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TheDookieNut
Humans. What a pain. Kalana would never understand why they had managed such dominance of Faerûn. There was nothing… exceptional about them. And they were so very fond of their pitchforks and torches when they weren’t clapped in irons. What a nuisance. It was moments like these where Kalana yearned for Calimshan. A pity she couldn’t return.
The half-orc declared itself a Paladin, which was… potentially problematic. She’d had enough run ins with fanatics as to be wary. It seemed that Tymora had smiled on Kalana—she’d met her fair share of half-breeds and outsiders in her journeys, and they tended to be less prone to fits of witch hunts.
Kalana took a moment to observe, staff shifted smoothly in clawed hands. The massive half-orc (whose name she had already forgotten) spat orders. The air shifted, suddenly, an electric taste in the air—and for a brief moment, she felt the familiar cold of the disruption of magic. It was thoroughly unpleasant.
Several of the undead were turned, shambling away, leaving the real fight. The elemental aimed for the orc, moving with impressive speed. Burning eyes focused on the skeletons charging towards her, mangled upper lip curving into a smile that could only be described as wicked. One foot shifted back, a hand snapping through a simple dance. A familiar burn of magic screamed through her blood. She slammed the butt of her staff into the ground, calling deeper for an extra surge of power, as five arcane orbs of energy screamed from her extended hand. Three of the empowered missiles found home in her charging skeletons, the remaining two arcing through the air to catch the elemental in its chest. Kalana was feeling generous.
Without hesitation, she sank into the lull of the Art, abyssal arcane words and the complex curve of hands and staff through the air filling her with euphoria unlike anything else. The world became the battlefield she had been made for, colours sharpening into brilliant focus as she began to form the molten balls of rock in her minds eye.
The half-orc declared itself a Paladin, which was… potentially problematic. She’d had enough run ins with fanatics as to be wary. It seemed that Tymora had smiled on Kalana—she’d met her fair share of half-breeds and outsiders in her journeys, and they tended to be less prone to fits of witch hunts.
Kalana took a moment to observe, staff shifted smoothly in clawed hands. The massive half-orc (whose name she had already forgotten) spat orders. The air shifted, suddenly, an electric taste in the air—and for a brief moment, she felt the familiar cold of the disruption of magic. It was thoroughly unpleasant.
Several of the undead were turned, shambling away, leaving the real fight. The elemental aimed for the orc, moving with impressive speed. Burning eyes focused on the skeletons charging towards her, mangled upper lip curving into a smile that could only be described as wicked. One foot shifted back, a hand snapping through a simple dance. A familiar burn of magic screamed through her blood. She slammed the butt of her staff into the ground, calling deeper for an extra surge of power, as five arcane orbs of energy screamed from her extended hand. Three of the empowered missiles found home in her charging skeletons, the remaining two arcing through the air to catch the elemental in its chest. Kalana was feeling generous.
Without hesitation, she sank into the lull of the Art, abyssal arcane words and the complex curve of hands and staff through the air filling her with euphoria unlike anything else. The world became the battlefield she had been made for, colours sharpening into brilliant focus as she began to form the molten balls of rock in her minds eye.
