Chapter 1: It Hasn't Happened Yet

[BigRedRod]

He knows that place. Emmon, that is. In his memories the season is late summer, the fields filled with neat rows of green bundles. Cabbages, turnips, carrots, potatoes. Cows milled about, unable to reach the lush crop due to a well maintained dry stone wall. The older brother had inherited the farm and the younger travelled to the gleaming centrepiece of civilisation, Edinway.

Pale eyes look from atop the ridge. The terrible storm was still a way off. For now he was beyond its grasp, but to do what he must, he would venture into the abandoned city. Set foot beneath the writhing chaos. Red lightning flashes horizontally through the dark swirling clouds. And every so often comes one of the strange pure white columns. A cylinder of light so intense that it seems impossible it does not originate in the hand of some white God. But no. He had met people on his travels. People who had left Edinway behind. The city was lost. The storm. The rats. The end of the world.

Most, but far from all, had followed The Light of Pelor and Lord Edinway in a single vast caravan. Safety in numbers. Safety near The Light. Evidence of the restless dead had been everywhere. Spirits unable to withstand purgatory had been driven insane. A loved one might return to his village and being greeted only by fear was too much. Insanity was transcend into furious violence. This way he'd at least gain companionship. All together. Lost souls. Hateful things and more with every day. Every death.

Aos was a broken land.

Motion below breaks his meditation.

Men had come to the farm of Emmon's brother. Strangely he could not summon the name of the brother. He knew so much, but the laugh had no name. The face was without label.

...

The sky above was blue. A clear powder blue. If you turned away from Edinway and looked out over the lake, it went on forever. A few thin streamers of wind-whipped white cloud and the hills on the horizon were all that broke the glorious infinity. But every man could hear the storm. Not with the ears, it was just something that was. A buzzing wrongness. Lade turned to those Abbot Balthasar had tasked with this final step in the ritual. The Thirteenth Anchor.

Setting up the last of the dimensional locks was a job for an army. Lade found himself with no such luck. He had everything there was to spare. And that was not a lot. The Sun's Hammer, a dozen holy warriors of Pelor had been dispatched to each of the other sites with their own crude militia. Their own rituals should have been complete by now. All that had to be done was raise the Lunacite Blanc as high as possible, at least a dozen feet away from the ground itself. Away from Aos. And then the two red cloaks - It sickened Lade to find himself working with such vermin - The Moon Bringers would lead them in a ritual to join the last Anchor with the Twelve. And then... Well, and then the storm would be contained. No stopped. But it would cease to grow. And the tide of rats would be reduced. And without unlimited reinforcements, the rats lost one of their key advantages.

The taller of the two red-cloaked men had with him a lead box. He hugged it to his chest leaving his companion to carry the backpack containing the rest of the ritual materials. Within the box was the white crystalline material. A fragment of the common orb. It was rather unsettling how easily such exotic sounding matter had been obtained with the Cathedral of Pelor. But they had found thirteen fragments of a moon. The box was lead in a hope it would mask it from outside notice. Quite how well it would succeed at that was up to debate. There had not been time to do this properly.

This was evidenced most of all by the cart of wooden planks. At the other sites on the perimeter of the storm, crude wooden towers would be constructed to raise the Lunacite Blanc high enough. For now, it was all that could be done. If, no when, it worked then they would have to find a way to make Thirteen somewhat more sturdy. Once the rats found out, they would come. Of course they would. Aos meant a soul for each of their brothers lurking on the shadowy realm which encircled this world, and the joy of having a soul, being Hearted as they themselves put it, was beyond anything else.

A single horse pulled the cart. There were not many horses left. Most had gone with the evacuees, and those that were left in the city had quickly found themselves as food. Aside from the cultists, the horse and himself there were three others:

Kjetil, a man who reminded Lade all too much of his old friend Harald, a man who had found himself far from his homeland to the north and working with what remained of the Cathedral. He said he'd seen an omen which lead him to the Grand Plaza at the same moment as the Moonbringers arrived with their truce. The timing was certainly strange and as far as anybody could tell, the man was honest in his intentions. Not that most people would accuse an Aart of being anything else, nevermind one as large as Kjetil.

Renaltus, a man out of his element. A druid in a city. The missing Red Moon was changing everything. The druid had made a vow to see the Red Dawn once again but like so many he had quickly realised that there were more imminent threats to Aos. And so when he learned of the Thirteen Locks, the short quite nondescript man insisted that he be allowed to help.

Karthas, a man with strange powers, murky origins and an apparently unstable mind. The man was a sure sign of just how bad things were in Edinway. An alliance with moon cultists and anybody who could hold a sword (or produce bolts of terrible arcane fire at will) was welcomed into the cathedral with open arms.

Dark times.

This farm was the chosen location for the final lock. A foot of snow covered the ground, and Karthas had found himself placing one booted foot through a concealed fallen scarecrow as he followed the rest of the team towards the obviously abandoned farmhouse. Something had happened here. The structure was started to crumble and the interior had mostly rotted down to a now-frozen brown nothingness. The storehouses flanking the gate in the low stone wall were no better.

What had survived neglection however was a squat tower looking out over the lake. The structure is built from a darker stone than the surrounding farm buildings. It seems all together older and slightly out of place, confirming that this was the location designated by the cluster of scholars back at the Cathedral. Beside it there is the tattered remains of some heavy weatherproof material stretched out over a stockpile of wooden planks. Somebody had planned to construct something here, but it seems that such plans have been forgotten.

http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/13th-Anchor-1.jpg
[ooc: Spot checks have failed to notice the dwarf on the ridge ahead, but he's spotted the rest of the party]

[Tashalar]

Darkness dominated everywhere. And destiny was waiting. The signs he had seen in Edinway were gone... or were they? The constant storms... the light... he needed the advice of his elders... direction. But they were nowhere near, he was on his own... or at least had been.

Kjetil had joined the small force of men fighting against the tide of darkness and while watching out for more signs and trying his best to read them, he did his best to assist in the job assigned to them. His job was to keep them safe...

The tall man leisurely held his guisarme in one hand as he strolled over to join Lade. Gazing first at the tower up ahead and then surveying their immediate surroundings, he addressed the grizzled warrior. "If this is the place, then let's get to work. And fast. The longer we take, the higher the risk of the rats finding us."

[OOC: Join Lade, square to the upper left of him - if exact coordinates are needed.]

[itches]

"The rats'll find us eventually lad," Lade said squinting at the tower with eyes bloodshot in the incandescent morning sunlight. He had only met Kjetil a scant few days ago, but so much had happened in such a short time that he was one of the oldest allies he had left.

"There's no helping that, but yer right, better it not be while we're busy messing with the magic anchor stuff."

Glancing over at the two redcloaks, Lade felt a familiar burn of anger within his belly and grabbed at the golden axe hanging from his belt out of instinct, before forcing himself to swallow it. Out of necessity the remaining Pelorites had formed an unholy alliance with the cultists, and now former enemies worked side by side towards similar goals. Malkanus had refused anything to do with even a temporary truce with the Moonbringers, and there were times when Lade couldn’t help but wonder who was the wiser.

After that he somehow found himself informally leading a small group of those too foolish to flee or unluckly enough to stay in order to perform some magicical ritual he only half understood. Perhaps representing how much had changed more than any other thing was the axe that hung from his belt.

It had been in the first day after the exodus that he had lost his old one. Scouting through the city for stragglers with a young guardsman – former guardsman – named Col and Kjetil, had been an eerie experience. The constant background roar from the city was gone, leaving the city more a graveyard monument to its former glory. A graveyard complete with ghosts.

The trio had spotted the cluster of ethereal apparitions early on, and were moving in a wide circle to avoid them when they stumbled into a large party of rats doing much the same. Both sides were caught off guard and the fighting was bloody and fierce for all of the swiftness with which it begun and finished. By the end Col lay upon the cobblestones in an ever increasing crimson pool along with a half dozen of the rats. Lade had lost his axe midfight and the survivors of both parties had fled.

Afterwards Abbot Balthasar had gifted him with his current axe. It had taken the aging mercenary almost a day to realise the significance of the weapon. It was the Key of Kazashziak, fabled relic from the ancient history of the Pelor church. Lade had tried to return it, but the Abbot had demurred, declaring that he didn’t think Kazashziak, legendary wielder of the axe would mind it being used.

Lade wasn’t so sure, but they needed all the help they could get so he reluctantly accepted Balthazar’s wisdom along with the golden weapon.

“Right,” the partially hungover middle aged man said, drawing himself back into the present and nodding towards the tower. “Let’s make sure no one is home, set a sentry and get a-building.”

[Tashalar]

"No, it better not," Kjetil agrees to Lade's comment on the timing of a possible rat attack. Kjetil glanced over to the Red Robes and felt himself mirroring Lade's feelings for them. Having spent several nights with Lade and his drinks had resulted in strong feelings of suspicion towards their red robed companions. "Do you think those two are up to their task?" He didn't try to reveil the doubt showing in his tone of voice. Shaking his head shortly, Kjetil then raises his arm and motions for the others to join them.

Indicating the tower, Kjetil frowns speculatively. "Not quite what I'd expect out here. Let's get the camp going and then have a look inside." When the others approached, Kjetil kept his silence. Lade had the command over their little troupe and the Aart respected that. Not that he envied him. Sticking to what he could do best suited Kjetil well at this time.

[Gralhruk]

Humans. They puzzled him - not so much as they once had, but still enough to make his craggy brow furrow even deeper. Two dressed alike, in crimson bright robes; priests, maybe - the larger carrying a heavy chest. One other man with a staff, a fourth with no visible weapon. And then the two warriors, if he was any judge.

Why were they here? The farm was empty - no crops, nor animals neither. But these weren't looking for any, it seemed. All eyes on the squat tower - old stone, he could see as much from here.

Did they think to make a fortress?

Milky eyes scan the horizon for some sign of pursuit - there, against the rising sun, red light glinting on spear and helm. Thousands of them, breath steaming, as the ground shook beneath the hooves of heavy horse. He thought he died that day . . .

He shakes the memory away. Not his. Not Emmon's either. Some other place, some other time. He looks again. There was nothing in any direction, just the glazed crust and light shining off brilliant white snow. He peers once more at the humans down below and sucks his breath in when he sees golden light glimmer from one warrior's axe. Weren't many metals looking like that, and he knew them all.

Adamantine

His thick calloused fingers unconsciously touch the axe-blade of his own undeniably dwarven weapon, crafted with all the skill his people could muster. Yet still it was only common steel, not in the same class as even a poorly made blade of that incredible substance. He knows a pang of jealousy, and he pats the urgosh at his side, frowning. Cutthroats? Thieves? With what he'd heard about the city anything was possible, but that was an expensive blade for some rogue.

He had hoped to find the place inhabited, thinking that maybe, just maybe, she would have come here with trouble in the city. No such luck, which left him short on options. He could venture into the city alone, with the slim hope she'd still be there. That didn't make much sense; he didn't know any mother that'd keep her son in harm's way. Might be she had followed Lord Edinway. The farm had drawn him, the memory. He'd come this far and dwarves have a hard time changing their mind once a course has been set. No one here, but maybe they'd left a clue, or some sign. Something to let him know what had happened.

Below, the men began to move with something approaching purpose. Didn't seem they'd be leaving soon or he'd wait them out. Too far to see the axe clearly, and he was curious. Six of them, though. He had a healthy confidence in his own ability but six on one was bad odds for anyone. He chews his beard, muttering darkly.

[treehouse]

What are you even doing here? Don't you realize that you've surrounded yourself with jackals? They'll cut your throat while you sleep! Cut their throats instead! Hahaha-aa, that will show them!

Karthas dusted as much of the snow as he could off of his tunic, shaking his head slightly.

It is the only way...I have to get back into the city, and if you haven't noticed, it's experienced a minor fucking apocalypse since we last visited.

SEAR THE FLESH FROM THEIR BONES! WIPE THE GRINS OFF THEIR LIAR FACES! KILL! I WANT TO SEE BLOOOOOOOO-

Karthas gave up trying to reason with him and walked over to where the others, including the apparent leader Lade, were standing.

What about the dwarf on the hill? Hmmmm? Look! Look at him! Look at the dwarf! Ha ha ha haaa!

SHUT UP!

He cleared his throat. "Anything I can do to help?"

[Tashalar]

As the others approached, Kjetil sent a sideways look to Lade who didn't seem to mind him delegating the immediate necessities. Indicating the half-finished structure next to the tower, Kjetil spoke up. His voice was deep and he spoke quietly. Still, it seemed to be carried on the wind instead of being drowned by it. "We'll be here for a while until our task is done. Camp will be there, let's get the kettle boiling. Horses should be kept tethered to the cart. Whatever you do, keep yourselves ready... if we're lucky, the rats won't find us, but I won't bet on our luck these days." Kjetil grimaced slightly and hesitated for a moment.

Now that he'd explained, he'd best stay around. Turning to Karthas, he added "Lade will have a look if there's anyone inside." Kjetil indicated the tower behind himself with his right thumb, without turning to look. "He could use some help." Turning to Renaltus he adds "I'll get a fire going and you can take care of making something to warm us from within." Once more he addressed all of them. "If you stray from the camp, best take someone to accompany you." Finally Kjetil turned to the red robes, his voice suddenly with a cold edge to it. "You two start with what we came here for." Without another word, Kjetil walked over to the cart, took the kettle and walked back over to the shelter. Dropping the kettle on the ground and leaning his guisarme against a nearbye post, the large man then started to make a fire from the assorted wooden materials lying around. His hands seemed to reduce the wooden parts to small pieces automatically while his gaze rested on their immediate surroundings, watchful.

[itches]

Lade was relieved that Kjetil had taken it upon himself to set everyone to work. Lade knew what needed to be done, but he hated giving orders. Always had.

Motioning with his head to follow him, the aging mercenary turned and slugged out over the snow, circling around and through the buildings, searching for any tracks. There had been a fresh layer put down the previous night, which was both good and bad. Good because if anyone had been here recently they would see it. Bad because if any tracks from earlier had been obliterated.

[treehouse]

Karthas followed in the footsteps of the one they called Lade. He was silent for a moment, at least to outside appearances.

He doesn't seem to be much of a leader, does he? That taller one just gave him orders and he's doing what he's told! These urbanized weaklings should be pitted against each other, yesss. All pretty pawns on your pretty chess table, but you only want the prettiest one, don't you? Hehehehehehe!

That's not what we-that's not what I'm about. Go away.

Where do you want me to go? I'm you and you're me! One of these days I'll show you how true that is...

He spoke out loud, more to distract himself than anything else.

"We are likely to see fighting from the direction of the city once we get started, right? I've heard the ratlings are quite...vicious when they feel threatened. Do we have any idea what sort of numbers to expect?"

He hoped Lade didn't notice, or at least didn't think too much about the tiny black flecks that were now flashing across the whites of his eyes. He could see clearly into the darkened buildings, but it was not without cost. The voice definitely wouldn't go away until he got some sleep.

[casting see the unseen]

[BigRedRod]

Kjetil finds himself aided by the quiet druid, Renaltus, as he sets about establishing a base camp within one of the structures which had long ago been a gatehouse. Sweeping out the snow from within, the two then set about locating dry wood and before long, a fire is busily smouldering in one corner of the structure. Thin, light grey smoke drifts upwards and out of a sizeable hole in the roof of the gatehouse. The room is not entirely sheltered from the wind but it offers a world of protection compared to the grim chill of the open.

Lade and Karthas pace the perimeter of the small, abandoned farm at first while the two Red Cloaks drive the cart into a more central location beside the pre-existing woodpile and the site chosen for the camp by Kjetil. With no sign of prints aside from a few small animals, possible foxes, the two move inwards to the gutted farmhouse. The outer structure has suffered although whether it was a purposeful violence which had come to the farm or just the work of nature against a building raised by the hands of men and then simply abandoned, neither the aged axeman or the arcanist are sure.

The interior has a thick blanket of snow, heavily disturbed in one corner. Some small mammal or mammals appear to have made their den in the most sheltered corner within some heap of fabric. A pile of clothes, torn with tiny tooth and claw into bedding. Humans have not set foot in this place for weeks. Possibly months.

Closing with the one remaining unknown, the tower, both men feel a horrible tingle of anticipation. A thin fire in the very centre of bones or the pit of the stomach. A foul churning. With a nod, Lade puts a boot to the stout-door. It scrapes along the floor, having swollen from nothing more than its own age, and as a result in barely moves forty-five degrees. The sound, an ominous thud echoes within the tower and sets of bedlam of screeching and flapping from within. Looking up, all can see the swarm of bats leaving from one of the windows at the very top of the tower. They fly as a pack across the lake and then vanish from view. Tiny, black specks.

The tower itself is not overly tall. Perhaps thirty or thirty-five feet before a single ring of windows below the shallow tiled roof. Most of the windows are tightly shuttered closed, although two, one of which the bats escaped through, hang limply.

Lade's shoulder strokes the door again allowing Karthas to cross him. Inside, they find no threats, but a few large crates and a good many barrels stacked. Produce stored from the harvest, much of which has become victim to vermin. A spiral of narrow stone steps is built into the interior wall of the tower, allowing a brave man to climb to the top and stand upon the small precarious wooden platform and gaze out through the windows (assuming the shutters had not fused shut).

[treehouse]

Karthas squinted upward, slowly crossing the threshold without waiting for Lade to give the okay.

Hmmm, almost like home...not enough bones, flesh canvas or dried blood, but I'm sure your companions can supply-

Seriously, shut up. I need to think.

He walked over to the foot of the stairs, testing them with one foot. He wasn't much of an engineer, but he hoped he'd be able to tell at a glance how sturdy they were.

