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  #916  
Old 06-04-2019, 09:14 AM
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Rohekk Woundsong
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Rohekk, lingering behind and directing his initiates, saw fully the triumph of one of his acolytes over the pafe woman. The High Priest failed to recall the initiates name, but he watched with a malicious approval the manner in which the young cleric honoured the Beast with his victory over the female. His cruel gaze fell upon the initiate, the crimson eyes burning with a lust to join battle himself, yet for the briefest second there was a flash of something else in Rohekk's eyes.

It was something that seemed dangerously close to approval.

It was a good kill, a solid kill, and Rohekk knew that Rovagug would be well pleased. Yet barely had the moment been savoured when Rohekk's gaze was drawn to a movement, a flash of steel, and he could do nothing but watch on as the Mad One's giant blade came crashing down, obliterating the initiate in it's moment of triumph.

Slowly, Rohekk's harsh, blood red eyes moved slowly to lock eyes with Ekk-Lakk. He said nothing, gripping his axe tightly as he began slowly to walk forward, the furious rage-strength of his patron setting every muscle in his body on fire. Their locked gazes seemed to last an eternity, though it could hardly have been more than a second or two. Finally, Rohekk's lips curl upwards, his long, sharp fangs exposing in something that looked like a horrible snarl.

A moment later, the High Priest threw his head back and emitted a harsh, bark-like hacking sound that rocked his shoulders. Rohekk's initiates looked back at their master, their expressions showing clearly that they had no understanding of what it was that afflicted their master.

That was, until he suddenly stopped, his head whipping back and turning to face his initiates with a savage glare. It was then that it became clear. The High Priest had... laughed.

"Now that, scum, is a glorious offering to the Beast! THAT is a death worthy of Him. If there was any chance all your deaths would be so worthy, I'd throw every last one of you at the Painted One!"

It had been glorious. The initiate cutting down the pafe woman had been one thing, but then to be struck down at the moment of elation. Triumphant over the pafe woman, and receiving rare praise from the High Priest in one moment, struck down by Ekk-Lakk the next. Rohekk was overcome at the beautiful destruction of it all. Rohekk could almost feel the tangible presence of his Patron's approval.

"You're mind might be addled, Painted One, but you are clearly blessed in the eyes of Rovagug!"

Yet again, in a glorious orgy of death and destruction, Rohekk had no time to savour the beauty of Ekk-Lakk's culling of the initiate, as the pafe counterattack saw the over-sized form of Ekk-Lakk fall. Immediately, Rohekk's eyes whirled to fall upon the scum-blood that had dared to strike the mighty Ekk-Lakk. He had expected to find another loathsome pafe, but was surprised to see that it was no pafe at all, but instead a gnoll. Flashing his teeth and clenching his fist, Rohekk extends his arm and points at the traitor, screaming in a near frenzy at his initiates.

"APOSTATE!! GUT HIM! BRING ME HIS HEAD!"

Rohekk's blood was up, and he had been ready to surge forth into battle himself. Yet this orchestra of destruction to honour the Beast and protect the Carrion King could not go further without the mighty Ekk-Lakk. The Painted One would die, probably here in this very room on this very day, yet it was not now. Not while so many of the Pafe still drew breath.

So, fighting back the urge to crush the treacherous gnoll himself, he leaves that to his initiates and instead makes his way over to Ekk-Lakk's prone form. He offers up another prayer to Rovagug, this time beseeching his master to close Ekk-Lakk's wounds, and reaches out to touch the Mad One with his holy symbol.

"Your dance is not over, Mad One. Arise again, so that you might bring more glorious destruction upon our enemies. In the Beast's name!!"

With that, the High Priest turned and glared at the pafe. With the Painted One restored, it was time for Rohekk to show these infidels what the price for defiling the Carrion King's domain truly was. He'd been distracted enough! Now his blade would taste pafe blood.

And it would be a glorious slaughter.



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  #917  
Old 06-04-2019, 05:22 PM
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Hector Grimm
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With chaos reigning on all sides, the treachery of the, otherwise seemingly agreeable, initiate of the Open Hand was a hard blow to the old Ustalavian. Years of whispers, corruption and fake appearances had given him a knack to see when he was robbed unfairly of something that was rightfully his. Never, since he had turned to Eiseth for powers, had he encountered anyone capable of denying him the souls from which he thrived and grew stronger from. Hector fixed the priest on the other side of the pit with his steel gaze, his mind running double speed to understand what the effect was and if it had anything to do with the familiar bond the two men had shared.

There was a wet sound just behind him and Hector turned to see Drusilla fall. His mind calculated the dangers quicker than his rage could surface and it was his wits that won over his urge for revenge. He swung his blade around, to clear the nuisance of a gnoll, lying between him and the Chelaxian woman. He had removed his attention from Dullen for a second and even so, the man was there, zipping right past him, dancing past the acid-spewing skulls like they were not there.

Dragonwing cleaved the back open of the prone gnoll and Hector started retreating with Drusilla, almost not able to fathom how quickly it had all happened and how the fate had changed so much. Dullen’s powers were formidable and some of them, obviously, a danger to his achievements.

In a blur, taking deliberate care to stay on a straight path, Hector swooshed around tugging tight on new souls and refilling his cabinet of power, the nearest initiate, the soon dead Ekk-Lakk and the craven King behind his elves were all feeling their souls locked tight in the grasp of this old man - his wrath tangible through the bond.

Coming to a stand beside Drusilla and seeing her readying a weapon anew, Hector barked words he knew they shared and which held good opportunities for being unregistered by the gnolls, I need clear sight of the big one.







Last edited by Dressedtojazz; 06-04-2019 at 05:22 PM.
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  #918  
Old 06-12-2019, 06:10 AM
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Start Ro9

Token--------Character--------Init080910
(F)Fandrik17xo-
(D)Dullen14xo-
(G)Grak'ark14xo-
(B)Gark-the-Goblin14xo-
(H)Hector13xo-
(16)Rraelliarh16xo-
(19)Rokova16xo-
(V)Drusilla5xo-
(17)Ekk-Lakk05xo-
(18)Rohekk Woundsong05xo-
(01-05)(12-13)Carrion Initiates05xo-
(06-10)Elven Slaves05xo-
(Crown)The Carrion King05xo-
o = open to post
- = don't post yet
x = posted already

DM Summary
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House of the Beast: Day 2
Gozran 13 4710 – Moonday

Sunrise 6:30AM | 8:00PM Sunset
(07:09AM)

Light Bearers
Dullen, Holy Symbol (20' normal / 40' shadows)
Hector, Fandrik's Stone (20' normal / 40' shadows)

Darkvision
Grak'ark (60')
Remkah'ar (60')
Fandrik (60')
Gark-the-Goblin (60')




House of the Beast: The Lower Temple
[DiCE]
Nil

 



Room 2: The Maggot Throne



Thkot-Tal is falling into pieces as it drags back from the battle, gushing guts in a trail as it withdraws, and Fandrik feels a shiver down his spine (Sickened) from the site as obvious humanoids and animals drool from it's midsection along with broken plates from the overgrown instect. But he still has his luck close by, gripping it like a handle (Maintain Archaeologist's Luck), and just goes along with the chaos. He sees Drusilla and calls her name, drawing everyone's attention to her fallen body.

"DRU!"

