To see the dragon this close was a sight to behold. It was so amazing, so powerful, and so very horrifying. So many dead after just one run. The creature was larger than anything she has seen before; imagery would not do it justice. She has seen dragons on murals and paintings, but even from so far away Parum could clearly see that she was out of her depth.
”There’s… There’s no way… No, no no no no!”
Parum was just a bard and a scholar. She wasn’t a fighter, and hardly a mage. She played music and read books. Her place was at a library keeping records or perhaps a tavern entertaining travelers. Being a warrior-poet or a skald was just a fantasy for her. Because in the face of a true threat like this dragon, there was no way Parum could fight it. How can anyone fight it? With a creature this huge she doubts a spear could pierce its hide. There just wasn’t a way. They were all going to die.
It was then that Orchid let loose his warcry and harshly brought Parum back to reality. At this moment Parum was almost certain that the half-orc was a fool. She remembered what he said was his plan, and she believed that was foolish. And now he was actually going to do it. ”You idiot, don’t go! You’ll just get yourself killed!” But it was too late. The practically butt-naked barbarian charged out to meet the dragon head on, as if the monster was a mere beast. ”That idiot is going to get himself killed! He… He… Dammit!” Parum suffered a moment of crisis, uncertain what she could do. Creatures like a dragon required heroes to defeat. She was no hero.
However…
In such tense moments, there was really only one thing Parum could do. The only thing she knows she can do well: she played a song. Touching her blade bow to the strings of her viol, Parum played a song of courage. It was really the only thing she could think to do now. Everyone needed hope, especially during bleak times like this. As her song played Parum was able to gather some courage. At the very least she didn’t run away, even if she doesn’t want to get any closer.
”Orchid… Don't die! You better come back!”
Parum gives Orchid bard inspiration (1d6) Parum readies an action to cast Faerie Fire when the dragon is within 60 feet. Dex Save 13. Wisdom Save = 2/11 Parum is still scared.
A blood curdling roar thundered through the skies as the dragon decimated the soldiers on the ramparts with it's breath attack. There was no way to stop that; even the few who had readied their shields and hide behind cover were vaporized by lightning. It was indeed a frightening scene. Kyra wasn't even sure if she saw anyone she recognized but she had many friends in the militia. Friends from her youth who always wanted to be heroes, adventurers, and to defend their homes and family. They wished to die heroic deaths against a mighty foe and even if they were defeated, their actions would help others bring their enemy down. These same people who weren't even able to so much as draw an arrow before their life was gone in an instant.
Anger welled up inside of Kyra. What had her village done? What was so important about Greenest that they would attract the fury of a fully grown dragon? This was no mere bandit horde. Bandits Kyra has dealt with. Bandits made sense. But Greenest was a humble village that farmed and cultivated the natural gifts of the land around them. It was not some keep of ancient knowledge or fortress of a powerful lord. Seeing the dragon kill her people did not make Kyra scared. It made her angry.
"You... Y-you... YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS!"
Just as the orcish warrior went forward Kyra reached into her bag and took out a small vial of holy water. It was barely a few ounces but with it she could channel her magic and bless Orchid, Parum, and Brannor. This wasn't a simple anointment: magic power surged through the water as the three would feel a slight divine presence strength their will and guide their hands. It was only a temporary assist but every bit would help in the face of this dragon.
Kyra casted Bless on Parum, Brannor, and Orchid. When you roll an attack or saving through, you can choose to add a 1d4 to the result. It last for one minute or until it's used.
The dragon's assault was met with multiple arrows from the guard and more independent heroes who had all gathered to drive off this huge threat. Brannor's arrow was lost in the cloud of others, but that didn't matter much as the tough dragonhide stopped the attacks, leaving arrows raining down without making as much as a scratch on the creature. It didn't even bother roaring and simply adjusted it's course back towards the keep, starting a climb to fly over the tower next to which our heroes were taking cover.
This wasn't all though, as more cold white sparks formed within the maw of the creature, indicating another strike much like the one it had just made. It released the breath upon men mere fifteen feet in front of the adventurers, killing four more and leaving six screaming in agony as the beat of it's wings pushed it higher and higher in the air.
While Orchid found himself with a disappointingly short rope and thus unable to throw it at the dragon mere fifty feet away, that didn't stop Parum from unleashing her magic upon the creature. The magical lights stuck on the creature, making any further attempts at hitting it possibly easier, especially now that the weaker points of it's scaly hide were highlighted.
The dragon fails it's saving throw against Faerie Fire with it's roll of 5. Attacks against it are advantaged and thus any disadvantages on those do not apply (you still don't get to roll 2 dice though).
Dragon is now about fifty feet above the party, ascending towards the top of the tower behind them.
Arrows were loosed in retaliation to the earlier blazing hiccup, which cremated many guards and cauterized the stark battlements beneath them.
"WAAAAAAARGH!"
Despite a roped javelin and a launched missile into the fray from the blessed orc and the recognizable, but bestial eyed divine aspirant, their monstrous foe circled above once again ignoring the scratches of Greenest’s best. The Halfling’s musical encouragement summoned optimism, granting courage to some within the motley crew. A cleric, named Kyra, nearby, rationed holiness to those willing to contest the fiery behemoth.
