Current
Because dirty talk in appreciated in the bedroom, so no your vibes are not enough...
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3 days ago
Eldritch Cosmic Horror Thoughts from the Deep to Dwell Upon: There are more eyeballs on your pretty little face than there are stars in our entire Solar system.
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5 days ago
Back in my day we had to walk to school in the freezing vacuum of space through a black hole, both ways, and if you were late to class the space-time continuum would disort to the middle of next week!
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6 days ago
Uh guys, what if our virgin sacrifice to the gods wasn't entirely a virgin? Like what if they did some last minute stuff before the whole ritual sacrifice thing with someone?
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9 days ago
There they are officer! Thats the one you want, they no no touched me!
Location: THE FLOOR IS LAVA! (Floor 2) Interacting with: The Wild Hogs, The Group, Little(r) Pig A.
Turn the hourglass, Ten thousand grains, Time to slowly pass; Trickle down drain.
It seemed that Ash had come to, after a bit of roughhousing with Kyra, but they weren't out of the doghouse yet. This mysterious man, Leo, seemed to be more magically inclined than he let on. One moment he was there guarded by Nor, the next, well... Elsewhere. Enchantments could be broken by some application of some escape mechanism, usually traumatic stimuli that would snap a mind to revert to a more primal state usually untouched by enchantment spells. But teleportation was a finer art that required a caster to not only know where they are and where they desire to be, but also where they will be during transit. There were some cases of transpositions resulting in spellcaster deaths, usually involving spatial complexities of the first nine dimensions which turn the magus inside out at the destination. Thomas himself used a method that bypassed the limitations of the first nine dimension by jumping beyond them and into the far realm where the dark stars ruled. But enough theory, this was a situation based in reality. A reality in which the floor was melting. Dissolving like the sands of an hourglass, pulled through the eye of the needle, and there Ash, Kyra, and Satilla were sent crashing down.
"Fistandantilus' Grave! Sat-" A mild exclamation as Thomas took a step towards the sudden sinkhole, but the boy was too late. All three were gone, well four if you count the enemy magi. And in their stead two big bad pigs. Porcine pummelers, although by the looks of things they weren't boring old boars. No, a farm boy know his livestock, a boar or two wasn't too uncommon out in the countryside, lost pigs after a few years did get wilder and more aggressive after generations as their feral side took over. These weren't as much feral as demonic, and were as demonic as they were ugly, they were Ugly. Still though, since it seemed to be part of Thomas' niche to identify what it was they were facing the sorcerer gulped and turned to face the smaller of the two large hogs trigger hand ready to cast. "Fiendish Boars! Sana, I'll need some help with the small one.."
Without a confirmation, and instead putting a good amount of faith and trust into a teammate, Thomas unleashed his long held spell. His eyes darkening as emptiness turned his sclera black, swallowing all light from the usually brightness of his eyes. In turn the boar would feel a force tugging at its body, just behind the bashed bookcase where Ash and Kyra played, the gravitational void cast. A tear in the universe, a hole to be be filled, a hunger for anything within range it could consume. Though Thomas could not see the spells effects, the gravity did its job in pulling the smaller boar back into the furnishings, battering it about to its fiendish ruckus as blood seeped out from the split hide the injuries made The greater the darkness blinding the boy, the greater the force of the gravity well until Thomas' vision was gone leaving him open for a counter attack. It was the price for the spell. Of which, was the price their enemy paid to summon these boars here? And warping the floor like... That.
Hopefully Satilla, Ash and Kyra would be okay. Especially Satilla since she'd be the one to patch up Kyra and Ash...
So... Koan and Jill have brought themselves into the fray. Cynthia charged in screaming to attack a mass of writhing muscle. The tiger had turned the prisoner into a fish and back. And a burned tongue sought to taste the blood in the waters. To battle then. Sword of shadows drawn and ready, the bloodlust in his burning eyes betraying the nature of his injuries. Death was a possibility, seeing how the great beast had attacked their mer guide. From there perhaps they would lose against so terrible a beast, far greater guardians than those they had encountered in the open sea. Of which the flailing tentacles made the warlock raise a brow at Dyn once his dark lady Koan had shrugged back from her place between them. A slight head nudge towards the gloried squid should have been enough of a jest for the beholder, surely the ego of Dyn would urge the 'perfect' being to attack an tentacular rival.