[going up to the top if Karthas doesn't see any obvious problems with the stairway]

[Tashalar]

Kjetil nodded his thanks to Renaltus for his aid and soon left the chore of getting something warm ready for their bellies to the druid. Heading back outside, Kjetil walked across their camp site purposefully. Settling on the spot between the two gate houses from where he could see far enough in all directions, Kjetil leaned backwards slightly against the old bricks. He relaxed... and at the same time let his gaze roam the surrounding area. No sign of any rats so far. But rats weren't the only problems out here...

[Gralhruk]

Settling in.

The thought made him bristle, squatters in his brother's home. But the man wasn't his brother, nor was this anyone's home anymore. The ridge was sheer - no easy way down here, though further off he thought it gentled. Might be he could sneak up and listen, learn something of what they were about. He scrubs thick fingers though his snowy beard, considering.

"Bharag ai haldren," he curses finally in his deep, gravelly bass. The bull or the snake, it made no matter. He meant to inspect that house and he'd need to show himself at some point. Better now than later.

With a quick check of his gear, he swings himself over the side and starts down in full view of the camp below.

[BigRedRod]

The crude, narrow ledges which made the spiral of steps seemed sturdy enough to climb, but not sturdy enough to climb recklessly. So with more than a nod to care, Karthas ascended the tower.

Drawing closer to the wooden platform at the top of the tower, the warlock is able to see just how decayed it has become. Water has eaten away the wood and here and there patches of frost-bitten fungus remain. A man would have to have a lot of faith in his judgement to set foot upon such a precarious floor.

Long ago though, this was not the case. Perhaps only a few weeks ago somebody did climb the same series of narrow stone steps which Karthas climbed. One man strode across to the centre of the observation platform. With the wooden shutters open, the top of the tower would allow for this man to see for miles around. The man brought with him a chair and a rope. He placed the chair in the centre of the circle and tossed the rope upwards to loop over one of the network of sturdy beams holding up the shallow roof and carefully tied several knots. With this work completed, he stood upon the chair. Taking one final breath, he kicked away the chair and condemned himself to a tortured existence between worlds.

Karthas knew all this as he looked at the mouldering skeleton swinging in the frozen draught.

...

It is one of the Red Cloaks who spotted the figure scrambling down the cliffside. He shouted, pointed and raised the alarm. Somebody. Somedwarf was coming toward the abandoned farm. Down toward the site where the thirteen obelisk would be raised.

[treehouse]

HEY! Someone obliged us! Look at all the bones...hahahahaHAHA!

Karthas regarded the swinging skeleton curiously, ignoring the rambling voice. He wished he had the spider's gift as he scanned the ground regretfully for safe passage, then looked down far below to where Lade was presumably still standing.

"Nothing living up here. Do you have any climbing gear, or any climbing ability? The floor isn't stable."

He tried to see what he could see out the open shutters from where he was standing while waiting for Lade's response.

[Tashalar]

Kjetil immediately looked over to the Red Cloak to gauge where the potential threat was coming from. He followed the man's gaze and focused on the stout form of a dwarf heading towards them.

A very tall, broad-shouldered and bearded human avances quickly to stand between the dwarf and the camp. His grip on a guisarme is strong, but the blade is lowered to rest on the snow. A mixture of grey, white and light brown furs make up his thick clothing. Kjetil's green eyes focus on the dwarf and study him for a moment before his gaze goes past the dwarf and scans the surrounding area. He seems alone... for now. Kjetil waits patiently for the dwarf to approach. Friend or foe... most of the time there's only the one or the other these days.

[Gralhruk]

Grimjaw watches the hue and cry with disinterest, never slowing his advance. One of the warriors steps forward to wait for him, tall and somber, his weapon held in a decidedly non-threatening manner. Good. If they were confident they were less likely to attack. He doesn't bother with his own weapon, leaving his broad hands empty.

His breath steams in the air as his boots crunch through the snow. The weather was still strange to him, having spent most of his time beneath the earth where the climate rarely fluctuated in a given locale. Still, the cold was better than the heat.

Visions flit across his mind, feelings too, of seasons long gone, terrible storms and beautiful vistas. Things he'd never seen and never felt, surely. He grinds his teeth, wondering, and soon enough he is standing before Kjetil. He looks up, odd white eyes meeting the taller man's green stare, the dwarf seeming very substantial despite their considerable difference in height. At least they hadn't feathered him as he was walking up.

"Hmmph," he grunts without much enthusiasm.

He looks around and then back to the man before him, neither smiling nor frowning.

"Name's Grimjaw."

[Tashalar]

As the dwarf approaches, Kjetil continues to let the blade of the guisarme rest on the snow, but slowly moves it between himself and the dwarf when the dwarf shows no intention on stopping. The movement seems deliberately slow and non-threatening. Keeping a good three yards between them, Kjetil's green eyes meet the white stare of the dwarf.

A moment passes before the dwarf speaks up. Kjetil's mouth twitches shortly. "Kjetil Halverson." The large man studies the dwarf a moment before continuing. "What brings you here," he asks calmly.

[Gralhruk]

The Harvest Feast

It comes to his mind, unbidden. That's when he had been here last - Emmon, that is. His wife had been the the flower in a field of weeds that day, beautiful, charming, and utterly unaware of it. He shakes his great head unconsciously, banishing the thought.

"Well I'm not selling turnips, am I?"

His voice is deep, but quiet rather than gruff, as if the statement is to himself rather than his questioner. Why am I here?

"Looking for someone. A woman. Her man had kin here, thought maybe with the trouble in Edinway she'd've come here."

He sucks his teeth for a second, looking at the obviously abandoned buildings.

"Might be she was here and they all left together."

[Tashalar]

Kjetil nods, then looks back over his shoulder at the tower. "They're checking it this minute. There hasn't lived a soul here in weeks if you ask me." Turning back to the dwarf he studies him a moment longer, then steps to the side and swings the guisarme out of the way, whipping up some light snow. Temperatures were low and the snow easily moved on the wind.

"You want to look for yourself?" Pointing the tip of the guisarme towards the thin line of smoke curling up from inside the ruined building, Kjetil adds "Something warm is being prepared and there's enough for one more." The dwarf was alone and wouldn't last long this way. Joining them could mean safety for him and for them, safety in numbers. On the other hand they were expecting danger. Before the dwarf can reply, Kjetil speaks up yet again. "We're expecting other guests as well, though. Rats might come this way, just so that you know that supper might be interrupted." Kjetil's slight grin is as cold as the wind as he stares into the distance.

[itches]

"No, if it ain't safe just come back down and we’ll - hold on." Lade called back up to Karthas, cutting himself off as the sound of raised voices came from outside. He couldn't make out the words, but for all that they were urgent there was so sounds of battle to accompany them. "Damn. Something's happening out there. Come on, let's go see if they need rescuing already."

[treehouse]

Karthas shrugged and descended the steps, trying to pick out the path he had taken up and probably failing.

Ahh, the siren call of battle! Soothing to our ears, yes...

Do you ever sleep?

[Moving outside to investigate commotion, link up with others, etc.]

[Gralhruk]

"Mmmm," Grimjaw grunts non-committally, wondering exactly what the human's joke about rats meant. They made a good stew if you had some spices.

"Dinner would sit well. Mind if I look at the farmhouse first? Might be there's something to tell me where they went."

[Tashalar]

Even though Grimjaw couldn't interpret Kjetil's remark about the rats as anything but a joke, Kjetil's demeanor didn't have anything remotely humorous as he stared into the distance. "Yes, go ahead." Kjetil turns to walk at the left side of the dwarf, switching the guisarme to his left hand and carrying it casually. "But introductions have to be made," he adds as Lade and Karthas storm out of the tower, the Red Robes move closer and Renaltus peeks around the corner of the building.

As they move towards the ruined building, Kjetil stares straight and lowers his voice as he speaks. "There aren't many of us left in these troubled times, but fear not. For now, no harm will come to you."

"We've got us a guest, who would've thought that?" Kjetil attempts a smile. As the others approach, Kjetil motions to Lade. "That's Lade, the leader of our group. Lade, this is Grimjaw who is looking for someone here." Kjetil's expression didn't tell if he mistrusted the dwarf for his strange story. "An invitation for dinner has been made." This last sentence sounded rather formal, as if some kind of contract had been formalized.

[Gralhruk]

Grimjaw feels the ritual about the words, knowing well the contract between host and guest. He had not eaten yet, nor had they sat at any table but already he found he had a certain respect for Kjetil and his straightforward manner. His eyes take in the leader, falling to the axe in short order. It was indeed adamantine. His curiosity is piqued further by Lade's somewhat disheveled appearance. These two were not what he had come to expect in humans.

"Aye, an invitation has been accepted. I'm Grimjaw - I've a strong back and I'm good with my hands, if there's aught I can do."

[itches]

"Stone hold," Lade greeted the dwarf in his own language once he took the situation in. It had been years since he had last spoken to any of the Earth Folk. "We can always use help, but whomever you seek are not here."

Glancing at the others, the aging mercenary cleared his throat with a grunt and switched to common.

"That is, whoever yer looking for ain't here. Last folk here left weeks - maybe months - before the city was abandoned. Been empty a while."

[treehouse]

Karthas briefly considered giving the dwarf a traditional greeting in Abyssal, but thought better of it. The voice in his head was chattering at top speed all the while.

...I TOLD you there was a dwarf on the hill, but do you listen to me? Nooo, you don't! All things would go so swimmingly if you would just let me take charge once in a while, I could have killed the little stone child and...

He grimaced. The voice had certainly not seen this dwarf on any hill - it gave incorrect names to all manner of imaginary terrors. All part of the madness...

"I am called Damondred Karthas. You are welcome here."

[Gralhruk]

Amazement is plain in Grimjaw's face when Lade greets him in dwarven, but it brings about a subtle change in his manner. He stands straighter and faces Lade squarely, feet planted securely apart, corded arms folded across his chest with his hands still visible, his demeanor taking on the formality of ritual. Bowing low without taking his eyes from the tall man, he responds in the age old words of his native tongue.

"Stone endures. I am Grimjaw, once Gimdjal of the clan Khorvek of the family Morgadin. The one I seek is gone, if ever she was here. I ask to search this site for some clue, and offer my help in return."

When Lade switches to common, the dwarf glances at the others, nodding at Damondred's welcome but otherwise remaining silent. His gaze moves immediately back to Lade, his face expressionless.

[Tashalar]

Kjetil simply nodded at Lade's words. The dwarf fell silent after speaking in his native tongue. Lade's words and Karthas' welcome were enough of an assurance for Kjetil for now. Without another word but with a short nod to Grimjaw, Kjetil turned on his heels and walked back to his guard post. Scanning the snow-covered terrain for movement, he strained his ears to catch any conversation going on behind him.

[Gralhruk]

Grimjaw waits in the requisite stance for the formal words of acceptance or denial, though neither of these are forthcoming. Lade's bearing matches none of the ritual postures, and from the expression on his face his mind is clearly already on other things. The dwarf glances once more at the axe at Lade's side then abruptly turns toward the farmhouse, irritated that the weapon should be in the hands of someone obviously ignorant of the culture that spawned it.

"I'll check the farmhouse first."

The dwarf moves to the remains of the homestead, pushing down the past with each step. Carefully, he searches each room, looking for anything that might give him insight into who had been here and why they had left.

[BigRedRod]

Grimjaw finds little in the farmhouse beside the damp mess caused by a winter of neglect. The dwarf leans down slightly and pulls an ambiguous mass from beneath the snow. Something wells up inside. Not within him, but within Emmon. Not a memory, just a feeling. A feeling faded by time, by weather, by madness. The thing was a child's plaything. A doll. There is no name. Not for the doll or the girl who once held it as she stood atop the ridge looking over the lake. She turned and smiled. Emmon's niece.

Many months of dereliction had claimed any clues. The family of Emmon's brother had left long ago. The brother, the little girl and a wife. A wife with-child. Perhaps the girl was no longer little. Perhaps the unborn one was now born. Almost certainly. Standing in the snow-filled house, Grimjaw's mind itches as he tries to summon up specific memories and instead is struck by a roaring barrage. Trying to round up sheep after a wall had crumbled in the night. Drinking moonshine staring up at the stars with his brother. And a fight. Emmon had fought his brother over something. It was the last time he came here. The what will not take on a form, however. He argued, he shouted, he struck his brother. And then away into the night, burning with shame, he marched away.

Closing his eyes, Grimjaw does his best to push the memories back. Only the tower had survived the wrath of the cruel weather. If there was some hint to be found as to the fate of the family and the possibly location of Emmon's wife and boy, that would be the place.

Outside, Renaltus has taken charge of the campfire and sits with both of the Red Cloaks bringing a large pot of tea to boil and discussing the magical ritual. Their voices are low, almost conspiratorial. Swept away by the wind.

[Tashalar]

Kjetil watches Grimjaw every now and then as the dwarf searches the ruins. When the Red Robes join Renaltus at the camp site, Kjetil strains to hear what they are talking about. He didn't trust the Red Robes but knew that they had to rely on them for the ritual. For just a fraction of a second Kjetil considers leaving his post to better be able to make out their words, but he immediately decides against it.

Leaning back against the old bricks, the Aart continued to watch out for any signs of movement.

[OOC: Kjetil will strain to hear what they are talking about - listen +6 - but won't move nearer if he fails.]

[BigRedRod]

Kjetil can barely hear what is being discussed and the odd word he does hear doesn't seem to make a great deal of sense without the greater context.

Anbaric minima. Ether drift. Rift flux. And a hundred other phrases which the Northlander neither understood or cared to. From his time in the temple, however, he recognised a few. Presumably, the trio were talking as the Redcloaks and Priests often did about the dimensional anchors.

[itches]

Lade watched Grimjaw explore the farm site for a few minutes until he disappeared inside one of the buildings. Content that his curiosity seemed genuine, he turned back to find his companions settling down beside their makeshift camp.

"Alright boys," He said in a loud voice. "We're out somewhere new and have a visitor, it's all very exciting but it ain't no picnic – we’ve got work to do. Kjetil is on watch, Renaltus will have something ready by the time we're finished. The rest of ya lot, we all know what needs to be done so grab some work and get to it."

[Gralhruk]

His milky eyes open to a world that wasn't there - greens and blues, the shouts and calls of a people at honest work. The stuff of life. He breathes the fresh warm air, scents from the great cookpot in the kitchen making his stomach rumble. He closes his eyes, feeling the chill wind whip the memory from his mind. When next they open it is dark, with weighty stone above, alien whisperings on either side. Perverse thoughts drifted through his mind and he salivated, stalking the warmbloods. He raises a thick hand to his temple and clenches his jaw.

When he withdraws it, the world is snow and ice, a deserted farmhouse in ruins before him, a few scattered humans go about their business. Emmon. The farm. For a moment, the emptiness yawns wide once more, brimming with the vast sea of stolen recollection. He shakes his great head.

Nothing. There was nothing here for him. He looks again toward the tower - old, forbidding, strong. If any had stayed, that was where. With a grimace, the dwarf moves toward it, a vague uneasiness growing as he approaches.

[treehouse]

Karthas noticed the dwarf's slow march towards the tower and began to follow.

Yes....get him while he's alone...we cannot trust the stone children, better to strike first...

"I've been to the top, and just so you aren't surprised, there's a corpse up there hanging from the rafters."

[BigRedRod]

Lade directs his fellows to start the unloading of the wood into the base of the tower for the moment as Grimjaw sets about making his way up the spiral of stone steps clearly not intended for a dwarf's stride.

Renaltus and the two Moonbringers approach to offer their aid and thoughts on the obelisk,
"It seems to us," begins the Druid, "that you have had the very same idea we were just discussing."

"I would've said it wasn't possible, me." the shorter of the two cultists chimes in, "But we reckon it might just. Despite all that stone. If we can do it right at the top."

Renaltus nods,
"We'll need to remove the shutters and maybe a few bricks. And of course we'll save time on building a tower of own but the ritual itself will be more complicated. I've been talking it over with our two experts, we're going to need to channel the anchor through the clear air of the windows, otherwise it'll get caught up in the stone. Elemental earth is the very essence of Aos and it'll drive the magic down to the ground."

"And do precisely bugger all."
Adds the short man in the red cloak

...

The skeleton still had a few patches of blackish-green flesh hanging onto it and the clothes had lasted well. Emmon knew exactly who the man had been. And he knew it with such clarity that Grimjaw couldn't escape the fact either. The body had been Emmon's brother. The man who once owned this farm had taken his own life, hanging himself on the tower. The brother of the man who was not Grimjaw had chosen to go willingly into the nightmare that awaited every lost soul without the Red Moon.

[Gralhruk]

It was certainly not the first corpse he had seen, in a life lived long and violent enough to have inured him to the physical horrors of battle, and yet the emotion that washed through him scraped his nerves raw. The pain he felt was completely misplaced in him, given who he was. It was Emmon's loss, surely, but Emmon hadn't known about this, couldn't have remembered it.

He squeezes his temples, trying to quash his growing dread and force some sort of order into his brain. Slowly, he removes his hand, the sound of the humans filtering up from below, like mice in the grain. He ought to cut the man down. One look at the moldering floor deepened his frown; he was no mouse, to scamper across that rotting expanse.

The beams above looked more solid - thicker by far than the floor. Hopefully the rot hadn't penetrated too far. With deliberate movements, the dwarf lifts the coil of thick, vaguely silky rope from around his shoulder and ties a slipknot. Casting it up over the beam above, he makes it fast and tests his weight on it. Creaking of stone and wood and fiber, but nothing to indicate it won't hold him. With mild regret he leaves the solidity of stone and pulls himself up carefully, hand over hand, and levers himself up until he is straddling the beam. It was time to return Emmon's brother to the earth.

[BigRedRod]

Hoisting himself up with the rope and bracing against the stone wall, Grimjaw makes surprisingly easy work of the climb into the rafters above. Once raised above the precarious platform he reflects briefly on the inadequacies of this architecture. The stone shell of the tower seemed secure, but the wooden features within were clearly entirely unsuitable with how they had suffered from the weather. This was no dwarvern construct.