Soon, the scaly goliath descended and belched another bleak eternity of Gehenna, worthy of the Fourfold Furnaces, perdition stemming from legend and the reckoning of the ancient years of Dale. Torus’ murky eyes and caved chest cringed, as the bird whispered severance, its pectoriloquy eradicating its telepathic bond due to inexplicable trepidation. The screams from the fraught raven’s wings expanded to the druid’s mental sanctuary; he was projected into a déjà vu, the enharmonic equivalent of an emotional Möbius strip colliding with a meteor of his previous iniquitous incarnations, as nightmares yielded elegy and dirge from the kender’s convulsive blade bow.
Aside from the occasional over-sized Pooh bear belly obstructing the tavern floor, the collage of idiosyncrasies and races always noticed the entry of the aging pirate. He possessed a bizarre taste and an even more peculiar wit; his nefarious reputation seemed to precede his boots, anywhere they took him. It made orcs nervous and elves laugh, but the druid never left anyone nearby unscathed from his unruly tongue. Whenever he and the regulars, who hung around the Red-Eyed Owl heard a bard warble, “The Dragon Queen is dead,” every rummy would change that line to “Old Man Torus Said,” and follow it up with any bit of doggerel that came to mind and howl that dogma, as if dangled by a master puppeteer, brewing the greatest slogan in Waterdeep. They’d pound the heavy oak tables in that timeworn saloon, and for a brief moment, the air wasn't so heavy with a stale burning heart or the stench of failure.
It was a vessel where all were first mates, with Torus at the hull.
The slab, entitled after a famous Waterdhavian noble who would oftentimes hoot after a full expensive palate of Alfengrape with enraged conjunctiva, developed in the Castle Ward into a haunted ruin where Odysseus-like witches danced as wasted protagonists stumbled home to their respective ancient Grecian odes. This wasn't a pub where deputized charlatans or slumming beggars trekked to guzzle ale from jugs. This served a hive where men who witnessed hard lives went to expire.
Slowly. Poisoning themselves along the way.
The hostelry was always wintry inside, similar to the denouement of a forgotten Shakespearean tragedy, frigid and melancholy except for the few savory instances when infrequent droll occurred. Even then, though, that mirth was haphazard, like the time, a warlock slipped in a pool of spilled liquor and plummeted onto his already bludgeoned face, shoving his Orwellian monocles into his baggy pupils. The whole crowd guffawed at his goggled peepers. However, the dystopian fall rendered him entirely blind in one eye and mostly in the other. And, yet, despite the effervescent cackling, Torus still prized it, but more so when ice and darkness abounded.
It was his watering hole, even if he didn’t own it or toiled there. He was present more than any other drunk dwarf. Hence, it was to everyone’s surprise when a gorgeous, crimson-haired belle, a quarter-century the middle-aged pirate’s junior, in an emerald dress, with eyes wide and dewy, legs long and strong, and a Poesque countenance able to fend numerous coarse words and whistles from hoary men, strutted to the inebriated Tethyrian. Torus was entranced by the ornamental purple dragon, branded on the skin of her left arm, in vivid portrayal, as he sat on his usual stool next to her. The druid had just returned from the shitter, carrying his shot glass with him.
“Thirsty work!” he bellowed to no one in particular, and all echoed, at top volume and in unison, before returning to their own drinks.
“Torus?”
“That’s right, my dear,” He replied in Common, flashing his barren tongue, mesmerized by the small brown parcel.
“I have brought you a birthday present.” She juddered in Draconic as she caressed his hand.
Then, suddenly, a hack full of blood erupted from his ligneous mouth, across the midriff of the opposing female’s attire, contrasting like tainted Thayan dirt in a jade pasture, whilst Vel, the Tiefling bartender, stood in bereft horror of a Red wizard.
His quarterstaff fell from his crippled grip, dropping in similitude to the Calashite guillotine plunged by Yaga-Shura upon the city of Saradush. The bo clanged onto the floor dissipating its magical glimmer evoked moments earlier as precaution. Quickly, his thoughts became a funeral to doubt, as Maztican gore seeped from his lips. There was no bated pause to commemorate the envisioned charred amputees or worse, the ashen dead. The fictitious memorial wake was wretched from his contemplation once the current surroundings completely materialized into view. His caked eyelids flickered about the distraught alcove, reminding the elder that the future of this world was not given by fathers and mothers but borrowed from their children.
Sweeping a tear from his cheek, shed for his sinful past, he mystically matured the lacrimation into a frosty scalpel. Disregarding his belongings but embarking his shield, the solidified dagger slowly cried and trickled from his palm, whilst the druid trotted towards the shrieks and momentarily oozed past Brannor into the open parapet, where the inferno had been beheld by his avian familiar. He gazed, with awe, upon the mysteriously illuminated dragon.
The beast occupied the center of his failing but fearless vision.
He welcomed death, like seeds dormant beneath the snow of his heart dreaming of the promised Fey spring, whether guaranteed in this life or the next. Torus hailed his only dart, casting and mirroring that hopeful shard which emulated all who stared into its revolving corkscrew, remembering the valor and mettle of those remaining ever present before the flapping calamity.
In the flashback, the Red wizard used Disguise Self and Inflict Wounds on the younger Torus.
Due to Frightful Presence, the raven will take the Dodge action as it seeks a place to roost and hide. Torus sees/hears through his familiar until the start of his next turn, which is now.
During his turn, Shillelagh is lost since the staff left his grasp. He interacts with one object, specifically the turtle shell and casts Ice Knife which has a range of 60 feet, once he is at the rampart, at the Dragon who is within range.