Swimming forward from tactical cover, the umbramancer rushed forward into the fray, once more the cloak billowing in the waves like the wings of a manta. Casting a quick glance at Jill who seemed to be harm and heal, commanding others at will, he wondered what she would think if he unleashed the darkness within him and show her the black feathers of his soul. Then like the Dracula of the seas, a thirst for blood and darkness in his glare. These animatronics seemed empty, hollow without the sensation of pain, how lackluster. But seeing the ravaging the kraken's tentacles did on the raging fish girl, well perhaps it did tickle the sadist's interest to feel those hooks tear into his flesh. But for now they had to defeat the templars, with what little energy he had left, a few spells still stored in his ring to hopefully protect him from his chosen opponent's wrath and save himself for the octopod. Thus a wispy dark saber slashed the construct from right to left, striking true as the blade cut across, yet the backswing was far less successful as the horizontal stroke failed to connect as the swordsman attempted to ready his guard to intervene between the next attacks.
Move Action: swim 30 feet to square above Templar B. Shadow Sword Attack 1 on Templar B = 1d20 + 11 = (7)+11 = 18 - HIT Shadow Sword Attack 2 on Templar B = 1d20 + 11 = (1)+11 = 12 - MISS Attack 1 Damage on Templar B, 2 handed= 1d10 + 5 + 2 = (7)+5+2 = 14 Slashing
How great are the dangers I face to win a good name in Vahalla.
The men were armed and ready. Their painted faces marked with the blessings of battle, shouting their prayers to the heavens above to witness their glory. Their strong bodies lined in rank and file, axes and swords, shield and armor. Warriors trained for battle, warriors born to die. Three rows of fighters, and crew of archers to rain death upon the enemies. The war drums beat to the chant of skalds, the seer had foreseen this day. Behind the temple walls the villagers remained, the final bastion against the demonic horde. For the rising dawn lit the sky with the colors of war. Of red blood that the earth drank, of orange flames which burned their city to ash, of yellow eyes of the demon lord. This was the final stand against the balor and his armies, this wall of metal and flesh, of arrows and spirit were all that remained. But there at the helm ready to lead the charge was their champion. A woman given the epithet of The Valkyrie, the greatest of the shield-maidens, sitting atop her saddled warhorse Adalwin. The steed was no ordinary horse, for he was a unicorn that bore his rider into battle and back, the only man that she was rumored to allow to carry her. There surveying the demonic army advancing the great rider Alexandra prepared herself for a glorious death in battle. The gods had always sent her back, denying her Valhalla with every resurrection the priests had done to recall her back to fight. But with the priests dead...
"The time has come. Are you with me brother?" The soft pats of a gentle hand against the noble unicorn's side. Always. The telepathic reply, they may die together this time, though more often than not he had saved her, and she had saved him. Together they would venture into this battle for one last ride. She would never abandon her duty to protect the temple that had taken her in, and he would never give up on her. Though the might of her brawn may fail her, though the spirit of her hearth may fail her, and though the gods she fights for may fail her. He would not, for just as she allowed him to carry her, so too did he allow her to ride him. A woman of pure heart and body who bore the sacred spear Svar, marked by the gods to fight forever. And now it seemed this is where story would end, their tale to be told, the legend of Alex and Adal. A touching moment for such a Valkyrie to share a moment of peace before the storm with him. They would face death together, but not before the balor would feel both horn and spear pierce its foul hide.
"Fight well today Warriors, for tonight we Drink in Valhalla!"
The unicorn reared and the warspear raised in a cry to victory or death. And then from the heavens above, a beam of celestial light poured out upon the mount and rider. Engulfing Alexandra and Adalwin as they they bathed themselves in the radiance, what was this strange blessing? A sign of the gods bestowing their champion? A boon to purge these demons out and save them all? Yes, it must be. The gods were with them, their ethereal forms shimmering in the cosmic light as watchers to witness their champion defeat these demons. The drum beats and war cries of the men seemed so distant now, as the light seemed to mute out the rest of the world beyond it. Surely they would cheer at this omen of light. Forward to battle! Charge!
