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In Ravenloft. Revisited. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Tabletop Roleplay
@Zverda Anala Attor
She was tired of the troll managing to get up and shrug off attack after attack, it was infuriating and frankly? She was ready for these things to be done. Ignoring the monstrosity for now, she struck out at the two Zombies that had come with it, her firebolt smacking them both squarely, which was a relief all on it's own and she was pleased to see that some further damage was being done to the slightly less worrisome creatures that the rain was beating down. It wasn't as wonderful as taking out a Troll, but it was something, even if she didn't kill these things.

>Anala hits the normal zombies with firebolt, 2nd Zombie takes 6 damage while the 3rd takes a piddly 1.

@Lady Selune Mhyrienne – The Mildly Suspicious
Clack... The blades reformed themselves around the central whip.

Clack... She spun the scourge around slowly, but building up more and more speed.

Clack... The blades themselves stiffened in their position as the weapon swung around
towards the undead titan that the group had been battling.

Clack clack clack clack... The first blades bit deep into the flesh of the creature's neck, but then they began... Locking themselves into its putrid hide. The scourge curled around the throat of the creature, and even in its undead form, it realised that something was badly wrong. Fingers came up to tear the weapon away, but as soon as they made contact with the blades attached to the whip, it let out a howl, fingers spattering black fluid down onto the ground.

Then she whipped her arm back. At first, the pressure strained against her, but she persevered. The troll itself was spun around, its back facing her, and she planted a leg onto it. Pulling harder, the pressure mounted... Mounted... Mounted... Then like a broken dam, unable to hold back any longer, it was released. The head of the creature came spinning off like a hurled discus, and the weapon she was carrying made a bullwhip like crack.

She wanted to make sure the creature was dead however. The blades of the scourge twisted themselves around, the glasslike substance reforming itself into a blade almost as long as the woman wielding it was formed. Placing a foot over the gurgling stump that had been the head of the creature, the elf plunged the blade down into it's chest, and twisted hard.

The undead abomination let out one last great twitch, and then its arms fell still once more, the bindings of her hex were released, the energy that the creature once had flowed into her, and she felt the bubbling of her skin that had been brought on by the accursed sleet here fade from her.

Now. Who was next to fall?

>Mhyrienne finally gets to actually kill something using her warlock powers. The Undead Troll takes 14 damage, failing its Undead Fortitude roll and dying for good. Her Hexblade's Curse activates, and grants her six life, and her longsword changes forms into a longsword.

Zaerith Dustborn
Perpetual insomnia plagued these silhouettes of false life. Zaerith could smell that now, as the other elvish caster decapitated and impaled the mutilator of Markus. The severed head rolled, due to a mystical momentum still from the warlock's malleable weapon. Its pupils still possessed no fear nor apprehension.

Just ravenous hunger.

The trickster's sword pirouetted, slashing the next victim, with its lethal pitch. Yet, the frayed flesh of the zombie withstood the resurrected rogue's bladesong, deaf to mortal wounds and Death's subpoenas. The verdict was delivered with the wizard's razor sharp gavel, but the defendant seemed only to be shackled by its starving undeath.

>Zaerith 'kills' Zombie 3, but it makes its Undead Fortitude CON save, keeping it at 1 HP.

@Hekazu The Unnamable
It would have been a lie to say that the pace of things one had never seen before appearing right there in the field of view of the puppeteer would have slowed down. No, there was more and more one did not quite understand, but amidst all of it a few realities reminded everyone of their existence. The biggest monster was down, even if the means it had been handled by eluded the understanding of both George and their human. A weapon that shifted so freely in the hands of its wielder? One would have thought they'd seen it all with the outlandish approaches back... no, this was no time to fall upon memories and wonder. There were still two lesser threats to quash.

Having once retreated, close combat could not be avoided any longer. The man rushed down the street for those few steps that needed to be taken. A cudgel was raised, and then lowered onto what was left of the head of the opponent already sporting an open skull. Just like back on the docks, with the notable exceptions of brains already running wild and none of the strikebreakers having been quite this ugly. Not to mention the nauseating puff of fumes that thanked the assailant for this effort. And despite the fact this... creature was now missing more than half of its head, its eyes seemingly ready to drop out of their sockets at any given moment, it refused to go. "These are quite worrisome George, not that you would not have said so by now..." the cudgel wielder would mutter to their companion.

>The Unnamable moves to flank Zombie #3 with Zaerith, hits his attack with a total of 20 and deals 4 damage is foiled by Undead Fortitude.

@BCTheEntity Talran Galelove – Medium Friendly Paladin
Hells. What was he doing? He'd let his anger get the better of him, his desire to see the undead brought low; and for that, one he'd thought was safe enough found himself nearly dead, nearly a repeat of the loss of their guide. And who noticed? He alone, it seemed; the rest remained absorbed in the destruction of the dead, those he'd thought to end with his outburst of power, even as the prime danger was brought low by Mhyrienne - right next to Egil, no less! Was she so concerned with the glory of the kill that an ally dying right next to her was of no concern?

Follow her lead. You alone can destroy these undead with certainty.

'Silence,' he bade under his breath, to himself rather than to any others. Markus' end had come swiftly, with no warning and no means of prevention without foresight; by contrast, if he allowed Egil to perish in this heinous rain, or worse to the undead that sought his end, his blood would be on his hands forever more. Knowing full-well that it'd draw attention, he broke free of the battle against the undead the drunken monk dueled, its foul claws scraping off of his mail, and he rushing on swift wings to Egil's aid and applying a dose of healing to him, enough to cure his wounds and bring him back to consciousness. Though if the rain had any say in the matter...