For the initial Ice Knife strike, with the advantage from Faerie Fire, Torus rolls a 22 and a 11.
If the Ice Knife lands, then the dragon takes 5 damage.
Whether hit or miss, the shard explodes and the dragon must succeed on a Dexterity saving throw against a target of 13 or take 2d6 cold damage (9).
As the dragon flew closer, Orchid tried in vain to spear it's hide. But alas, the beast was too far, and Orchid's harpoon sailed over the rampart and into the ground below. Tossing away the rope it was attached too Orchid was not bothered by the failure; indeed it was quite the opposite. The dragon had gotten closer to the tower and by extension, closer to Orchid. He had no idea why the dragon had ignored him as Orchid was standing quite openly to be vaporized, but the half-orc cared little for the dragon's motivations. All that mattered was it's death. As it got closer to the walls Orchid noticed that the wall of the tower would surely be able to withstand his harpoon, but it's course exterior made it perfectly able for the savage warrior to scale with his bare hands.
Thus Orchid ran towards the wall. When he did he tossed away his shield near the rest of his allies as he began to climb as fast as he could. He had no weapons in hand, and only what he could carry on his bandoliers. He was confident in his climbing abilities and with the support of Parum and Kyra, Orchid was certain he could easily scale closer enough to the dragon to land a spear into it. That being said, while Orchid certainly had a grip on the wall and was making some progress, it wasn't a simple task. With no natural hand-holds Orchid had to rely solely on his strength to maintain a grip on the wall. He was tempted to embrace his bestial rage to better his climbing, but decided to bide his time. If he did so too early before he could even face the dragon, he would simply tire himself out. Only when he was certain he could attack it would Orchid enter his rage. For now, he must continue to climb.
Health: 12/14 Armor Class: 14 (Orchid dropped his shield) Rage: 1/2 Status: Climbing the Tower Exterior to get closer to the dragon.
The surge of divine blessing that fell atop Brannor like a mantle came with a familiar sensation, a familiar feeling deep in his fibers and down to the roots of his spirit, but a foreign one all the same as though it were restrained and distant; it was not feral or wild, not touched in the same way he was. Such favor on behalf of Kyra's patron was certainly not unwelcome to him, on the contrary rather. Just the faint caress of nature's power was enough to steel his mettle in the bright cyan light that raged against the stones of the keep, utterly destroying more of the resistance and leaving the air with an unworldly, sharp and bitter smell. As quickly as the breath of lightning roared forth, it vanished with the dragon in its ascent - chased by vibrant orbs of glittering light that illuminated it like a beacon in the sky.
It might have been the timeliness of it all, between the arrows deflecting harmlessly off the scaled blue beast, the onset of holy power, its body illuminated with twinkling light, and then the sudden explosion of shards of ice into a deadly piercing mist, there was now determination in place of hesitation for the man.
Rolled a 15 then a 12 due to disadvantage on a Perception check to see if there appears to be any obvious working siege weapons or other tools on the ramparts to thwart the dragon.
The sound, the noise, it all left for a moment as his eyes scanned desperately to find a greater answer. The mute world, now only distant vibrations and shadows moving in the glimpses of moonlight and fire, it bought Brannor time to think. Arrows and bolts were well enough, but what of a ballista? Did the keep have such a weapon? Surely if they did the dragon would have been wise enough to destroy an actual threat to itself, but what if it hadn't? If such fortune arose, he wanted to make use of it.
With the moment of clarity bleeding off - the sound of the world around him, greyed out as it was in brief, came returning with an eerie ringing in his ears - although the hunter was already on the move again, none more distracted than he could be. He drew out from the doorway that so protected him, bowstring drawn far and back, tracking the climb of the dragon in his sights, he managed only barely then to dodge the half orc who came roaring past, scrambling up the wall in pursuit of his quarry; the bow released all the same and the arrow went sailing off into the dark wildly.
It was enough to make him roar an incoherent curse in woodland tongue instinctively, the frustration to have so little power against the monster welling within him. The urge to give in to it, the senseless anger, had to be repurposed somehow...
Rolled a 5 for longbow attack versus dragon. It becomes a 7 with Bless. Rolled a 20 on Wisdom saving throw to overcome Frightful Presence. It becomes a 23 with Bless.
And repurposed it was, for that burn of the otherworldly, silvery wrath he could feel - stoked further by magical blessing - broke him free of the dragon's reign of terror; if an old man had such courage to assail the creature as he did with deathly ice and a tiny hin to strum her instrument with devoted inspiration, Brannor knew for certain that he and his gift could do just as well. There was to be no relent, just as the dragon was so inclined not to offer any quarter to the swathes of men it cut down.
It was for these reasons, he returned into the archway's cover, cloak and chain to the wall, and knocked yet another arrow; he would strike true his quarry or at least die trying.
This was still insane, and it only got worse by the second. Parum thought the dragon was bad enough when she saw it flying above her, but she had the misfortune to witness the dragon's might up front. In a single attack a squad of men were vaporized in lightning, and those with the misfortune to survive were now dying in agony. Parum's breath became heavy and shallow as she wanted to turn and run more and more. What sort of crazy person thinks they can take something like this on? What chance did they honestly have? Orchid may be fool enough to try, but there was no way he could possibly kill the dragon. Even if he could somehow stab it's eye, all that would do would get it's attention, where he'd quickly get killed with a casual swipe of the dragon's claw. If Orchid even managed to climb onto the dragon, all it'd need to do is fly so high into the sky that the moment Orchid fell, he would die once he landed. Parum was so tempted to just get everyone and flee for their lives. Forget Greenest, forget fighting for this dragon, she wasn't going to die for some foolish cause.