Gone were the demons. gone were the men. All of it gone, save for Alex and Adal. In lieu of rubble and ruin, windswept grass, and instead of armies, five others. There poised in a circle, a few paces from each other were strangers. The first to her right was a demon-kin bearing the horns as clear as day across her revealing robes, was she the enemy's wizard? The second to her left seemed to be some halfling shield-maiden with a strange mechanical frog-like beast beside her, was she in mortal peril?. The third directly across was another small-folk a strange gnome who seemed wear the robes of a possible demon summoner. The final two seemed like armorless warriors just as she was set on either side of the trifling gnome. The dwarf the only male fighter by his wildlands beard and sword & shield, perhaps he was an ally? While the other was a female mer-kin with a frigid stare and battleaxe, perhaps she was a worthy rival? Where was they, and who were these people? Everything was so unfamiliar, and yet...
I think I would prefer to return to what I was previously doing now
Return? Return to the battle? What of the battle? She was needed at the front! The demons they were attacking! This was not Valhalla. This was not the work of the gods. This was trickery, foul magic. Who summoned them here to this strange place? Who did Alex have to run a spear through to get back? All the questions demanding answers, flying through her mind as she and Adalwin stood there waiting. Spear drawn to one side and hooves ready. The demon-kin disappeared from sight, possibly disappearing back to the battlefield? Was that was she meant when she was referring to returning? But it seemed the dwarf had no idea just as well of what had happened, and took to negotiating with the other ladies. It was the gnome or demon-kin, or maybe even the halfling with her strange contraption. Certainly it was not Adalwin who teleported them here. Nor was it the gods. Or was it?
"We did not summon you dwarf. I am Alex and this is Adal. We too seek passage back to a battle against demons assailing our temple. Who was it who summon us? Speak now!"
Three names he had been referred to, and yet none so far called him by name. Either he had fallen into obscurity, or perhaps the young ones cared not to know him. Which was all well and good, let the fate of the world rest on the shoulders of the young and able, and less people pestering him for this or that. But it appeared everyone was keen on two things. The first was the division of heroes as Kethan had suggested, the second was that there was no reason to rush so eagerly into certain doom. They had only heard of the threat, but neither knew the whereabouts or the specifics. Thus far no dissent within the group, even the rascal that Kethan planned to keep a close eye on during their travels. The two younger men that would accompany them the old cleric had little familiarity of, for the tales of modern young dashing heartthrob heroes are not for saintly scholar. Nor are the tales of wizened old men for the young impressionable women, although the surprisingly affectionate squeeze Kethan found suddenly wrapt around his old bones was comforting. "Indeed, Lady Mavros, if only the circumstances weren't so dire. Sir Lakeltia but I fear the Gods have spoken. What Tyr and Valkur may not know, perhaps my goddess Ioun can divine. Yet I am not ready to come before her insight, not without an attempt to gather the information myself as her follower."
Gifts for gifts in kind. It seemed only Kethan presented the Dukes with a small token of court etiquette. For now the favour was returned, with fine earpieces of many colors. To which Kethan gave a bow of his head as elder fingers uncurled to select such a device. Though he did not clip it on instantly, instead placing it in a side compartment of his pack with the other enchanted items he acquired over the years. There was no need for them to have such relays at this moment, although they would make the battlefield communications much more effective. The sending stones perhaps the paladin would find better use for if not the demon huntress. The crystal ball perhaps best to the elf woman who introduced herself, for Kethan and Marcus had other means of divination. Ellenara Ann'leah, where did he know that name from? It mattered not, they would know each other soon enough by rubbing elbows. How blessed are elves and their legendary longevity, and youthful beauty. And as for the deck of cards that carried the warning of Ada, Kethan was instantly wary of their power, though unsure of their exact nature like several others, the cleric had the wisdom to avoid tempting fate. Sure there were fabricated tales of legendary hopes being nothing but a false promise, some made to inspire courage and valor within the heart of one who thought to use such a boon. But more often than not, such relics are a box of pandemonium, bearing both curses and blessings in ill proportions. Place your faith not in these, but the Gods. And if the gods themselves fail...
"Ah, no, no, Miss Ann'leah, such an item is left best in the hands of Lady Mavros. I have no use for a deck of cards, not one with such arcane power. Youself, my dear, may however benefit from the Crystal Ball. Ioun bestows upon me my vision. And besides, I entrust the safety of Lady Mavros to you and your party, although she is no delicate flower..."