The beams sigh loudly with occasional worrying cracking sounds as he shuffles towards the apex of the ceiling. Gripping the rope from which is not-brother was hanged, Grimjaw clamps onto the rafter with his thighs and begins to slowly saw through the rope. His motions are carefully controlled to avoid letting the corpse suddenly drop onto the rotten platform below, given its state the body may well just pass straight through. Emmon would be distraught at such a development and Grimjaw was a Dwarf. He did not dishonour his deceased brethren.

With time the damp rope frays and then finally snaps allowing Grimjaw to gradually lower the body onto the platform and then crawl backwards to his own rope. On his descent the wooden roof support above starts to shudder in a most unsettling manner. He had achieved his goal, but the tower itself had suffered.

[Gralhruk]

Grunting with satisfaction as his feet once more touch the stone of the stair, the dwarf then carefully pulls the body toward him, hoping the frayed rope will hold but a little longer. Thankfully, it does and he takes his grisly parcel back down the stair. The humans are busy at some work or another; he pays them little heed on his way out, except to steer himself past Kjeitl.

"Roof up there is ready to collapse. Best not disturb it."

He hefts his burden and then starts off toward the corner of the lot where he proceeds to bury this fallen man that was not his brother.

[Tashalar]

Kjetil had kept an eye on the proceedings at the tower and neglected his watch duty for a few moments too long when he spotted the dwarf carrying the corpse. As Grimjaw plodded past him, Kjetil's gaze focused on Lade. Pointing at his chest first, then after Grimjaw, Kjetil hoped he didn't test the old man's eye sight too much. "Someone take over watch," he exclaimed. "Gonna help get this done quickly," he added, jabbing a thumb once more in Grimjaw's direction.

Swiftly he followed in Grimjaw's footsteps and came to a halt about five yards away from the dwarf. "I would aid you if you'll have me," he offered, simply.

[Gralhruk]

Blackened flesh and too white bone, the crisp cold air whipping away most of what little stench managed to cling to the frozen corpse; hard to believe it was the same man he remembered so well. His mind is full of those memories despite his efforts to shut them out, focus on the here and now, absolve himself of the loss within. Perhaps the burial would fill that hole, help him concentrate on the business of putting Emmon's past behind him.

He stops and surveys the spot he'd chosen, dimly aware of the footsteps behind him but not turning. He lays Emmon's brother down, arranging his stiff, ruined limbs as best he can even as he surveys the remains for anything that might tell him more - injuries, markings, some oddment stored in his rotting clothes. He stops and looks up at Kjetil's offer. He nods, once. This one had heart. Grimjaw indicates the piled stones of the crumbling shed.

"We'll build a cairn."

[Tashalar]

Kjetil nodded and approached slowly. When Grimjaw had finished arranging the body and gave the signal, Kjetil help him gather the necessary stones. The arrangement and final placing of the stones he left to the strong dwarf and only lent a hand when needed, which rarely was the case. Whoever this was, he... or she must have been dear to him, the Aart thought while they worked in silence.

[BigRedRod]

With only a few words and gestures, Lade and Karthas quickly manage to establish an order of patrol and watch ensuring that neither of them freeze to death and all of the likely approaches by the inevitable ratmen are covered. The cold is so great that even a quick march isn't sufficient to stop a painful numbness creeping up from the earth, through boots, into the ends of toes, spreading into feet and climbing up through the legs to meet its allies which have begun from their own extremities. Every fifteen minutes or so, one or other of the two watchmen retreat back to the blazing fire within one of the tumbledown buildings.

The actions of the workcrew are similar. The trio try to keep working at all times, climbing the steep stairs of the tower, raising wood up near the platform, arguing about just how the planks should be fixed to best support the anchor, and then retreating one at a time to crouch by the fire and take a tin cup of tea. It seems one of the Redcloaks was a carpenter before devoting his entire life to a fanatical cult, not an engineer or architect, but a profession close enough to offer some insight. The scraps of conversation which travel between cracked lips when the guards and workers find their brief warming periods overlapping reveal that all should be ready to start by mid-afternoon. Far sooner than would have been possible if they had attempted to construct their own tower upon the frozen land.

Emmon's brother had little about his remains. Aside from a few non-descript odds and ends, the only item which catches Grimjaw's eye is the Ankh of Pelor. A holy symbol that the man had crafted himself when he was but a lad. He'd been out playing with Emmon a little further along the lakeside one fine summer morning. The game that the two were engaged in had no particular rules or title but involved a good deal of shouting and clambering up and down trees. He'd crawled out too far along a branch in order to escape Emmon's pursuit and the wood had sudden given way with a loud snap. Falling down through the tree, Emmon's brother struck his head firmly upon a rather more solid part of the tree and fell down with a great splash into the lake.

When he reflected upon this event, Emmon was never really convinced that the buoyancy offered by the sundered tree limb (upon which his brother had fallen) had saved his life. Emmon preferred to think that it was his own swift actions of diving in after his unconscious sibling. But to Emmon's brother, it was obvious: This had a been a lesson from above. And to his credit, after he carved the holy symbol from the piece of wood which he claimed has saved his life, he paid more than just lip service to Pelor and really did try to follow his teachings.

The piece of carved wood had been battered with the passage of time, but it was the same one which the man had worn all his life. Working with Kjetil, the dwarf sweeps away an area of snow on the ground and sets about piling stones over the remains.

As they work, the weather starts to take a turn for the worse. The intense blue of the sky starts to fade and bands of light grey cloud materialise. More snow was on its way.

Renaltus and Karthas had coincided. The pair both huddled close to the fire in the second ruined gatehouse, the druid was speaking,
"So you see, the attack won't come until we start the ritual. And that is at the earliest. The rats would need to be watching for it and unless we have seriously underestimated them, they should not even be aware of what we are about to do. Once the ritual here starts then they'll feel it. And once it ends, I'm sure that they will find us along with the other twelve towers. Given time that is. No, we're safe from the rats here."

A terrible scream from outside halts Renaltus from explaining just how safe from attack the farm is. In the ruined doorway of the abandoned farmhouse a maelstrom had started to form. A swirling vortex of blacks and blues,
"Leave."
The words are carried by the wind.

Lade turns back as he hears the sound, the ridge offered an unparalleled view of the farm. Nothing could have made its approach without him having seen, but there was something down there.

"LEAVE"
The words come again as the tempest calms a little and resolves itself into the shape of a man.

"THIS. IS. MINE. YOU. MUST. LEAVE."

Raising its incorporeal hands into the air, the figure screams again and down from the heavens come half a dozen bolts of crimson energy. They plunge into the snow, causing it to glow an eerie red. As if somehow a fire burned beneath the frozen ground. And then comes movement.

The red fades and from each of the six bolts rises another figure. But these have physical form. Humanoid shapes trapped beneath clawing their way to freedom. Not men, but crude mannequins resembling their creators. Souls of the dead taking up residence in fallen husks. Bulbous sackcloth faces with clumsily sewn on eyes and grins. Loose snow caught in wide straw hats. The sound of snapping wood as the figures pull away the stands upon which they were crucified. Scarecrows, which had fallen upon the ground and been lost beneath the snow.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Renaltus
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMap.jpg

[itches]

The frozen wind sliced through Lade's flesh as he fell.

There was no way that anything could have sneaked past his watch to approach the camp below. He had spent too many hot, cold and wet hours in the field for that to ever happen. Yet a figure made of swirling magics stood there, bellowing an incomprehensible demand. He stood separate and watched as the words were shouted, flinched as the sanguine lightening flashed to the ground, took a deep breath as the effigies rose on invisible puppet strings.

He stood above it all, the nightmare creatures drawn into a winter world that drew ever less resemblance to the spring in which he had been born. Horror arose below, but he was surrounded by peace. The wind blew fresh and cold, virgin white snow glistened in all directions. No blood, no disease, no hunger, no pain, no fear.

He moved to the precipice, and stepped.

[BigRedRod]

One of the key problems of snow is never knowing just how deep it is. If the ground had been perhaps an inch further away he would have landed perfectly and moved out the ensuing crouch in one smooth motion. Instead he lands badly, twisting his ankle sideways. The pain is agonising, but it will pass. This he knew from being an experienced man and a fighter. A soul which has lived and fought this long knows when an injury is serious. This was just an inconvenience. Rising, he ploughed on through the snow towards the nearest of the strawmen.

The storm quietens around the figure, reduced to a few black streamers locked in an orbit. A man at the very end of his middling years. A well built man. A man that Grimjaw recognises instantly. A man who had a brother named Emmon. Turning slowly, the figure marches effortlessly through the snow leaving not even a single print behind. He pauses at the edge of his home, and grins at the dwarf and the northerner standing beside the cairn which coneals his own corpse.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Renaltus
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapr1b.jpg

[treehouse]

Scarecrows! I HATE scarecrows. They never have anything useful to say.

...for once we are in agreement.

Karthas stepped around the corner of the fence and pointed his finger at the nearest abomination, sending a beam of ebon energy crackling across the field. As he did this, he drew a wand from a pocket.

[Move action to move 1 square east, drawing wand of ray of enfeeblement during move, then standard action to fire an eldritch blast at S3 - ranged touch attack [roll0], for [roll1] damage.]

[Tashalar]

Attack. And not only that. An eerie sense of wrongness hang in the air, emanating from the incorporeal figure. Kjetil neither knew who the figure was or had been nor what it wanted. But one thing he was sure of... each and every one of his senses told him that really were under attack.

Dropping the stone he had been holding, Kjetil quickly picks up his guisarme and climbs onto the adjacent wall. His eyes narrow as he studies the scare crows. "What in Odin's name are those," he mutters under his breath.

[Move action to pick up guisarme. Move action to climb up on the wall behind the cairn to-be.]

[BigRedRod]

Despite the stones of the wall being slick with frost and ice, Kjetil manages to haul himself to the top, taking up with weapon as he does so, in such a casual manner that had the approaching rabble been capable of such emotions that they might have been awed.

Leaving Renaltus by the fire, Karthas moves swiftly out of the ruined gatehouse and takes up a position by one of the collapsed sections of the wall. He raises the hand which holds no wand and lets fly a blast of darkest black across the pure white snow. The shambling bundle of straw and cloth steps forward swaying wildly and managing to avoid the ray altogether. It strikes the ground a half dozen feet behind revealing a small patch of frozen earth and sending a column of snow crystals up into the air where they rain down upon the farm.

The scarecrows move awkwardly, lacking any well defined skeleton or muscles. Each step is a distinct jerk. Lade finds himself confronted by one of the grotesque, lifeless forms. It lashes out at him with a rather clumsy punch which the old warrior easily bats aside with his axe. Another paws at Karthas from the other side of the wall, but the attack is lazy and easily avoided. The spirits are not quite at home in their new bodies just yet.

"Wicked abominations!"
Renaltus' voice rings out as he strides from his position by the fire, staff held high in the air. As he speaks, a strange swell of energy forms around his free hand. Tightening the hand into a fist causes it to ignite into a ball of flame.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Renaltus
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows2.png

[Gralhruk]

The pale dwarf barely hears Kjetil's question, focused completely on the shade of the man he was set to bury. He reaches down to the stones of the cairn, instinctively seeking the Ankh that had been around the corpse's neck, wondering if his meddling had drawn this spirit. No matter, it was here now.

With a grunt, he tears himself away and follows the taller man atop the wall.

<ooc: Move action to try and pick up the ankh. Move action to climb up on the wall next to Kjetil.>

[treehouse]

Karthas grimaced as his first blast flew wide, but remained silent as he formed his hands side-by-side into a weird half-circle, flinging another eldritch bolt at the scarecrow directly in front of him.

[Eldritch blast again - ranged touch attack - [roll0], damage [roll1]]

[itches]

Lade pulled his lips back into a grimace like smile. It was always easier when the enemy saved him the effort and walked into the reach of his axe. Pulling the weapon free from his belt, the man slid to the side and swung a low horizontal blow.

[[OOC: Quick draw, hit with axe. Att: [roll0] dmg: [roll1]]]

[BigRedRod]

Ankh in hand, the rather shorter figure of Grimjaw arrives upon the top of the wall beside Kjetil. Lade's melee with one of the scarecrows draws their attention, the strange possessed figures were a complete unknown, not that it seemed to interfere with the strategy employed by the aged fighter. His axe plunges into damp, rotting straw. A red aura burns wildly around the fake body for a split second. Damaging their hosts seem to cause the spirits to lose their ability to hold on to the corporeal.

Flinging himself forwards, the spectre of Emmon's Brother closes the distance with Grimjaw. He glides through the air with ease, far faster than a man could run, and given the wintery conditions, outstripping his foes entirely in maneuverability. Having taken up his own position upon the wall, he stares at the dwarf with his brother's memories. A ghostly hand lashes out, skimming past the tip of Grimjaw's nose. A hand composed of a terrible, dead coldness.


Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Renaltus
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows3.png

[Tashalar]

Whatever and whoever this creature was, Kjetil was pretty sure he couldn't even hurt it. Kjetil grunted. "My weapon cannot hurt this one," he muttered under his breath but loud enough for Grimjaw to hear. Much louder he called for Lade. "Lade, bring your axe to bear on this one!" Turning his head to shout over his shoulder, Kjetil continued his call for backup. "Renaltus, Damondred, we require your aid!"

[New OOC: Kjetil readies an attack against any other enemy that comes into range which he'll use to trip (followed up with an attack at +4 (if successful) to deal damage). Any AoO will also be used to trip, then damage. Note that he might get a +1 for being on higher ground than any scarecrow advancing.]

[Old OOC: Attack [roll0]; damage? [roll1]]

[BigRedRod]

Too close to fight effectively, Karthas fires another blast of foul energy as the scarecrow paws at him again. The impact is solid and impressive, but sadly is with the crumbling wall and not the foe. Rock dust fills the air between the pair for a brief moment causing the attack of the possessed mannequin to also miss.

Lade is not so lucky. Distracted by Kjetil's call for an attack upon the spirit of Emmon's brother, the damaged scarecrow he is locked in battle with manages to land a powerful blow into his shoulder. For a collection of damp straw animated by a lost soul, the impact is surprisingly real.

One of the shambling figures enters within Kjetil's range and receives a powerful clout to the midsection which sends it tumbling down into the snow. Not content with having floored his opponent, the northerner runs it through, carving a long gash in the back of the figure's shirt. As with Lade, the injury causes the crimson manifestation of the soul to return to view, a burning roughly human shape clinging to its host. It lasts but a second before it fades.

Striding out further into the snow to get a better view of the melee atop the wall, Renaltus hurls a fistful of flame towards the spirit. The flames strike the incorporeal being in a disconcertingly solid manner. Batting the flames away, the figure turns his attention away from Grimjaw and looks straight at the druid. Eyes filled with hatred.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows [S2-Prone]
Renaltus
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows4.png

[Gralhruk]

Not ready to test whether the spirit will be cowed by the holy symbol in his grasp and feeling vulnerable up on the wall, Grimjaw decides to fall back to a more advantageous position. With a quick heave, he leaps off the wall and moves north of the prone scarecrow.

<OOC: Jump down from the wall unless that's really stupid, move as close to a flanking position on S2 as possible.>

[itches]

Risking a glance over his shoulder, Lade bite back a curse. The ghost had made its way across the snowfield and now stood upon the stone wall threatening his companions. As much as he hated to leave a foe still standing, he knew that Kjetil was right, The Key was their best chance at harming the spirit.

Feinting toward the strawman, Lade ducked and spun away, ploughing himself through the deep snow towards his friends.

[[OOC: Withdrawal, move towards EB but stop 5feet away]]

[BigRedRod]

Neither Grimjaw or Lade make a single attack as they reconfigure their positions upon the battlefield. Having moved away from the glowering incorporeal figure of Emmon's Brother, the spirit is freed from distractions and seeks out Renaltus. Tatters of the man's form seem to strip away as he speeds through the air. Poorly defined arms lash out at the druid, making contact with the sides of the man's head. Renaltus screams but there is no sound, Emmon's Brother seems to consume the pain and anguish of the druid, becoming ever so slightly more solid looking.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows [S2-Prone]
Renaltus [2 negative energy levels]
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows5.png

[treehouse]

Karthas snarled, "GET AWAY FROM THAT THING!" as he backpedaled through the snow, stumbling to find a clear shot around Renaltus.

[5' step northwest, should give me a clear shot. Then eldritch blast 50% miss chance vs. incorporeal (51 or higher makes it) - [roll0]. Ranged touch attack [roll1], damage [roll2].]

[Tashalar]

In one way or another, the creatures they were fighting were otherworldly. That thought didn’t bode well. Cringing inwardly as the incorporeal being seemed to feed on Renaltus’ very essence, Kjetil knew they had to stand together to have any chance of facing this terrible foe. But first he’d take care of the very tangible form lying on the snow in front of him. Maybe destroying it would weaken the other?

"Regroup," Kjetil shouts as he lifts his guisarme high and brings it crashing down on the scarecrow. Despite the thrill of battle, he strove to keep control.

{OOC: Attack +10 (+8 base, power attacking for 2, +4 to attack for opponent being prone): [roll0]
Damage: [roll1] }

[BigRedRod]

The prone form of the scarecrow has little opportunity to dodge Kjetil's attack. His guisarme slams down onto the strawman, cutting a long gash across its form. The red manifestation of the spirit struggles to maintain its hold again, but somehow it still clings to the physical world. Before it can return to its feet, the Northlander lashes out again, lopping an arm from the possessed form. The damage is too great and this time the crimson aura spams uncontrollable before launching itself back into the air. As it ascends it makes a terrible sound, a mournful scream of woe. Without a spirit to animate it, the straw and cloth remains fall onto the snow.

Moving away from his own foe, Karthas focuses his energies on the real threat, the looming spectre. This time his blast was on target but it passes through Emmon's Brother as if he were merely an illusion.

Lade feels rather than sees his own scarecrow advancing upon him, he dodges forward as the blow comes, letting the blow scythe through empty air.