With disregard to his own safety, he races to her. In a twirl his sword flashes and misses the priest creeping upon him (Miss #5) and pivots north. Thkot-Tal sees this and instinctively moves in for the kill like a praying mantis. Fandrik hears the enormous thing shift towards him and feints right (Acrobatics 28 | Failed) and doesn't turn around in time to feel Thkot-Tal strike hard (he doesn't know by what, it could be so many enemies) and it throws him forward. Spine needles stick into this right waist and the venom slides into his blood stream like it did with Drusilla. He glances up to her dying body and she's a red blur. Nonetheless he keeps trying to reach her, to protect her like he protects Hector.

The priests see the halfling struck and weak and continue to throw their axes (Acrobatics AoO | Miss | Miss) and Fan barely notices as he easily hops away, trying to keep his mind steady, rolling on the floor. He rolls to a stand when a great voice, feminine but as sharp as a cat's tooth, blinks through his brain in Abyssal 'Watch above'. Fandrik looks above right on time to see Ekk-Lakk's saw-toothed axe descend in a fell swoop and he has just a hair to move before getting cut in half like Dru. He was slow, slow because of the venom (Acrobatics Rolled 21 | Miss) but the voice saves him and he ducks. Whooooooof, it just misses. Hector notices in that same moment that the light shining from his rock around his neck flickers and then shines again as if even the bard’s magic knew he would (should) be dead right now but some outside force reconfigured the situation.

Both Grak'ark and Fandrik hear it simultaneously. Grak knows the voice of his goddess all too well. Both of them lock eyes for a moment (Hero Point: +2 Acrobatics) and there is an understanding in that brief half-a-second. That venom almost sealed his fate with that attack if not for the Mother of Monsters. Grak will make sure he never forgets this as Fandrik slides protectively over Dru. Grak'ark wonders, was it to save Fan or Dru? Mother is patient, so it is hard to tell. Either way it made a maddening chill go his body, standing up his short hair, tingling his six nipples.

Despite all of this, Fan's bravado echoes through the chamber even as he feels his body grow sluggish. "Did you forget about me, bonehead? You said you'd kill me! I bet you're a liar like Rovagug too!" HaHA! Yes! Another day, now and always. He glances back again and worries about the state of the downed warrior as Dullen speeds toward them around the pit. He passes the skulls and ducking the acid as if on a tightrope (Trap Hit 16, 6 | Both Miss) and slides in a kneeling position before the Carrion Guard on the ground can even bring around his rapier to stop him, worried about Hector right over him. Dullen moves so fast, so smooth, that Fandrik couldn’t make sense of who it was for a moment before he sees Dullen’s hand glow blue. The Hand of Irori. With Dullen near it all feels like they might pull through this once and for all.

Drusilla is pumping blood from her chest. Her skull is split and some light gray material from her head, opened up by that last axe from the Carrion Initiate before the strange explosion comes through. Is that brains? Bones and skull litter her body from the wall and blast. Fandrik's waist screams from the puncture and his body feels like two day old honey, covering Dullen and Dru together.

Fandrik pivots back to the enemy, letting the monk do his job.

The murderer is distracted for a moment. "You dare steal my kill? What did I say?" The Painted One turns and just completely destroys the same initiate that nearly killed Drusilla. His body goes in eight differ directions.

Good, they needed that. The damage is really bad, Dullen can see it, but the slice on her head (smaller yet dire by far) is the worse thing. Dru’s ribs are revealed and broken upward like the fingers of a lich. The blue and gray lung pokes up through her deflated breast that hangs over to the side like a wet pillow, yellow fat upside and nipple hidden by mounds of damage. He ignores all of this. The year of healing people at his temple has perfected Dullen's ability (Healer’s Feat) and he knows to focus on her skull first. The brains vanish back to where they came from and her skull seals. Her ribs fold inward and a sick suckling sound is admitted as her torso seals back up, his hand gleaming from magic. A great big scar from her right shoulder, down her right breast, to her belly is still there and her bones are still broken, but the major organs are put back together and her skin is sealed (healed 29 hp). Black liquid leaks from the scars in dribbles- foreign gunk: rot and dirt from the temple forced out from her body cavity by Irori’s healing magic to make sure she doesn’t suffer inner infection.

Hector looks back and sees one of his soldiers nearly fall and die to the blade. His old eyes continue the scan to examine everyone else during battle and glazes over everything else~ soft eyes. Watch everything at once, not one thing at once. He doesn't know Drusilla and it's just another fallen comrade in his mind, so many men under his command. Years of ugly revolt and war within treacherous Ustalav pass his mind, how so much can happen all at once during combat. A hiss of acid makes him turn, his reflexes making sure he doesn't get burned again, and sees the robed priest Dullen speed past with his glowing sword by his side. Blood squirts as Dullen chants and heals Dru. Grak'ark attempts to pull down the big painted gnoll that killed Abd (the young fisherman means a tons more to the captain than Dru at this point). He still feels the souls within his grip and the lost one to Dullen. His mind whirls, processing, processing, adding the math as seconds pass with each though. Tick. Tick. Tick.

In one second Hector makes sense of what just happened with that explosion and the sword. Dullen is one of the many of followers of Irori that are both clerics and monks (Spellcraft DC13). If he fights with a longsword, a non-monk weapon, that means he is a Redeye Knight (Spellcraft DC20) in the lore of battles long ago when they used to roam the Inner Seas as representatives of the East. It was said that Redeye Knights pass on their ability linearly in bloodlines, from father to elderly son, and it is through their heirloom weapon. This... human monster Trevis called Dullen a brother at one point. He suddenly understands that Dullen is caretaker to this bloodline and is protecting his lineage (and the brother he still loves) using some sort of magic in that very heirloom that glows over Drusilla as he prays above her. He's not sure what the others know about Dullen but he suddenly understands, especially after all this drama, some of Dullen's mission better than anybody.

The Carrion Guard (#15) knocked to the ground by Dru 30 seconds ago sees Hector digesting this information and takes it as if he is freezing under pressure. "That's right, pafe. You're all done." Those are his last words on this world of Golarion as Hector turns his attention back to him, blue eyes flaring like fire, great sword falling like Lady Death. Shhhhhhluuuck. He doesn't even have a chance to blink when Dragonwing divides his brain into two, one of those eyeballs making a nose dive into the pit and falling into the chemical hell where it hisses and roasts as if in a clay oven. The whites of the eye peels yellow and the brown iris curls inward by what lies within.

The shadows grow around Hector as he grips more souls.

Then Drusilla sucks in air.

She is awake.

Everything is black: blacker than night, and darker than the blindness she endured yesterday. Everything is black, for there is nothing but a yawning void as black and empty as death.

In the far distance there is a wink of blue. It reminds Drusilla of the end, of that sudden crackling flash of cerulean fighting against ebony over one soul, an abstract struggle that nonetheless blasted skull after skull after skull from the adjacent wall. Against the backdrop of that colorful explosion her body had crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

left-aligned image
"What. Did. I. SAY?" His words further shake the room, which is still ringing from the explosion. Dru's steel eyes flutter open, alive and wild from the incredible threat of that voice. That wildness is gone in a final flutter. Her hard, calculating stare is back in a mere moment from her years of training near to Hell. She is about to get up when she decides she needs to wait for the right time with the Painted One towering above them. This painted gnoll clown/jester… is death incarnate. He looks like nightmare in all his strange painted colors and lethal weapon (Delay to Initiative 5) as he murders the priest that brained Drusilla. Whack! It's hard to describe the carnage that follows as his body is blasted in different directions. Brittle bone and sloppy parts fly in every direction.