But she couldn't. As she played and looked around, she noticed that more soldiers had come to fight, despite the harrowing carnage around them. She had to question how anyone would want to come out and fight knowing that all they could do was die. Surely these men were smarter than a orcish berserker? Then again, Parum was still here. If she wanted to run all she had to do was turn around and walk away. She was almost sure that no one would blame her. But she couldn't; something welled up inside of her. A courage that she never thought she'd have: The will to fight.
Kyra ducked back into the tower when the dragon used his breath attack on the wall. While they were lucky that the dragon didn't attack them, it only made Kyra angrier when she saw that the dragon was still killing the soldiers. "Get out of here! It's too dangerous let us handle it!" Kyra shouted as loudly as she could to the other soldiers, hoping that they would recognize her voice. Kyra couldn't say she was the strongest person in the village but she had taken down a dire boar alone, a feat that normally would take a group of militia men to accomplish. While they may need all the help they can get the last thing Kyra wanted was for so many good men to die.
Meanwhile she saw the half-orc keep charging the dragon. When he ran to the others Kyra thought he was going to go up the stairs to the dragon, but apparently he intended to take the express way and climb. Kyra cursed leaving her grappling arrow at home, as she could easily shoot it into one of the windows above to help the half-orc reach the dragon. Instead Kyra aimed her bow upwards and shot towards it's soft underbelly, which thanks to Parum's magic made it much easier for the elf to see. "The dragon is heading to the top! Make sure that guy doesn't kill himself, I'm going to head up!" In the mean time Kyra did decide to head inside the tower and try to find her way up towards the top. While she'd risk getting the dragon's attention, hopefully Orchid and Brannor would have already distract long enough for Kyra steals a few shots at it's face.
Below the imposing figure of the mighty dragon, our heroes put up a valiant effort in driving away the force mighty enough to quite possibly tear the keep down brick by brick, especially with the aid of the raiders outside. Surprisingly, it felt the sting of something as the weapon created by Ice Knife pierced it's hide. However, a lucky beat of it's wings pushed away the shrapnel from the explosion and spared it from further harm.
As the half-orc began their climb on the outer wall quite successfully, the Paladin began looking for bigger weaponry. As if by pure chance, he overheard a discussion between two members of the guard passing by: "No, we don't have any 'bigger guns' as you put it. We are a defensive keep, what would we do with, say, a catapult or a ballista? And like we'd have the money to keep cannons supplied..." Not good news, but at the very least he now knew searching further would not be fruitful. Receiving the news must have messed with his aim, since the shot they took went wide, missing the dragon completely.
Parum's mocking words seemed to not bother the dragon in the slightest, as it kept on flying upwards, the same with the arrow let loose by Kyra or the multiple guardsmen. As it scaled the tower, it began turning to it's right towards the front battlements of the keep. It now flew quite a bit higher and there was no crackling within it's maw. It didn't seem to bother attacking without it's breath weapon, as if disinterested in this whole fight.
The dragon makes it's save against the AoE effect of the Ice Knife flung by Torus with a roll of 14. I am assuming Torus can find the place blinded and throw the Ice Knife with some accuracy even when watching through the Raven's eyes, which is a lot to be honest.
The dragon also makes the save against Parum's mockery with a roll of 18.
The talented Parum, another treasured Desdemona with ruddy blue curls, solidified near Kyra, the priestess of Chauntea, whilst illicit bedlam fizzed beneath the old man’s hideous rictus. Then and there, the arithmetic of a sloshed Escher inaugurated a visual paradox. The parallax error of his foggy right pupil was unsettling, as his Tethyrian nostrils began to flare and exude plasma. The drops of blood contrasted the girls’ tresses, with such lively, but hairy hues.
Torus endured the terrifying sight, slowly stomaching the draconic reality. Or was his clouded strabismus distorting his stifling perception of the contorted visage, empowering bliss by sheer ignorance? A voice finally, as if ending a Spenserian sonnet, ricocheted upon his cognizance as he gazed upon the bard, “She will be your demise. Not I.”
Muttering to himself, the ancient druid ambled to the heart of Baldur’s Gate. “Promises, promises,” he snarled at the massive walls, a cocoon later to give birth to retribution with years to come. Or maybe to an invisible, but omnipresent Garyx who harvested indignant clout to alter, destroy, and cleanse fate with spiritual fire. This was his stained existence, from the ruins of Luskan, a life occupied with contracts and wishes. He imagined in someone else’s world, a realm without god or devils, a sparkle of such substance would be innocent and beautiful. Not so for the pirate. He kept vows because debt always called his bluff. Thus, for the same motivation, so many hopes were kept at bay, churning for a future summer, free of obligations and full of aspirations.
At the second stop after the carriage line, a woman with a ginger mane, dewy eyes and long legs sprawled onto the cobbled road. She donned an overcoat above her dour green dress, in preparation of the heralding thunder clouds and imminent melting rain. Torus noticed her but paid her no mind. She saw him, but her lashes betrayed no hint of recognition.