Renaltus drives his enchanted hand toward the spirit, not in the least bit deterred by his own loss of energy. He pushes his open palm into the space occupied by Emmon's Brother, the magical flames managing top burn the incorporeal presence once again.

From the base of the tower, the two Moon Cultists emerge, their faces red from the sprint around the crude stone staircase within the tower. Both fix their gazes upon the restless spirit of Emmon's Brother and launch crescent-shaped bolts of sanguine force. They arc through the air but both strike their target unerringly.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Renaltus [2 negative energy levels]
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows6.png

[Gralhruk]

The northerner destroys the downed scarecrow with ease, prompting Grimjaw to give him a look of stoic approval. From the other side of the stone wall he can hear the sounds of fighting, too far away. Ahead of him, Lade is struggling thorough the snow with a haunting figure coming swiftly behind. Might be he can do something about that.

<OOC: Draw shortbow and shoot at S1; +7 to hit, 1d6 damage>

[itches]

Lade didn't bite back the curse this time as he watched the ghost speed away across the snowfield. There was no way they would be able to chase it down.

The sound of snow shifting behind him was all the warning he got, lunging forward and out of the path of the stawman's claws. Twisting around he swung The Key at the creature's head and slid back towards the dwarf. They needed to regroup.

[[OOC: Hit with axe Att: [roll0] dmg: [roll1] then move towards Gimjaw, taking the AoO]]

[BigRedRod]

Grimjaw circumvents the problems of his own short legs and the unfavourable terrain by bringing his bow to bear upon the foe swiping at Lade. The arrow is perfectly on target and burrows itself quite deeply into what would be the scarecrow's forehead, sadly however, it lacks the brain which would otherwise have otherwise made the shot a guaranteed kill.

The momentum imparted by the dwarf's arrow gives Lade all the opening he needs. One diagonal slash and the strawman falls into three distinct pieces. With such a lack of cohesion, the possessing spirit is forced to abandon its host. A second bolt of red hurtles back upwards from whence it came.

Despite his own current weakness from the onslaught of Emmon's Brother, Renaltus is able to somehow dodge the incorporeal swipes of the spirit. Such actions seem more covered by luck than ability, however.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Renaltus [2 negative energy levels]
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows7.png

[treehouse]

Karthas continued trudging through the snow, flinging bolts of crackling black energy at the ghostly figure, a hideous scowl frozen on his face.

[move action: 1 square northwest, 1 square west. standard action: eldritch effin' blast #4. 50% miss chance (51 or higher makes it) - [roll0] // ranged touch attack [roll1] // damage [roll2].]

[Tashalar]

Kjetil eyes the scene, his gaze first focusing on the ghostly figure and permanently dodging Renaltus, then on Karthas...

... at the sight of the black energy bolts striking the ghostly figure square in the chest, the Aart sighed in relief. Something at least was hurting this one.

...there's more to him than I thought...

Turning to face Lade and Grimjaw, he informs them of the situation. "Karthas and the Moonbringers can..." Kjetil hesitates shortly "... hurt it. We've got to cover them and keep the other scarecrows off them!"

Pointing in Karthas' direction, Kjetil sets out, leaps across the gap in the wall and proceeds to keep the scarecrows off Karthas' back.

[OOC: Double move with jumps to get as far towards and to the lower right of Karthas as possible. Jump check is +13 (forgot bonus for fast movement on sheet). 10' reach in case some bastardy scarecrow comes nearer. 80' movement total and he'll try to cover as much as possible on walls and via jumps so as to not suffer the penalties for snow traversion... ;)]

[BigRedRod]

Kjetil lands on the snow running, he moves with a bestial grace. Long, loping strides intended to minimise the available time for his boots to sink into the crystalline snow. Once he starts moving the barbarian is an unstoppable force, he charges past the crackling spectre of Emmon's Brother and emerges beside his ally, the warlock.

Karthas' attack is equally successful. The blast of damned void strikes the spirit as though he were a solid entity. Emmon's Brother screams out in rage, not pain, as the warlock's incantation harms his tenuous presence.

With Kjetil blocking the path to Karthas, the scarecrow rakes at the barbarian, a blow which is easily slapped aside by the northener's guisarme.

Renaltus' own attack simply passes harmlessly through the ghost. The peculiarities of the incorporeal form denying any damage from the fire.

Despite having offered only a single spell a piece to the battle, the two cultists seem rather panicked and contribute nothing further except clearly searching for a possible escape route which keeps them from closing any distance with the spirit currently draining the lifeforce from Renaltus. Both seem to draw the same conclusion, the only escape is through the frozen waters of the lake. A cold, slow death as drowning battles with hypothermia. For now, both hold their ground.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Renaltus [2 negative energy levels]
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows8.png

[Gralhruk]

The bright light of noon reflecting off the water, the buzz of insects and croak of bullfrog. Dazzlingly bright, as they skipped stones off the surface of the lake - two boys, whiling away a rare day of rest. He could see it, superimposed over the ghostly white backdrop of snow and ice, the color and life that had been.

Grimjaw stares at the shade of that same brother, wondering what he remembers. Not that it made any difference. He wasn't Emmon; none here would know him or care. He could see the scarecrows converging on the others, and in these he knew his steel would bite. With stolid determination he lopes toward one.

<OOC: Double move toward S4 (going through the opening in the wall), taking the balance check or whatever for moving quickly through the snow. I'll drop the bow as a free action after the first move and draw the urgosh on the second move.>

[itches]

Shoving his way through the snow, Lade followed after Grimjaw through the gap in the stone wall, his longer legs allowing him to keep up and maintain his axe at the ready incase any of the creatures rushed them.

[BigRedRod]

Grimjaw and Lade make a break for a crumbled section of the old dry stone wall. The dwarf emerges on the other side, urgosh in hand, with Lade at his side, axe in hand.

The spectre lashes out at Renaltus again, and this time he catches hold of the druid. One hand on his neck and one upon his heart. Energy pours out from the man into the ghost, by the time that Renaltus breaks free of the hold, his skin is tinged with blue and he seems on the verge of collapse.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Renaltus [4 negative energy levels]
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows9.png

[treehouse]

Karthas dared a glance behind him as Kjetil landed in front of the pursuing scarecrow, but kept most of his attention focused on channeling death and destruction upon the ethereal menace. Out loud, he mused, "Perhaps now would be a good time to negotiate!"

...negotiate? You've gone soft...

Survival first, then revenge, then ego-petting. That's our priority order. Stop distracting me.


[standard action: ray of enfee-no just kidding, eldritch blast! 50% miss chance (51 or higher makes it) - [roll0] // ranged touch attack [roll1] // damage [roll2].]

[Tashalar]

Kjetil looked over his shoulder and shuddered inwardly. These strange scarecrows were no match for them. But the ghostly figure more than made up for that. "Renaltus, fall back," the Aart shouted as he stepped away from the animated being in front of him. Bringing his guisarme to bear in a low arc, he tried to sweep the scarecrow off its feet and follow up with a swing to cut it in half.

{OOC: 5' step to the left, touch attack to trip (power attack -2 included): [roll0], trip check: [roll1]
If successful, follow-up attack with power attack for 2: [roll2], damage: [roll3]
When the scarecrow tries to get up, AoO with the same mods as before: +10 attack, 2d4+7 damage.}

[BigRedRod]

Somehow underestimating the length of his polearm, Kjetil manages to sweep at knee-high empty air just before the scarecrow. Karthas has a similar lack of luck with his own attack, this time the blast of arcana goes above the head of Emmon's Brother, rising up into the sky before eventually diffusing into nothingness.

Having been missed by Kjetil's guisarme sweep, the scarecrow surged forwards closing too quickly to allow him another attempt at dropping the possessed mannequin to the ground. One foot plunges rather deeper down into the snow than the thing expected however, causing its powerful hands to rake at empty air.

Grimjaw also finds himself weaving backward to avoid one of the scarecrows as it swings both arms up into the air and down towards himself. Stout as he may be, he dodges gracefully enough.

Despite his own bleak situation, Renaltus also finds a little luck. The druid had not even noticed the scarecrow rapidly converging on his position, it was a coincidence that he happened to be staggering sideways as the straw-stuffed arms scythed their way through the air. His eyes widen as he realises how close he just came to death. Death. The inevitable fate of all. To walk the world unseen, slowly driven mad by the living, perhaps one day gathering the energy to return as a grim spectre or taking on a crude strawman as a replacement for ones own rotted corpse.
"No."
The word starts small,
"NO!"
He shouts it again. Perhaps in his current state, drained of most of his life force, he was no longer thinking as clearly as he might. Perhaps he realised that if gave up and fled then his companions might not triumph, that the ritual might not be completed and the rift between worlds would never been contained and that maybe the Red Moon would never dawn again. Whatever his reasoning, the druid plunged his flaming hand into the spectre once more,
"DIE DAMN YOU."
Perhaps later there would even come a time when Renaltus could laugh about his own words. Right now, the druid spoke from the heart and was untroubled about the academic differences between life, death and undeath which kepy many an arcanist in the ivory towers of the Magewright's Guild awake through the night.

His hand plunged in the space occupied by the formless spirit and his magical fire burns Emmon's Brother. A burning somehow unrelated to heat. Something more pure, more natural, the flames consumed the crude being gathered together by the spirit. It shudders and roars in frustration as the magic sears away at its tenuous link to the material world. Only when it manages to shift slightly, so that the fire no longer burns, does Renaltus pull his hand free.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Renaltus [4 negative energy levels]
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows10.png

[Gralhruk]

Seeing Lade threatening the demonic scarecrow, Grimjaw splits with a deft rolling, putting the adversary between them. His massive hands spin the heavy weapon easily, twelve pounds of honed steel and polished hardwood. When he strikes, it is with the smooth economy of seasoned warrior.

<OOC: 5' step opposite Lade to flank and then full attack. 2 attacks with double weapon: dmg: [roll]1d8+4+1d6, [roll1] dmg: [roll2]>

[itches]

Lade joined Grimjaw in arcing the Key at the scarecrow that had attacked the dwarf before turning and shoving his way through the snow. He didn't like to leave someone in a fight, but the dwarf seemed capable and he needed to get in close to the ghost before it was too late.

[[OOC: Att: [roll0] dmg: [roll1]]]

[BigRedRod]

The axehead of Grimjaw's uniquely dwarvern weapon tastes only air, but as he whirls the urgosh through a complex reversal and counter-thrust he catches the scarecrow off-guard with the spearhead, stabbing it firmly in the neck. A blow which would have dropped a man and critically wounded any creature of flesh and blood no matter how resolute. The long tear down its neck clearly causes the possessing spirit some discomfort however, it writhes, a mass of vaguely humanoid redness overlaying the construct of straw and cloth for a moment.

Not quite in unison, but soon enough after to catch the foe before it has recovered from the dwarf's blow, Lade swings the Key of Kazashziak. The adamantine artifact almost cleaves the scarecrow in two from hip to hip. Almost, but not quite. Holding itself together now through sheer rage and hatred, the spirit lashes out at Lade as he attempts to retreat. Uncoordinated as the blow is, it hands heavily on the back of the warrior's head. The lightness passes briefly, and the black recedes from the edges of his vision. Lade had been hit in the head often enough to know when he was about to knocked out, and this was not one of those times.

What remains of Emmon's Brother dashes sideways, a fast movement which catches the weakened Renaltus entirely by surprise. The arm of the apparition passes through the druid, its hand reaching for something at the centre of his chest. Coming to rest, Emmon's Brother holds a tiny dancing spark and Renaltus stands staring out at nothing, his mouth hanging open and his skin a ghastly white, barely a shade above the surrounding snow. A horrible laugh rings out from the spectre as he squeezes his insubstantial hand into a fist around the tiny glittering spark. There is the smallest flare of green and then blue and then it vanishes and Renaltus falls into a broken heap upon the ground.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows11.png

[Tashalar]

While covering Karthas, Kjetil was keeping an eye on the ghost and his comrades. He paled when he saw the druid drop to the ground, lifeless. Karthas saw the Aart's guisarme drop slowly as if the man was in shock. By the Gods, let it not end like this...

The moment passed in an instant though. Kjetil's gaze caught Karthas'. "This one is but a nuisance," he hisses, indicating the scarecrow with his guisarme. "Evade it as good as you can and focus on the ghost. Lade needs all the assistance he can get."

Nimbly, and without further explanation, the Aart moves off across the snow, ignoring the scarecrow he leaves behind. Circling to the opposite side of the ghost, he brings himself in position and brings his guisarme to bear on it.

{OOC: Move three squares to the left (AoO from scarecrow) and ready an action to assist Lade should he attack. As he'll probably be flanking, he can only fail on the assist attempt on a natural 1.
Should a scarecrow approach, he'll get an AoO which he'll use to trip. Touch attack: +8, trip mod: +6, follow-up for damage: +12 attack, 2d4+3 damage. In case the sc tries to get up, another AoO for damage.}

[treehouse]

Karthas raised an incredulous eyebrow at Kjetil.

"That's...that's whatI've been doing."

He shook his head, grumbling to himself as he launched another dreadful bolt at the apparition. Renaltus' untimely demise disturbed him, though not because of any particular shining he had taken to the druid. He'd heard rumors about ghosts or spectres creating spawn from the creatures they drained, but of more immediate concern, he was now probably the closest attractive target.

[Eldritch blast - 50% miss chance (51 or higher makes it) - [roll0] // ranged touch attack [roll1] // damage [roll2].]

[BigRedRod]

Kjetil moves with a focus which few men ever manage to achieve, the scarecrow flails ineffectually at his sudden departure, and he strides across the snow fall weapon hefted, awaiting Lade to charge the spectre which had claimed Renaltus' lifeforce.

Another bolt of crackling darkness hurtles past the northlander, it flies true but passes harmlessly through the ghostly form of Emmon's Brother. He feels a dull impact, his armour saving him from any real damage as the scarecrow, now no longer subject to Kjetil's undivided attention, renews its attack upon the warlock.

Grimjaw holds his urgosh in both hands and repels an unwanted advance from the enemy nearest. While the others move in an attempt to block Lade from reaching his target.

"Renaltus! No."
One of the cultists steps forward before his colleague catches his arm,
"No, you fool, it's a creature of the closed beyond. We cannot harm it, all we can do is feed it our own souls."


Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows12.png

[Gralhruk]

The white haired dwarf shoves the scarecrow back as it surges forward, adjusting his grip on the finely crafted urgosh in his gnarled hands. He can feel time ticking away as Lade charges towards the ghost. Reluctant to leave an enemy behind, he strikes hard and quick, praying to the all-father to see the justice in this cause.

<OOC: Full attack on S4: 1d20+6 dmg 1d8+4; 1d20+6 dmg 1d6+2; 5' step closer to Lade.>

[itches]

The ghost raised a hand above Renaltus as Lade plunged his legs into the snow, impacting with the frozen soil beneath and pushing himself forward. The hand dropped and the mercenary knew he was moving too slow, he wouldn't make it in time.

Renaltus fell to the feet of the spirit and Lade let out a roar, casting aside his shield to grab The Key with both hands, rushing to the creature at a dangerous speed.

[[OOC: I'm not taking into account any of Kjeti's aid or flank, not doing a power attack, but I am doing a fast move over the snow.

Move:[roll0] Attack: [roll1] Damage: [roll2] Miss (on 1-50) [roll3]

[BigRedRod]

The outstanding quality of Grimjaw's weapon is something the spirit possessing the scarecrow closet to the dwarf entirely fails to note until the axehead slices his flimsy host body almost in half from groin to head. The man of sackcloth and straw falls backwards, opening like a book as he does so. With such damage to its host, the strange red swell that is the manifestation of a lost soul soars upward toward the sky, screaming as it climbs.

Lade's foot finds a hidden treeroot beneath the snow and he stumbles, not quite falling over but not recovering gracefully either. He does his best to close with his foe, but Emmon's Brother remains tantalisingly out of reach.

He turns slowly to face Lade. Rotating in the air, freed from the snow-covered physical realm which is causing so many problems for the party. For a moment, the ghost just stares at the old warrior, his distorted expression trapped somewhere between ecstasy and agony. And then he pounces, both arms high above his head, mouth open, screaming his terrible scream. Perhaps there were words, but Lade did not hear them. This thing had murdered Renaltus. And it had done so almost casually. Armour would not help Lade now. He had to rely on his grace, something which had departed along with the last of his youth a lifetime ago. Twisting sideways, the incorporeal hands grasp at only empty air.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows13.png

[Tashalar]

Kjetil adjusts his position slightly and once more focuses on aiding his elderly comrade's attack. They wouldn't get many chances. Taking in Karthas' position, he mutters "move away from that one and I'll try and keep it off of you."

{OOC: Move one square upwards.
Standard to ready action to aid Lade in his attack (+10 with flanking vs. DC 10).
AoOs vs. scarecrows will be to trip (+8 touch attack, +6 trip check, follow up +12 attack, 2d4+3 damage)}

[treehouse]

Karthas nodded silently, shifting his stance slightly as the scarecrow shambled towards him.

...trusting an 'ally' to watch your back? We have less and less in common by the second...

With little discernible grace, the warlock lunged west, briefly presenting an unprotected profile to the straw-man before he reached the protective arc of Kjetil's guisarme. Without waiting to see if he had been followed, he hurled another black bolt over the armsman's head.

[move action to reach the square that Kjetil just vacated (probably provokes an AoO). Then standard action - eldritch blast targeting Emmon's Brother. 50% miss chance (51 or higher makes it) - [roll0] // ranged touch attack [roll1] // damage [roll2].]

[BigRedRod]

Twisting away from scarecrow, Karthas flings an arcing bolt of raw destructive energy towards the geist currently focused upon Lade. It strikes him square in the back, impacting as solidly as if he were flesh and bone. For a brief moment, it seems that perhaps this battle will not spell the end of the band of heroes and of Aos itself.