Ekk's axe cleaves the cleric in two, neck to naval, and he flies apart like pottery without even knowing that he was sent to Rovaugg. His insides pouring out. Rohekk suddenly stops, his head whipping back and turning to face his initiates with a savage glare. It was then that it became clear. The High Priest is now... laughing.

"Now that, scum, is a glorious offering to the Beast! THAT is a death worthy of Him. If there was any chance all your deaths would be so worthy, I'd throw every last one of you at the Painted One!" He screams this to the intruders, this as his holy blessing. The hyenas, these gnolls, are all making a strange manic sound and Hector and Fandrik are confused. Dullen, Dru, and Grak are not- it is the sound of gnolls laughing. It is the sound of Katapesh. "You're mind might be addled, Painted One, but you are clearly blessed in the eyes of Rovagug!"

But if there is anyone that can match the evil of the enemy gnolls it is the Jackal: Grak’ark Once of the Kulldis.

Ekk-Lakk raises his axe again as Thkot-Tal rises from the pool of dead. Woundsong and his priests comes with their rain of axes. The Carrion King laughs. He has to make a choice.

Grak'ark chooses Ekk-Lakk. He dives for Ekk-Lakk and leaps for the throat as his arms are busy raising his axe again. Two dogs leap up like twins (Copy Cat), with those powerful teeth, so much stronger than natural with magic (Bull’s Strength, Wildshape) and gets Ekk-Lakk right in one of the Painted One’s weapons: his voice box. Teeth try to sink into the gnoll’s giant adam’s apple and tries to rip it out, forefeet reaching up and dragging downward, but a greenish shield (Shield of Faith) blocks it (bite miss, would have taken him prone if not for that spell). His claws come up instead and both rake downward in a beautiful display of hatred. Blood blooms out like curtains blown by an errand gale (Dmg 16 | Dmg 14). Ekk-Lakk bubbles a roar and it pops in Grak’s face like streams of hot water which he laps with his tongue since he can't bite it. The dog wrenches down and the great Ekk-Lakk roars back as if underwater. "SHE... WAS... PACK!!!" the beast rages as he leaves the bleeding entrails of the worm and launches a furious attack on the massive gnoll, enchanted paws and teeth tearing into the one who had killed his hadis. Whether she likes it or not: she'll always be his hadis.

But the high priest is not done. He commands them to descend upon the twin dogs:

"APOSTATE!! GUT HIM! BRING ME HIS HEAD!"

Rohekk's blood is up, and he was ready to surge forth into battle himself. Yet this orchestra of destruction to honor the Beast and protect the Carrion King could not go further without the mighty Ekk-Lakk. The Painted One would die, probably here in this very room on this very day, yet it won't be now while he still working for the King if he can help it. Not while so many of the Pafe still drew breath. He sends his priests into the slaughter, axes drawn, and they all gang up on Grak'ark as he pulls back from Ekk-Lakk. An axe pinches deeply into his back with loud hacks, another misses entirely, while yet another goes for the twin for good measure (Copy Cat). The illusion of the twin pops out of existence as Grak yelps while the lone priest wrenches his weapon out of his body and drives it back down even harder, bloody. He pulls away with minimal damage; considering (Dmg 14 | Miss | Miss). His speed and trickery has saved him a lot of damage, the Carrion Tribe not realizing that they are facing Grack'ark the Jackal and that he's far from finished in this battle.

The evil Woundsong sees his followers taking down this rabid dog that harmed the Great Painted One so badly. What enchanted or shapeshifted creature is this? Is it summoned? He moves up behind Ekk and touches the bottom of his chain shirt (powdery with dried green dye) and prays. "Your dance is not over, Mad One. Arise again, so that you might bring more glorious destruction upon our enemies. In the Beast's name!!" (Cures 13hp). The throat damage heals instantly, though a lot of it's still there, but he can still speak (all fluff, no game rules). The High Priest smiles as he hears Thkot-Tal coming right back, wounds healing. He looks at his paw for one breif moment and sees faded paint of green.

clack-clack-clack-clack-clack

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Like a chain drawing up the gears of a drawbridge, the enormous centipede curls to rise high after slashing Fandrik. It curls around it's self like a snake to cork screw upward to make another attack (a function of being 6 tons of exoskeleton and needing to find a center balance to attack again). A goat and camel head (eyes filmed white) tumble out of its opened insides as the last of it's digesting contents smack heavily onto stone, the rest is just yellow jellied acid as the last contents are wrenching up. The old Thkot-Tal is weak and slow from all it's damage but still incredibly dangerous.

Thkot-Tal sees Grak'ark as the injured non-gnoll that might function as food. It has some vague memory of the twin dogs pulling out it's guts but now there is only one now so... it's time to eat and fill it's now empty stomach. It' simple mind does not ponder on why it's so hungry all of the sudden.

clack-clack-clack-clack-clack

It draws forward in a surge, forcipules sliding wide open to finish off Grak'ark, when there is a small shrill cry from behind. The Carrion King perks up from his torn down throne to look west. "What is that?" he asks the mute elves. They don't answer as all of their beautiful eyes (purple, green, blue, brown) look to the death pit without an answer. One stands up, eyes wide, with long tufts of hair in her clenched fists. The Carrion King stands up straighter, eyes wide, nose sniffing something wrong. He searches the dead pool for new enemies but sees nothing. But something is wrong. Really wrong.

"Lamashtu!!!"

~thunk~

Bloblog grins as he pulls the trigger and the bolt flies across the thick hot air. His aim is right for the soft spot on the spine, away from all the others so they can't reach, only the lowly and kicked around goblin knows about this secret access. It glides upward, arches down ever slightly by a millimeter, and hits directly behind the plates where Fandrik already stabbed several times as he rode the beast. The spine drinks the bolt deeply and it hits the core nervous system built around the spine, a knotted black bulge deep within that has pulsated for decades in the name of Rovagug. The bolt slides through, cutting it in two, and Thkot-Tal releases one last ear piercing scream.

Eeeeeeeeeee----eeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaHHHHHHHHH!

The centipede jolts to and fro, left and right, spraying insides in every direction until it falls heavily to one side, sending a mass of carcasses into the air with a slam. Everyone, pafe and gnoll, are sent in the air by the fall as the ground shakes, and they have to catch their selves as they fall back.

"No."

The Carrion King watches as his pet falls dead into the pile of unwanted dead. This is impossible. This is the creature sent by the Beast to give the King so much power. This is impossible.

His crazed gaze pivots to the source so see some long eared, green creature with a crossbow in the dead. Tingling rage rises from his gut to his mouth.

"Move." His whisper is full of loathing and denial. He reaches into a pack and finds a snake to pull out. The snake hisses angrily at him, pointing it's head for something to bite as a red tongue snips out for scent (Retrieve Item).

"MOVE!"

The two elves in his way (#6 #7) suck in breath as the King shoves his huge body between them. They fall back, terrified (5-foot step) and the chains to their throat collars are pulled taunt (5 foot range from their linked square to the floor). One elf sucks in her stomach to stifle her airway, to control her breath, while the other that pulls out her hair and covers her face and lets him push her to the ground. He raises the slithering snake in the air the snake becomes completely rigid and straight like a spear, the head the spearhead.