A throng was about at this hour of the night. Teenage punks going home late from sniffing minced Goldencup at their friends’ houses. Short-order cooks coming off the mid-shift. Machiavellian lawyers who put in long hours.
Torus didn’t know any of the mob.
A man in a cowl distracted by the drizzle bumped the druid’s arthritic knee and squirmed a remark, “Sorry, old man.” Torus offered a half-hearted retort, “Promises, promises.” The suit lent the elder a curious look that expressed a lack of comprehension, but then about-faced, returning to his physical conversation with the elements.
The Mezro in the minotaur hide was obviously drunk or senile. Just another nut in the Wide, the large open marketplace that dominated the northeast portion of this walled labyrinth.
Enduring a statuesque position while tracking the female, his left palm wrapped around an adjacent railing like a branch that had grown around an intruding fence post. His right hand maintained within his burrowed pocket, except for the dozen times he hatched it out to raise a flask to his cyanotic lips.
At High Hall, the woman, with the dewy eyes and long legs, turned the corner. Torus departed from his Parkinsonian hibernation, following, about a hundred steps behind her, sipping from his ill-prepped canteen, as if he remembered his place in the choreography of a dance routine. She twisted left at the Blushing Mermaid, left again at Wyrm’s Crossing and then past the Slurping Sturgeon. The reject of Chult had curved on Fifth, circled south again, past the outskirts of the Seatower of Balduran and then right beyond Omduil’s Manor.
The old man wanted her to have ample time.
When he turned onto Seventh, no one was there. It was too arctic to be exposed for long, this season of the year, but the pirate always reveled in his unsuspecting prey. The bourbon in his flagon kept him warm, and he smoked a crafty pipe, discarded a few months ago in a pawn shop, clutching the cancer wand between his stubby digits, feeling its heat through his cutoff gloves.
Probably a long enough tempo, he reasoned, and took a few strides down the block.
The brownstone he lingered in front of was stricken with taciturn light, only a few barred windows displaying any clue of the coming holidays. Presently, a couple dressed in adventurers’ gear barreled out the front door, walking a pale-eyed Weimaraner. The Tethyrian grabbed the Pandoran knob of the slum before it closed and waded past the entry, inside.
He found the foyer damnably humid. 3E. His mind stuttered while his boots took the stairs.
As he jetted to the landing pad on the third floor, Torus checked his auburn wool jacket. There, inside, he felt the length of a polished, sculpted rowan. Consistently carried, to apotropaically protect against bad luck and malevolence. The epiphytic Sorbus aucuparia got the job done in these circumstances. He squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, as if the thought pained him; the three foot club always helped fulfill oaths.
Torus rapped on the door.
The dewy-eyed woman answered, though the entry was chained. She had already changed her attire from her workday drab into slouchy undergarments. Red light emanated from the room behind her, the candles spilling its content, unheeded, awaiting her return.
For a split second, the red head face looked confused. Then an appreciative look of acknowledgment washed over her features.
“Uncle Torus?” she asked.
“That’s right, my dear,” the old man replied. “I’ve brought your present. May I come in?”
The Medusa blessed with cerulean tendrils, full of increasing daring and gallantry, continued her song, digesting the ostentatious squad about her. In a brief conceptual burp, more men piled onto the battlement, drowning the two heroines. Armed with spears, knocked arrows, and some with slingshots, poised to do their sacrificial part. As he impulsively grasped to his side, all his possessions within the absent pirate’s net including his orb, staff, and Sylvan spell tome, were apparently left inside the citadel, in his hurried haste to tend to this impenetrable threat. The raven quickly landed and nestled on the jarred Torus, overcoming its own fleeting petrification. The pirate consequently snorted to Brannor, as Orchid seemed beyond earshot, as he stirred to a remote corner on the rampart, not to attract devastation, to those around, from his heaved icicle, moments earlier.
The half-orc beamed. "Aaaargh! Coward!" The pirate swiveled his chin in dismay, pivoting to the hopeful paladin.
There was no extraneous need to further add to the rubicund flesh of the monstrosity’s recent victims.
"Suggestions, lad?” his tongue ring inquired the golden eyes.
He attempted to recollect the environment from his familiar’s previous aerial rounds in conjunction with his own observations. An ensuing frustrated snarl soon paralleled a magical construct that erupted from two tethered waterskins on the druid’s sash near his sheathed seashell conch horn; the third remained sealed, for now. Twenty pounds of acquatic shingles speedily erected into a frozen silver parasol over the 56 inched dilapidated human frame, his shield and his avian companion who roosted on his shoulder. Endeavors to provide permanent cover and camouflage, cementing itself with glacial roots into the crevices and cracks of the stoned parapet floor.
All to stave off the titanic Ifrit released upon Greenest and its keep.
Torus’ Perception of the surrounding is 16, looking specifically for any large mounds of dirt and/or pools water, to manipulate for future utility. I doubt blood can be allowed as a resource.
Torus moves 30 feet away from the crowd and stands (at 4’8’’) near the wall of the ridge. Stealth = 17.
Torus’ free interact object is uncorking the waterskins. With his action, he improvises with Shape Water, to engineer a 5 foot icy umbrella grounded to the stony floor, to provide a hopeful ¾ cover due to combination of tortoise shell and frozen canopy. If @Hekazu permits, this would give + 5 to AC and Dexterity Saving Throws.
The raven’s end of turn Wisdom Save is 10. Still scared, sweetie?