And as the old folks chatted away in their wisdom, a fool had challenged fair warning. The rapscallion bard, of which Ada had hinted at knowing the true nature of his being, had drawn a card from the deck. The test subject was rewarded at once, as reality seemed to shift maliciously. A disturbance felt by all those in the room as the legendary relic was invoked: Talons. Instantly did the card vanish, and so too did the items the bard had carried, his weapons and cloak disintegrating, his armor wisped away like smoke leaving him bucknaked to pick up the scattered remains of his bag of holding. Such indecency, although Kethan had no reason to stop and stare, he could only hope the bard had had some manners to cover himself before Lady Mavros. Such ruination of a hero, stripped of his treasured items, how a benefiting fate to see a thief scramble to collect his odds and ends. Justice it seemed, for one who intended to steal with so already so much, now how the fates had stolen from him. it is as they say: A fool and his money...
Thus with a knowing smile Kethan's staff clicked once more into the rhythm of his waltz. He could attempt to reverse the events that had occurred, but there was no treasure greater than wisdom. There was a lesson to be learned here, and the cost of tuition was merely his worldly possessions and not his life. Had he died in such a time of crisis, Kethan would have attempted to intervene given the divines had chosen for this other human to journey forth on this quest. Now, then the library awaits, as they all passed from the courtyard into the hall of Mavros. The gilded faces of ancient rulers looked down upon them, possible saviors of the kingdom they once lost. A nod towards the Duke on his throne within his throne room, yet the greatest room in Kethan's view came past the side door that Ada led them. There the familiar sight of shelves and musty tomes, scattered and littered about the desks. There another old bookkeeper came bowing towards them, as proper as every library has its guardian no matter how great or small the collection. To which Kethan, a familiar figure amongst bookkeepers and scholars, knew just who the bespectacled half elf was.
"Ghouls Kings and Dragons, Lawrence. Whites in particular." Ah the emphasized wit, although wights were not ghouls per say, the humor should not be missed by his elderly colleague. "Anything you have on the demon Orcus and his undead servitors, the more obscure the better. Cast a wide net, perhaps a compendium of demons and undead, but anything you suggest Lawrence. Geography of the northern mountains would also be appreciated, both modern and ancient maps please. And how was that chapter of the manuscript on I had sent forward to you? I had to make sure the Grand Librarian of Mavros had seen it before the writer publishes such history of the Verraryne region.
Location: Level 2 Interacting with: The Situation, Ash, Kyra
Did you hear the clock strike high noon? Did not the raptor cry and dust blow? Did you hear the wind whistle the tune? Did not the sheriff come to face his foe? Did you hear the beating of their hearts? Did not the climatic end begin to start?
The standoff. Hero and villain, good and evil, law and chaos. The musty tower air was tense, heavy with intrigue, and perhaps even laced with magic. Something had turned Ash astray, the dire wolf turning against them (and not just by ruining Thomas' robe) fur raised and ready. The unseen undead Bob stirring at last, and it seemed doing something to the bear and a terrible ripping sound was resonated like the belltower chime. The unidentified figure, Leo for the sake of the reference, had done clearly something. But still something was not right about it all, something they had surely missed since they weren't dead yet. The vampire fart nearly killed them after a bout of explosive undead. If indeed Leo was responsible for all this, then why the restraint? Was it still too much daylight to prevent the dark arts from working? A wild theory, but right now Thomas was more focused on keeping his spell ready taking into account the presence of Ash looking readier to maul and maim like a dog that bit the master's hand. Holding his action and his tongue until a critical moment to pass, a hair trigger as he kept himself on edge. If Ash did leap into the fray, then summoning the void would at least pull the hound back. Although Kyra and Nor would have to be on their toes to avoid getting too close into the cosmic cyclone, Bob and Leo would certainly be fair targets to be sucked into the vortex.
"Easy boy." Thomas' farmboy background evident in the tone of his voice. A quick glance at Kyra as his outstretched hand aimed his focus at the wolf. He wasn't going to hurt the traveling companion, but, well the wolf might be pulled back into a wall for a moment. And being thrown against a wall wasn't the best feeling in the world, so the farmboy looked at Kyra for her blessings to keep Ash from going berserk on them. After all, the way she shot daggers at him for nearly killing Sana was more pressure than Thomas could handle. Nearly killing a bewitched Ash, well...