The venom pumps through Drusilla's heart as she passes the pit, glancing down and distantly wondering why they heard no fall into the darkness, but glad to be alive. Fandrik admits a laugh as he covers her retreat "HaHA!" (stand up from prone, soft cover). The blood pumping through her veins now reactivates the venom from the centipede's spines and it blocks the cells in her body starved for oxygen, thus slowing her movement. She keeps from the edge, breath wheezing, sick from the temple dead and venom, but still alive. Dru looks right at the King making sudden movements as she gets out of the way, passing Hector as he stands over a dead Carrion Guard he just downed. The Carrion King has a glittering, squirming snake in his grip, pushing the elves out of the way, and she recognizes it as a weapon from the Salamanders right away! The snake straightens into a spear and then she is sure. The Carrion King has all her equipment she lost yesterday. She even catches sight of the amulet she used to wear from way back.

Even as almost all of her current weapons and equipment are stolen from the mines of the Middle Temple, she is still equipped nontheless. Drusilla; ever the adapter. Adjusting to the moment with the tools available. A miner's sledge hammer, rusted from usage over the years, swings from a rope as her chest shred from her broken ribs underneath, a pain she can deal with. The sledge hammer swings in both hands, her teeth clenched tight till the grit between grinds, the metal hammer dashing back and forth for the next enemy, tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock. The sound of battle when down to the second.

The Carrion King raises his stolen snake spear high as he steps up and sees Blogbog down there, holding the weapon that killed the one the monster that has been with him since the beginning of his power. This enrages him. Before all gnolls, before everyone, Thkot-Tal has always been there. Then this ~CREATURE~ (Blobog) that stands before him and just downs this legacy. This creature and all the other pafe.

The King raises the snake and attacks Bloblog in a rage. Gark-the-Goblin sees it coming from the roar and ducks it easily (Nat 1) and the snake spear strikes a matted mess of unidentifiable bloated fur next to him. The snake-spear pulls from the carcass, head covered in rot, hisses, and senses it's master. It turns into shade and snakes back to the Carrion King as a shadow, building back to it's new master's hand and reshaping around his fist for reuse (Spear of Return +1).

Blogbog notices as the Carrion King watches him with crazy eyes and raises the spear another time to finish the job.

The battle continues.









DM Notes
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  • Corpses:
    - Depth is 10 feet.
    - Swim (DC15, full or move action) check required to wade through the dead.
    - PCs require a move action to reach the surface.
    - Climb (DC15, move action) is need to climb the wall out of the surface of the dead. The wall is 10'.
    - Moving normally on top of the dead is considered rough terrain.


  • Darkness:
    In an area of dim light, a character can see somewhat. Creatures within this area have concealment (20% miss chance in combat) from those without darkvision or the ability to see in darkness.



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Last edited by PIG; 06-18-2019 at 09:51 PM.
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  #919  
Old 06-12-2019, 05:39 PM
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The bolt connected with the massive centipede's spine, shattering it and sending the unthinking beast into whatever hell awaited it in the next life. The taste kill was a sweet one, although the words of shock that came from Ghartok's mouth were sweeter still. "No."

The smile of the goblin only widened when the Carrion King hurled an enchanted spear at him, the pathetic attempt doing little more than mangling one of the dead bodies that lay next to him.

His look of elation turned to one of awe when he heard the familiar voice entering his mind. It was a word of warning, one that saved the life of the crazy halfling.

The reality of the moment came crashing down heavily on the goblin as he realized he was wrong. There were not two chosen of Lamashtu here, there were three. The halfling had received the touch of the goddess!

"Three!!! Three!!! Three!!!" the goblin's shrill voice shouted in excitement as he stepped forward and into the concealment of the mist.

"Three chosen!" he shouts, his chest puffing out in pride. The devotion and faith the goblin rang out from his holy symbol, manifesting itself in the form of an unholy wave of energy that tore into all who were near.

 
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Old 06-12-2019, 10:00 PM
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Grak'Ark
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It all happened in a flash. The massive beast behind him fell, a single crossbow bolt from a goblin laying the beast low where his ferocious onslaught had not. Dullen had stepped over and healed Drusilla, bringing his former hadis back from the gates of hell itself. The painted warrior before him was suffering from his powerful blows, and while he was still breathing, it was clear that ekk-Lakk would soon be introduced the eternal damnation waiting all who worshiped Rovagug.

Yet none of these things was remarkable compared to what happened to Fandrick. Grak'Ark saw the painted warrior's axe descent on the oblivious halfling and knew he was doomed. Fandrick had pushed his luck too far and would soon face the ultimate price. But before the blow fell, a single infernal word floated through the air, giving the diminutive swashbuckler the warning he needed to get out of the way. And while Grak'Ark did not understand the word, he recognized the voice. It was Lamashtu.

The combination of Lamashtu’s newest chosen, the smell of death and the lamentations of Ghartok brought a chuckle to the gnoll’s lips, even after the murrin launch their pathetic attacks. One of the heathens dismiss his mirror image right before it expired, while the other connected, the blow digging deep into the druid’s flesh. But rather than wince in pain, Grak’Ark reveled in the pathetic attempt to kill him, the pain of the blow only making him feel more alive.

The mutated canine’s claws slash with a euphoric joy, their unnatural strength eviscerating the painted warrior before he shifts his deadly intent on the hapless murrin that had the misfortune of standing next to him. The scent of fear fills the air as Grak’Ark tears through the battlefield like death incarnate.

From her home deep in the abyss, Lamashtu looked at her chosen ones and smiled.

 



 
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  #921  
Old 06-12-2019, 10:23 PM
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Drusilla Vanadici
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With the yawning pit safely between her and the gnolls, Drusilla takes a moment to properly assess the ongoing battle. One eye watches Grak’ark fend off a rabid flurry of attacks while the Rovagug cleric heals the giant painted gnoll; wiping the blood out of her other eye, she warily observes the Carrion King’s first attack, a hasty spear throw undone by his rage. Her gaze flows down past the elves, pausing only long enough to dismiss them as too terrified and weak to help, then slightly stuttering again as she Are these regular chains (5 HP, hardness 10) or are they different?
Dice Knowledge (Engineering):
1d20+8 (8)+8 Total = 16
notes the chains binding them. Finally her eyes rest upon the walkway to where the maggot throne once sat, instinctively
Dice Perception to notice traps:
1d20+8 (10)+8 Total = 18
inspecting the floor for any more traps—surely there is a reason for Ghartok to wait, trapped on his little peninsula?

The magical returning spear does not go unnoticed. “He’s got my gear,” she warns the others, silently cursing herself for her overconfidence yesterday. That’s twice that she has escaped certain death, but what that means and what the gods have in store for her are matters to ponder some other time. Right now she pushes thoughts of deities and fate from her mind—the battle, the fight, is all that matters. It is all that has ever mattered.

“Wait for Grak.” she responds to Hector, remembering how the one-eyed gnoll had savagely disemboweled the centipede—the centipede that no longer exists except in a widely scattered spray of spikes and plates and innards. With any luck, the same fate would befall the oversized gnoll, in which case the old man should save his deadly ranged attack for someone else. “Kill the healer,” she adds once her instincts are proven correct. Even while speaking she slips around the bitter Ustalavian, her gaze fixed firmly on the gnoll flanking Grak’ark’s backside. “That one’s mine.” The druid is a powerful engine of destruction but he is not invulnerable—a series of bloody wounds testifies to that. In her weakened state she knows that her best strategy is to protect Grak and Hector from any lucky blows by the rank and file.

The Chelish fighter labors her way along the edge of the pit, slowly whirling her sledgehammer around in easy circles, then hurling it across the pit at the gnoll harassing Grak from behind. With the sledge tied to the rope as a counterbalance, the rope loops snugly around the gnoll’s legs—hopefully it is snug enough. Leaning back with all her weight Drusilla digs in hard with her feet and pulls, her biceps and quadriceps straining as she tries to drag the gnoll away from Grak and Tug of War: Go Downers!down into the pit.