'Seek shelter, now!' he implored, pointing Egil toward the cover Sebastian and Lucian had taken. He would not allow Egil to risk his life further against the undead, nor to perish himself in this acidic rain when he could hardly bear the wounds to begin with. The dead could wait, especially when others could take them down in their time.

>Talran moves below Egil, provoking an attack of opportunity from Zombie 1. He uses Lay on Hands upon Egil to heal him for 5 HP, bringing Egil out of unconsciousness, and leaving himself with six points of healing until after his next long rest. He will use his reaction to guard Egil or Mhyrienne from the first attack made toward either of them, if Egil does not move toward Sebastian/Lucian's shelter.

@Irredeemable Orhvin Yi
He felt woozy all of a sudden. Very, very sudden. That wasn't the alcohol hitting him- passing out thanks to booze was an old familiar friend, no, this was something else. He had barely time to react to the claws of the zombie raking into him before he fell down to the ground, head hitting the cobbles with a nasty sounding thump.

When he awoke, it was because his face was burning. The freezing cold acidic weather had shocked him into awakening... And that zombie was reaching down to claw him in the face again. Oh no. He didn't scramble so much as he did lurch forwards, placing a foot on the undead creature's knee. Then, using his quarterstaff to spring himself upwards, he placed another foot on the creature's stomach, and finished the maneuver with a kick upside the creature's jaw, snapping its head back with a spray of gelatinous black fluid.

It wasn't down yet, but he didn't care. Using the momentum that he had gained from running up the creature, he pushed down hard on the top of his quarterstaff, launching himself upwards into the sky. He had to time this perfectly, and whilst he would have liked to have done something fancy in its stead... He didn't trust his injured body to work for him like that.

So instead, he did what he was good at. Which, in this case, was coming down, knee-first, on the head of the creature below him now. Having sailed over the head of the sorry individual that had magically knocked him out, he felt the skull of the second zombie cave in beneath his knee, the magic and matter that held it together falling apart at the concussive force. With a shudder that ran through the Genasi's teeth, he looked at the zombie that had succeeded in mauling him.

That kick hadn't taken him out of the fight. This would. Darting past his ally, seemingly swerving around them, he used the momentum from his circular motion to spin, extending his foot as he did so. The creature, hit again in the chest by his foot, was sent backwards into the wall of the house letting out a foul screech as it did so.

It was finished, he knew it. Snatching his quarterstaff, which hadn't even finished falling from where he had powered himself off from it, he turned to his opponent and bowed down in mock-respect, just as the creature fell forwards in a pile of rotten limbs.

>Orhvin finishes things. End of Combat.
In Ravenloft. Revisited. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Tabletop Roleplay
@Zverda Anala Attor
Anala let out a muffled noise, wrinkling her nose as the troll roared at them and causing the putrid smell of death and decay wash over those who stood near it. The undead had no finesse to them, they were disgusting and stank far worse than any chamber pot the noble woman had ever come across. Taking advantage of the roar, she sent a bolt of fire down it's throat, ceasing the action almost immediately. At first, the Troll staggered, looking as if it may fall as the fire took it's toll on the insides, but it seemed that the moisture of such a disgusting thing stopped the fire from taking alight and burning the thing from the inside out. Instead, an attack that was meant to kill the beast, was barely beaten by the creatures fortitude alone. What a sad thing indeed when it should have perished where it should, alas, those who have mastered the Arcane do not always win the victory of the last blow at every turn.

>Anala casts firebolt for 8 dmg, Troll barely passes its save with a 14 (DC 13) leaving him standing with 1 health.

@Lady Selune Mhyrienne – The Mildly Suspicious
She lashed out with her scourge, the blades themselves singing as they swung through the air. The blades dug deep into the troll's chest, and she laughed in satisfaction as she ripped it out. There was a spray of foul black blood, and the troll stumbled a little... But there was no rush. No return of her vitality, and she could feel her curse still focusing the individual down. It hadn't... It hadn't died?

"WHAT?" She looked at the creature, furious. Cracking her weapon, the blood spattering down onto the sleet-covered stones, she began spinning it idly around. They had to finish this creature before it overwhelmed them.

>Mhyrienne barely scratches the troll, and once again it passes the save and fails to go down for good.

Zaerith Dustborn
Thunder thrice asunder belted and swept over the rogue, gurgling time as the afternoon beamed and the sleet burned. The usual tragedy of a restless slumber, without rotten lily nor pushing daisy, in the resilient mold of those that were never satiated, prompted a sneer across Zaerith's cheeks. He too was hazily familiar with the enterprise of an undead fortitude all too well, never encountering a graceful planar stairwell into the afterlife.

Oh! To adjourn from the mortal cares of one’s existence, to be ruled by grace and justice in the next.

No...

His lips were soon adorned with a lurid blue, as the curdling ocean of color washed from his smile, throned on the overthrown setting of Mhyrienne's laughter. His remnant exhalations were mild cemeteries, full of bones which jostled when the tomb of his face, resurrected a wind, every now and again, that howled in and out, between the teeth of his living corpse. The foul fragrance of death which filled his final inhalation coerced hungry feet to become limp, as the rapier pierced the penetrating white dampness. The commerce of constitution amongst the zombies retaliated as the absence of their ids briskly fought off sleep, imparting a neglected tranquility of souls obscene.