Climb, that's all that mattered. The beast was so close, yet so far away. All he needed a bit of a push... Just a little... More "Raaaaaagh!" Activating his rage Orchid climbed up the wall as fast as he could, going from roughly 30 feet up to 60, reaching to top of the tower while doing so. The beast was still a great height above, but now if it wished to get closer then it'd have to face Orchid. Once he reached the top he turned to face the great monster, taking out his second harpoon and waited for the creature to approach.
Though rage cluttered his mind from complication or concern, he wanted to inspire the others with this moment. This moment where they could see that this mighty beast can bleed. That it can be killed. And most importantly, that Orchid is capable of doing so. He knew their doubts and fears. Death was watching him closely and putting bets. The entire time he could see his life flash before his eyes every second this insane act was carried out. But regardless he was going to do this; he was going to kill this dragon. Even if it's the death of him.
Health: 12/14 Armor Class: 14 (Orchid dropped his shield) Rage: 0/2 Status: Raging, waiting for the dragon to get into range.
Athletics (Climb) = 10/16 with Rage advantage (An additional +2 was added to both rolls here because I keep forgetting to add my proficiency bonus to Athletics).
The familiar world-weary voice, scored by innumerable journeys past came like the tide of frigid air that accompanied the freely flowing, now freezing water of which blossomed upward and formed an icy shell. Not that the huntsman paid it any unneeded mind for the moment while he remained within cover, out of sight; the old man had done something, but at this point it was par for the course. He seemed to have a number of tricks, ones that had certainly seen him through the long years worn into his appearance and salt stained robes.
"If your hands can still manage a bow and its arrows," Brannor started with a loud bellow, the knocked arrow lurching back as the sizable human frame revealed itself on to the ramparts again with weapon at ready and tracking the draconic threat, "... pray then to your patron that they guide your shots."
The immediate implications were a bit grim, suggesting the old druid relieve one of the fallen of their weapon, but more loosed bolts were superior than fewer and the dead would likely want their revenge were it possible, even more so as it seemed the town had not kept up with their defenses; many brave men and women paid dearly for that fact now.
As fate would have it all the same, guided by the mystic lights that fluttered about the dragon's great frame, tracing over its wings, about its neck and its skeletal cobalt features, the arrow launched free of Brannor's worn longbow came with an accurate, deadly whistle into the chaos.
Rolled a 24 and an 18 from advantage for a longbow attack against the dragon. Bless was internally added to the results as a function test. Rolled a 4 for piercing damage.
Undoubtedly the shaft fired free of its string was to sink itself into a more exposed part of the scaly beast, placed with an accuracy granted by blessings from on high. It was after the shot that Brannor's hand fought with his tattered cloak for a moment as it fluttered about from the beat of the dragon's wings pushing it further from the keep, but he prepared another arrow from his quiver out of repetition, muscle acting in place of thought.
Back into cover he returned; having the dragon answer his shot was not a retort he wished to experience. That was simply a matter of no-contest.
This situation wasn't getting any better. Each time that dragon flew close, more people get killed. Parum was willing to fight this dragon but she knew that there was only so much she could do, and there was no sense in letting others die achieving nothing. Kyra shouted at a few of the soldiers to try and escape, so Parum helped her and called out to them. Despite her small size, she had a very loud voice. "Let us handle the dragon! Focus your attention on the enemy below!" Parum wasn't much of a tactician, but she hoped she could use her knowledge and lore well enough to at least minimize the loses.
Looking up towards the dragon Parum tried to recall everything she knew about these creatures. Everything she's read and heard of before. It was a blue dragon, so she knew it's breath was lightning and it had resistance against electrical attacks. It's wings were also strong enough that it could knock down smaller foes quick easily, such as everyone on the battlement. Generally powerful warriors faced off against them, but skilled wizards and mages could too. Looking around and over the walls Parum also tried to get an idea of how the situation around the castle was. No doubt that since this dragon was here the rest of it's forces were too. Perhaps instead of trying to fight a hopeless battle, they could use their strength where they could make a difference. "Brannor, there isn't much else we can do here. Let's help the defenders deal with the kobolds and other brigands and try to minimize our loses."
Kyra continued to race to the top of the tower, and once she did she could see the dragon high above them. Orchid, surprisingly, had already made it here. If he could climb up here that fast Kyra worried how well the raiders outside could scale these walls. But she didn't have time to worry about that right now, she had a dragon to slay. "Everyone get out of here! Let me and Orchid take care of this!" Kyra shouted to everyone present. She was standing next to the stair case ready to take cover if the dragon flew by, releasing an arrow right before crouching to cover. Kyra doesn't expect one arrow to kill this dragon, but she'd shoot it a hundred times if that's what it takes.
The situation on the battlements was nearing chaos. Some of the guards that had heard the adventurers words did just as asked and ran away, while others were left shouting after them. The remaining deemed them cowards that took the first order from anyone other than themselves to vanish from duty: The governor himself had ordered the keep to be defended from this aerial assault and these strangers surely were not higher in the hierarchy. Of course, the runners cared little for any of this and continued on their panicked way.
Torus was attempting to build a makeshift barrier, but they would need more time: The cantrip's power was limited and while they now had the shape correct, it was still but water: It would not protect them yet. Luckily enough all that remained to be added was another casting so that the water would freeze. It seemed they might have just enough time, as the dragon began turning back towards north and looping around at a healthy distance from the battlements.