 


 
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  #922  
Old 06-14-2019, 12:54 PM
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Ekk-Lakk, the Painted One
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Ekk-Lakk is about to snark back at the laughing Woundsong, when the irritating voice of the small, bouncy pafe pipes up from about ankle-level. He considers reminding it that all it needed to do if it really wanted to be the first to die (well, third, after the pafe he had beheaded as he emerged from their Cloud of Cowardice and the newly asunder one that spoke the Infernalrigid lower language) was stand still, but it was in reach right now; might as well give it what it wants, especially while it continues to suffer from the Worm's poison.

With a mighty heave, Ekk-Lakk brings down his massive saw-toothed axe. The swing is soon past the point of no return; the small pafe can't possibly dodge it, yet a word in that same rigid tongue comes from nowhere, and somehow (somehow?!) it does. No matter; it is right where I want it, and I won't miss again. He spots two others rushing his way. The traitor leads, roaring that the downed pafe was "pack." Before the Painted One can retort "She was," (to say nothing of demanding answers to the obvious questions) the traitor makes an impossible leap for Ekk-Lakk's throat. Although the teeth are deflected away by magic, the traitor's claws leave deep wounds in his chest. It is a pain the likes of which Ekk-Lakk has not felt in a long time, but it does not deter him from his endless talking.

"Foolish traitor! Do you really think your tiny claws will stop me? Every single paint mark on my body covers an old wound—a mark given to me by something that—without fail—ended up as my meal. Without fail!" Ekk-Lakk was spitting in his overconfident rage. "The cuts you gave me will be nothing more than something else to paint long after I've sh** out the last fragments of your skull! In fact, I—WHAT IS THIS?

"HOW ARE YOU STANDING!?"
The pafe they called Drooo was no longer bleeding to death! It was back on its feet, in one piece, and returned to its place of hiding behind the others!

Ekk-Lakk growls. What rational thoughts had remained in his mind were gone. These three standing before him—the small and bouncy pafe, the traitor, and the healer who had killed the Carrion King's pet Kelishite—would die at his hand now. No more talking. No more teasing them in their own tongues. No more potions. No more delays. As if to confirm that it was time for the battle to end, the Painted One felt healing energy from Woundsong entering his body. It was possible the priest had even said something encouraging, but it was lost on Ekk-Lakk. Even whatever the Carrion King was saying from across the room wasn't penetrating anymore. The traitor first.

Ekk-Lakk's greataxe is already in motion when the traitor dodges around it and makes another leap up to his chest. This was typical battle strategy for those who relied on their claws, and Ekk-Lakk was about to counter-move when the traitor twists himself in mid-air to dig both claws into the wound over Ekk-Lakk's heart. The first claw breaks a rib, causing Ekk-Lakk's aim to falter. The second claw tears the Painted One's heart in two; he is dead before he can speak again. The rusted, saw-toothed axe that had caused so much terror this day falls from his hand, clattering loudly on the floor before Ekk-Lakk's corpse, already returning to normal size as the magic fails, slumps down on top of it. A stream of urine stains the Painted One's ragged pants before trickling onto the floor. It is the last thing this body will ever do.

* * * * *
In The Abyss:
right-aligned image

A new larva pops into existence. Where am I? What am I? I was just... somewhere else? I can't remember. I need to eat.

*tnk*

The larva is showered with small pebbles. Can I eat these? It manages to catch one pebble, but the rest have disappeared to a place the larva cannot see. No. I cannot eat this. I need something else. But what?

*tnk*

Another shower of pebbles that disappear quickly. Where does that sound and these small uneatable bits keep coming from? Is it... rain? No rain is when something else falls from the... up? I don't remember. This is coming from down. The larva attempts to twist itself to see what the source is, but it has never been a larva before and is soon precariously balanced.

*splortch*

The third rock thrown hits the larva square in its eye, knocking it from its perch. This is... pain. I do not like this. I cannot see. And now I am... falling? Can I... fly?

The larva is caught by something with hands and roughly turned around. I do not like this, either. With its remaining eye, it sees two horrifying, emaciated faces. They are so much bigger than the larva is.

"Brand new! Used to be a gnoll, by the looks of it! Hmm... Mostly murder, mixed with a false faith. That's a good combination!"

"The best! Also, you smell that? It totally pissed itself as it died!"

"Ooh, yeah! I think we've found our lunch!"

I know that word! I want lunch, too. The larva does not understand at first, although it learns in its final moments of existence.

* * * * *

Rovagug the Destroyer is pleased, but not overly so, and before another second has passed, Ekk-Lakk is forgotten forever.


 
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  #923  
Old 06-15-2019, 08:35 AM
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Hector Grimm
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There had been no escape and until this day, souls he had claimed to be his, would never have strayed on their path to be bound in endless turmoil within his dark pulsing heart. Yet, Dullen had stepped in and ‘rescued’ his brother’s fallen and corrupted soul. There was a gnawing hole in Hector, where that lone soul should have been and yet he found that his knowledge on the Redeye order somehow justified Dullen’s soul heist.

The giant gnoll smashed one of their own and Hector felt his claim connect and the soul surged to him. He grinned as the tide turned, soon the ancient centipede lost its life too and even its flickering spirit of its soul was writhing as the physical bug had done, as it came to him.

Drusilla answered with hesitance - a feature Hector was near oblivious about when the wrath had him locked down - and he took her words for self precaution which was natural for someone who had walked the ridge between death and so recently. He moved with her and past her, even as he saw Grak’ark fell the monster of a gnoll, a mad smile formed as he felt another tug-of-souls taking place. Between Captain Hector Grimm and Rovagug, the Unmaker. This time Hector got what was his. The morsel of a soul would have a very special place in a very dark and very gruelling imprisonment.

As he surged past Drusilla, he barked an insurance, Next is the King. In four bounding strides he was zigzagging past the Redeye Knight and the bravest little halfling Pale Mountain had ever seen, until he slid in before the gnoll priest, Woundsong, was it? A bad day to be standing in the back, hiding. Hector flexed his grip on Dragonwing, You get to see your host of allies get cut down like feeble peasants. The black sword sang, THEN YOU DIE! In one strong hack, the sword sunk into the gnoll and Hector revelled in the spray of blood that squinted from both sides of the blade, speckling his pale face. Then he turned his back on the priest and dragged the sword after him, first accompanied by a sucking sound as it left its bloody scabbard of flesh and then scraping over the pavement.

Hector Grimm was coming for the King.






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  #924  
Old 06-17-2019, 02:13 PM
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Fandrik
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His free hand tried to pull the spines from his side but the wave of agony and nausea made Fandrik let go after it wiggled about an inch. Something from the wound was quickly sapping his energy. Just like the previous day from the gnoll weapons. Poison.

He had to keep going, the halfling told himself, or one of these gnolls were going to catch up with him. Turning from Drusilla and Dullen, Fandrik slid to his left and quivered from the pain. A copper taste appeared him his mouth.

"Ikusi goian"

Fandrik had no idea what the words meant - there was a deep darkness to them, a vibration of power, it came from both within his head and from above somehow. Something familiar and completely foreign at the same time. Whatever was said, it made him stumble back and look up. A huge rusty axe swung so close that it made a small rend in his beloved hat and fanned his dark hair. He would have been cleaved in half were it not for the voice.