>Zaerith casts Sleep. Zombies 1, 2 and 3 have the lowest HP in the 20 foot zone and altogether are cumulatively exactly 30. Zombie 1 - 16 HP. Troll - 1 HP. Zombie 3 - 13. However, Zaerith was not aware the Undead are in fact immune to Sleep. Since Orhvin has 17 HP and Zaerith is of elvish heritage, the monk becomes a little too tipsy.

@Hekazu The Unnamable
Something right peculiar took place just now. Despite the heavy beating aimed towards the giant among the enemy, it refused to go down. And the last of it all, as another spell was launched, it only managed to fell an ally... or perhaps the drunkard was simply too drunk to stay on his feet even at a time as stressful as this. Indeed, seeing hunters drunk on gin falling asleep mid trigger pull had been the source of great amusement for the puppet wielding man once upon a time, but right now? Things were a fair bit too rotten to draw fun out of such matter.

No, it would be better to simply see this to an end. With all the battering the largest opponent had already taken, it was only a matter of time before it would truly succumb. And where there was a will, there was a way. "You are right George, as always. It must be done", the man mumbled as the purple eyes flared ever brighter. But there was nothing to be seen flying. Only once the creature's head burst open and a few stray globules of their brain burst out of the shell was any actual effect seen.

But alas, no such luck as to succeed. "It will be broken next time George, it will...", the puppeteer nearly drew blood as their sparse teeth dug into their lip. It was only a matter of time. It could not endure an endless onslaught.

>The Unnamable uses three (3) psi on the Psionic Assault discipline once more, now invoking forth the Psionic Blast. It hits automatically for 15 damage, but regrettably the target saves exactly against the damage with their Undead Fortitude. His Bonus Action is expended on Mystical Recovery once again, recovering him to full HP.

@BCTheEntity Talran Galelove – Medium Friendly Paladin
Blow after blow the troll was struck by, be it physical or no; and yet, the damnable thing simply wouldn't perish! Yet a glance told him Sebastian was moving quickly enough that he and Lucian would escape the acidic downpour, just before the boy fell afoul of it, with time enough for Talran to head to them and secure their safety after the fact. Which left the imperishable undead to the tender mercies of the group...

He knew what he had to do.

'My god is not merciful to your kind, fiends!' he cried, feeling his strength welling within him, a power he'd known lurked ever since he could remember, just waiting to come forth. 'I bring Helm's word with me - and that word is "Begone"!'

And with that, Talran's angelic heritage burst forth, light pouring from his eyes as two wings flared out of his shoulderblades, propelling him about the troll's mass to match the threat - specifically, that which concerned the downed drunkard's safety, for Egil now proved himself more than fit to protect himself.

And that familiar voice, normally only heard in his dreams, spoke: Bring low that which ought to die yet.

>Divine power wells forth within Talran, and he has used his action to activate his Radiant Soul racial ability. For the next minute (ten turns), he has a flying speed of thirty feet, and can deal extra Radiant damage equal to his level once per turn when dealing damage. He has also flown around the troll to just below the zombie targeting Orhvin, an effort to safeguard him from both the regular zombies and the troll, and will use his reaction to inflict Disadvantage on the next attack targeting Orhvin.

Egil
The sudden luminance of an angel blinded the champion, erring a misplaced strike. Such a radiance belonged to Talran, the Aasimar knight of Helm, revealing its brilliant radiance as he beckoned his deity's promise. To rid of the profane facsimiles of life and virtue.

Then, the paladin ascended impressively.

Only to land near the napping roof lounger. The glowing wings guaranteed protection and fury against any that would lay a wicked hand upon the now powdered monk, the acid settling now on his breezy skin. The caustic snow threatened to increase its increment, whilst the boy and his chaperone bolted to the owner of the moans.

“My Geeeeeeertrude! Whyyyyyy? Ohhhhhhhhh.”

The enunciation of the dwelled consonance chilled the child’s spine, as the pony and its saddled duo hurdled beneath the frosty awning.

>Egil misses. Sebastian and Lucian arrive at their destination.

The lessers of the trio swiped against the paladin and the trickster to no avail. The sleet did not deter the famished threesome, however, as the largest amongst them tore into the thorny vine of Vaasa, felling the fighter onto stones cobbled with snowy silt. Just as in the expired Vistani, the troll followed in kind and mounted a licked bite upon Egil, hoping to garner two meals in this stormy battle.

>The Troll saves against the Acid Sleet and is again at 1 HP. The other zombies take their damage, but miss their targets. The Troll then downs another NPC. As a consequence, Egil has 2 failed Death Saves.

In Ravenloft. Revisited. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Tabletop Roleplay
@Irredeemable Orhvin Yi
... Well that had not been what he expected in the slightest.

One minute Orhvin had been looking at a rather strange man, still trying to get the pain from his shoulder out, and the next he had realised that accursed sleet was coming down, and then there were zombies. One man was already down, people were shouting and screaming, calling down the gods, and probably a bunch of other things. Cracking his neck a little, he realized that these people could help him just as much as he could help them.

He should probably fight on their side then.

Stepping up, he jogged into the fray. Yes, jogged. He was pacing himself, there was no need for him to get involved too quickly. There was a man he hadn't seen that had made himself startlingly useful in fighting the troll, but that wasn't what he cared about. There was a zombie next to him. Firmly planting his quarterstaff in the ground, the monk swayed back, then to the side, and then suddenly lashed out. Using the pole for support, his sandaled feet went flying towards the face of the zombie.