Before it got fully out of the way of the defenders arrows, however, another cloud of them was sent it's way. As per usual, most bounced off. Emphasis on the word most. A single arrow from a certain cleric's shortbow, as well as one from the substantially bigger weapon of the paladin struck the dragon and pierced the hide of the giant adversary, even if it seemed to barely care about the attack.
The dragon's flight brought it back to the side of the keep our heroes kept their watch on, with it keeping a somewhat steady flight height of 25 to 30 feet above the parapet. No sparks in it's maw as of now, but there was no telling if it would draw forth something from itself as it reached.. whatever it was intending to bombard this time. The halfling could notice the dragon's eyes fixed on herself: What was it after?
@Gordian Nought, I believe you can piece together the Shape Water thing from what I wrote: You can only do one of the functions per casting, even though you can have up to two active at once. @Norschtalen I chose to disregard your second roll, given how Faerie Fire grants advantage that cancels out the disadvantage from the non-optimal range. It still hits though.
Dragon is, again, flying towards the tower, but it does not seem it is going to scale the height this time, instead seeming to veer to the outer side of the keep. Current distance from lower group is 30ft. and higher up group has the distance at exactly 50 feet.
That would mean Orchid's reaction is triggered. However, his roll of 12 will mean the harpoon does NOT stick to the dragon. I'll let @Lucius Cypher describe the event as they see fit.
As the Sisyphean canopy finally froze into an icy, protective brolly, the briny pirate gleaned the archer’s summons to arms and religion.
“If your hands can still manage a bow and its arrows, pray then to your patron that they guide your shots.”
Discounting Parum's unintended sedition for alternative, but possible imminent strikes, Torus attempted to quell the arrhythmic subversion among the spongiform crowd on the rampart after the blue-haired kender’s verbal order. His aerial scout did not register earlier any other spurious enemy troops, incongruent with her presumption to further split their ranks to battle unseen adversaries. Overwhelming her volume, he irked words into the Vespasian air, utilizing the seashell conch as a megaphone to quell the waves of unsettling oblivion in the hearts surrounding the Halfling.
“In you desire for identity lies the answer to your unspoken questions. Do not limp before the lame. Do not loiter before your brave brethren. Ask not the homeless, ‘What has befallen to your house?’ as we stand within these walls. It is true that stags cannot teach swiftness to sloths.”
Raising his matured tortoise shield to reveal his raven, he did not emotionally vacillate on his irreverent history. He focused on the psychological icon of the Crying God, of those who suffered and endured for martyrdom. Perpetually encouraging us and taking our burdens. His voice soared above his previous peripatetic wanderings mentally etched, swarming his mind with faltering jeers and crimson tar, attributable to a lineage of murder and larceny from conquest past.
“Yet, our residence lies within the courage to prod slowly and faithfully forward like baby turtles scurrying to an ocean’s tide. The instinctual ritual ingrained to advance and dive into the watery void is here! And now! This monster that lies before and above us compares little to the solace that rests within and behind us. The future of your families belongs to you. Those, who believe, stand and face nightmares, secure the beauty of your children’s dreams to be realized.”
The elder phenomenon thrived on harnessing and manipulating this myocyte of men to its full potential. Similar to his own crew. To spark and to contract before Ilmater. And to, alas, redeem his trabeculated antiquity.
“Our honor is not born, but forged, by our posture at this moment. Ready your weapons! On the screech of the raven, release your iron wills! And.”
On cue, the dark familiar fluttered away from his glacial perch into the night, aiming its course for the flickering lightning-breather, as if seeking Ayuruk, the deity of the Ilulutiun people of the Alpuk. His owner’s smile dawdled but glimmered under the sheen of the shady isollette.
The filthy lips broke again with philosophical tenacity. “Embrace the sea of purpose!”
The frozen Margarita umbrella is complete. :)
Torus' intention is to rally the remaining force of Greenest to synchronize the attack against the dragon. Unsure which roll, @Hekazu. The raven will READY its action to loudly hoot once the dragon is just within striking distance, its trigger.
Raven's Wisdom saving throw is 15. So after the crow caws, it will disappear due to fear, if permitted.
Not much else came from Orchid's mouth aside from more yelling. He'd hate to admit this, but this dragon may be beyond his reach. He had thought it would venture closer to the tower and try to attack him, being a fairly easy morsel, but no. The dragon instead took on the other soldiers below and never got close to Orchid. If he wasn't enraged at the sheer audacity of it all, Orchid may have tried to do something smarter. Maybe work with his teammates to reach the dragon. But Orchid wasn't the most logical half-orc on this side of Faerûn. He had only one more harpoon with rope attached, and Orchid was almost certain that this dragon had no intention of getting anywhere near Orchid. This was both a good and a bad thing: Good because perhaps Orchid was scaring it away. Bad because Orchid wanted to kill it.
There was two things that Orchid knew however: He had the high ground and third time's the charm.
There was no logic in his actions and despite his great desire not to die a pointless, painful death, Orchid was not in the state of mind where things like "Sense" and "Self-Preservation" were factors. He had the mind of a Totem Warrior right now: it was he who fought monsters and beasts that no mere mortal can handle. It was Totem Warriors that challenge expectations and sanity for the chance to obtain epic glory, in both victory or death. Orchid knew that his next actions were certainly suicidal. But enough talk.