Dancing back defensively the halfling didn't know what to do, how to react. Fate had called his number and once again he had been spared. Lady Luck was surely with him. "HahaHA!" Laughter burst from his lips with a small red spray of blood while Grak-Ark lunged at the huge gnoll and a squeaky voice chanted "Three! Three!" in the distance.

The butterfly that seemed to be just out of reach or sight only moments ago was gone. He didn't feel its presence or see it anywhere. As Fandrik stood turning his head and bleeding, it never occurred to him that the others might wonder what the hell he was looking for in the midst of the fight. Was it the butterfly? Had it take the axe for him? Or spoken?

A sweeping fatigue wracked his form again. In response, Fandrik stumbled back even further from the fighting since Grak seemed to have the upper hand. The rapier disappeared into its sheath and both hands yanked hard on the spine. It came free before sliding from his fingers and rolling into the yawning pit trap. Hunching for a moment to gather himself, Fandrik spit more blood before raising his head and looking around.

The gnolls were thinning. The massive centipede was finally down. He couldn't see all the way to the chanting gnoll army but they sounded farther away somehow, closed off. The Carrion King was still there with a spear amidst his elven groupies - it was the same spear Dru had previously carried. A returning spear he had heard.

Reaching within, for that bit of luck laced with magic, Fandrik raised his arms in front, murmuring and spreading them out wide. As he cast obscuring mist as a one-way window - CK's side will see obscuring mist, other side will see shimmering air (can see through)motioned, a large span across the walkway to the Carrion King turned translucent, as though looking through water to the other side. It was a similar size to the mist they had left behind. "Let us see if he will come to us. Ha!" He grinned tiredly.

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  #925  
Old 06-18-2019, 04:19 AM
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Dullen is a bit surprised when Dru didn’t,t even give a word of thanks or acknowledgement of the act he just bestowed. It is another test from Irori. One of humility. He didn’t do it for thanks so he shouldn’t expect it.

Dullen takes a brief moment to assess the situation and sees Grak’ark kill the large gnoll threat. Maintaining his form and technique he is wary of Snake style
Dice Roll:
1d20+15 (9)+15 Total = 24
danger. Seeing only one target other than his companions that would benefit from Irori’s gift, Dullen Moves to a point where he can heal the party and only #5 as wellmoves back toward the Carrion King. Dullen calls upon Irori’s grace, “We are in need of thy Channel Energy .... everyone healed for 18 hpgrace to continue towards perfection”

He sees wounds close up on his companions and readies himself for the battle ahead.



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Old 06-18-2019, 07:40 AM
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Rohekk Woundsong
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Rohekk watched with a wicked gleam in his eye as Ekk-Lakk was brought to his knees, the life extinguished despite his own efforts to keep the Mad One alive. Rovagug, however, would not be denied. He had called for Ekk-Lakk's death, and so the Painted One's fate was sealed.

The High Priest venerated another glorious death, it was truly a sacred slaughter.

Then he watched still as two more of his own initiates met their end. It was of no consequence. Victory already belonged to The Beast, such was the degree of destruction around him.

What happened next, however, caught the High Priest of Rovagug somewhat off guard. Time seemed to slow, his own movements feeling sluggish as he saw the pafe scumblood come for him.

He tried to deflect the blow, but his limbs would not respond adequately. Instead his effort was brushed aside as the blade fell.

No cry of horror came from Rohekk's lips, nor did any plea for mercy. On the contrary, a howl of almost pure, unadulterated joy issued from the cleric as Hector's sword sunk into him.

The pain was the closest thing to ecstasy that Rohekk had ever experienced.

He felt the blood gush from the wound and his knees buckle beneath him as he dropped to the ground. His vision swam from the exquisite agony, obscured by a haze of red that seemed slowly to be fading to black.

And yet, the darkness of death that would send him to his master's feet never came. He could hear the roaring of his own heart as it started to falter in his ears, and yet it never fully ceased.

It dawned on him that he was not quite slain yet.

"YOU...ARE...NOT...DONE...YET...SLAVE!"

The voice roared in his mind so fiercely he thought his head might explode, and Rohekk knew it was The Devourer that spoke to him.

Bolstered, Rohekk reached out a gauntleted fist to grasp his axe, and slowly used it to rise once more to his feet. He did so slowly, the bloodied and dented plates of his armour shrieking in protest as they scraped against one another. Eventually he stood upright once more, and with an aggrieved effort he spat a wad of blood from his mouth before turning his malevolent gaze at Hector.

"Foolish pafe... always...be sure... of your kill!"

Though he wished nothing more than to bury his axe into the back of his would be killer, the priest was no fool. The King had entered the fray, and so if Rovagug had decreed his fight was not yet done, then he'd be certain to spend his life better than upon simple vengeance.

No, he had other pain to inflict.

Savouring the pain, he moved to the side of his last remaining initiate and used every last ounce of his strength to swing the blade at the traitorous gnoll that would fight beside the Pafe.

"Die, heretic!!!"

The mighty axe swung through the air, finally ready to taste the blood of the enemy. Seeing Rohekk enter the battle, the initiate joined his master in attack, reaching out to touch Grak'ark and call upon Rovagug's might to inflict pain.

As the axe fell towards Grak'ark, Rohekk issued a mighty howl of rage, pain and manic joy all wrapped together. It was truly time to bring death in Rovagug's name.



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Old 06-21-2019, 02:39 PM
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Start Ro10

Token--------Character--------Init091011
(19)Rokova16xo-
(G)Grak'ark14xo-
(F)Fandrik14xo-
(D)Dullen14xo-
(B)Blogbog14xo-
(H)Hector13xo-
(V)Drusilla5xo-
(18)Rohekk Woundsong05xo-
(01-05)(12-13)Carrion Initiates05xo-
(06-10)Elven Slaves05xo-
(Crown)The Carrion King05xo-
o = open to post
- = don't post yet
x = posted already

DM Summary
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House of the Beast: Day 2
Gozran 13 4710 – Moonday

Sunrise 6:30AM | 8:00PM Sunset
(07:09AM)

Light Bearers
Dullen, Holy Symbol (20' normal / 40' shadows)
Hector, Fandrik's Stone (20' normal / 40' shadows)

Darkvision
Grak'ark (60')
Remkah'ar (60')
Fandrik (60')
Gark-the-Goblin (60')




House of the Beast: The Lower Temple
[DiCE]
Nil

 


Room 2: The Maggot Throne

The monk and rogue are about to make their moves but Ekk-Lakk towers over them (Delay Dullen and Fandrik). Every move, every distraction, is a threat from the maniac with his great reach and wicked axe. Grak’ark growls and electrical cords sizzle from his teeth, the goblinoid calling from the pit of death “Three! Three! Three!”. The druid feels Lamashtu’s smile (a rare thing) and the zealot dives for the Painted One yet again when Ekk-Lakk was looking away to Drusilla. The scent of fear fills the air as Grak’Ark tears through the battlefield like death incarnate and sinks his claws into the enemy. Ekk-Lakk's greataxe is already in motion when the traitor dodges around it and makes another leap up to his chest. This is a typical battle strategy for those who rely on their claws, and Ekk-Lakk was about to counter-move when the traitor to the the tribes twists himself in mid-air to dig both claws into the wound over Ekk-Lakk's heart and electricity sears through. The first claw breaks a rib, causing Ekk-Lakk's aim to falter. The second claw tears the Painted One's heart in two and the electricity overwhelms his natural pacemaker signals, making it beat in a spasm even as it splits; he is dead before he can speak again. The rusted, saw-toothed axe that has caused so much terror this day falls from his hand, clattering loudly on the floor before Ekk-Lakk's corpse, already returning to normal size as the magic fails, slumps down on top of it.

