<font color=white>Elsewhere – A place where the Sky is close and the air is moving</font>

<font color=teal>The owl knows the signs for she has seen them before, and these signs betoken danger. There is a calling within the silent stillness of the Sky, a calling of the Storm. And the Storm seizes those who surrender to her call. Even an owl knows such things. And the hand of the Storm-taken is a hand filled with malice. The silent one who speaks the tongue of those that move within the air is not one to surrender easily to such a call. But here the call is strong and the silent one has been wounded and tested to the very limits of endurance.

Whisper is her name. And silent as a whisper she spreads her wings and flies away from the call of the Storm and the man who stands within it.</font>

<font color=white>The Tower – The Chamber of the Husk</font>

<font color=gray>They sway in position to the beating of the drums whose sound reaches through the tower even to this place where they keep vigil over the Husk that once was Brendon Grey. There is some sort of ichor on the blades of their axes and the broken bodies of two creatures of shadow lie at their feet. Frightened perhaps by the terrible sound of the drumming the creatures bolted into this chamber. The reason for their appearance mattered not. Nor did their being creatures long accustomed to moving through these halls, for the orders Thorrin had given were clear. “Slaughter all who would approach the Husk.” As one the axes, eight of them, were swung. In time to the drumming they struck. Without pity they cut into that which both was and was not flesh. Nothing else has even attempted entry into the chamber. Still, however, the dwarves keep their vigil, hands gripping axes and bodies swaying in time to the beating of the drums. And behind them the lifeless Husk that once was Grey stands, safe from further harm, a hatred for all that lives burning still in its eyes.</font>

<font color=99FFCC>Morguerat

<font color=darkseagreen>“Damn! That just had to hurt! Does that dame do anything that don't involve bashing her head against solid objects?”</font>

Morguerat chuckled inwardly at Joe's remarks, both about the "corny" litany and at Senora, "Well, she does have a tendency to stab people at odd moments too." He looked her over from where he stood to make sure there was no visible damage or hemorraging, and noted that if and when they got out he would have to examine her more closely, a totally platonic paladin acceptable looking over of course, not the kind Larry would likely want to give to a beautiful elven maid. ;) </font>

[ 05-14-2006, 11:52 PM: Message edited by: Morgeruat ]

<font color=skyblue>Larry Silverfall

The very wounded and very blind young man was found huddled at this time in the corner of this shadowy tower room, surrounded by those that would help him, yet assaulted by auditory means by those that would have him dead for the trespass. He heard the increasingly familiar sound of a thud which denoted the fainting of Senora, followed by the sarcastic remark of the guy named Joe and a responding chuckle and joke by the newly-recalled paladin who had come to save him. The effect of the conversation caused Larry to listen, focusing his attention on such humor in a place and time such as this...and the diversion broke the power momentarily of the beating of the drums.

Larry stood up, still blind as a bat, and rather than calling out, simply listens for the sound of a friend's voice once again. When hearing it, he'd walk toward it and this hope he repeated to himself over and over within his mind, trying to make sure not to let the drums back in. </font>


<font color=steelblue>The Mage of Shadows


The winds began to pick up strength and the Mage knew exactly what was occurring.

”So I was right! You have lured me here to kill me again! Here in your pocket between the Realms and outside my influential moderating might, you seek to murder me!”

The Mage realized with frightful discovery that here, he had no special Modding Powers of editing posts, of deleting actions, of closing threads. Here…he could not say that his power was backed by godly might. All he was while here in this place was an ordinary high-level PC combating another high-level PC on equal grounds. This sucked! He’d actually have to play by the rules of some long-forgotten author of 1st Edition D&D instead of the much more entertaining and realistic WotC 3.5! What torment! He’d have limits on his powers and there were no uber-shadows to heed his command. To emphasize the point he swung out his robes which hung down around him in their concealing gloom. He’d need to protect himself first, and so readied a darkness spell in his mind and ready to cast the traditional way. (bleh!) There was no Shadow Blade at his side because as a Mage, he was not allowed such a weapon in this world. (bleh!) Outside his realm of influence he was armed with nothing but his wits and mortal talents granted him by the DM. He could literally die in this battle and quite possibly never make a return.

He glared into the eyes of his enemy as the onslaught of the Winds stung into his own.

”Yes! Take me down, Windbringer! Remove me from my status and see who fills the void! What personage will come to take my place as the Mad Modding Overlord of Ironworks??!! What powers will they possess, and what rules will ensue??!!”

The Mage spread his arms wide to emphasize his dramatic last words. After this moment, the Forums could possibly cease to cower from the Shadows.

His Enemy had the initiative, which meant the first move.

</font>

[ 06-24-2006, 04:37 PM: Message edited by: Larry_OHF ]

<font color=white>Joseph</font>

<font color=darkseagreen>One less distraction. ~ He thinks as Senora lies unmoving. So much the better as this will be hard enough as it is. The stunt with the coin took energy he could ill afford to expend, at least physically – but a guy’s gotta do whatever it takes to keep his edge. ~ And a mental edge is better than physical one any day, ‘specially since in this racket a guy what loses his wits is a guy what’s dead. ~ No point in keeping up his usual stream of chatter as he prepares the casting, the words would just be lost in the dim of the drumming. And, truth be told, he’s too damn spent to bother with keeping folks entertained and distracted. ~ Just can’t let on how little I got left....... Besides a tired guy ain’t a guy what can pull this bit off.