Kjetil spins suddenly, thrusting his polarm backwards and then yanking it upwards. Behind Kjetil, the pursuing scarecrow falls into an undignified heap upon the ground. The blade comes down again, slashing open the thing's damp shirt and letting its rotten innards spill outwards. More straw falls free as it recovers its footing. A red shimmer dances around its outline, as the possessing spirit struggles to maintain control.

The remaining scarecrows crowd around Lade, one lashing out with what passes for a closed fist. An attack easily deflected by an almost casual rotation of Lade's axe.

Breaking free, of his companion's grip, one of the red-cloaked cultists rushes towards the nearby pile of planks and takes up a small off-cut of wood. A crude club. A pathetic weapon in such dire circumstance,
"We have to try."
The second cultist remains firmly beside the tower, paralysed by fear.


Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows14.png

[itches]

Lade ignored the unnatural strawmen as they clustered around him, keeping his attention focused on the spirit hovering before him. Adjusting his hold on The Key, the mercenary drew a breath and let out a yell, fueling all of his pain and fear into his arms and he brought the weapon above his head and bringing it down in a mighty arc.

[[OOC: Ghost. Axe. Face. Att: [roll0] Dmg: [roll1] Miss(1-50) [roll2]

[Gralhruk]

Grimjaw's face twists as the scarecrow goes down under his onslaught, finally having some way to vent his frustration at their predicament. Short lived it is, as the spectre of Emmon's brother looms large on the field and in his mind. The world swims with possibilities, things that were or that never were; all dissipates with the red mist of his felled enemy.

Sturdy legs drive him forward, toward yet another of the animated creatures.

<OOC: Balance check to move quickly to S6, opposite of Lade: [roll0]. If I don't fall flat on my bearded face, two-handed attack on S6 [roll1]. Damage is [roll2] plus [roll3] sneak attack damage.>

[BigRedRod]

Grimjaw's weight melts the snow beneath his feet forming a slick layer of water. Its only half a step before the dwarf stumbles forwards and vanishes beneath the thick layer of snow. Powdery crystals swarm into his ears, mouth, nose, the chinks in his armour and any other tiny gaps so that when he regains his footing he is thoroughly chilled to the very core and bares a striking resemblance to a certain kind of winter spirit which scholars have long debated the existence of.

The Key passes straight through the spectre. It would have split his head in two and continued on through to his groin, but it does not. The strange, unsettling physical nature of the ghost rears its ugly head once more and Emmon's Brother laughs as Lade cuts a deep cleft into the ground at his feet. The dwarvern artefact slides cleanly out of the earth as Lade hops backwards. Ten fingers rake past his face, missing by a distance so small that it does not have a name. Sandwiched between his enemies, Lade was not in a favourable position.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Cultists
Grimjaw

[treehouse]

Doing his best to keep Kjetil's guisarme between him and the floundering scarecrow, Karthas continued what was to be a wide circle around the ghost and Lade, firing off more light-sucking blasts of energy as he waded through the snow.

He was surprised at how easily working with a combat partner came to him - he had always been something of a loner.

[Move action to go west two squares. Then standard action - eldritch blast targeting Emmon's Brother. 50% miss chance (51 or higher makes it) - [roll0] // ranged touch attack [roll1] // damage [roll2].]

[Tashalar]

Even though the Aart's instincts told him to finish off the scarecrow closing in on them - one enemy less was one less source for possible death - he knew that their focus had to stay on the ghost. It would hunt them down one by one should they turn and flee... there was nothing to do but focus ...and pray. Focus...

{OOC: Standard to ready action to aid Lade in his attack (+10 with flanking vs. DC 10).
AoOs vs. scarecrows will be to trip (+8 touch attack, +6 trip check, follow up +12 attack, 2d4+3 damage)}

[BigRedRod]

Kjetil lashes out once again at the scarecrow attempting to close with Karthas. His guisarme lashes out and severs the right leg of the stumbling mannequin entirely, as it falls forward the northlander spins and delivers an emphatic final overarm sweep. The heap which collapses upon the snow bears little resemblance to the sackcloth construct which had once warded off crows plaguing Emmon's Brother's fields.

Karthas' boot crunches through the thick snow a short distance from Renaltus' prone body, the dead flesh has taken on a horrid blue-tint as the heat of his body is rapidly lost to the frozen farmland. Not that warmth would return his lost soul. The warlock attacks again, tearing a hole in the fabric of reality and hurling it toward the raging spirit. The bolt of blackness coincides with Emmon's Brother in space but at that moment he exists upon within some alternate reality so that rather than damaging him, it simply disperses harmlessly.

Perhaps being surrounded by undead was in fact the worst situation Lade had ever found himself in. He does his best to dodge the grasping claws of the scarecrows, rolling with the blows when they do land, his gazed fixed upon the true foe. The grim spectre which had plucked the druid's soul from his body, like an apple from a tree.

"Damn you."
The words come from the lips of the cultist still standing beside the tower, his ally moves swiftly, but carefully across the snowfield, crude club raised high in the air above his head as he closes ground with the nearest of the scarecrows. Unwilling to be left alone, the second cultist follows in the footsteps of his ally and arms himself with a length of wood.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows15.png

[itches]

Eyes pulled wide back wide enough to show the whites around it, Lade continued one long yell, trying to ignore the tingle on the back of his neck warning him that any moment now a cold set of claws would plunge into his flesh. Resisting the urge to turn to face one of the many foes around him, Lade swung his axe around his head and into the side of the spirit. In a case like this all he could do was stay focuses, trust his allies to cover his back and trust the Key to strike true.

[[OOC: Att: [roll0] Dmg: [roll1] Miss(51-100) [roll2]]]

[Gralhruk]

Oddly silent, Grimjaw rises from the powdery snow like a stunted yeti just waking from a nap. Ice crystals glitter as he rushes forward once more, prow of a dwarven avalanche. If he doesn't fall on his face again, that is.

<OOC: Balance check to move quickly to S6, opposite of Lade: [roll0]. If I don't fall flat on my bearded face, two-handed attack on S6 [roll1]. Damage is [roll2] plus [roll3] sneak attack damage.>

[BigRedRod]

Grimjaw cleaves into the scarecrow, almost severing one of its wildly flailing arms as the blade plunges along at a slightly raised arc. A fatal wound for a man and for a mannequin animated by a restless spirit it is far from negligible.

The Key passes directly through the spectre of Emmon's Brother. The screaming/laughing face mocks Lade's failure, but the old warrior is too nimble to be caught by the sudden advance of those incorporeal hands.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows16.png

[Tashalar]

Focus... that was the key... but what was Lade doing?! "Focus on his core, Lade! The very thread which binds him to this plane!" Pause. "And sever it!"

{OOC: Rinse and repeat. Standard to ready action to aid Lade in his attack (+10 with flanking vs. DC 10). }

[treehouse]

Karthas continued flinging darkening bolts at the spectre, sweat beading down his forehead despite the frigid conditions.

[Standard action - eldritch blast targeting Emmon's Brother. 50% miss chance (51 or higher makes it) - [roll0] // ranged touch attack [roll1] // damage [roll2].]

[BigRedRod]

The whirling melee of scarecrows, Lade and his target proves too much for Karthas and another blast of void destroys only empty air.

Beset on all sides and with his attention squarely on the spirit before him, Lade takes a few blows from the pair of surviving scarecrows. Wheeling around, one of the cultists draws close enough to strike and brings his chunk of slightly damp wood down upon the back of the head of the scarecrow. Its head squashes awkwardly, as the rotting straw compresses, but the lasting damage as far as the possessor is concerned is minor. Still, minor damage versus the calculated lack of attention from Lade causes the mannequin to shift focus.

Initiative
Lade
Figure
Kjetil
Karthas
Scarecrows
Cultists
Grimjaw

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/StormWatchInnMapScarecrows17.png

[Gralhruk]

The graying locks of Lade suddenly bring to mind his last memory of Dareon, his father, and that fleeting glimpse as the great bear engulfed him in those gigantic claws. He'd been young - 7 or 8, maybe, and life after had been difficult, moving to the city with nothing except the cart laden with the items they'd scrounged . . .

The vision fades into the swirling chaos of the battle in the present, the dark wings of someone's past flying back to the ether, leaving him once more in the conflicted present. Before him stands a less elusive target and he shifts his grip expertly before launching another ferocious attack.

<OOC: Full attack on S6. Attack1: [roll0], Dmg1: [roll1] + [roll2]; Attack2: [roll3], Dmg2: [roll4] + [roll5]>

[itches]

Lade's throat was starting to burn with the concentrated effort of maintaining his scream as he raised The Key for a third swing at the spectral creature.

[BigRedRod]

Grimjaw weaves his arms in a complex pattern, the motion itself drilled into his subconscious. Whipping the urgosh backward, the dwarf recovers his balance and the scarecrow, its sackcloth head split in two spilling out its brown mulch interior, and the wooden pole serving as a spine shattered into pieces. It collapses unceremoniously, crashing onto Lade's exposed back. The spirit within escapes as a red bolt of light, up into the clear winter skies above.

Pushing backward, Lade shoves the now unmoving scarecrow back onto the snow. Kjetil takes the opportunity to lash out across the snow with his polearm as he spots Lade lunging forwards. The mundane weapon emerges from the neck of the spectre, a harmless motion but old habits die hard. Rather than dodge the older warrior, the hands of Emmon's Brother rise up to his neck, passing harmlessly through the metal of the Guisarme. The Key, the ancient enchanted axe of the dwarves, sweeps through the spectre, but this time it manages to catch hold of the insubstantial foe. Emmon's Brother is sliced in two, his legs slowly fading from view, congealing into a warm pool of ectoplasm melting through the snow. His torso dissolves more slowly, blobs of the strange ghostly goo dropping heavily through the snow and onto the frozen ground beneath. In the end all that remains is a face. A face locked in misery. And then nothing. For now Emmon's Brother was gone.

The last scarecrow is easily dispatched, as all remaining attacks are focused upon a very real target. The last soul departs the farm leaving behind all but one of the team dispatched to establish The Thirteenth Anchor. Renaltus was dead, his soul snatched away from the body. There was nothing that could be done.

One of the cultists, the more hesitant one to join the fray, falls down into a sitting position upon the cold snow. His blank face stares down at the blanket of white.

[itches]

Lade looked up from the unmoving body of Renaltus on pure snow stained with a melting pool of life and caught sight of the cultist near the tower who refused to join the fray. A cultist clad in a cloak as crimson as the blood contaminating the pure white laid across the field, as crimson as the blood of Yvonne, as crimson as the blood left by Celeste's guardians, as crimson as the blood of a thousand other innocent victims of their hate.

In the distant sky a flash of unnatural lightening danced across dark clouds and something within Lade broke. A small voice that spoke words of calm, of measured actions was drowned out by a scream of righteous fury to extract the full vengeful price of their crimes upon him. Hefting his axe, Lade stalked towards him, his face twisted into a snarl and breath coming in short furious puffs that froze in the air.

"Good damned job there," Lade thundered, looming before the man in a tower of barely contained violence. "Real good job standing around and doing nothing! What's the matter? Yer only good at killing when its defenseless women and children? When yer pulling innocent people from their homes in the middle of the night to murder them? At the first sign of anything fighting back ya show yerself for the miserable cowardly filth that ya are!"

Tensing his hands on the wooden haft of his axe, Lade's arms twisted themselves into trembling knots of muscle, his face red with rage.

"WHAT GODSDAMMED USE ARE YOU?"

[BigRedRod]

The sitting man continues to stare down, seemingly unaware of Lade and his anger. The second cultist, flinging his club aside, stalks near,
"US!?"
He shouts the word, gesturing at his red-robed companion,
"What in the name of any of the Gods use are you? And not just you, old man, the whole damn lot of you."

His face reddens as he matches Lade's anger, putting aside the cold and his own fear.
"We're here to make sure that the damn rift in the city doesn't get any bigger. We're here to stop everything from turning inside out. The two of us. Me and him. We're the ones. Us. We know what has to be done. As we always have. And we do what is necessary. That is why we've made this whole damn deal with a devil. With the "noble" temple of Pelor. You are here to protect us, and a damn good job you did of it. I hope you're fucking proud of yourselves."

The shouting ends as the Moonbringer's voice grows hoarse. His face locked in a snarl.

[Tashalar]

The ghost... gone. Kjetil hung his head and sent a thankful prayer to his Gods.

As they regrouped and the shouting commenced, Kjetil sighed inwardly. His expression didn't reveal his thoughts as he stepped up to Lade and the Redrobe. "This is of no use," he remarked in a somber voice. Turning his head sideways to look at Lade shortly, he says "we need them, he's right." Pausing shortly, his head then turns to the Redrobe, his face expressionless. "Now get back to work on what has to be done. The faster we're done here, the better." And the faster we're rid of your company as well.

[Gralhruk]

Dwarves believed in nothing if not solidarity. Humans, it seemed, were rather different. Stepping up next to Kjetil, the blocky dwarf grunts an agreement to his words. He eyes Lade and the saintly axe he wields, recalling the man's bravery in the face of the spectre that had so casually slain one of their number.

"Your friend here is right. I can lend a hand, if I know what's to be done."

[treehouse]

Karthas cleared his throat.

"How many does the ritual require, and who knows how to perform it?"

[Gralhruk]

He could smell dust and mold, the faintly metallic scent of old blood, the reek of unwashed bodies, cloying incense and a hundred other odors in the thick air of the dark temple. Yet above all, it smelled of fear. This altar above had been home to countless sacrifices, the carved channels stained with the blood of innocents since before he was born. Death, it was a place of horror and death.

The dwarf scowls into his beard, no longer even asking where the memory came from, or who it might have belonged to.

"Ritual? What's going on here?"

[BigRedRod]

The cultist takes a few deep breaths to recover his composure. As for his companion, the second man remains firmly seated, lost in his own private horrors of shock,
"We're putting an end to the rift, or a start to the end if ya like. A barrier which it won't be able to grow past, if we can get on and do it then it'll be possible to stop the whole of Aos from flippin' in on itself."

"With the two of us, we can do it. I was talking about this with the Druid, before he was claimed by that foul abomination-"
At the mention of the spectre, the cultist chances a glance at Lade,
"Karthas, ya could help once you're ready if you're inclined, that is. It'll be faster and easier with three, we can tell you what to do. Might only take an hour or two. The rest of ya just need to keep an eye out for any more wandering souls... or worse. It'll draw nine hells of attention to the tower. Might be best just to let the pair of us get on with it, though course it'll take longer. Maybe double? It's impossible to say before we start."

Looking around the remains of the farm for a moment, he sighs loudly before crouching beside his ally trying to coax him back to lucidity,
"C'mon mate. Up ya' get. There's work to be done now."

[treehouse]

The warlock pursed his lips.

"If we begin the ritual with three and then are attacked, can I leave in the middle and let the pair of you finish it? Or better yet, drift in and out as our defenses require?"

It seemed unlikely; these sorts of things generally required a link, mundane or otherwise, and the nature of that link was usually unchangeable once a number of participants were decided. Of course, he only knew the ways of the warlock coven. Perhaps these cultists had different methodologies. It was worth asking, even if he ended up looking foolish in the process.

...you can always kill them later...

The thought had occurred to me.

[BigRedRod]

Looking up from his spot beside his unmoving friend, he shakes his head,
"No. Once ya start it's sure as shit that ya'd not even realise if the tower were attacked. Helpless as babes we'll be."
He offers a brief sardonic smile, before placing a hand on his ally's shoulder, shaking him slightly.

[treehouse]

Karthas shrugged, looking at the others.

"What do you think? Would we rather get the ritual over with more quickly, or have an extra hand in the defense?"

[itches]

"Just get it done as fast as ya can," Lade growled through clenched teeth and barely suppressed rage. Knowing that Kjetil was right, that the cost of failing to complete their part in the ritual to contain the spirit storm that rages above the city could doom their entire land, but not trusting himself to contain his anger, the aging mercenary turned and stalked across the snowfield, pausing only to unleash The Key on an offending piece of stone wall.

"I'm going to stand watch, someone take care of Renaltus."

[[OOC: Hit the stone! Att: [roll0] Dmg: [roll1]]]

[Gralhruk]

Resisting the urge to scold the bitter human his base treatment of such a fine weapon, the dwarf settles on simply scowling as Lade stalks away. Renaltus, the man killed by the Shade of Emmon's brother, needed tending. His dead body wasn't even steaming in the cold, drained of life and warmth by the mere touch of the ghost. He represses a shudder, knowing it might have been any of them lying there lifeless.

He looks over at Kjetil, assuming the task fell to him.

"Another cairn? Seems cruel to lay him next to the other. Maybe a pyre, instead."

[Tashalar]

Kjetil nodded at Lade's suggestion that Karthas aid in the ritual. "The faster it is over, the better," he agrees. And one of those Redrobes looks like he might not be up for the task.

As the stone wall cracks under the force of Lade's unerring blow, Kjetil whirls to face him expecting another danger. His eyes narrow shortly, then he relaxes and turns to the dwarf. Shrugging, then nodding, Kjetil speaks in a low voice as he heads over to Renaltus body. "A pyre it shall be. We can set it afire when the ritual is done with." Without another word he goes to work, but while he is focused on their task, he does keep a lookout on their surroundings.

After a few minutes he hesitates and looks at Renaltus' body and then at Grimjaw. "It is custom in my lands to leave the deceased a weapon and equipment for that which awaits them. But he wasn't one of us." Deep frown. "And there are things among his belongings which might aid us. Aid us a lot." While not voicing a question, the Aart nonetheless regards Grimjaw expectantly.

[Gralhruk]

The dwarf thrusts stiff, blunt fingers into his beard, knowing what the Aart meant: magic. It had the power to affect even ghosts, as Lade's axe had. Dwarves were known for being stubborn, but they were also practical. In this instance, on the heels of the horror they had just faced, practicality wins out.

"Might be I can make him a decent staff to send him off with."