A stream of urine stains the Painted One's ragged pants before trickling onto the floor. It is the last thing this body will ever do.

Snatch! Hector grins as he feels his soul sucks into his grasp. Captain Grim will feed off of his soul until his own death since Rok can no longer ferry it to Cheliax. Feed off of it until his souls are dumped into Hell to serve Eiseth. Only 50,000 years later will Ekk-Lakk be given back to his God, the Beast, and he will be so worn down and useless it will be in the form of a larva, subsequently food for Rovagug to devour. Ekk-Lakk’s journey into the afterlife will be long and terrible, just as Hector wants.

Freed from the Painted One, Dullen darts east while Fandrik chants, motioning south. A white mist comes into existence across the bridge, flowing around in swirls~ just winks into space from his own colorful imagination (Silent Image). He tries to add more details, make it see-through from the northern side, but finds the trick he learned in his short adventures from the city has some restrictions. Except for Fandrik, of course. He sees something but it’s transparent for him… The swashbuckler (the caster) already disbelieves the simple illusion and just sees thick, twirling, empty air. He witnesses the Carrion King scan the illusion, surprised and suspicious, and has that to be proud of. The others can’t see through it so Fandrik warns the others through a whisper (Whisper Spell) that it’s not real (+4 bonus to disbelieve if interacted with). “Let us see if he will come to us. Ha!” he cries out loud, a tired grin on his dirty face that is robbed away as he feels the poison weigh down his body even more (total 6 DEX dmg). The halfling hears his own heart in his head Ba-BAM Ba-BAM Ba-BAM. Head swelling, he sees yellow spillage treading on where he's standing. He moves his foot to avoid Ekk’s expanding puddle of urine (an unhealthy amber hue and smelling extremely strong) while Dullen slides to a stop on the other side of the pit. Ba-BAM Ba-BAM Ba-BAM. His nostrils whistle as he tries to bring his heart under control.

Now- Drusilla has never given thanks to anybody (not to this DM’s knowledge with his long acquaintance with the warrior) but it’s not surprising that Dullen would take it badly. Dullen is wise but also sensitive to other people and his own self worth to them, probably a by-product of his hard family history. He gives so much and his been hurt so badly by so many people, he needs currancy from others to make sure they are reliable. Despite all of this, months of intense training lets the monk digest these feelings and keep going. He slides to a stop around the pit next to Drusilla.

He raises his hand to his holy symbol and concentrates.

“We are in need of thy grace to continue towards perfection”

right-aligned image
A full year of mending bones and relieving incurable diseases has perfected his healing (Healer’s Touch) and the whole group sees their flesh glow blue and then seal closed. A great blue hand hovers over them all for a second and then fades away. Dullen is an excellent addition to this team, without him they might not make it through all of this. Even one of the gnolls (#5) feels the purity of the moment, body mending and feeling peace of mind from Irori. From being a small cub to today, all he is has ever known is hate and pain. The feeling of purity and touching the great expanse that Dullen always meditates upon is very holy. ’Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there is something beyond Pale Mountain and there are those that care-' a whoosh passes his round hear, a sledge hammer, then tugs left as a rope wraps around his neck. He looks to the source to see the steel eyes of Drusilla at the other end of that rope, right over the pit. ‘Wasn’t she dead?’ thinks the gnoll before she backs off and pulls him into the pit, pulling back and ducking as the skulls spit acid at her in a systematic series (REF Save VS Trap Successful). The rope unravels as he plummets into darkness and what ever good seed might have been planted in the rot of the Carrion’s tribal culture in his brain goes down with him. He smacks something and his dying screams bubble up to their level.

Drusilla loops the rope back up her elbow, around and around as the fibers flare against the web between her thumb and pointing finger, the hammer clambering against the pit wall, when she feels her side flare bright white. It’s her own heart, and like Fandrik, she hears her heart drum in her brain. Ba-BAM Ba-BAM Ba-BAM. The centipede is killing her seconds at a time (Total Dmg 9 DEX) but… she’s feeling better (considering). Her movement is shaky and uncoordinated but her lymphatic system, our defense against germs and toxins, dissolves what is remaining (1 round remaining at Round 10).

When she was on the other side, she saw nothing. Darkness. No Abadar, no gateway, no series of doors. She wasn’t dead, she knows that because Dullen isn’t that level of priesthood, but she was very close (1hp away) and at death’s door last tile before Dullen yanked her back. She breaths in and prepares her self, she has no desire to return to that nothingness. The sledge hammer swings in her grip as she sees the mists over the bridge and Fandrik telling her it’s an illusion. The hammer goes back and forth. Tick-tock Tick-tock Tick-tock.

Her tired breath heaves out. “Wait for Grak. Kill the healer.”

Hector watches the battle, following her orders he makes the move and goes forward.

Grak’ark goes for the last priest and buries his teeth into his throat, deep. The priest might have survived this vicious attack but he pushes the strange thin dog off with all his strength. This shove yanks his entire right neck into Grak’s mouth. His jugular shoots out a few fountains of blood as he covers it with one palm, like trying to block a waterfall with one free hand, electricity flying out and crawling around his paw like ants. The gnoll (#4) falls back with his hand still clutched to his throat. He wiggles on the ground for a moment before finally falling still.

Hector spits, his mouth always filling with saliva to vomit from the stench of this level (Sickened) but he composes his self and that old, cold military returns to his form that got him through the hard times of his nation. He moves fast, his training and hate driving him, as he moves toward.

“Next is the King” he says it in the words of Hell. Good might have evil, but Hell and Abyss will always hate each other like no other.

The foul words float in the air as the harbinger moves towards the leader of the priests. “Woundsong, was it? A bad day to be standing in the back, hiding.” Hector flexes his grip on Dragonwing, “You get to see your host of allies get cut down like feeble peasants.” The black sword sings, “THEN YOU DIE!” In one strong hack, the sword sinks into the gnoll and Hector revels in the spray of blood that squirts from both sides of the blade, speckling his pale face. But before he can he even turn away from his attack the gnoll struggles to his feet and leers up at the Captain.

"Foolish pafe... always...be sure... of your kill!"

Hector’s eyes flare blue as he sees the axe come back with those word. CLANK! Metal against metal as Dragonswing blocks the last attempt from the priest’s heavy axe as it goes for the dog that caused so much damage (Hit 14 | Miss). Grak’ark slips away in time as Hector tries to push this evil backward, their weapons unlocking.

The last remaining Carrion Initiate (#3) tries to touch the dog, chanting to Rovagug (Inflict Wounds | Touch Attack Miss) but is rewarded with Grak'ark biting his hand and ripping off several fingers (AoO 9 dmg). The druid chews and swallows the knobby snacks in a loud crackle.

Grak’ark gazes up to the fellow gnoll and in these last seconds of his life and he sees a horrible, evil intelligence behind the dog’s eyes as the Carrion King begins to talk in the distance.


Three. Three. Three. The Carrion King has no reference or context to this deceleration but somehow he's starting to piece everything together as his dark mind puts everything into frame. He doesn't have the full picture, not yet, but he knows that Lamashtu is a jealous lover and does not like to share. Her revenge has been long over due.

