgiman Joaki," he rasps through numb lips. "I wish I had known you better. You deserved better than this."
GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Will+1+8+4: (19)+16+1+8+4: 48 GAME: Harkashan rolls Will+4+4+1: (5)+12+4+4+1: 26 GAME: Telamon rolls Will+1+8+4: (14)+16+1+8+4: 43 GAME: Dolan rolls will: (12)+11+8: 31 GAME: Rune rolls will+4+4+1: (10)+5+4+4+1: 24 GAME: Dirk rolls Will+1+4+4: (13)+8+1+4+4: 30 GAME: Verna rolls will+1+2+4: (10)+24+1+2+4: 41
The thing that was once Zalgiman Jokai looks at Telamon. Stares into his night-filled eyes. They should have been friends. That was in another world. Another time. Another place. One that this Zalgiman will never know. Yet the fear recedes from Telamon.
He turns his eyes to Cor'lana. A woman he'd loved hopelessly, helplessly. They too should have been friends. Right from the start. If not for lies. If not for fear. But that's a world away, and it calls to his soul to see her suffering. The fear recedes from her.
He doesn't know the others, and yet the fear recedes from them all. All save Rune. Rune who is lost not to his Nightmare, but to her own. Harkshan has his fear to fall back on. Dirk as well. Dolan has his steadfast faith. Like Verna in her own way. Only Rune is alone.
Marsward is working a magic spell, and he doesn't notice. Doesn't notice Zalgiman floating to his side and wrapping dark tendrils that were once his limbs about the other man until its too late. Until Marsward is entrapped by him.
"Sssscarab!" Zalgiman demands, calling you to action. Calling you from your fear.
All save Rune.
Who has never been more alone than now.
He calls her to action with the word. Seeing him turning on Marsward--it reminds her. It reminds her that he'd gone into that camp for her benefit, her wellbeing. Maybe he's under there still. Maybe his soul is still there. Maybe. Maybe, just maybe, she can fix what she did wrong, again. Because she'd failed him, again.
She nows know what to do. What to say. In the face of all that has brought her here, in the face of the nightmare and the darkness that threatens to consume her world, in the face of the man who would enslave a god to become a god and in the face of the once-man who loves her, she draws out a scroll from her bag. A beautiful thing with gilding all along the parchment. She takes a breath. And then she unrolls it.
Her fingers glide across the sigils on the parchment. She feels it now. The magic crackling within her fingers that spreads all throughout her. She feels the potential, the danger, the wildfire like how Zalgiman once wrote danced so easily in her violet eyes. This is the magic to unmake worlds, unmake realities, to change it all as she sees fit--only a nudge, only a little, but she knows this is the only way forward. She is bound to him by silken words--just as he'd said to her regarding himself. This is the way forward.
Cor'lana Lupecyll-Atlon, wife of Telamon Lupecyll-Atlon, inheritor of Apotheosis, daughter of Nadina Branfeax, child of the Feathered One--these names, titles, everything, they all fall away.
It is magic and only magic. Only will and whim, those powers which give her feytouched soul the life and song it needs to live. And she knows at the bottom of the heart the words to say with this barely-mortal power, for she remembers how hopeless he was. How he'd only gotten a taste of hope with his resurrection, a taste of it with her friendship, with Telamon's friendship.
It is the best weapon she can think of and the best peace she can think of.
"I Wish for the hope you were never given, the hope that should have burned like a beacon and kept you from Marsward--I want that hope for you now to guide you where you need to go, for I am sworn to save you from what you are now--and I love you, Zalgiman Joaki."
GAME: Ravenstongue used a Scroll of Wish.
The wish is like a clap of power. It ripples through the air and slams into everyone. Those on their feet totter for a moment and then... Zalgiman is gone.
For just a second he turns to look at her, and there's a glimmer. An image of himself. Whole. Hale. He bows to them, and turns. Vanishing into the nothing.
The nightmare doesn't fade. Not so easily, but the fear does. It vanishes without a trace. Leaving only you, and Marsward.
GAME: Dolan casts Searing Light. Caster Level: 9 DC: 16 GAME: Dolan rolls 4d8: (16): 16 GAME: Harkashan rolls Diplomacy+2: (20)+14+2: 36 GAME: Dirk rolls shoot+2+1+1: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2+1+1: (18)+15+1+-3+2+1+1: 35 GAME: Dirk rolls shoot+2+1+1: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2+1+1: (18)+15+1+-3+2+1+1: 35 GAME: Dirk rolls shoot+2+1+1: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2+1+1: (11)+15+1+-3+2+1+1: 28 GAME: Dirk rolls shoot+2+1+1: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2+1+1: (2)+15+1+-3+2+1+1: 19
The fear recedes, slowly, and so does the nightmare, at least for Dolan, the two sides of his nature uniting to drive away cold stone memories, the Knight's promises guiding him back to himself. Verna's hand is pure agony for just a moment, but reassuring - centering - all the same. The point of the blade drives into the floor of this nothingness, and he uses it to force himself to his feet, the left arm hanging limply beside him, the right holding onto the greatsword for dear life.