Actually maybe if the Puppeteer's concentration was broken... Thus with a slight tilt of his waist the young sorcerer found a new target. The space visualized just infront of Nor. A greater chance for the dwarf to be pulled in. But hey, the metal barber had his armor so he should be okay. And now Ash and Leo would feel the greater effects of gravity. Maybe. Assuming Thomas' spells didn't fail him.
The peak at last. Here the Seat of Mavros, from here all could be surveyed from below. How the people they had passed become like ants to the majesty of the mountaintop, busying along they daily lives as the purple sky dimmed into the evening's indigo streaks. There a heavenly painter's cool palette brushed across, the azure gradient into the lavender fields, and the warm glowing embers of the celestial eye gazing rays of sunbeams through the clouds for one last glimpse before sundown. How they below could not see past the stonework masonry, the protective walls that enclosed as a bastion for her people, but here at the summit such pleasures were afforded the Twin Dukes amongst the courtyard greenry. Indeed this motley crew of gathered sheep were not ordinary lot, and though they hardly knew each other, perhaps their reputations preceded such knowledge that escaped Kethan's memory and failure to keep tabs on the young and old. Nevertheless, with a musing chuckle to the raven-elf's reply to his matrimonial comment, none were certain as to why they came. What calamity was upon them that required a gathering of such giants amongst mortals? What did had Ioun and the other divines see?
Ah there they were, the Twin Dukes. Lord Mavros always so stately dressed in his regalia, and Lady Mavros was almost a mirror image in hers. They were young, for elves, but the old cleric knew the Lady for some time now. Some people leave a more lasting impression, even on the feeble memory of an old man. That said, as the Dukes appeared, Kethan tapped his cane before him and bowed his head in acknowledgement of their titles. Perhaps he was the only one who still bore some respect to the reigning powers that be, even despite holding his own high-ranking position in the order of Ioun's clergy the hoary librarian considered himself just that: an wizened bookkeeper. It did help however that the Duke and Duchess were also more than just inheritors, they too where great mortals of skill to praise. For which a fading smile turn into a knowing stoicism at the arrival of the high elves. So, Lady Mavros was going to join them, then indeed there was no wedding to be had, but indeed as Kethan feared a great threat once again rises. One poised to bring ruin upon all nations such that someone had gathered them here. And there the darkened sky and crashing thunder was the very omen Kethan expected as he gaze drifted from the moment the Duke spoke of how the others had been summoned without the knowledge of Mavros itself.
There spoke the gods, as the booming voice of the celestial being rang out from the mountains. There the old man braced his ears for the deafening blast as his grip tightened across his cane's intricate handle. The voice of thunder cracked the very air, the resounding storm of Valkur, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing more than mere dramatis for all the world was a stage to the gods, And all the men and women merely players. Pawns in the games they play, or knights, or bishops or rooks, or whatever have you, the worth of a single being to be measured against the common soul perhaps. But they were just pieces, they have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many part. Kethan was once commanded in his meditations to journey the world, and only relatively recently did his pilgrimage end at the place it all started. But now, as the celestial spoke of dragons and undead armies it seemed once more the gods bade him play his part. Now exit, first the messenger who came to use a tongue to spoke quickly, then the Duke for anon the trees began to move, and so only does the Lady here remain.
And the young bade their questions, without letting the gravitas of the message sink into their bones. Not one, but two threats, one from the north, one from the west. There are minor threats which rise and fall everyday, many to lesser heroes than those gathered here, an army of undead is no match for an army of united faiths, but this Ghoul Emperor, this Kethan himself had not heard of perhaps either it was so new that it had yet to be documented, or so obscure that he did not know. but dragons were common knowledge, but of giants, he had no dealings with such beasts, yet knew of the bitterness of dragons and giants. It was indeed surprising to hear such a threat come from the cold north, but if indeed it was a white dragon, then either the dragon had become so desperate to deal with giants, or the giants were the real threat beyond the incapable dragon that had to swallow its draconic pride. Regardless the old man gave Ada an approving look at her wisdom, the library was a wonderful place to start. There the safeguards against the failing memory, inked upon the pages of ancient lores and histories. It was no Great Library of Archimagos, but it will do for a man who had spent days without dusty shelves to roam through. There Kethan would be in his element. Ah there the reason why he was summoned, to be the librarian they needed.