[Tashalar]

Kjetil nodded, slowly. "It's just symbol... but then it's not. ... I shall finish preparing the pyre in the meanwhile."

When the pyre is ready, Kjetil carefully lifts Renaltus' body onto it, his lips moving as he voices prayers under his breath. Leaving him his armor and the herbs and other assorted druidical things, Kjetil removes the potions, quarter staff and tindertwigs. Placing the tindertwigs at the ready, he waits for Grimjaw to supply Renaltus with a weapon for the worlds beyond. Gazing over to the tower, the Aart wonders how far the ritual was at this point. Would they soon be able to leave this forsaken place?

[treehouse]

Karthas almost shook his head at the proceedings. Here they were at the edge of true apocalypse, wasting time with a funeral.

Still, there were practical things he could do while the soft hearts prepared a pyre. He stowed one wand and pulled out the other.

[Use wand of cure light wounds on any injured, multiple charges as necessary until everyone is at or near full total. 1d8+1 per charge.]

[BigRedRod]

As those around them disperse, the still mobile redcloak helps up his companion,
"Up ya' get then."
Step by step as they walk back towards the tower, life seems to return to the second man. The shock of the terrible battle fading into the fiction of the past. Taking the arm from around his neck he finishes the journey alone. As they reach the door, he turns and calls back to Karthas,
"Come on then, if you're coming. We'd best get started."

[treehouse]

After mending Lade's wounds, Karthas handed the wand to the grim-faced warrior.

"Try to keep us alive."

He turned on his heel and followed the cultists into the tower.

[BigRedRod]

Karthas finds he has little faith in the two cultists, only one them is fully in charge of his own faculties. Alone, the completion of the ritual might not be a case of slower, but never. The more talkative of the two does his best to explain the ritual, but frequently seems to get distracted by various tangents, more often than not significant worries about containing the rift. Initially, Karthas and the two men spend their time chalking out outlines, carefully measuring angles and calculating the direction of the twelve other obelisks. None are visible from the windows.

Standing back atop his hill, Lade notices the sky above subtly moving through the shades between blue and grey. Clouds are gradually forming. It will snow again this night. The cold causes him to move constantly. Pacing and festering in his rage at the death of his ally and his continuing work with the enemy. Saving the world was costing the man all of his principles.

Out of somewhere comes a seemingly endless spool of heavy copper wire. The second cultist starts to return from his stupor, adding the occasional comment as the first explains about the various nodes - energetically favourable points which exist and have been chosen as the sites for the obelisks. It's a subject Karthas is not unversed in himself and gradually quite what the ritual is and how it will work becomes clearer. The three coil the wire in intricate shapes through the opened windows of the tower as directed by their earlier calculations.

Wood was a strange material. Grimjaw had worked it only a few times before, in his homeland it was a rare material, no especially sought after though. The earth provided so many thousand types of metal and stone and even a few types of fungal growth, such as the tower cap, which had strong almost woodlike stems. There really was no reason to venture to the surface and haul back trees. Somewhere nearby Renaltus' soul would be drifting, reduced to the smallest glimmer by the shade of Emmon's Brother. Did he take it upon himself to carve the image out of guilt?

Finally the leadbox was opened. A glittering mass of white crystal and stone. A fragment of the common orb. Lunacite Blanc. Resting on a small metal plinth, the copper is careful attached and requisite candles lit. The air thickens, too much to just be the soot from the half dozen flames. If what the cultists said was true it was now that they were drawing attention to themselves. A material capable of halting the fabric of reality from becoming unravelled was a hard thing to hide. The ritual itself would not help.
"Are we ready?"

The spare wood makes pyre building all too easy, and in a short time, Kjetil finds himself pacing around the perimeter of the farm along with Lade. Nothing seemed to be approaching but the gathering clouds made the fading light all the more feeble. Unless somebody came bearing a torch, they might as well be invisible until they were very close to the farm indeed. And the rats did not carry torches. Casting a glance over at Edinway the storm is as imposing as ever, a swirl of black, red and white.

Settling down, the real meat of the task ahead begins. Kneeling around the Lunacite the three begin their chant, passing around a tiny book and reading sections out loud. The occasional word has a very physical effect forming a many hued symbol in the air. Such words exist only briefly before drifting off out of the tower and fading from view. Beads of sweat start to appear on foreheads despite the sub-zero temperatures.

Grimjaw holds the crude shape aloft, examining it in the light of the campfire. He casts a glance downwards at the original, his reference for the imitation. It was not far now, with more time he would recreate it exactly and it would be no mere replica but a worthy sibling to Renatlus' enchanted staff.

A loud thump drew the attention of Kjetil, Lade and Grimjaw. The horse was dead. Killed by the cold. It had stood silently beside its cart until eventually it could take no more. It lay in a horrible heap, its weight having snapped one of its own legs. Blood seeps in a widening ellipse around it. A superstitious man might see portents. And then began the rumbling.

In the tower, the three men were unaware of the tremor. All they saw now was the lunacite, each of them sat motionless, eyes open but without iris or pupil. Sphere of pure white reflecting the, now pulsing, chunk of rock and crystal. Darkness clung to the tower.

Somewhere below the earth started to churn, the magic reacting badly with Aos, as they knew it would. After a few minutes with nothing overtly terrible happening Lade and Kjetil renew their watches and Grimjaw returns to the staff.

A sliver of sun vanishes below the horizon, the light of day is reduced to a glow of amber and pink when it comes times to present the finished item to the horribly drained remains of the druid and light the pyre. Lade takes only the briefest of moments to offer his respects and witnesses the lighting of the wooden construction. It would not do to stop watching the surroundings for too long. Although if another wandering spirit took offence to the party's actions at the farm, there was little that a perimeter watch would do. Or if Emmon's Brother returned...

Nearly three hours passed before Karthas found himself sitting in the tower, his eyes open wide. It worked! The thirteenth anchor was in place. Each of the magical locks had been closed. The hole in reality was contained. Before any of the three can speak, they become aware of the rumbling and then the rumbling changes and the tower begins to shake.

From the outside, the pyre has just started to burn with its true might when the white, almost imperceptible sheen arrives. It is invisible except out of the corner of the eye when it becomes obvious. A huge curving sheet passing straight through the tower. The barrier. The line which the hole cannot pass through. The ultimate edge of the storm. The ritual was complete! Finally, the persistent arcane buzz of the rift was banished. Such powerful acts of magic are never without consequence.

Aos split. A long crack starting at the base of the tower and reaching across the snow plain.

Master of Dead Dreams, Yaldabaoth approaches.

Some terrors bear no mortal words and the knowledge that the sixty-sixth Septuagint is coming is one such truth. The air takes on a much lighter aspect; a familiar feeling indeed but the Red Moon has not dawned. After each Dawn the world was noticeably different for several weeks, no longer was there a host of wandering souls, the lack of this continuing horror manifested in what can only be described as a lightening of the air. No longer did it push down upon the populace of Aos, reminding them of their fate with each and every step.

This was no such Dawn, this was something much more disturbing. The spirits of the dead had simply abandoned the farm, unwilling or unable to bear witness to what was arriving.

[ooc: You have a certain number of rounds to prepare]
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/Pregame.png

[treehouse]

Dread crept into Karthas' heart like an insidious poison; for a moment, even breathing was difficult.

"Gods have mercy on us," he muttered, gasping the instant the words escaped his lips. He had no faith in the gods, in fact scorned them and those who worshiped them blindly, preferring to put his faith in the things he could see, and more importantly in himself.

The voice inside was not just silent, it was as if it had retreated to some dark corner of his mind, unwilling to watch the imminent unraveling of reality.

He didn't look at the cultists as he walked out of the tower, his ebon wand in hand once more.

[No preparations to make. Karthas will stay pretty close to Kjetil if possible.]

[itches]

Lade frowned and pushed his way through the snow, rushing back towards the others and the impending visitation. A chance encounter with a ghost was to be expected, but the man couldn't understand why they were being cursed with these outlandish confrontations from within their temporary encampment instead of some nice normal humanoid rats.

[Gralhruk]

Septuagint. Master of Dead Dreams.

Blood drains from his face and his limbs, seeking solace from his stout heart. Suddenly numb, his hands grip the weighty haft of his urgosh in similar plea. The cracking of solid earth drowns out the crackling blaze of the pyre, and it is like the cracking of the door that holds back the terrors of the universe.

Even as the thought passes through his mind, he knows it cannot be or they would already be dead, suffering in the horror that awaits those who find the fiends the dwarves had roused with sacrilegious delving. Not the worst it could be, then, but bad. Very bad.

Tightening his already fierce grip, he moves next to Kjetil, white eyes searching for what would come.

[Tashalar]

Kjetil froze in place near the pyre despite the heat emitted from the fire. It seemed to him that his brain couldn't send any further commands to his extremities. He knew he had to move, had to do something, but it wasn't entirely clear what was approaching. It just felt really, really horrifying.

Lade approached and Grimjaw stepped to his side and even Karthas reappeared out of the tower. The ritual seemed to have been a success. But what now?

Closing his eyes for a moment, Kjetil willed his legs to move once more. As if in trance, he stepped, bent down and picked up Renaltus' staff. Holding his guisarme in the other hand, he looked at the others, hesitated, then silently offered it to Grimjaw.

[No preparations either - unless we have lots and lots of rounds...]

[BigRedRod]

A dread panic washes across the farm and the defenders of the thirteenth obelisk rush around eventually assembling in the melted slush around the pyre. Here the ground was free of snow and ice, an important lesson learnt from the previous encounter. The cultists arrive at the foot of the tower, a little time after Karthas, but they hesitate at the doorway, staring in disbelief at the fissure in the earth and tightening their grips on the tools they have improvised as weapons on the way out.

It's only a handful of seconds before the strange sound begins. Twisted and distant, but closing rapidly, a cacophony of strangely avian chirping. Over the top of the horrible chaotic sounds comes something deeper and far more rhythmic like a marching drum. The booming beats are spaced slightly more than a second apart. Louder and louder the drumming becomes, until eventually it drowns out the chirping entirely as each lingering stroke rumbles like thunder.

The odour comes next, a strangely salty smell. Like the sea, but tinged with corruption. A cartload of vegetables tipped over into a small rockpool and left to change and ferment for weeks. Despite this, the vague scent is familiar. It tugs at forgotten memories, in a way that is impossible to pin down exactly.

As the roaring thump rises to a crescendo an arm stretches up and out of the rift in the earth. The stout appendage is more than a foot across and looks rather like it might be made from pearl, or marble - it has the same strange white iridescence. At the base is a huge hand rather like that of a primate, it grips the edge of the chasm and works to raise the rest of its body out into the open air. Inverted humanoid faces adorn the limb, their eyes tightly closed and mouths silently moving as though they are locked in prayer. Two of the faces, aligned vertically, face outwards below the elbow joint. Not quite human. Or even elf or dwarf. These are the faces of some other species. So close to be human, but in some unacceptable way, they are clearly not. If the hand and faces were not constantly in motion, the limb would appear more like an ornate pillar.

A second and then a third hand appears, the skin of these coloured like the column-limbs but much darker, so that they twist colours in a very different manner. The three dark hands heave and then a blinding light emerges. Dazzled for a second, the origin of the golden light slowly comes into focus. A vast annulus of gold inscribed with strange letters from some unknown language slowly rotating around the central mass which makes up the body of Yaldabaoth.

The limbs, and there are five in total stretch from their dark hands, through the straight columns of stonelike-white each adorned with a pair of inverted bas-relief faces to a gold-trimmed dark triangular joint which connects to a second limb section, a blank, shorter pillar which links to a circular brace. The brace is a torus of the darker material which makes up the hands and joints. Directly above this rotates the levitating golden halo.

The sixty-sixth Septuagint's core hangs without support at the centre of the torus and extents upwards slightly above its annular halo. The body is a rough lump of reddish rock, the crude shape sitting entirely at odds with the rest of its strangely artisanal body. Somehow its position is fixed relative to the brace which it does not touch. The rock itself is porous, pitted with a network of roughly circular holes twisting around and branching seemingly at random. From each of the surface holes a thick, black liquid drips down, splattering along the side of the chasm as the five great limbs work to lift the body free of Aos.

Master of Dead Dreams, Yaldabaoth has arrived.

Initiative
Kjetil
Lade
Karthas
Grimjaw
The sixty-sixth Septuagint, Master of Dead Dreams, Yaldabaoth

http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/Round1-1.png

[Tashalar]

There is nothing Kjetil can do but watch as the huge being pulls itself out of the earth to stand in front of them. Gaping up at it, Kjetil's lips start moving in silent prayer.

Grabbing his guisarme tightly, the Aart moves up to Lade and turns to face the others. He barely manages to contain his horror as he whispers hoarsely "what... what can we to do?"

[5' step next to Lade, delay.]

[treehouse]

Karthas smirked like only a madman could when faced with an ancient terror of the multiverse, raising the ebon wand to eye level and shouting an incomprehensible command word.

[Draw wand of ray of enfeeblement, fire once at the Old One - ranged touch attack [roll0]; inflicts a -[roll1] penalty to Strength if it lands.]

[itches]

Somehow it didn't seem fair.

When Lade was a youth, he had hunted men through the Istren Woods, stood his ground on a fortress wall as machines lobbed flaming death towards him. With the Broken Arrow he had turned the tide of goblin hordes, afterwards he had survived the plague of ghosts. From fanatical cultists to ratmen from stories told to scare children, he had stood his ground and weathered it all.

It seemed like he deserved a break, but it never happened. Looking up at a creature so horrific that not even his darkest nightmares could contain it, Lade felt despair. Within his bones he felt the cold, inevitable approach of death. But if he was to die this day, it would be a death of his choosing.

Stepping closer to the impossible creature, he swung The Key, aiming towards one of its legs. If he was to die, it would be a death of blood and courage, a death to remember.

[Gralhruk]

Thousands, nay, millions of memories swirl within his mind - memories of pleasant days and starlit nights, memories of war and slaughter, memories of fear and of love. Disparate images piled on one another, with no rhyme or reason, until he could scarce sort out his own, until he was unable to tell real from imagined, memory from dream.

He seemed to recall this very moment, men like these beside him, this horror before them. A memory, perhaps, from the countless buried now in his brain, or a nightmare born of some childhood fear, or maybe even some vague premonition of this encounter had come to him. Or perhaps even now mired in some mad dream of the sixty-sixth Septuagint, drawn into a world half real and half imagined.

Attacking seems like a last act of desperation against so impossible an opponent, yet beside him Lade does just that, even as the wizard calls down some spell upon a creature. Past or present, real or imagined, it suddenly didn't matter. Death was here. Hefting the staff he lets out a roar of his own and joins Lade in a last act of desperation.

[Tashalar]

Whatever this creature was, his companions didn't seem cowered by it like him. He saw Karthas point a wand at the being and both Lade and Grimjaw moved in to attack. His jaw set, his knuckles turning white from his grip on the guisarme, Kjetil felt that this was a moment of need. A moment, where the strength of his Gods was all that could save them... could save him. Quickly recovering a small vial, Kjetil threw back his head and gulped down its contents.

... a shiver went through the Aart. Unseen at first by the others, Kjetil began to grow and expand, suddenly towering high above the others... he hadn't known this would happen, but he took heart in it.

[OOC: Scrap the 5' step, please. Move action to take out potion, standard to drink it. KH now is in the square he is now, the one to his left and the two above those. +2 Str, -2 Dex, -1 to AC/attacks for size increase.]

[BigRedRod]

It is Lade who leads the charge. Lade who dismisses the idea of diplomacy. Lade who raises his legendary axe and charges. But it is the Master of Dead Dreams who strikes first. The closest of the five limbs, Lade's own target, sweeps upwards and sideways.

Lade gasps as the dark-hand slams into his left side with a casual motion which belies its unfathomable strength. The old axeman coughs, the thick fluid within his lungs, lurid yellow phlegm striated with a dark crimson. Yaldabaoth retracts its open-fist, slamming it back down onto the snow before Lade. Ignoring his own pain, the brave warrior lashes out with the Key of Kazashziak. Even named horrors are vulnerable to enchanted adamantine; the axeblade bites into the strange white skin of Yaldabaoth. Pulling the waraxe free, all can see the wound left behind. A narrow slice, the interior of which has the same pearl-like lustre, apart from at its deepest point, where a viscous black liquid slowly starts to pool. Now is not the time for intense scrutiny, but Lade finds the blow does little to shed light on whether this is a creature of flesh, stone or other. The Septuagint, however, offers no reaction to the blow. The faces upon its columnar limbs do not grimace or twitch and the drum-like rhythm it exudes continues unchanged.

The ebon wand looses a wan green ray which collides with the central rocky body. A slightly shimmer washes over Yaldabaoth and Karthas even believes he can see the body hanging slightly lower down, a slight sag from the sapped strength.

Taking up the call, Grimjaw rushes into the thick snow. It gathers round his ankles stealing heat from his legs. His hands are gripped tight around the staff of the fallen druid, not his weapon of choice. Whipping the beautifully carved piece of wood around, the dwarf connects solidly with one of the upturned faces. The columnar limb shifts backwards a little way from the force of the blow and for a moment its eye twitch open and Grimjaw meets the inverted gaze. Alien. Utterly alien. No shared emotion. No shared concepts. Between a dwarf and a Septuagint, there is no common ground.

Kjetil adjusts his footing as the potion takes effect. Rapdily his height increases until he stands around twelve or thirteen feet in height, only slightly below the apex of Yaldabaoth's body and with his slowly rotating halo at head height.

Ignoring Lade and Grimjaw, the Master of Dead Dreams raises upon one powerful limb and slams it down heavily upon the more active of the two cultists. The man is reduced to a horrid pulp, a lumpy read smear coating one of Yaldabaoth's hands and much of the snow around the base of the tower. Pressing down upon the remains, The sixty-sixth Septuagint moves away from Lade and Grimjaw. As it moves, Lade, Grimjaw and even the enlarged Kjetil exploit their own dismissal. Following up with a flurry of attacks.