It made contact with a satisfying crunching noise, but whilst the face of the beast was now even more deformed than it had been previously, there was no real damage beyond the superficial. Twisting away from a groping claw, he turned his attention to the titan of the undead, standing firm next to the cloaked figure.

Even the undead must have kidneys, and so that was where his next blow landed. As soon as his fist made contact however, he knew he made a grave mistake. His recently relocated arm screamed out in pain, and his kiai, supposed to be a controlled release of energy instead turned into a curse under his breath. His final hit did nothing- the humongous creature barely even registering his foot making contact with it.

>Orhvin moves to attack the zombie that Zaerith is handily standing next to in order to flank it, and lands an attack for one damage, plus three thanks to his dexterity modifier. Then, using Flurry of Blows, he buggers off from that zombie, not provoking an AOO thanks to his Drunken Mastery, and goes for two failed attacks against the Zombie Troll, also flanking it.
The crash stunned the champion.

Woozy, he stood haphazardly out of reflex, as a sorceress’ fire simultaneously consumed the towering wretch. Soon, the vertiginous landscape around his head stilled, to fully appreciate the flesh-renting mammoth suffering another consequential onslaught from the poised paladin, the agile trickster and the inebriated monk. The resultant carnage sprayed upon Egil’s hilt, reminding the vine of Vaasa of his sword. The unsheathed razor edge quickly met the epigastrium of the titan, twice, spilling further gore onto the cobbled streets of Barovia.

The head servant of the Sithican obeisance, loyal to the Attor ancestry, garnered this opportunity, riding with disowned child in tow, towards the closest canopy. As their pony galloped ever nearer, the moaning sob of a mother became more articulate in the wind over the ashen, peppered road, coloring Anala’s custodian with thoughts of grief and gloom. The origin of sound flowed from the desired destination, as sleet continued its icy scorch upon the dead, living and undead.

The zombies and troll returned the vicious favor of combat, upon the closest prey: Zaerith, Orhvin, and Egil. Their exacting retorts lacked vigor, missing or barely forcing a retreat, with the fighter burdened with worst of a claw that pierced his chain shirt.

>Egil strikes with 2 criticals, landing 27 damage due to Improved Critical and Dueling. Sebastian and Lucian ride on, for cover. The acid sleet accumulates its singe upon all below its demesne. The Zombies and Troll retaliate, but are unable to fell any of their targets.

In Ravenloft. Revisited. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Tabletop Roleplay
@Hekazu The Unnamable
It all began so very fast.

At one moment, they had all been there, rushing along the street for safety in the form of the tavern both their guide and the drunkard had suggested they head, and the next dead men and their gigantic compatriot had marched in to do their dirty deeds. Having lost their interest in their old bloodied catch, the giant had moved in and crushed their guide to the street, ripping at their flesh with their teeth. It was likely too late for anything to be done at this time. But that only concerned the already dead man.

For all those that still stood, there were many things that could be done. The puppeteer took a few measured steps backwards as the purple eyes bounced between the many targets and a wandering hand reached for a tool of physical punishment under the coat. From the opposite side of the envelope, a sturdy metal reinforced cudgel was produced, one with a chipped metal ornament at the tip. But it was not yet time for it to meet the drooping flesh of these beings.

No, for now the eccentric individual had something completely different in mind. A mind wracked with many burdens formed itself to a lashing serpent and struck out against the hulking adversary's spiritual self, driving doubts and insecurities into the brutal foe's head. It would find making an attack beyond its own capability, were the ingenious plan of George to succeed.

>The Unnamable retreats ten feet towards the back of the party and draws out his Mace, wielding it in his free hand. Following that, he employs the Discipline of Psychic Assault in the form of Ego Whip (costing him 3 psi). The Troll has to make an INT save against his save DC of 13, or suffer 15 psychic damage and be rendered incapable of taking any actions other than Dodge, Disengage or Hide. On a successful save, the enemy suffers halved damage. In addition to all this, he employs his Mystical Recovery feature as a Bonus Action, restoring an amount of HP equal to the Psi Points spent on the Discipline.
Lucian
The child gripped the manservant reverently, underhooking his scalded arms around Sebastian's abdominal girth and not releasing its interlocking tether, as screams of pain escaped his agape lips. The fleeting fleece of gentle corrosion, falling like plucked feathers off a melting peacock, reminded him that work under his Grandmother may have been the lesser of the two evils. He would nonetheless stay with these adults, as his parents no longer bore his nor his sister's best interest at heart.

>Lucian takes the Dodge Action.

@BCTheEntity Talran Galelove – Medium Friendly Paladin
It wasn't clear what had just taken place immediately. One minute, the party was rushing to escape the hellish acidic sleet, Talran's own steed discorporating along with everyone else's save their newfound caster companion; the next, Egil and Markus were knocked down by a charging troll; and the moment after that, Markus was dead, rent asunder and devoured in a heartbeat by the undead monster that had smashed him away. All before Talran could truly recognize the threat.

What he felt then wasn't sorrow, not exactly. He hadn't known Markus for more than a few hours, so aside from the typical shock of watching somebody pass so hideously, he wasn't quite sad. Nor was he particularly disturbed by the vile scene. He'd seen worse. No, the prime emotion that struck Talran in that moment was fury. How dare this creature and its fellows come to destroy them so cruelly, and in so public a place?