"I see we are already dividing our numbers. I suggest an even split, five to North, and five to West." Kethan grip relaxed as he began to walk forward towards Ada, "I fear the mountains will be too cold for my old bones, and Sir Lakeltia here may find me more useful in dealing with the undead should he raise arms to his sacred duty. I am too old for dragons and giants, I leave that to the young and able-bodied." A gesture towards Marcus, before a nod towards Ada, the Halfling, and the Druidic Elf. "And if we are indeed dealing with Orcus and his ilk, then I suspect Miss Lonett will join us. And I see the young man will also join us, making four. And though I suspect our Warforged here can surely turn the tide of battle against the undying armies, perhaps it would be more useful culling giants with someone to provide maintenance as indeed." A gesture towards the Warforged and the Gnome, before turning with a glare at the other human in the group. "Thus, leaves me with keeping a watchful eye on our bard. Who I suspect will be more useful in keeping up our morale against the living dead, rather than as a thief in mountainous dragon's treasure vault. But I am just an old man with no power here, little power left, and little time left in this world so I certainly have the least to lose."
"I do however, have a gift to bear for yourself Lady Mavros, Ah here it is." A book retrieved from his satchel, the leather binding stroked and the cover brushed before being presented. "Manual of the planes, fifth edition, by J.B.Ram, two thousand and two pages over which the coastal wizard describes the cosmos. Relatively new addition to our library, I hope it will find a home in yours." The book handed wholeheartedly, bestowing the gift to an old friend from an old friend. "So, shall we venture into the library then? Or does any amongst us care to rush so eagerly into defeat without knowing who our enemy is?" Spoken like a true master, surprisingly long-winded, but often aren't these old timers just so?
Arcana on dragons = (7)+16 = 23 Nature on giants = (2)+4 = 6 Religion on ghouls = (4)+10 = 14
The sound of sandal soles marching on to the metronome of the cane. Every third beat was the steady sureness of the elder's staff striking the ground. The intricate rod designed with an inlay of with gold and inscribed with arcane script which spiraled down the haft, the words of divine command and arcane authority sealed into the staff. The staff of charming which bore itself a unique handle curved back upon itself, like a sharp question mark and bore a small crystalline orb like fruit changing from the branch. And if fingers were to pluck the fruit, the branch above was to rest a palm against nestled against the fork of a new direction, a customized handle which bore the likeness of Ioun's symbol. It was the very same symbol worn around the neck of the staff's possessor. A faithful of the arcane goddess, dressed in not clerical vestments worthy of his high rank within his holy order, but in a mere traveler's garb. Brown and white Monastic robes, plain and simple, thrown with seemingly little decorum to the untrained eye unaware of the intricate wave-like folds the drapery made. Perhaps he was known, perhaps he was not, it mattered very little the scholar deep in thought, as his stroked his short grey bread that ironically covered his chin but not his bald crown. The old man recalling a moment he answered the summons.
The same sandals miles away, days ago. Not the cobbled path leading to the Seat of Mavros, but rather upon the polished granite floors of the Grand Library of Archimagos. Stone was stone, and the resounding echos of his steps were all too similar, but the murmur of the crowd that gathered to see the procession was far louder than that his quiet sanctum. The saintly stillness of scroll and scholar scribbling the sacred secrets in skilled silence. The whispering wizards and warlocks wandering within waiting in wonder of when the work would be wrought. His quill dipped in the blessed ink and a trembling hand placing the wetted tip against the parchment at last, yet still no line was drawn. Patience, for the mages who hurried their way about the Magocracy had none, keen keepers of time and power spent little waiting for the master to conduct his art. They watched him, and clocked him, how long did the hoary cleric sit there? Would not the ink dry by the time he began? But still he bade them wait in his meditation. For great intellect they had and never could they replicate his skill, as knowing how was merely half of the art. It was in wisdom where he had them beat, foreseeing each stroke in his mind as the black flowers flourished the empty field. Only when he saw the entirety of it all did his quill begin to move.
Eight heroes forward.