The shadow of the snake (spear of returning) sneaks up the wall back to the King as he watches the goblin below, a hundred other dead humanoids and animals staring back in the recent murders of the tribe. The mists balloon to the north and the King looks to it, analyzing it, his throne room surrounded by mists of every sort, when the cowardly goblin retreats to the western fog. The snake slithers around his hand and he squeezes it until the magical item squirms violent in his clutch (weapon returned). “I know where these weapons came from, little bitch” calls the King to Drusilla. “Some of them are my own gifts to the salamander whore, Thratnias. I will have to check on them, see where they stand, or they will behold my wrath as you will soon witness for your selves.” Of course he doesn’t know that the salamander queen is dead at the bottom of a lava pit, the rest of her nest moving far away with Remkah’ar.

Then there is chanting in the mist.

An elf to his right, Terellara (shipped to him in secret through slave scouts in Qadira), screams as her face peels. Her delicate skin is marred as if being roasted. Madhukslara (his first elf, an adventurer who came too close to the Brazen Peaks for her own good) bleeds tears from her eyes and she cups her hands over them. The King feels a burning pain and sees sores on his forearms fester and fill with puss, fur falling off in small clumps (Channel Negative Energy). He chuckles, reveling in the bit of pain. “Oh. Oh! Lamashtu gives me her kiss of love.” He roars laughter and they all hear some of that powerful voice that they heard every time the King howled at midnight for the past year. It blasts the head and shakes the room. “HA HA HA HA! OUR MOTHER IS WEAK. She sends her little children to play at battle. I would despoil her goddess-hood if I could,” Fandrik sees him grab his crotch and slide a hand around an elf’s throat as she whimpers, bleeding from her pours. “But I will settle for her small saints for now.” He licks his face with one long red tongue and gleams the mists with unafraid eyes. “Heh. You think the Beast wrong? Rovagug is savior to those like Lamashtu. Just you see. Just you see.”

All he does is talk this round (Full Round Action) as he does not engage in direct battle as promised. They hear him laugh and the painful agony of the elves.

The trap doors to the south are shoved up for a second by the warring Carrion Tribe trying to get through. The heavy guillotines are pushed up for a breath taking second, dozens of gnoll feet below,… and whack! It slides back down. It moves up again, wooden spears are put in to brace it up, but the trap door slams down and chops the spear shafts into a thousand splinters.

“My tribe is coming little ones. Best you fight me now while you still have the chance, so we can share the beauty of death.” His deep voice drips with mirth.

The barriers will open in 3 to 12 rounds (3d4 secret DM roll). At that point the throne room will be opened to the dozens of gnolls trapped outside in small bursts.

What do they do now?








DM Notes
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  • Corpses:
    - Depth is 10 feet.
    - Swim (DC15, full or move action) check required to wade through the dead.
    - PCs require a move action to reach the surface.
    - Climb (DC15, move action) is need to climb the wall out of the surface of the dead. The wall is 10'.
    - Moving normally on top of the dead is considered rough terrain.


  • Darkness:
    In an area of dim light, a character can see somewhat. Creatures within this area have concealment (20% miss chance in combat) from those without darkvision or the ability to see in darkness.



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Last edited by PIG; 06-22-2019 at 03:07 AM.
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  #928  
Old 06-23-2019, 05:35 PM
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Hector Grimm
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A faulty business is not a business. Just a fault. words often uttered by the landscape architect hired, from across the Inner Sea, to Forn. He would have spun twirls in his oily black moustache before he said those words and then he would have pointed out how they should turn that ‘faulty’ business of Hector’s into prosperous and lucrative businesses. Lackton De La Rega was a man blessed by Abadar and he sure knew how to create gold from a barren rock. He did it for Hector with olives, linen cloth with extra sturdy linings and a new vibrant fabric colour made from lupine seeds. On top of that, he made his own payment swell as side dealings much more than anyone else on that Furcina Plains outpost.

In this very moment, when the grating voice of the mailed gnoll, Woundsong, scourged his ears from behind in a mocking voice, Hector could almost hear Lackton whisper his advice, never leave a deal unsealed... like a friendly echo of what the gnoll priest had just said. Hector stopped. Woundsound sounded like he was mad on the drug of his god, but Hector knew that it was the madening curse of the Witch that spoke through him. He had abandoned fear and self precaution and stood left behind on the battlefield with a single initiate to secure his legacy. There will be none.

Hector slowly turned, steel grey eyes smiling madly back at the two remaining gnolls. He stroked the backside of the Grak’ark form, letting the beast-gnoll know that he was still there, I was taught to let someone weak tell the story... Hector grasped Dragonwing, stepped closer with lightning speed and in an instant plunged the blade into the breast cage of the gnoll initiate, sending it sprawling back, from the force, with blood squirting from the hole. If you insist... I will take the lesser weakling instead of you. For just a heartbeat, the old man raised a brow as a question - as if the gnoll had a chance. Then Hector ducked under a last assault from the cleric master and came up from below with Dragonwing like an impaling spear, grinning madly and explaining to Woundsong how the afterlife would be like, in constant, ever-lasting turmoil of agony and regret... you will never, ever, greet the god you thougt you served, fool

The mad grin was still there, when Hector looked down on the rabid quadruped by his side and roared through a froth-lined mouth, GO!






Last edited by Dressedtojazz; 06-23-2019 at 05:36 PM.
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  #929  
Old 06-24-2019, 10:14 PM
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Fandrik
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The poison made Fandrik feel sluggish. For the second time in two days the gnolls had poisoned him. "I really don't like this place..." he muttered while shaking his head to clear it. "Ha-HA!"

The healing energy enveloped the halfling like a warm shower that washed away his wounds. The centipede venom was still working at his insides, sucking at his energy. A tired smile was directed at Dullen followed by a thanking sweep of his hat.

Sliding carefully passed the skulls, he did his best to keep to the edge of the pit and away from the openings where the mouth and eyes were pointed. Unfortunately Fandrik had to concentrate to keep the image going, couldn't just let it do it's thing, and with everything going on at the moment it was incredibly taxing. All Fandrik managed to do was
Dice perception:
1d20+14 (7)+14 Total = 21
look over the walkway between them and the Carrion King.

"What do we have over here, my dear lady?" One hand twirled his mustache and the other finally shook off his hat as he approached Drusilla. "Have I ever told you that you have fine legs? You could definitely use a bath however. You kind of smell." A tired grin flashed under all the bile and semi-digested parts that clung to the halfling. Whispering, he spoke into their communal spell. "The big guy is just standing there, trying to get us to come to him. If you can't see through my image of another mist cloud, try looking again. Is that a horses backside? Oh no, it's just another gnoll."

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Last edited by Jarl11; 06-24-2019 at 10:16 PM.
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  #930  
Old 06-26-2019, 10:54 AM
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Grak'Ark
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The beast is unfazed when Hector races forward and steals the kill that all knew was rightfully his. The life or death of a murrin was of little consequence to the transformed gnoll, who simply turned around with a murderous look in his eye. All that matters is the Carrion King.

The druid's paws move quickly as he mumbles a quiet prayer to his goddess. While the effects of his magic are not immediately apparent, the words that followed them are.

"I am Grrrrak'Ark the jackal, the chosen of Lamashtu. I am the proud hygerrra, the gnoll of three trrrribes. I am clay in the hands of the mistrrress, the destroyerrr of packs and the enforcerrr of the one true goddess.

And today, I am your doom."
the beast growls as he takes a step towards his destiny.

"I name you a cowarrrd, Kardswann, hiding behind elven bitches like a pathetic pugwampi.

Look arrround you!!! Yourrr biyu has abandoned you, yourrr tribe is dead and yourrrr worthless god has forrrsaken you. There is nothing left for you in this life except death at my hands."


 



 
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