A familiar message made itself known to him in memory. The voice that carried it had been light, ethereal, friendly. And yet merciless, too, as it described the subject: Destroy them. They seek rest, risen as they are; and so they must be quelled.

Teeth gritted, Talran looked to the manservant, calling 'Take the boy to cover from this rain!' before he gritted his teeth and charged. His allies formed a wall of bodies for now; and so he rushed round them, all but leaping Egil's prone form as his weapon glowed with holy fury, his shield imposing still between the downed man and the undead. This oversized freak, the groaning minions beneath it, none would see the end of this storm, he vowed, swinging his blade towards its disgusting bulk with a scream of incensed hatred.

>The zombified troll has invoked Talran's divine fury. He rushes round to Egil's left and strikes at it, rolling a 23 to hit, then expends a spell slot to Smite the troll for an extra 2d8 damage plus another 1d8 due to its undead nature, dealing a total of 25 damage to the troll if he hits. His reaction will be used to ensure Egil is not wounded, imposing disadvantage on the first claw attack the troll makes toward him, if any, or the first instance of any other attack if the troll does not attempt to claw Egil.

In Ravenloft. Revisited. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Tabletop Roleplay
The sword of Markus remained sheathed, unable to slither its electricity from the noose of the shackled scabbard, as a pair of frantic swipes slashed across the gypsy's torso. The undead behemoth panted with hidden excitement. The corpus of yet another Vistani fell before its glazed eyes. With the broken posture of the troll's meal tumbling to the cobbled ground, the rabid monstrosity leapt eagerly upon the flaccid body, quickly nibbling away at the hide, clothing the left upper extremity. The teethy vise soon easily punctured the untethered gauntlet, then frantically to the barren neck. Scarlet blood hurriedly escaped and stained the surrounding blanche glacial flakes now accumulating over the duo, almost almagamating into a frenetic rosy womb for two. The hunched mass with the expired guide, substantiated into a proverbial chorion untimely ripped, bearing disproportionate twins, where one feverishly consumed the other.

>Markus dies. The Troll is grappling and chewing his lifeless corpse.
@Zverda Anala Attor
Infuriated by the death of her long time friend, Anala thrust a bolt of fire at the Troll Zombie, ushering Lucian to get on the pony with Sebastian so the two could gallop away to the place of safety they had intended on going before the Zombies had decided to grace them with their putrid presence. While the Firebolt struck the zombie, a mixture of Anala's anger and the rain that fell caused her next spell to fizzle out, enraging the woman even further. Who dare send these creatures of the undead after them? Was it not bad enough that they had to deal with burning rain from the sky, but now they had to deal with the disgusting life that was the Zombies before them? "Vile creatures!" she shouted in fury.

>Anala does 3 dmg from the firebolt, misses with Chromatic Orb and now has 1 SP left.

@Lady Selune Mhyrienne – The Mildly Suspicious
The man had died... Very fast. Startlingly, dangerously fast. Yet, she was tired of slinging spells from a 'safe' distance, relying only on the luck of the dice and the hasty aiming that one could carry out against an enraged beast. With her mount long since gone, she raised up her hand. This was no war cry or fist of triumph though, she was grasping for something up in the air.

She found it.

The darkness coalesced around her, and she could feel it solidifying, hardening. It was smooth and cold, glass-like around her hands, the obsidian shards finding themselves in a shape both foreign and familiar. Held in her hands was a terrible looking weapon. It held the elements of a whip in it, but was far from just a mere cattle-prod. Along the length were spaced leaf-like blades, sharper than the daggers she carried, and she let the strange weapon crack as she spun it through the air.

She suspected that this fight would be the last one in the day. She was to pour everything into it in order to give herself the most advantage. She would not end up like the torn-apart wretch the troll was now feasting upon! Pointing a finger at the troll, she let out a scream in a tongue that she wasn't even sure she herself knew.

"TAV IUMMORIN IESSE ORANT!"

A cry of death. Of Hunting. Of tearing the bastard to shreds.

>Mhyrienne reaches out and summons a totally not longsword scourge into her hands. She then uses her Hex Warrior ability to allow her to use her charisma modifier instead of strength, and then finally casts Hexblade's Curse onto the zombie troll, giving her a whole host of abilities that I won't detail here.
Zaerith Dustborn
A loud toll rung with a whimper. The levy extreme, as the gypsy forfeited unto a negligent tax.

Kehahahaha.

A host of reverberating cackles echoed within the desecrated sanctuary of the trickster’s mind, as his eyes witnessed the destruction of their Stygian guide. The Grave Jester enjoyed reiterating the futility of fighting an ocean, in which a marathon of ships could barely traverse. His master’s voice always plagued his will, whether to sink or swim, toying with his amnestic soul as he flailed in the tossed waves of despair. Through the resurrections, it not only forged an insensitivity to death abroad, but a skittering weakness to care for himself. He too desired to be banished, like Markus, as light afore darkness.

The price of peace is paved with the prior privileged.

Yet, this persistent plea to overcome remained faint, but bright, kindled from a previous life.

Preferring to recklessly dive against the ravenous tide, elvish glyphs began to smolder with a crimson ferocity upon the scalp of the wizard, as a graceful hand extracted thunder from its metal sleeve. Zaerith would again play the role of the lambent torch, quivering with a glistening iridescence. His reluctant arm impulsively churned the blade against the voracious hulk, caressing the blood from the monster’s flesh as the steel sang a delicate incantation of stealth and supremacy.

Kehahahaha.