There were many of them that had answered. Some known to him, some not. There was Sir Lakeltia on his high-horse, for what beast could bear the weight of such a man? A half-orc paladin of Tyr of the Hammers of Grimjaws, a man most upright and moral, a Justicar devoted to bettering the lands by his own might and prowess against the forces of evil and villainy. Such was the burden of his oath was it not? Thus how heavy a load must such a pair carry upon each other's backs. And then there was striding beside him with her great owlbear was Lonett of Caernath, blessed aasimar huntress of monsters. She too was known for her ferocity against the evils of this world, it was fitting that they answered the call. But what of the rest? There was the towering warforged admist them, like a giant amongst the heroic rabble. He was not known to the clergyman who dabbled not in war and warriors but rather protectors of good and peace, yet his stature and aloofness marked him to be a being born of battle. Or perhaps rather made for it, as the soldiers saluted the cold machine. Then there beside him and riding a mechanical beast was a curious gnome seeming to ponder at a drawing of the warforge designed. How quaint to see the innovator, too often mad with genius, as perhaps she was the machine's creator? One tall, one short, and the rest of the group trekking still behind them.
A week and a day ago they had come, requesting the scroll commissioned. They had paid well in donations to the library, books for shelves and gold for coffers. For the arcane arts merely brought back the dead as a shadow, only the divines had favor beyond death. They had provided the astral diamond and all other materials, and requested him to craft the scroll. Why such a group required it was a question left unanswered, even to the cleric's raised eyebrow at the nature of their secrecy. For secrets were vile tools of the servants of Vecna, knowledge held close even to confessional was treated with a wary eye. They told him not for what purpose they needed such a scroll, a spell to transcend a death dealt within one hundred years. And though they beckoned him hurry, urging the elder to carry on with their commission, the fools had forgotten under who's eye they stood. For the light of Ioun's wisdom was upon them, filtered through the stained glass of his chambers where they approached him. And there the shadow of Vecna would not cover their dark intents or hidden agendas. The ancient battle of shadows, for the greatest power second to the divines was information was it not? So who where they?
"The devil smiles at the chance to collect, but what riches shall he be due?"
A proverb seemingly out of the blue. For aloft they had went together, plodding along the boisterous path. Many had come to see them, greeting them with awe and wonder as forward they ascended up the mountain pass towards a place Kethan was quite familiar with. Long since did he sequester himself in his study that the comings and goings of a market square seemed so foreign. The fishmonger, the butcher, the greengrocer all discussing prices with their clientele at stalls, as the jewelers and smiths carefully count their coins beneath the shade. Hagglers here and there, bakers and cobblers, weavers and other masters, yet as the group made their way, even the market seemed to slow to catch a glimpse of the travellers. It was not often to have a gathering of this importance, for surely if the four before came, surely the next four were just as worthy with Kethan coming last amongst them. A half-elf archer, a halfling wizard, and a human bard. His steps were slow but not struggled, the cane-staff perhaps merely a ruse to appear more fragile than he was resolving to let the others walk ahead of him. And nothing escaped the old man's eye, not even past his glasses, for not trace of mischief could elude his terrifying insight. Though perhaps there was good within the heart, the wicked mind gleaned itself a smirk. Wide across the bard's face in a flash of teeth like daggers, filled with treachery as a hand drew up his cowl. There in such a smile was a secret, one that the old man knew for too often did he see the same twinkle in the eyes of cunning youth.
They had denied him, but he had finish the scroll regardless. And the victory was his, for their deception was returned with one of his own. The calligraphic writing intricately drawn across the scroll revealed nothing to them. Not until it was too late and the raging inferno consumed them all. The charred remains of the cultists withered dry within their secret dens. They had planned to resurrect the very cult leader the cleric had vanquished decades ago, using the very scroll their enemy has provided. The price of their secret was Kethan's own, for the scroll was not for a spell of resurrection, but one of pure destruction. The moment they had foolishly invoked the scroll their fate was sealed, flames erupted to consume their vile den, purging the wicked and undead with a burning celestial wrath. A firestorm unleashed and all burned in the great consuming pyre. His old enemy was ash, the secrets of Vecna were embers. And just like that, the victory was his and the survivors scattered to heal the scars of their lesson. Wrongfully deceive, and thus, rightfully receive.
Nine Pilgrims.