"All right, you pond scum on an abandoned horse-trough," he snarls. "Your sorry, fly-infested ass is ours today, and long-overdue." Slowly, he raises that limp left arm. "Holy Daeus, let the light of vengeance rain down upon this man." A bolt of searing, pure sunlight lances from his hand - only to rebound from the target and lash a burning scar across armor, side, and leg. "Agh! Should have known."
Fear ripples away, as Ravenstongue conjures the impossible into this moment. Like a rubber band being snapped, the grey and red before his eyes are pulled away, and Harkashan stumbles back a bit. He can still feel that intense hatred and anger within him. So many emotions grabbing at his heart, testing him. The Sith-makar closes his eyes, gripping at his chest for a moment. Searing sensations lining across his body.
He wishes to attack, but something pulls at him. Something else grabs at his shoulder, like an ephemeral feeling. A tug at his heart. He turns again, facing...
A moment of death. That moment of death, playing out once again. Just like it had the last time these two had been caught within the Nightmare. Black blood upon her body. Yet, now, she is even worse. An eye missing. An arm largely gone. Before her, he lies in pieces, yet still rises. Before Rune's eyes, a terrifying monster rises. Foaming red leaking from its maw. Jagged teeth. Horrifying claws. Looking like he might just turn to tear her apart further...
But instead, that hand touches to her cheek, moving down to her arm. The other hand to her back, fingers drawing to that most painful of places. Those fierce cracks, vicious and dark. As the red light from his body seems to wisp and shimmer, and he tears a memory free from the grasp of the enemy. Drawing it to his mind, and letting it become his power within this nightmare realm.
Red light shimmering from his arms to his claws. Touching over the many cracks on her arm. Laying over the cracks on her back. Interlacing with them, making the shattered planes of glass turn from black to a stained glass ripple of light. Purples, blues, yellows and greens. Shimmering rainbows of light relaying the shattered parts of her body as the Shaman seeks to heal her with memories of his own. Giving some of them to her. Visions of the first time she protected him.
Visions of her smile. Visions of her arrows, raining down on bandits, protecting him. Moments of a night shared together. As he whispers to her. "My Cihuaa. Wake up. You are not shattered. Help us put all of this back together."
GAME: Verna casts Greater Dispel Magic. Caster Level: 19 DC: 23
Dirk looks to Lana as she uses that most powerful of magicks. The sort that Ea's spellcasters can only dream of, that so few ever ever get to wield. What fabulous riches and powers do those elite few ask for, when given the power to literally wish for anything? And yet... Lana does not ask for power or for riches. Only for hope to be given to the hopeless. For the time that he'd known him, Zalgiman Joaki has been nothing but a source of fear and hatred for the old snowbeard. When at last he'd fallen, the dwarf had celebrated the man's death. And now, here is Lana using literal god-like power... to set him free.
For a moment, all he can feel is ashamed. How could he ever begin to compare to the likes of his friends, who are so powerful, and yet so good. Who are everything he's ever yearned to be, and yet, never will.
But as Dolan calls down the judgment of Daeus, and that blessed magick is thrown back, the old dwarf's eyes narrow and fall upon Marsward. He racks his thunderbelcher and lifts it. "Enough." Deadly intent coalesces in his hands as he focuses his aim on his enemy. Blessed light makes the curling ivies filigreed into the stock light up. Dwarven runes offering praise to Dana and Gilead race down the barrel. He pulls the trigger. Four times, the weapon kicks in his grip, the muzzle flaring with blessed light. And four times... the bullets fail to meet their mark. Four times, he misses.
His jaw drops as he lowers his firearm. Blink blink. "Oh, piss up my arse."
GAME: Verna rolls 1d20+20: (8)+20: 28 GAME: Verna rolls 1d20+20: (6)+20: 26 GAME: Telamon casts Dispel Magic/Quicken. Caster Level: 17 DC: 25 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+17: (9)+17: 26 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+17: (8)+17: 25 GAME: Telamon casts Dispel Magic. Caster Level: 17 DC: 21 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+17: (3)+17: 20
Alone.
The powers of those who manipulate nightmares have always been able to seize Rune more powerfully than many others. A particular weakness that makes her that much more vulnerable, even as the others make their escape from that hold.