>Zaerith will employ Bladesong as a Bonus Action, raising his AC to 18. He will then employ Booming Blade alongside Sneak Attack due to Flanking Advantage, for 18 Piercing damage.

In Ravenloft. Revisited. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Tabletop Roleplay
WHAM!!!

“What the?”

The question foreshadowed a collided haymaker, spilling the fighter and ranger from their dancing saddles; the mounts finally dissipated from its respective swarms. The towering mass of evil hung above them, salivating blood from its maw. The surrounding flesh decomposed slowly and absolutely, in lieu of the caustic precipitation. Rotting boots belonged to an eroded giant, sleeping in death, but possessed with a famine only the wandering cabal before him could quell. Two other zombies avalanched into the cobbled path, resurrected from a flecked abandonment as groans of hunger beheld their battered and exposed brains. The lash spoilt upon the duo lingered unvitiated, the vine of Vaasa slighted in maniacal annoyance. The gypsy became discolored by the gore translated through the prior fretful impact.

>Markus and Egil are prone.



In Ravenloft. Revisited. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Tabletop Roleplay
The gypsy spurned the query of the inebriated man with a glaring directive, as he rode past, heading for the tavern.

“To the Blood of the Vine.”

Jaundiced heavens persisted in its vile retching upon the riders. Tinges of belched bile haphazardly desecrated the unified host of galloping maggots. The mutiny below every jockey’s saddle promised inevitable insubordination, in rebellious compliance to the rainy erosion. Further riot and sedition befell the corporation of insects and larvae, with each disturbing hurtle. Abruptly, the trickster and his young passenger bit the ersatz tarmac, consequences of the puked disassembly of the once adherent steed.

Zaerith beckoned Anala.

“Take the boy!”
@Hekazu The Unnamable
When the supposed corpse came to life the rapidly disassembling horse was the more startled one of the two approaching figures, the rider taking the scene with relative calmness. After all, when one is already panicked regarding the harmful white stuff touching down, what would another odd event add to it, if anything? Indeed, as the mass of insects crumbled under the now streetbound individual once again, they now turned to focus on getting away from the scene. Standing here like an idiot was not going to do anyone any good, George needn't tell that separately.

The drunk who had been roused by the approach took his sweet time before speaking, the puppet wielding man already having taken off after the Vistani that had been leading them thus far. "Shelter is all that matters at this time!" would come the shout over the man's shoulder. There was no time to gawk at the drunk. Were he to melt, so be it. It had been foolish to even diverge in the first place, and George was already scolding his puppeteer for such a decision. "I know George, I know", came the answer as the speaker's shoeless feet rushed along the still not thankfully white street. It was not something one particularly wanted to experience, walking on acid.

The promise of safety in the form of the drinking hole along the street was all that was needed to propel one onward, faux horses or not. One foot in front of the other, let those better equipped deal with whatever else there was. Dying would be awfully inconvenient to say the least, so avoiding that was now the priority. For what good was the wealth of the knowledge stored within one's head if there was no way to utilize it?
@Zverda Anala Attor
Anala looked at the newcomer with relatively bored interest before her eyes went back to where the old woman had been and she frowned, "A Hag indeed it seems," she muttered to herself as she tilted her head to the side in contemplation. When the man had asked if there was anything that he could do for them, she bit her tongue and said nothing, as the first thing she thought was that he needed to bathe, the man reeked of alcohol and the smell was unpleasant to her. Sure she was known to enjoy a drink or two, but she was never so indulgent in the desire as to smell like she had jumped into a lake of the stuff like this man seemed to be. "You smell like a brewery," she finally said, unable to help herself much before she let out a sigh and shook her head, "What I want to know is what made you ask if there was anything you could do for us when you are the one that fell of the roof. That does not seem a proper question for a man who seemed to potentially dislocate his arm." Sure, the strange man with the puppet had approached him, but it was such a strange question to ask when he was the one who had landed so eloquently on his face.

As she spoke, she mounted her horse and looked for a place where they could shelter their steeds as well as their mounts, the feel of the rain on her skin was not pleasant, acid was an awful thing was it not? She looked up and made a rather displeased look towards the heavens, whoever was up there was clearly not a happy God if he deemed it necessary to dump this atrocity on them after they had stopped a boy from being taken against his will. After a moment, she saw the smoke that was being pointed out by Markus and headed for it, stopping by the male and staring at him. He stank, she really did not want that on her saddle, "You should follow us least the rain decide that it wishes you dead, that is what you can do for us now.

Soon, everyone else's mounts began to fall apart, though not Anala's as hers was the only of flesh and bones and it soon fell to her to give the boy a lift. Of course, Sebastian had offered to do it himself but even she knew a pony would be slowed far too much to even consider it and she did not mind a child riding upon Rogath's back. They would have to move quickly and if they were lucky, maybe she would go back for them once she dropped the boy off... if they were too far behind. For now, she wasn't even sure if she wanted to even risk going back out into that retched abomination of acid, rain was supposed to be refreshing, not deadly.

>All lose their horse save Anala. Everyone, roll another 1d2 for acid rain damage.
In Ravenloft. Revisited. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Tabletop Roleplay
@Hekazu The Unnamable
This discussion had been... well. If what was being said was to be taken for the truth of the matter, things were all around the place indeed. But George was safe, and was that not what truly mattered here? The strange eyed rider atop a horse of even stranger composition slowly relinquished the two handed grip on the puppet and dared move the mount again, though the crone was still given a wide berth. There were many things that were not quite what they seemed, that much was known to all. And despite the even oddly benevolent disposition, something reeked in this encounter.