One more appeared. Her ebon wings folded into her body, like the Raven Queen herself, pale as death's unmoving lips. An elf by the points of her ears, one able to take the guise of animals, suggesting her druidcraft, but many mages too had spells to change their shapes. Quite a few times the old cleric had to remove a curse from a frog or newt, returning the victim into a man once more. Yet her unearthly earthly grace seemed far less of a swamp hag and more of some reclusive hermit, and perhaps far wiser than he was for she chose to fly rather than walk. Yet for all his knees were worth, too often did the hoary academic stalk through his treasured shelves, and should he shepherd these wandering misfit souls they may complain of not arriving to the peak by nightfall as the orange afternoon turns to purple dusk. His age brings a frailty suggests his difficulty handling too heavy a burden save for the pack carried upon his back or the magic quiver belted at his left hip across the pouches to his right, yet still there was some life in the old bones. Though admittedly his mind was not as sharp as it was years prior, lucidity escaped his grasp if it were not for the wreath of golden laurels resting behind his ears serving to augment his natural intellect. It was the way of senescence, and all mortals shall perish as their bodies become slaves to time. Only the Gods were forever, though not for all of time.
Kethan, you will go to the Seat of Mavros. A command? Or prophecy no less. Communion with the celestials, meditations on the divines. The very night his rival was no more, the message was revealed to Kethan in his prayers. Mavros, where the Twin Lady and Lord reigned was it not? It was rare a time where it was he that ventured into Mavros, rather than the Lady Mavros visit him. When had she frequented his library last? How the months seem to fog, his memory certainly failing to recall things without great effort. The years had been kind thus far, but now approaching his eightieth years perhaps the old cleric had doubts to his own state of being. For the holy spells could dispel disease and mend wounds, but nothing was stronger than fate. Fate that declared an age must come to an end, so too must old men die. A new body perhaps then to be grown, and yet each time he tried thus far tragedy befell such efforts. Was it truly that hard to create an undisturbed vessel? But alas, with the faithfulness of a saint, the wizened cleric packed his supplies, notifying the librarians of his leave of absence and with one last look at his beloved books, the old man set off once more as he did decades ago...
Ah to feel young again.
In the presence of such company, truly Kethan felt the eldest, or at least perhaps was visible the most weathered of the lot. Where the crowd that gathered came to view and recognize the heroes, and the younger ones smile in awe of adventurers, few came to jeer nor applaud the cleric's arrival. Perhaps it was because he was the last one who ushered in the epic flock, leading from the rear as the final guardian. Or perhaps it was the mystery of who he was since his retirement. Few he could wager did remember him, most of those he helped ought to be dead by now given time, or perhaps far too young to remember who it was that brought rain during the times of drought or cured them of their pox. But these heroes seemed far more competent than commoners, thus what use did they have for an old man? Wise consul? Nay, there were certainly those wiser than his feeble mind, and what ears would listen to his proverbial advice when they were champions of their own right.
Three books carried in his pack. A blank book taken with him, within his pack to be kept. The pages clean and untouched, virgin to the quill or pen. And another book, one leather-bound manual of the planes fifth edition, revised with various minor edits made to the outer realms. A intended gift for Lord and Lady Mavros as a formality when visiting foreign regents and friends. And finally the last book for himself, reading material that he has read over and over for the sake of committing the insights into memory. While the warrior may bring arms and armor, and the archer bow and arrows, it was the armor of knowledge and wisdom which protected Kethan for so long. Discipline, temperance, patience, years of training in the art of suffering, the path was never easy was it? And the road that went on was long. And as so many had asked the elder what was the secret to his good health? A scoffing chuckle nearly dismissed their query followed by the sharing of the fabled key: The secret to a long and healthy life? Is to never give yourself a chance to enjoy it.
"Agreed. I reason that at best, given who we are assembled here, we are all summoned because there exists a great immediate threat to the land." Kethan mused as the group approached the Keep at the peak at last. What other use was there for a cleric, a bard, a tinkerer? Several warriors and mages? And an... With a chuckle to himself, the elder found his solemn expression cracking into a strange smile with the subtle curl of the corners of his lips of dry wit. "And at worst... We are wedding guests."
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ampersand
amorphical
FulgrimLives
Elite Minor
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Breezi
Vixere
iFain
the Valkyrie
the Master