Her mind is trapped in that moment, drowning in shattered visions of pain, death, and loss. Enough that the vision of horror that is Harkashan rising up before her is met with wide eyes. She watches his approach, mouth moving but the words are only bubbles of blood on her lips. Until his clawed hand reaches for her and she flinches away, only to find the touch gentle.
Her remaining blue eye looks towards him, confusion written in that gaze. Then, something of recognition returns ot her gaze. Perhaps it is that moment of seeing herself through his eyes that brings Rune back to herself. Her head tilts forward, leaning briefly into the monstrous form of Harkashan that stands before her.
Then, with some measure of tremble to her form, Rune reaches for her weapons and slowly pushes herself to her feet. She still looks just as dead as before - a corpse come to life. The gaping hole in her back and chest, the missing eye, the torn flesh, the black ichor around her mouth, and yet Rune stands, giving a nod to Harkashan.
"Thank you." Not burbled choking, but words. "I'm with you, love. Let's see what we can do." Though Rune may never be fully free of these nightmares, it seems that with friends, allies, and those she loves at her side, she can at least retain herself, even in the face of them.
The rebounding of searing holy fire back at Dolan, and Dirk's uncharacteristic failure to leave his target well-ventilated lead Verna to a simple conclusion: he has several protective abjurations in place. She puts a hand to her Scales and beseeches her matron. "Harpist, this foe of The Cycle cowers behind mana born of lies and fear. Remove his protections so that those who act in Your Name or Will may correct this error." She then focuses upon unraveling said constructions of mana, yet it seems that fear is strong in Nightmare and all stand fast. It is frustrating yet, in hindsight, hardly surprising.
Love floods Telamon's heart again as the fear recedes. Like a man gasping for air, as he breaches the surface of the water after a long dive. And then Cor'lana steps forward. He knows what's going to happen -- he can sense her thoughts, hear her prayers. And he's with her, every step. "Yes," he whispers unconsciously. "Set him free, Lana. Give him peace." And that is what she does.
And without his undead slave to hide behind, now Marsward is alone, and surrounded by people who do not like him. A curse falls from Telamon's lips as Dolan's spell bounces off the witch, and then Verna and himself lash out with their own spells to try and strip Marsward's defenses away -- with no luck.
"Dammit, I can't... but maybe I don't need to." Telamon takes a breath, to focus. "Ni'essa Sky-Singer, who I once gave service to and still serve: I ask for the aid of your most trusted servant, to bring this dark fiend to justice. Can you hear me, Tanithariairisixchel?"
No sooner does the name leave Telamon's lips than does the very personage that he calls upon appears. A tiny flash of golden dragon. A slip of light in this dark place.
"I AM HERE!" She says gaily, flickering over his shoulder and doing a little dip before him. The world slows. Crawls around itself. Everyone stops. Stops breathing. Stops moving. Everyone but her and him. "How can I help?"
Alright, this is fine. Telamon looks the tiny golden dragon in the eyes. "This is Marsward Seraquoix, Tanith. He is a very bad man, but his powers are bound up in a scarab hiding on him. Can you destroy it, so he cannot protect himself any longer?" His lips quirk. "I admit I'd hoped you would just eat him, but... we are the gods' hands, after all."
"I do not eat peoples." She says very firmly, but grins at him just the same. Then she flies off, and time begins again. Everyone gets a front-row seat to the sight of her flashing across to Marsward. He bats at the little golden dragon, but it's like he can't see her very well, or maybe she's just moving too fast. Either way... She quickly sets his butt on fire.
The man yelps in surprise and jumps, and while he's distracted she darts in and SNAP!
CRUNCH!
There's a moan from the little dragon as she flies up and back toward Telamon. A wail. "NOT FISH!" She cries as Marsward screams in defiance.
"You fools! HOW DARE YOU! I'll kill you all!" He draws forth a scroll from his belt and it looks... oh no. It looks just like the one that Cor'lana held a moment ago. Beautiful. Dangerous.
"I wish you were dead."
GAME: Dolan rolls fortitude: (7)+13+4: 24 GAME: Telamon rolls fortitude: (13)+9+4: 26 GAME: Harkashan rolls Fortitude+4+1: (6)+10+4+1: 21 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Fortitude+4: (4)+10+4: 18 GAME: Dirk rolls Fortitude+2+4: (8)+13+2+4: 27 GAME: Rune rolls fortitude +4: (4)+3+4: 11
The words take a breath. Another pulse of power, and as it strikes you, you feel the cold breath of death. But none of you feels it so keenly as Telamon.
Who falls.
GAME: Ravenstongue casts True Strike/Quicken. Caster Level: 15 DC: 22 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Disintegrate. Caster Level: 15 DC: 23 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls ranged+20+1+1: (7)+9+20+1+1: 38 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls ranged+20+1+1: (19)+9+20+1+1: 50 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 60d6: (219): 219
Cor'lana's world has gone cold.
