[hr][hr][h1][b][i][color=6ecff6][center]Updates[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[b][color=6ecff6]Season:[/color][/b] Late Fall/Early Winter
[b][color=6ecff6]Time Of Day:[/color][/b] Night, middle of
[b][color=6ecff6]Weather:[/color][/b] Cool and damp, with a clear, open sky
[b][color=6ecff6]General Ambiance:[/color][/b] Sticky  
[b][color=6ecff6]Location:[/color][/b] Front lines, defending the Orc Cave
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[u]Specific Resolutions:[/u]

[i]Calanon:[/i] The arrow passes right through, barely ruffling a breeze within the creature. Technically, it struck precisely where it was intended to strike. The results, however, were far less than ideal. 

[i]Keystone:[/i] The one-handed grip continues. It's not going anywhere, but then again, neither is he. He manages to get another had on the thing, somehow getting a solid handful of wispy bad guy. 

[i]Cyneburg:[/i] Congratulations! Cyneburg has successfully walked the distance required and recovered the knife resting on the cold ground. 

[i]Lerraina:[/i] Excellent shot for the nomme de guerre'd rogue. The arrow inserts nicely into the side of the head of the nearest undead Orc. It slowly slumps forward and falls face-first onto the forest floor. The remaining Walking D'Orcs take absolutely no notice whatsoever, continuing on their quiet, shuffling path deeper into the woods. 

[i]Kyra:[/i] Two of the three daggers make connection, the third clanging into the ice wall. Both tear ragged gashes along the side of the creature, who lets out a truly inhuman sound approximating a shout, if a shout were somehow related to blacksmith's tools smashing to shards of white-hot iron upon each other and falling, sizzling, into a ceramic bowl of electrified blood. 

[i]Ntaj:[/i] Naked Half-Orc striding and leaping, his shortcomings flapping about in the breeze as he brings the "Pope On A Rope" down onto the held and injured Crimson Mist. More to follow. 

[i]Sana:[/i] Still unconscious, but were she awake, would likely be very unhappy with her current state of well-being. She seriously needs a band-aid and a cup of hot cocoa. 

[hr][hr][h1][b][i][color=6ecff6][center]Wrapping Up (kinda)[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h1][hr][hr]

	The beast, gorged on now atomized blood, could do little but try to escape from the grasp of the burly Human fighter. It was quite a new experience, being able to be held physically by flesh and bone; irksome and (ironically) unnatural, to its experience. Only slightly less so were the lines of damage put upon it by silver, magic, and the occasional mundane item under the proper circumstances. But none of that really mattered as the Jar of Ow descended upon it. What cohesion remained to the creature was violently dispelled in a manner most grotesque. 

	If we will recall, the last position of Keystone was underneath the Mist, and the last position of Satilla was next to him, waiting for her moment to step up and heal the poor bastard in the extremely likely event that he gets horribly injured. Again. Well friends, location is everything - and here's why:

	The Crimson Mist seems to separate into its namesake components, Crimson and Mist. The Mist portion, resembling so much white steam, puffs upward and evaporates almost instantly. The Crimson bit of it, comprised mostly of Keystone's blood, re-liquefies and splats heavily upon both Satilla and Keystone like a poorly timed chamberpot. Big one. 

	Meanwhile, outside of the Wall O' Ice, the fallen Orcs continue to trudge deeper into the woods. The last of them are beyond the range of visible light, although someone with infravision or darkvision might still notice a few shapes walking off in the outer range of their perception. (Of course, that last part hinges on the character's knowledge of the withdrawing undead Orcs in the first place.) The ground outside is littered with sharp shards of bone and splattered with blood, along with the regular flotsam and jetsam that accompanies any skirmish of this type. The odd finger, sharp object, last will and testament scratched into the ground [i]with[/i] the odd finger or sharp object, etc. Suffice it to say, the place needs a good dusting, or for nature to reclaim it. 

	There is a lasting quiet in the surrounding woodland, broken only by the remaining embers of the campfires and the sound of a chilling wind.