The booming thunder would not leave much time for thinking, however. Especially not when the white flakes, or even globs, began their fall. It was again time for the ragged man to hunch over and pull their ever so precious puppet under their coat for protection. There was visible panic in those purple eyes, not the least thanks to the group ranger yelling to seek shelter and the obvious dissolving of the bugs that formed the mounts of the present majority.

But there was a brief inner fight of self-preservation against something quite different. A man lay motionless on the roads, fallen off the roof like a cheap ragdoll. Was there a reason to bother with it? Yes there indeed was. The spontaneously dismantling horse was encouraged to move on faster as its rider sought to sate a burning desire. One to see what this was all about, all the while keeping an eye out for anything that could protect them from the elements.

@Irredeemable Orhvin Yi
Sleep. Not deep. Not dreamless. The infernal thoughts that plagued him when he didn't have enough alcohol in his mind to keep them away. Red and white and black and teeth and steel and blood and vampires and death and pain... They whirled in his mind, plaguing his unguarded grey matter. The dream ended as he found himself falling through the whirl of emotions into the open, fanged mouth of the -

He hit the ground hard, feeling something pop. Pain burst across his right shoulder, but he didn't let out a noise. What in the nine hells was going on right now? The man lay on the ground, feeling the mud squish between him and the cobblestones as he attempted to piece together the previous night. Damage report. His jaw ached from hitting the cobbles. He had done something terribly wrong to his right arm, and all of the ribs on his right side were aching. His legs, surprisingly enough felt fine.

His head did not though. Not just because it had hit the cobbles much like anything else, but because a hangover was clawing its way into his mind. Briefly, concern flashed across his mind- his soju, before he realized that had the bottles shattered, he would be feeling dramatically worse than he was right now.

There was someone approaching him. He supposed he had to take an action, didn't he?

He coughed once, twice, then three times. No blood. Excellent. Not even wet. Pulling himself together, using his staff to assist him, he stared up, first at the strange, disintegrating steed, and then at the man atop it. Never had a stranger fit the idea of being 'queer' more than this man did. "Stranger." The man acknowledged him, then reached for a flask.

Empty. He cursed in a foreign tongue under his breath, and tried another one. Also empty. The third one though, he found gold. The cork popped out with ease, and the smell of good, strong, fine booze filled the air around him. The driving rain, chilling him, seemed dramatically less bad as he took a swig, feeling the fire run through his veins once more.

Not to mention the accursed hangover had been beaten back again. It was always chasing him, like a tiger that didn't know when to break off the hunt. Its claws had come close to snaring him, but every time he had evaded it at the last moment, saved by the clasping of a flask in his hands and a burn down his gullet.

With the stuff in his system, he reached over to the arm where pain still thrummed through his body. He tried to manipulate it- Not enough alcohol. The rest of his flask went down nice and easy, and then he grit his teeth. Hana. Dul. Set... He squeezed his jaw down to the point where he could swear a tooth was going to splinter, and then lifted up his arm.

Crunch.

Gods be fucking damned that had hurt. It would hurt more as he rolled the shoulder around, wincing even through the pleasantness that his head was fogged up in. He needed to make sure that it was moving properly, and that it seemed to be. With that dealt with, he could pick up his staff once more, bracing all his possessions in the little sack.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" His eyes, unlike some, was only enhanced by the alcohol. They sparkled a little with light, and his natural expression- that of a faintly cocky smile, began to seep through his tired facial muscles.
In Ravenloft. Revisited. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Tabletop Roleplay
The crone stopped dead in her tracks.

"It has been our tradition for centuries."

Morgantha now registered that the assembled cabal were mostly sojourners despite the palatable presence of their Vistani guide and the tattooed heiress from Sithicus. The paladin reeked, though slightly diluted, of another realm's virtue. Oaths were designed to be corrupted, boiled and baked, until the refined ingredients were eventually lost with heat and salt, as was with the von Zarovichian lineage. The warlock, warrior, and trickster were obviously too complex to savor, due to their tongueless expressions. The man and doll, however, both with irritant indigo spiraling about their pupils, intrigued the hag, as the most anachronistic of foreigners between them all.

"They offer blood, sweat and tears. Through their labor." She smiled oddly. "Tiny hands are needed for tiny pies. These very children will become adults to parent the next generation of pâtissiers."



Faint thunder, unfaltering and decisive, adopted a heartier stance after its flashier sister reminded all outdoors, including the hag, a tempest loomed, ever closer, within the mist. The previous gale, which offered the dripping dew from veiled heavens upon their wormy trek on Old Svalich Road, now threatened the troupe with a maddening squall, barking a boded torrent of downpour.

The nearby broker of queer quiches stomped her left foot onto the moist thoroughfare, at the atmospheric interruption riddling the encroaching sky. She scrutinized the still assembled bulk of pastries and cursed the horizon with an enclosed fist.

“Ceithlenn? You promised!”

With the wave of a gouty finger, the wagon’s panels scurried upon the fragrant wares, trapping them within a trundled coffin of spalted and splintered wood, a rectangular ark primed against the coming flood. The same rheumatoid hand revealed a wooden replica of the idle makeshift chest, miraculously duplicating as a facsimile of her interred wagon, but on a bite-size scale. She grazed the more grandiose model with her sleeve, mumbling uncouthly, interchanging between Abyssal and Infernal. Lunacy, which spilled, not from the mouth of Morgantha but from glacial clouds, wept a former fugue of a growling tiger, as the dray and its owner subsequently barely phased into nothingness, whilst the interfering shadow of her twitching pupil dove into the trickster’s soul.