Getting a bit of a running start, Orchid ran towards the dragon, jumping off the edge of the tower. He gave a very rough estimate of how far this dragon was from the tower and his position, but in Orchid's mind it was "Close enough." As he fell through the air Orchid aimed his harpoon towards the dragon's glowing underbelly; the softest part of a dragon, or so Orchid believed. Regardless it was his target as Orchid hurled his harpoon towards the beast as his mighty leap carried him forward. The rope zipping through the air just inches below Orchid's hand. And suddenly, he grabbed onto the rope and waited. It would only take a second for Orchid to know if he had succeeded for fail. Either he'd feel a sharp jerk in his arm, or a sudden numbness and a darkness over take his body.
Health: 12/14 Armor Class: 14 (Orchid dropped his shield) Rage: 0/2 Status: Raging. Ran towards the dragon, jumped off the tower, threw the harpoon roughly when Orchid was within 30 feet of the dragon.
"Brannor, there isn't much else we can do here. Let's help the defenders deal with the kobolds and other brigands and try to minimize our loses."
"Are you mad, woman?" Brannor's glance from underneath his cover revealed the enormous figure still above with its hateful, slitted eyes and whose shadow still cast down upon the ramparts by light of the moon, further spurring his resistance to her suggestion, "That creature will just lay waste to us and the keep if we fail."
He swallowed a dry breath, rubbing the back of his aged glove to his mouth before continuing, "So resist it with all that remains."
Who knew what the dragon intended short of their deaths? If anything the giant might be so insulted a resistance was put forth that it would be content to hunt them and any other survivors later - this was assuming the endured this deadly night in the first place, which Brannor wished to. At least here among the chaos of arcing lightning, magical spells and swathes of whistling arrows, there was stone to resist the assault with. The old man of Torus, unknown in name to the hunter, even seemed to pressure the men to resist rather than withdraw against the cleric's efforts.
Yet his point remained to kill or be killed, to be the predator or the prey. The dragon knew well what it was, but perhaps its intellect superseded its instinct. Brannor did not know, in all truth he could not know, but he was not about to let the Shadow of Greenest make such a bold attack without pain...
“Embrace the sea of purpose!”
A voice cried out louder than the battle well under way, to which the outlander did not err in reply as moved in time; shot freed at the sky darkening silhouette, only to capture a glimpse of the half orc's leap of faith. String snapping forward, free of the incredible strength the man drew it with, the bolt's launch into the air was not anywhere near as remarkable as the harpoon that flew before the half-blood that trailed it.
Rolled a 19 and an 8 from advantage for a longbow attack against the dragon. Bless was added internally. Rolled a 4 for piercing damage if the attack hits.
Brannor had seen men before hunt great beasts with spears, ones whose ivory were as large as he was and their violence an avalanche, but a dragon was not such prey. The only question that mattered was would it work? He would not get to see the glory or failure, recalling his step back into safety, but his heart prayed; it prayed that the darkness would not claim another noble, wild spirit tonight, at least not without suffering seven fold first.
"The dragon isn't our only enemy! We obviously have no means to defeat this dragon now, but we are more than capable of dealing with it's soldiers!" Parum shot back as she moved out from underneath the new ice cover to observe the dragon. It was giving her a look, which frighten the Halfling. She didn't like how the dragon looked, and in fact didn't want the dragon looking towards her at all. But what came to even more of a surprise was that foolish, neigh suicidal warrior on their side. Parum knew that Orchid would never get close enough to the dragon to successfully spear it. Evidently she was wrong: with a combination of her magics and the half-orcs furious stupidity, he jumped off the tower and hurled his spear towards the dragon.
Parum wasn't sure if she should be inspired by Orchid's actions and try to fight the dragon further or leave it to him and deal with the others. However Parum also looked around and noticed that the soldiers she told to leave and fight the other minions were actually just running away. She'd understand their hesitation to face a dragon, but that was no reason to desert! Parum needed to act fast. She started a new song, focusing everything she could to make it right, to make it loud. Magic flowed through her fingers and into the strings, wafting through the air for the soldiers to hear. This would be their fight song; this would be the music to rally them together and fight not just for their own lives, but for their homes and people.
"Do not go gentle into this night, be steadfast even if you fright. This day is not over and we must fight, rage, rage against the dying of the light!"
Used Minor Illusion to create a sound (Parum's music) as loud as it can for the other soldiers to hear.
Kyra was at a lost for words. She thought she'd be in for a surprise when the dragon didn't come over and kill them all. But no. That crazy half-naked half-orc berserker actively lept off the side of the tower to hurl a spear at the dragon, who as far as Kyra knew was actually leaving the castle. That was wishful thinking but what he didn't wasn't going to help. Kyra ran out from her hiding spot to see if they had lost the brave fool, but she had very little time to actually find him. All she saw was a green figure fall off the side of the tower. Whether or not he could hang on a bit longer or would soon be laying in a puddle of blood, Kyra would have to discover later.
Instead taking Orchid's place, Kyra drew back her bow and fired another arrow at the dragon. She was half-tempted to use what remained of her magical energies to attack the dragon, but she knew she had to conserve her power in case she needed to heal one of the others. She was aiming for the center of the dragon's mass, figuring that she should try to hit the dragon consistently instead of critically. However when she was about to release her arrow she saw a spear sink right into the belly of the beast, and glancing down as she released the arrow she saw that same crazed warrior holding into a rope, which was attached to the spear that was now protruding from the dragon's body.