All three manage to land blows, the overgrown guisarme and Lade's axe striking the same limb while Grimjaw bludgeons on at one of his own. Despite the ferocity of such impacts, there is no reaction or change of interest. Stamping over the remains of the Moonbringer, and apparently ignoring the unfavourable terrain, its five limbs carry the strange form across the snow plain. Behind it, it leaves a thick trail of the black liquid which seeps from its central porous body. Reaching the tower, it begins to climb upward.

Only just having overcome his previous shock and now drained by the ritual, the remaining cultist can only stare blankly as the sixty-sixth Septuagint moves past him and grabs hold of the tower. Its ape-like hands gripping the stone and hauling its body up into the air.

[ooc: Yaldabaoth is 10ft above the ground]

Initiative
Lade
Karthas
Grimjaw
Kjetil [large]
The sixty-sixth Septuagint, Master of Dead Dreams, Yaldabaoth [-2str]

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/Round2-1.png

[itches]

Pain lurked behind Lade's eyed, flashing to pinpoint agony whenever he blinked. The blow from the creature has hurt, as much as anything he could remember. He frowned as the creature sped off through the snow, far faster than the mercinary could persue it. But now was not the time for giving up on lost causes, so after sucking in a lungful of frozen air, Lade trust his way through the snow after it.

[treehouse]

Karthas pointed one crooked finger at the Septuagint as it scaled the broken tower, snarling a fell word of power.

[Eldritch blast - ranged touch attack - [roll0], [roll1] damage.]

[Gralhruk]

Like they weren't even there.

Whatever splinter of the Master of Dead Dreams this was, it was tough enough to ignore the concerted attack of three warriors. No, it focused instead on the tower, crushing one of the red robes into red pulp with no apparent effort. From behind, a baleful lance of dark fire strikes the stone behemoth, more a mute plea than anything else.

Even as he started forward, the beast started up the tower like a giant stone spider, easily climbing out of the dwarf's reach. Cursing, Grimjaw plowed through the snow after it.

[Tashalar]

Odin, give me the power... Kjetil prayed silently as he gauged the distance to the creature and watched it climb the tower. If it reaches the top, all is for naught! Quickly Kjetil strides after it.

{OOC: rolling for fast movement first, otherwise the rest is moot as he cannot reach 'it' and attack. Survival: [roll0]}

[Tashalar]

Feeling as if born aloft by powers unfathomable, Kjetil felt himself floating across the snow and his faith confirmed, strengthened. Towering above his companions, he circled around them and suddenly brought his guisarme to bear on the creature's hands in an upward sweep, trying to lose its grip to the tower's wall. The instance the guisarme begins its movement, Kjetil's amulet suddenly flashes a brilliant white and blue - the sound mingles with the Aart's powerful roar as he strikes with all the power he can muster.

{OOC: Move so that his lower right square is one square above C2 (15' distance to Y). Torc of the titans activated as free action. Rage as free action.
Attack (with -2 for power attack - only comes into play for the follow-up attack if trip is successful) is +5 BAB +5 Str +1 masterwork -1 size +2 expert tactician -2 power attack = +10 touch attack to trip
Trip check = +18 (+5 Str +4 size +4 improved trip feat +5 torc of the titans)
On successfull trip, follow-up attack at +14 (including +4 from the creature being prone), damage: 2d6+16 (large guisarme +7 Str +4 power attack +5 torc)}

[BigRedRod]

The strange black secretions of the Septuagint sits uneasily upon the snow, a thick oily mess which neither encourages the flakes below to melt or seems motivated to seep down back into the earth. Lade's ankles plunge down through the white with loud crunches, splattering his legs with black humour. Around him the world seems to speed up, leaving the elderly warrior behind. Armour, sturdy leather boots and clothing offer no real protection to the ebony effluent which seeps from Yaldabaoth. The effect is concentrated in Lade's legs, where, unseen by all, his flesh is slowly being transmuted to stone.

Karthas' blast strikes the porous rock at the very centre of Yaldabaoth's being. A small fragment breaks free and tumbles down to the snow below accompanied by a slosh of the terrible black secretion.

Grimjaw takes up position beside Lade, his back to the cleft in Aos from which their foe climbed. Standing strong, with weapon in hand, Grimjaw becomes aware of the dire consequences of the thick ooze which Yaldabaoth secretes (or possibly bleeds).

Sweeping across the black-speckled white plain with no ill-effects, Kjetil strikes upwards with his guisarme wrenching the Master of Dead Dreams free from the tower. A rain of stone blocks hurtle downwards, one slamming on the back of the surviving cultist's head, knocking his now lifeless corpse onto the ground. Lashing out again, Kjetil strikes his target as it crashes down into the snow.

A tidal wave of snow rises up into the air and the earth shakes as Yaldabaoth comes to ground. The entryway to the tower is destroyed entirely as the Septuagint lands upon it. What was once a precarious old structure, is now a heavily damaged, precarious, old structure. Much more violence acted upon it, will see it crashing down upon the party. This bodes poorly for the active rift anchor currently dwelling atop it. Exactly what might happen if such a magical device is pulled from its spatial location is not clear, but it is very unlikely to be a good thing.

Kjetil's attack was devastating, several of the Master of Dead Dreams' legs are twisted in uncomfortable positions, the various faces upon his ivory limbs are locked in expressions of contorted agony and flakes.

Returning to its spiderlike standing position allows Lade, Grimjaw and Kjetil all to rain their fury upon the Septuagint. One clenched fist strikes Kjetil squarely in the chest, knocking the wind from his lungs in a casual motion which more seems devoted to letting Yaldabaoth return to a more comfortable position than a genuine attack. The remains of the two cultists are smeared horribly upon its body, one upon the ring which joins together each of the limbs, and another upon one of the columnar appendages.

This fragment of named terror is evidently far from invulnerable.

Initiative
Lade [slowed] [10]
Karthas
Grimjaw
Kjetil [large]
The sixty-sixth Septuagint, Master of Dead Dreams, Yaldabaoth [-2str]

[ooc: Squares with black dots are full of poison. Primary effect is being slowed]

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/Round3-1.png

[itches]

For some things there were no words. Glancing down at what he could feel of his stone feet through the snow, Lade discovered one of them. He had felt a cold so painful it stripped all feeling from your limbs, but this made that seem like a cool drink on a warm summer's day.

"The black ... goo," he gasped out in pain. "Don't touch ... it."

For all that he wished he could stop to tend to his limbs, the creature had falling in front of him and Lade knew that they needed to deal with one problem at a time. He lifted The Key and brought it down on the monstrosity with all of his strength, silently praying to Norebo to see him through.

[treehouse]

Karthas grimaced as the warrior Lade was covered in strange secretions. If he was lucky, it'd kill him. Unlucky - might start hearing voices in his head.

...it's not so bad. You would get lonely...

He weaved another bolt of oblivion matter and flung it at the Unknowable.

[Going to trudge south two squares to get back in Point Blank range, then eldritch blast. Ranged touch attack [roll0], [roll1] damage.]

[Tashalar]

Kjetil glanced at Lade and his eyes widened shortly. Whatever it was which was befalling his comrade, at least it wasn't keeping him from the attack. But his movement was strangely slow.

Another blast of eldritch power flew past him and collided with the creature's body. The Aart nodded as he moved backwards. With the aid of the Gods, they'd win this fight he thought as he lashed out once more with his guisarme.

{OOC: Move 'up' two squares (triggering AoO I guess), then attack with power attack for 2: [roll0]; damage [roll1] }

[Gralhruk]

The beast falls from its perch not like a spider but like an avalanche of stone and steel, one hapless cultist pinned beneath the mass. Grimjaw braces his thick legs wide in the aftershock, reducing further his already low center of gravity and riding out the ground shaking impact. Black sludge decorates the stark white snow, putrid and corrupt, like the thing that birthed it. There was only one avenue for them now. He swings the massive urgosh in a powerful two handed blow onto this fraction of Yaldabaoth.

<OOC: 2 handed attack at +8, damage 1d8+6>

[BigRedRod]

Despite his body gradually turning to stone, or perhaps directly because of his increased body mass, Lade lands a blow of unbridled strength. The Key cleaves deeply into the pearly white limb nearest him, causing a long splurt of the black ooze to spray out across his face. Coldness, a deeper coldness than the frozen winter winds, starts to spread across the features of the aged warrior as tiny portions of his cheeks begin the transmutation into lifeless rock.

Another eldritch blast pummels into the porous body of Yaldabaoth. The rocky core sways slightly relative to the spinning halo and limb-band. A fractional movement, but another vital clue that the beast from below is weakening.

Grimjaw's own weapon smashes with hellish ferocity against one of the strange inverted faces of the Master Of Dead Dreams. It crumbles into nothingness, leaving only a scarred column where once it was.

The giant northlander's repositioning is accompanied by another powerful clout from one of the primal fists. Digging in his heels, Kjetil slides backwards in the snow, driven by the force of the attack. His ribs ache; bruised, battered and possibly broken. He manages only a pitiful thrust of his polearm, an attack knocked aside by the increasingly aggressive Septuagint.

Sixty-sixth of its kind. A thing with concerns far beyond a troop of pitiful mortals flailing at one glimmer of a manifestation. And yet somehow the party have attracted the full attention of the Yaldabaoth. No longer does the five-legged spider attempt to clamber back up the tower. Now, it reigns its indifferent carnage upon those assembled.

Lade is dodges an advancing fist clumsily on account of his new elemental nature, an ankle twists painfully and the warrior is sure he can feel the fragments of petrified flesh flaking off. The limb whips sideways and Lade feels the full brunt of one column's impact upon his shoulder despite his best efforts to roll with the blow. A horrible scraping sound trembles through his body as the bones of his shoulder rasp across one another.

A second limb lashes out as Lade dodges, this one coming down upon Grimjaw. The dwarf leaps and avoids being unceremoniously squashed, but he far from escapes injury. A familiar searing whiteness plays at the edges of his vision.

Despite the distance between them, the Master of Dead Dreams easily matches Kjetil's reach and bludgeons him again. For a moment the world spins. All that keeps him on his feet is the rage pulsing through his veins.

Initiative
Lade [slowed] [9]
Karthas
Grimjaw
Kjetil [large]
The sixty-sixth Septuagint, Master of Dead Dreams, Yaldabaoth [-2str]

[ooc: Grimjaw is passing saves like nobody's business here, but he is having to make a fresh one every time he stays in a poisoned square]

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/Round4-1.png

[Tashalar]

Life... death... life... death! Kjetil's rage focussed on the being in front of him and he lifted his guisarme high to bring it down hard and end its existence here and nw. His head still ringing from the blow and his breathing slowing to a rasp, he realized just a split second before his blow that this would probably mean his death.

Just barely he refocuses and activates the belt which had so far saved his life twice already.

{OOC: Use two charges of the belt of healing for [roll0] hit points. I think it doesn't trigger an AoO. If it does (cannot check right now), he'd do something else. Probably attack, heh.}

[itches]

As the alchemical liquid sprayed across his face, Lade shut his eyes and tries not to think what would happen if it had hit him there. He tried not to think what the pain from his ankles must mean, he tried not to think about the shuddering pain shooting down his back.

Raising the Key with the mechanical movements born from decades of experience, Lade slammed it into the creature, and tried not to think about whether he would survive.

[[OOC: Power attack again]]

[Gralhruk]

The world flickers white like the snow around him as the marble column brushes across his shoulder. All around him the black ichor steams with hate. Grimacing with pain and revulsion, Grimjaw moves for untarnished ground and delivers another fierce two handed blow.

<OOC: Move 5' into unpoisoned square in front of the Septuagint, and attack 2 handed at +8, damage 1d8+6>

[treehouse]

With barely a pause after his last fell bolt landed, Karthas formed yet another and hurled it at the Septuagint - black flecks trailed behind it, dissipating in microseconds. The voice inside howled madly all the while.

...the eyes! Oh merciless gods, the eyes...why are we here?! some place dark, yes, take us away!...

Karthas grimaced. He saw clearly the 'some place dark' the voice had in mind.

You always said we should test our limits instead of rotting in that tower. Here we are, testing our limits, and you suddenly want to go back. You tire me, old friend.

[Eldritch blast: ranged touch attack - [roll0], for [roll1] damage.]

[BigRedRod]

Struggling against the stone spreading throughout his body, Lade brings his axe over his head and down. It catches the nearest of the columnar limbs at what passes for a knee, bites deep and cleaves downwards, splitting the hard, marble flesh of Yaldabaoth. Down through the overgrown primate hand it passes, down through the snow and down into the ground. The adamantine axehead sunders all in its wake. The thick, black oozings from its wounds are more like a torrent now, the entire limb is shrouded in a cascade of the vile poison.

And the sixty-sixth Septuagint screamed. A horrible, shrill buzzing that shakes the very stuff of Aos. Behind the towering five-limbed monstrosity, a few more large chunks of stone fall from the ancient tower. They bounce upon the snowy ground and land in the icy waters of the lake.

While Lade tugs The Key free of the ground at his feet Karthas fires another of his crackling, black blasts of energy. His target is too large to be missed, perhaps a welcome relief from the earlier encounter with the spectre, but now was not the time for such musings.

Taking advantage of the apparent distraction, Grimjaw slides sideways and hops into the air, placing his entire considerable dwarvern weight and strength behind a two-handed blow with his urgosh. The fist comes at him sideways, clouting him across the head and the shoulder, sending him back into the snow. Blood rolls down into Grimjaw's eyes from innumerable gashes in his flesh.

The lurking shadow of an eternity trapped upon Aos unable to continue on to the Netherworld subsides slightly from Kjetil as his belt knits together broken flesh and fractured bones.

Clearly severely injured, the five limbs of Yaldabaoth stamp angrily upon the ground. The column butterflyed by Lade thrases useless, spilling more of the blackness down upon the trampled snow. The insectile buzzing surges in volume once more and the remaining inverted heads decorating its limbs start to twitch and spasm. Their eyes spring open, staring out in agony as their mouth bulge and strange grey orbs are disgorged. Exposed to air the orbs blaze in a near transparent greyish aura and accelerate upwards into the air. Again and again the mouth vomit up the orbs, a few larger specimens are pushed out of the seeping network of openings upon the rocklike body of the Master of Dead Dreams. The disturbing sight is brief, and seems to give Yaldabaoth a measure of tranquillity despite its extensive injuries.

And then the orbs return. The sky is blotted out by their silent descent. The first strike only open ground, landing as if they were made of lead but abruptly vanishing or fading from existence. Each of the party find their own fair share seemingly to maliciously swerve through the air toward them. One of the larger sphere strikes Grimjaw squarely on the top of the head, the dwarf falls down onto the snow, unconscious.

Renaltus' pyre is transformed from a roaring bonfire into a pile of broken, smouldering wood.

Yaldabaoth's hail ends. The entirety of the battlefield pock marked and each of the party heavily battered. Only Grimjaw has fallen, along with another worrying cascade of stone and mortar from the tower.

Initiative
Lade [slowed] [8]
Karthas
Grimjaw [dying]
Kjetil [large]
The sixty-sixth Septuagint, Master of Dead Dreams, Yaldabaoth [-2str]

Map
http://i32.photobucket.com/albums/d49/PASG/Round5-1.png

[Tashalar]

Kjetil saw the dwarf sag to the ground. The snow was turning black from the huge apparition's juice and red from their blood. Whatever the outcome, this battle wouldn't last much longer. Odin... strength... he prayed silently and again, his prayer was answered - or so it seemed. Once more Kjetil's torc flashed as he brought his guisarme to bear against the apparition's torso.

{OOC: Activate torc for +5 to damage. Attack normally: [roll0], damage: [roll1]}

[itches]

It felt good. The slice of the Key through the creature, the way the five legged monstrosity came one step closer to just being another story and set of scars. The hail of orbs dampened his spirits somewhat, and the collapse of Grimjaw beside him was a worry. He had liked the dwarf, for all that he had just met him, and knew the terrible cost paid for the loss of each inhuman life. But in war, people were lost, and this battle was a war as terrible as any he had seen in his long life. Afterwards, if he survived, he would try to aid him - or see to his remains in as suitable a manner as possible. But first he had to survive.

[[OOC:Hit. With. Axe. The same power attack thing again.]]

[BigRedRod]

Exploiting apparent injury, Lade strikes again at the leg swathed in the thick black ichor. The Key passes cleanly through the limb just below its joint and Yaldabaoth tumbles forwards threatening to crush the aged warrior.

Despite his own serious wounds Kjetil leaps forwards to strike. Ignoring the slowly spinning halo, ignoring the four remaining columnar limbs or even the stubby remains of the black-shrouded fith, ignoring the ring which links the limbs, Kjetil strikes for the porous rocky heart of the sixty-sixth Septuagint. His guisarme strikes the central core, shattering the brittle stone and plunging ever deeper inwards.

The sky itself turns a uniform black as the Master of Dead Dreams screams his death scream. The air rushes to escape. The remaining inverted faces howl noiselessly. There is no sound but all can feel the wave of terrible energy roaring outwards from the collapsing form of the Septuagint.

No longer does the halo slowly rotate around the body, instead it shatters into tiny fragments which fade from sight. The white, marble body turns to liquid blackness, collapsing inwards. Pulling his weapon free, Kjetil sees a burning golden light within the centre of the core. All melts into a floating sphere of liquid, black death.

Abruptly the vast orb falls, splashing down to form a shallow pool of dark poison at the base of the tower. Not all of it falls, however, a twisting form shifts and elongates. Freely suspended in the air, the thing burns like a thousand suns as it resolves its own shape. A lengthy rod which splits at one end into two parallel sections. A weapon. Its light fades, leaving behind a two-pronged spear formed of some matt, black material, floating in the air above the pool of darkness.

Master of Dead Dreams, Yaldabaoth is defeated.