“So little time. Fathom no small dreams, children.”

The meandering sleet promptly drenched the village of Barovia, thereafter, washing another evil from its streets. The whispering precipitation urged for souls to dance to its chaotic tempo, while the moans of a wailing mother competed against the roaring round-about rumble. Unwilling to listen, a knuckled index pointed to the smoldering panorama above several chimneys ahead. Markus bellowed over the pitter-patter.

"Grab Lucian!”

Zaerith followed the order promptly, placing the juvenile on the dissolving steed.

“We need to get inside. Quickly.”
BOOM!!!

The gypsy’s shoulders quivered, as if quieted by a spiritual frostbite that shattered both confidence and competence, as a flaccid corpse and its belongings slid cursorily off a roof, in the intersecting distance, facedown, unmoving in the drowned, cobbled grounds.

>A motionless body lay ahead, as a corrosive shower lurks above.
In Ravenloft. Revisited. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Tabletop Roleplay
@Zverda Anala Attor
"What in the world is going on here?" Anala asked with a hint of disgust in her voice as she dismounted her stead and went to check on the boy, "Are you ok? Anything hurt?" She looked the boy over, though she was not particularly spectacular with medicine, she wanted to do her best to ensure that he was ok, hoping that she could at least do that much for him. She hated when people harmed children, what she hated more was when parents sold their children for what appeared little more than a simple pastry.

"Is this something your parents normally do? Have they sold others to that hag for whatever it was she is feeding them?" She inquired as she continued her inspection, he appeared fine, or at least as far as her limited knowledge could tell her. Who knew if something in that bag had actually done any real harm to the boy other than the boy himself.

"I am fine."

The boy sputtered, sprinkling a flowered choke with chirping words.

"She only takes kids that have feelings." Another cough granted further evacuation of his airway. "Grandma's cakes give happiness not just to my parents but to everyone here."

Then, a petition with a subsequent kneel evolved into a crying fiasco, before the Grave Jester's vessel.

"But, I don't want to work in Bonegrinder."

Sniff.

"This time. Please. Take me with you!"

While the intercession was being contemplated by Zaerith, Morgantha stowed away the golden tendril, walked slowly to her cart, and eventually pulled the tapestry slighty to reveal a bulging mincemeat pie. A few steps and a crouch later, the delicacy was placed on a clean handkerchief, next to the child. She cleared her throat, then attempted to calm her apparent grandson.

"Who will help my sisters and I make all these treats to fester joy amongst all? But Lucian, do not worry; if you do not want to come, I completely understand."

The progeny of Jarov and Nalkainen swiveled and arched his head back, to glance at the old woman.

"Really?" Sniff.

The peddler replied. "Of course."

With a verdant twinkle in her solitary eye, the crone petted the prepubescent Barovian awkwardly, only, for a moment, to return to her wares, with hood now down, pushing the cart slothfully through Anala's webbing, towards the East.

@Zverda Anala Attor
Anala watched the woman closely as she took a lock of the child's hair and started off with her cart, there was nothing about that woman that did not scream magic. It bled through everything she seemed to do as well as everything she carried, that Grandmother was not normal yet she also seemed to be trying to help the people in this village, even if it was in a rather shady way. This thought alone stopped the woman from simply trying to strike the old woman down with a bolt of fire. The necklace the woman was wearing was also a rather interesting one, though she said nothing about it to the others, same went for the pastries, it was clear that there was an addictive property to them. Out of all the things she had however, the bag was the most interesting. She could sense something about it that made her skin crawl, why would she need such magic and why on earth would she put the child inside of it? That made absolutely no sense to her, while this child may not have been willing, did she put those who were in the bag as well rather than just having them walk with her? Wouldn't it be harder for her to carry a child at her age than just have the child walk beside her?

"Something about all this is a bit fishy," she muttered, mostly to herself.

@BCTheEntity Talran Galelove – Medium Friendly Paladin
Relinquished, indeed. So far as Talran could tell, crone and boy both were telling the truth - Bonegrinder was truly an awful place, and yet the child had just been relinquished from the fate of... making mincemeat pies. How queer, then, that Morgantha insisted upon taking a lock of Lucian's hair... and indeed, if it was so that Morgantha's pastries were such wondrous things, why was it that the streets were clear of people? And... what of that mournful howling in the distance? Did the cries of the far-off woman have anything to do with the grandmother? Could it be that the citizens were avoiding her on purpose, then?

Come to mention it, she was pushing that cart most adroitly for a woman of her age. He'd expect her to be quite weak, and yet despite the size of the hand-pushed vehicle, she wasn't even out of breath. The cart alone ought to be at least a hundred pounds; if any children were furthermore contained within, it'd be that much heavier. And on that note, he grew suspicious all over again. Rather than simply letting her go, he had his steed trot beyond her again, ready to move into her path if she tried anything funny.

'If you wouldn't mind my asking, then, grandmother,' Talran continued to question, assured that Zaerith... may had the child in safe hands, 'what do the children do, exactly, in Bonegrinder? One would imagine skilled, adult hands would be more suited for the process of piemaking?' Not that he knew anything about making pies. He just figured, adults were often more skilled than children simply because they were older. It was common sense.
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