Her beloved Telamon. Dropped to the ground before her. Made dead by one simple Wish, an infernal match for the one that she made to send Zalgiman on to the realms beyond death. The man who had seen her and fallen in love with her for who she was and the man who had stolen her heart in a way that she had never known to be possible. Never knew that it was possible for someone like her to be loved, never knew that it was possible for someone like her to love that much, to love so much, to love so completely and utterly that she'd planned her whole future around him.
She almost doesn't register Tanith's arrival. Her violet eyes rest on Marsward and she feels her whole soul ablaze with fury. The darkness of the Unseelie bloodline within her rages. It begs for death. For Marsward's death. The only acceptable penance for the crime he has committed against her consort and against her.
"Vaire, set my magic ablaze, so that I can pierce this infernal man's spells and that my own can find his heart," Cor'lana snarls. The incantation falls from her lips thereafter to make her strike true as she goes to run her finger across the needle buried in the sleeve of her robes. She doesn't even register the pain that comes with drawing her crimson blood, and she paints the part of her chest that peeks out from her robe that proudly displays her curuchuil. Her eyes glow brighter than before, empowered with what she needs.
Exactly what she needs.
"You will become what you have made so many, Marsward," she says, magic dancing off her tongue. "BECOME AS NOTHING."
The ray fires from her finger and slams through Marsward, piercing the man right through his chest, just as she'd asked of Vaire. Just as she'd intended of herself. He disintegrates before her judging eyes, where she watches him dissolve.
She lifts her chin... And she takes a breath. For it is done.
It all happens so fast. In the blink of an eye - the little golden dragon pops into existence, there's a crunching noise. Dolan's horrified mind barely registers the scroll, the screams of rage. In mere breaths, their enemy is nothing more than ash, for the Iron hells hath no fury like a fey woman mourning - but one thing does stick in the inquisitor's thoughts.
Telamon.
"TEL!" bursts from his throat unbidden, a scream of pure agony and rage, the farmboy knowing little more than seeing the man who'd been nothing but a friend to him crumple, lifeless, to the ground in this nightmare. Wait, whispers the cooler Corona's mind within. There are answers. It came at his call.
He swivels, with impossible speed, to focus artificial and human eyes on Tanith in a pleading, hopeful expression that even manages to penetrate some of the lifeless mask that is the scars on his face. "Tanith," he says quickly, "if you can get Telamon back on his feet and alive, I'll take you fishing for a whole day. On my word as a Corona."
Just in that snap of a moment from the time her mind returns to herself, Rune feels the brush of death a second time. However, it is not her that falls, but Telamon. It is like one of those terrible visions from her nightmares. "No!"
Rune is not a healer, nor a spellcaster, but her hands grip onto her swords as she turns towards Marsward. "You bastard." She seems about to turn her own rage towards the man, but the cold fury that comes from Cor'lana has her hesitating, looking towards the sorceress. This kill belongs to her friend.
So, despite the flinch that comes with the casting of the spell, Rune's focus is on Telamon's fallen form. "Someone can help him, right? Right?" She asks, looking from Verna, to Harkashan, to Dolan, to Tanith.
Words. Just simple words. Harkashan barely feels the magic before it happens. Bracing himself, uncertain who the words are meant for. But the moment he hears that 'thud', his heart sinks. Only just moments ago, a profession of love. Then, death.
The archmage himself just falls over. Immediate. Instance.
"Telamon!" Harkashan calls out, only to see that Ravenstongue is already taking matters into her own hands. Eradicating the man with a single 'beam' from her finger. It all happens in what seems like just a flash. A mere moment. He barely has time to respond to any of it.
At Rune's cries, he puts a hand on her shoulder. "All hope is not lost, Rune."
Tanith lands on Telamon's chest, the sorcerer staring up sightlessly at the sky that does not exist here in the darkness. She lays there, nudging him like a lost friend, as if his being gone hurts her as much as it hurts any of them. She looks up at Dolan's words and gives him a dragon's smile. "I will always help my peoples. Especially, when they have done so much for me."
She begins to glow brightly, a golden sun in the midst of the dark and the nightmare starts to shred around them. "This is only a nightmare. Only a dream, and you can not die here Telamon."
There's a whisper of something else, something... but it isn't quite heard. Then they're back in... Alexandria. On the edge of the city. No werewolves. No tents. No sand or roses. Just home.
Telamon takes a gasping breath on the ground, and lives. There's no sign of Tanith at all. No way to thank the little dragon save...
In the morning she shows up to Dolan's house.
Then the next day she comes for Telamon.
Then Cor'lana.
And Harkashan.
Rune.
Dirk.
Verna.
Every one of them fishes for her. Because who could say no after that?
-End