Not far from the edge of the ebony liquid, Grimjaw lies in the snow, face down, his life force dimming with every moment. The poison gradually turning Lade into a living statue gradually continues to spread through his body, making each second even more difficult than the last. The tower sheds another brick and clump of mortar, the objects vanish without trace into the remains of the sixty-sixth Septuagint.

[ooc: No time to do a map I'm afraid. The pool occupies the space which Y was in]

[Tashalar]

Kjetil couldn't really think clearly anymore. He stared numbly at the creature dissolving into a black pool and wondered momentarily at the strange weapon hanging in the air, when his instincts take over.

Sustaining his rage with a huge effort, the Aart drops his weapon and kneels down next to the dwarf. Vaguely he remembered that the healing magic of his belt was almost depleted. But the dwarf had fought side-to-side with them against their adversary. He simply wouldn't let him die. Touching the belt with one hand, he extended the other and briefly touched Grimjaw's forehead.

But there was more before he could rest. Standing up again, he reached over for Lade and lifted him out of the area splattered with poison. Turning to face Karthas, he points at Lade and Grimjaw. "Aid them," the Aart murmured... and then crumpled to the ground in a huge heap.

{Use last charge from belt on Grimjaw for [roll0] points of healing, then lift Lade out of the mess he's in (reach + Str 20). Rage ends => drop to -5 hit points and unconsciousness.}

[itches]

Lade scowled at Kjetil as he moved to grab him, he could still walk - well limp - out of the ooze and it would be a cold, cold day in hell before he would let someone carry him. Fishing throughout the various pockets upon his person, Lade pulled out a tiny green bottle, snapped off the neck and drained the liquid inside. It tasted of raspberries. He didn't know if it would help, but it couldn't hurt.

Looking around to take stock - and avoiding looking at his feet - he struggled to call it a victory. The cultists were dead, the others alive and the tower still stood, but they were broken and bloody and the tower looked as if a strong enough gust of wind would knock it over.

Turning to speak to Kjetil, the aging mercenary’s eyes shot up in alarm as his younger companion collapsed. Hurrying over to try and help, he waved to the others

"Maybe we should try and aid ya first," he said to the unconscious figure.

[treehouse]

Karthas shook his head, muttering to himself. Lade caught the middle of his furious rant, though the onerous warlock slipped into a harsh, guttural tongue almost immediately after.

"...just an aspect? It almost killed us, fool!..."

He brandished a white-oak wand, grimacing as he stooped over Kjetil.

"Not really my area of expertise, heh. We'll see, won't we?"

He placed the tip of the wand to the man's forehead and shouted a command word. Not waiting to hear the shuddering gasp of life returning to his newest ally, he rumbled the same command word three more times, sending surges of curative energy across the invisible bond that briefly connected them.

[Wand of cure light wounds - 4 charges to Kjetil. [roll0] [roll1] [roll2] [roll3]]

[BigRedRod]

With the party having returned themselves to a semblance of their senses, all that is left is the strange two-pronged spear floating above the black pool of poison and the increasingly precarious tower. The sky above has returned to its usual mixture of light blues pocked with dark clouds. Looking into the distance, the storm remains, as ever, raging above Edinway.

Lade notices that the curse spreading over his body seems to have finally ground to a halt. Partially made from living stone, moving is a burden and he may never be able to remove his trousers or boots without permanently destroying his legs and feet but nor will he spend eternity as an ugly statue watching over an abandoned farm by the lake.

[Tashalar]

When the oak touched his forehead, Kjetil immediately opened his eyes with a gasp. "By the Gods... I... ugh." Rubbing his forehead, the currently almost 12 feet high Aart slowly got to his feet. As he did so, his body suddenly shrunk back to its usual size. Gazing at Karthas first and the wand in the man's hand, the Aart simply nodded his thanks for the moment.

Turning to Lade, then Grimjaw, Kjetil's gaze finally settled on the remains of the Moonbringers. "They've met their predestined fate," he muttered. "Is the magic intact," he continues aloud as his gaze wanders to the top of the tower.

Finally he becomes aware of the floating spear. His eyes narrowing, Kjetil steps up to the black-specked area, proof of the creature's demise. "A sign," the Aart said, "it must be." Reaching out, Kjetil was just out of range of it. Letting his hand drop to his side, the Aart continued to gaze at the spear, mesmerized.

[Gralhruk]

Grimjaw is staring up at the floating spear, apparently unaware of the others around him, milky eyes unfocused. He can feel over and over the echoes of their deed as they reverberate through the murky depths of his mind, stirring the memories pressed there as a low wind spins dead leaves. He stands on the shores of the black pool that was the Master of Dead Dreams and stares through the thickening cloud of recollection, trying to sort out which belonged to him, who he was, why he was here.

He had died, he was sure, but which death was his?

Beside him, Kjetil reaches for the object of his focus, even the tall man falling short of that goal. The 66th septuagint, dead, in front of them. It could not be. Memories swirl thicker, like insects to a lamp in the dark night, obscuring any meaning. And that, maybe, is the truth of it all.

He sees the others, as if for the first time, recalls the battle, the red smears that were once men, Lade's ungainly transformation. He breathes a low prayer in dwarven, for them all.

<OOC: So, Knowledge (Dungeoneering) at +10, to see if I know something about the ailment affecting Lade>

[Gralhruk]

Grimjaw shakes his great head slightly and then shuffles his feet, looking expectantly at Lade. When the other ignores him, he clears his throat and speaks.

"I'm no healer, but you don't live as long as I have without knowing something. The . . . bhargarokk . . . hardened skin. Might be I can ease it a little with a special brew. Won't get rid of it, but it might help some. For a while, anyway. Needs magic for real healing, though."

He digs his thick fingers into his snow white beard, eyes murky.

"And you're human . . . might be my remedy won't agree with you."

[Tashalar]

Kjetil continued to stare at the spear in vain until Grimjaw spoke up. Turning around, the tall Aart grumbled "there's no remedy for being human, I fear." After a second he added "but Lade's made of stronger stuff than most as far as I can see." He glanced once more at the spear, then back at the others. "I'd wager there are more back in Edinway who might know something about this..." he hesitated and frowned "... this..." his frown deepened "... what was this beast?"

[Gralhruk]

The dwarf shrugs his massive shoulders, but his thick fingers tighten on the haft of his urgosh. After a moment, his eyes take on a faraway look as he peers into the recesses of memory - dark areas filled with shadows and spectres, here and there punctuated by the glitter of a half-hidden gem. When he speaks, his voice is distant and gravelly, like a shifting of boulders should the earth sigh.

"A sliver of a thing that shouldn't be . . . septuagint . . . the shadow of Yaldabaoth, Master of Dead Dreams. Terrible beyond imagining, and this were but a shadow . . . if he had come himself . . ."

He trails off, shaking his head.

"You'd not be here to ask."

[itches]

"Okay," Lade said, clapping his hands together then gasping in pain as the bones in his shoulders shifted. "O-Okay, ignoring that thing for now let's look at at where we are. I'm no expert but it seemed to be that ... tha thing turned up when we finished the ritual. And if it happened here it could have happened elsewhere. The others could use our help, but to be honest right now I don't think we're in much shape to be helping anyone. So I say we head back to to the base and see what we can do from there. Thoughts?"

[Gralhruk]

Grimjaw shrugs again, not sure what the orders had been, eyes still on the spear. Seemed like a bad idea to leave this place unguarded when they'd worked so hard to keep it upright, but it wasn't his call. In fact, he really had no business here. He'd come for the girl, Emmon's wife - and her boy. A boy ought to know what had become of his father.

He'd have to make some decisions soon. He kneels and pulls a long length of curious looking rope from his pack. Making a loop in one end, he casts it neatly over the floating spear, then pulls gingerly to tighten the noose. This done, he carefully reels in their prize so he can examine it closer.

[BigRedRod]

Tugging the rope, Grimjaw finds the spear oddly resistant to being moved from its arcane equilibrium floating in the air. Pulling harder, the dwarf dislodges the weapon from whatever unseen forces were holding it place. He catches it with the same ease of movement as he cast the rope out in the first place.

Holding the spear is an uncomfortable experience. Grimjaw's hand and arm itches, not on the skin but deep within the bone. A minor sensation, possibly not connected with any underlying and cumulative problem, but significant enough on its own. At least not for the moment.

Quite what the spear is made from, if it was actually crafted in the usual sense of the word, is beyond Grimjaw's expertise. A strange material that seems to eat light, the hand of the dwarf upon it stands out in infinite contrast. The dual-pronged design is equally strange, but not entirely unique. As the prongs move through the air their shape distorts from a pair of gradually tapering cylinders to a pair of flat blades, a feature which more than makes up for the unconventional design.

A fine weapon, and more beside. As the dwarf grips the spear he becomes aware that the warrior who wields such a weapon can invoke its powers to ignore the typical limitations of language. The All-Tongue.

[ooc: Yaldabaoth's Tongue is a self-identifying item. It's a +2 Longspear and once a day the one who uses the spear in battle can invoke the All-Tongue, gaining a +10 competence bonus to diplomacy and speaking in words which are understood by anything which has a language for a single round]

[Tashalar]

What now? Lade raised the big question. They had done their job, more or less and now? Kjetil was about to speak up when the dwarf lassoed the spear and began to draw it in.

The Aart's gaze was fixed on the spear while his mind was torn between the question of where to go from here and contemplating the mystical artifact. He saw the might of the weapon reflected in Grimjaw's expression.

Finally he managed to turn away and focus on the more urgent earthly matters. "Back to base sounds like the logical next step, Lade," the Aart agreed. "This... this entity did not manage to destroy what we erected. By the feel of the..." the Aart hesitated shortly and gazed up at the tower "...of the field it seems intact." Pause. "At least as far as I can tell." His expression showed clearly he didn't think that was very far... focusing on Karthas for a short moment, the Aart then addressed the man. "What do your senses say? You helped erect it..."

Waiting for Karthas to answer, he turned to Grimjaw and regarded the dwarf solemnly before glancing sideways back at Karthas.

[treehouse]

Karthas shrugged uncomfortably.

"Back to base, yes," he muttered, to no one in particular.

"Are they fools to take a trophy from the Septuagint? Does no one wonder where the spear came from?"

He seemed completely unaware that he had spoken aloud.

[Gralhruk]

Grimjaw stares expressionlessly at Karthas, the spear gripped loosely in his big fist. His mind yawns wide with the words, and he is drawn back to captivity, the alien overlords, the lash and the blood and the pain. Septuagint, a thing far older, far more inscrutable, far less forgiving.

He shrugs. It was a weapon - powerful, magical - and it hadn't killed him yet. Not that he felt it was his for the taking, but he was reluctant to leave the decision to Lade. He turns to Kjetil, and offers the weapon with a gesture.

"Could be your man there is right. Still, it's got power. Better, maybe, if you kept it."

His critical dwarvish eye wanders to the tower. It didn't look good.

"Might be we should buttress that pile o' rock. Looks about to come down."

[itches]

Lade scratched absently at his fresh stone whiskers as he squinted at the tower. It was standing, but not by much.

"Could be we'll make it worse," he ventured. "It's only just standing now, but it is standing. If we start to mess with it without knowing what we're doing, the whole thing could come down around us."

[Gralhruk]

Grimjaw looked sideways at Lade, wondering if the man was trying to insult him. Hard to tell, stonefaced as he was. The clan valued craftsmanship highly, as anyone smarter than a rock ought to know. Anyone carrying the weapon Lade carried ought to know more than that. His eyes are unreadable as he turns to the tower, studying the damage and the materials at their disposal.

"I'll help, if you can follow orders. Otherwise the whole thing could come down around us."

<OOC: Not sure what sort of check I need here to figure out what we can do to brace the thing.>

[Tashalar]

Kjetil shortly raised a brow at Karthas' curious question, but Grimjaw soon caught his attention with his offer. Glancing sideways at Karthas and then back at the spear offered by the dwarf, Kjetil hesitated and eyed Grimjaw closely. Why he is offering it to me is beyond me, but his words feel like the truth even as the spear feels like power. Is it ours for the taking?

Slowly the large Aart reached out and grabbed a hold of the spear, weighing it in his hands. It felt strong and perfectly balanced, but there was more... suddenly he understood the flash of surprise on the dwarf's face when he had first held the spear...

Kjetil continued to stare at the powerful weapon while his companions talked about possible repairs to the tower. Finally he looked up and glanced from one to the other. "While it seems like a dangerous place to stay, I'd suggest we do what we can to stabilize the tower without risking its final demise. If you'll direct us in this task, we'll be on our way back to Edinway soon," he finished to Grimjaw.

[itches]

"But soon enough do ya think?" Lade added, glancing towards the sun. "We don't got a lot of sunlight left and I can't move fast while I'm like this."

[Tashalar]

Kjetil gazed at Lade's legs for several seconds. He had noticed that the old man was moving slower than usual even. They might be able to make it back to Edinway before dark and facing any more ghosts out here would be the end. At least of their lives.

Bending down next to Lade, Kjetil tilts his head to look at his legs but doesn't touch them. Looking up at the dwarf, the Aart looked worried. "Did you say something about a remedy you knew? Speed is of import and... this doesn't look as if it would heal quickly of its own."

Pushing himself up with his hands on his knees, the Aart turns to face the tower. "And even though this structure could surely need some strengthening, I think it will have to wait. We don't want to face what comes here at night. And whatever we put up to strengthen this structure could be brought down by others again easily." Looking from Lade to Karthas to Grimjaw, Kjetil says "so my vote is to head back to the city." Holding the dwarf's gaze, he adds "I would ask you to accompany us, Grimjaw. I would invite you to the place we call home at this time. And I would offer you..." he hesitates shortly "... my help with whatever you came here for if there's still something you need to take care of."

[Gralhruk]

The dwarf scratches idly at his beard with a powerful hand. It bothered him to leave the structure in such bad condition, but he could see the wisdom in it. Any bracing would be temporary at best, and as the Aart said, no real deterrent to destruction. His eyes glance to Lade's legs at the mention of the remedy and he nods.

"Take a bit of time to get the ingredients, but it might help him for a bit. Get us moving quicker."

Us

Kjetil had invited him to join them, offered help in exchange, and he could use help. Although truth be told, the woman was like to be with the of them that left Edinway. Smart thing might be to try and find them rather than go back to the city. He couldn't ignore what had happened here, though - the ghost, the septuagint, the ritual. And she might be in Edinway still, or there might be a clue. Could be fate, pushing him there. He looks at Kjetil, his face like stone, and he nods slowly.

"I'll join you," he says gravely, extending his arm.

[BigRedRod]

Karthas administers healing to the group with the slender rod, even its limits are greatly stretched by the depths of injury sustained during the battle with the named being from far below Aos. Grimjaw skirts away from the group, keeping the within sight, but his eyes focused on locating the various herbal items required for a temporary remedy to Lade's malady.

Moving at a rather relaxed pace as they cluster around Lade, Kjetil and Karthas begin the long, increasingly cold walk back to Edinway. The clouds above start to thicken, it will snow this night. One can only hope that the weather holds off until all are safely interned back at the Cathedral. The last point of light in the city. Edinway, the vacant seat of civilisation harbouring the rift at its centre.

Passing through the faint sheen that marks the barrier formed by the thirteen anchors is barely noticeable, perhaps there is a slight thickening of the insubstantial wall for a moment, but judging even a doubling or tripling of such a minor effect is beyond the range of any reliable senses.

Striking out along the edge of the lake, the view would be strikingly beautiful if this was a time to appreciate such things. Alas, it was not. Even Lade, moving with his jaw clenched and cold beads of sweat forming up on his brow as he takes each heavy step keeps his eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of trouble. Now that the ritual had been completed it was just a matter of time before the rats, the Kyrdol, realised that their corridor into this world had been restricted. The beasts were cunning. And then there were the restless spirits. Emmon's Brother had dwelt at the farm, and hopefully his rage would not permit him to leave his former home, but he was one soul in thousands, hundreds of thousands, that wandered Aos, unable to reach their just desserts in The Netherworld. Striking out in rage. Blind, horrible rage.

For now, the way was clear. Once or twice, the party's new Dwarvern addition reappears, possibly just to reassure the others rather than out of any direct need. The gathering was going well, even in the dead of the winter the lakeside and surrounding low hills were home to a good variety of species. Not at all like what he would have sought if he was safely in the earth's embrace, but the sun-worshipping equivalents. Only a damned fool would restrict himself to learning to survive in one environment. Even out of his element Grimjaw was a highly skilled ranger. Uprooting a small shrub, the dwarf hacked at the large winding roots. Fringed Rue, Ruta chalepensis. Stowing the twisted rootmass, Grimjaw stood, preparing to return to Lade when the earth below his feet shook.

Grimjaw couldn't see the tower from where he stood nestled within a small dip, but Karthas could. As could Kjetil. And as could Lade. The three were standing on the far side of the lake when a keystone slipped from its position and the groundfloor walls pitched inward by several degrees. The collapse should have been over then, but nothing is simple.

The Lunacite Blanc the party had brought to the farm had been bound to a place of power by the ritual which created the final anchor. A node in such a powerful enchantment is rather reluctant to move even at the urging of the fundamental laws of nature. Blocks of stone hurtled down, slamming down into the snow, splashing through the icy waters of the lake or vanishing entire into the pool of cursed blackness. A thin spine of stone, a hotchpotch spire remained, far too little to support the rapidly diminishing upper levels. The spiral stairs hung in free space, joined only to one another for the most part.

And Aos trembled as the laws of nature demanded that the tower fall and The Thirteen Anchor demanded that it remain. A huge curving wall flashes white, starting at the tower, and stretching in a gentle curve to intersect with the other twelve towers. Visible strain in the magical barrier. And then the entire world turned a pure white. Karthas, Kjetil and Lade were silhouettes. As was the skeletal remains of the tower, a narrow off-centre section of wall holding the more complete top floor.

-=Chapter End=-