Once more the surface cadences of his thoughts and words and gestures take on a casual and shallow tone. His posture straightens and his eyes flash with pride on seeing his handiwork displayed in the light of the enchantment he cast with such artistry here in this place of artless and brooding shadow. Beneath the casual and the shallow he carefully musters his concentration. His ears hurt. His head hurts. Hell, it hurts just to look around this place, it’s that damn ugly. And he’s tired. So very tired. And still the drumming won’t stop. Outwardly his smile is relaxed and natural. Inwardly, however, it is forced and carefully assembled. “This is when you know who the real pros are,” he says quietly, more to himself than to the warrior.

The gestures are written into the words and so he need not worry about moving with his accustomed grace. What materials the spell requires have been blended into the inks used in the writing the enchantment and into the page upon which it is written. It pays to be thorough, and if a guy wants to be good, he’s gotta be thorough – and dammit if he ain’t shootin’ to be the best. But no one else needs to know how thorough he’s been. He chuckles. Old habits die hard. Hell, that’s why they’re habits, so a guy can just do what he does without wasting time fretting about it. And it ain’t like this is the first time he’s been in a scrape like this – well, maybe not quite like this – but, being exhausted and in a jam and needing to make a quick getaway and having to look like you got stuff basically under control all the while, who hasn’t been through that at least a dozen times? And that’s when it’s time to for an artist to sign his work.

“Let’s see if I still got it,” he smiles. There is an easy and practiced grace about his movements as he scatters the dust of powdered gems – the real thing, a guy’s gotta be thorough – in the air and sweeps his arms through a series of gestures. His movements are much less intricate than those used in the actual practice of his Art, but it’s not like anyone’s, and are in fact, a fair imitation of the much simpler, to his mind clumsier, gestures mages use in the casting of their spells. The gestures and the powdered gems, of course, have nothing whatsoever to do with this enchantment, but they make for a good show. The real power is in the words he has written and the inks he has used and the paper upon which they have been scribed. Even the arcane syllables which dance so smoothly off his tongue have nothing to do with the spell. It is the focused reading of this terribly focused writing that matters......</font>

<font color=skyblue>Larry Silverfall

Larry heard the Joe-man start his work on a spell of some kind, and with his best efforts, tried to connect to the words and let them resonate within his mind, using the words as a defence against the other exterior sound of drums which had the power to overwhelm and weaken one's strength of health on all possible levels. Against this multi-faceted attack was the defence that his friend's encantation brought forth...hope. Hope that whatever spell was being cast was for their good and that the man could deal with this problem as he had previously done so with other situations. Confidence in his travelling companions offered enough strength to the heir of the Silverfall estate to move him towards the voice, though the motion of walking along with the internal battle of pushing out the drums that hammered against his heart with the potency of a giant's fist produced nasusea and caused Larry to stagger and trip. </font>

[ 05-16-2006, 03:42 PM: Message edited by: Larry_OHF ]

<font color=white>Thorrin Ebonshield</font>

<font color=gray>The intruders are trapped and soon must fall. That is the tempting thing to assume. But a barrier such as this is no small thing, nor was the gaining of entry into the tower in the first place. And one capable of gaining entry is one capable of leaving as well.....

He raises his hand and the drumming takes on a greater intensity. The barrier has destroyed several of their number already and it may well destroy him. But cringing fear for his own safety has no place in the heart of a true son of great Terrakis. He is first among his fellows and it is to him as the first that the others now look to see if his mettle is equal to what must be done here. He bangs the ebony war hammer three times against the ebony of his shield. Hands strike the drums with increasingly rapid beats and the noise swells between the unyielding walls of these upper chambers.

Stepping forward, the ebony tower shield protecting his body he enters the barrier. The pain is great as he passes through the light and the strength of seven enchantments strikes him. Small wonder the others fell within it. Even through the heavy mail he wears the burning intensity of the light sears his skin. He grimaces and stands firm against the strength of the spell, he whose nature should not simply resist but even shed the grip of enchantment. And were this but a single effect, or even a pair of effects, any of his fellows might well breach it and he himself would likely pass unscathed through its boundaries. Seven are the sorcerous touches he feels, however, one hidden in each color and who might resist seven such things?

But one might not need to resist these seven when one might simply pass through by surviving them. Through seven colors he passes. Seven times he is burned and struck. He is blinded, but that matters little to one whose home is the darkness. Four times his body and his mind were grasped in the grip of magic powerful enough to destroy them, and four times he was able to shake free. Three times, however, it was as if he were exposed to the burning heat of the sun and this he could neither resist nor avoid. But this he could survive.

Stepping through the barrier, wounded but very much alive, he readies his hammer and snarls, “None shall contest our claim!”</font>

<font color=silver>ooc: Thorrin has sustained 70 points of damage, but from the look of things he still has quite a lot of hit points left.</font>

<font color=skyblue>Larry Silverfall

<font color=gray>“None shall contest our claim!”</font>

The blind, weakened, and frightened man known as Larry Silverfall heard these words from within the chamber and that was enough to ensue panic. He picked himself off the floor where he had once again fallen but knew not which way to run. This was a dead-end. There were no windows. There were no doors to flee into another room. This was it. He was blind, nearly dead, and what was worse, Joseph was in the middle of a spell and could not be interupted! What was Morgie doing? Since he could not see that he was in fact assisting Joe by holding the tome, he did not know what Morgie was already engaging in battle against the foe that had burst in upon them. Was the wall of light down? Were all of the Mage's minions in this room right now, staring at him in hungry lust for his death? He brought forth his sword, the Nightblade. Its cursed coldness was a welcome relief to his sweaty, quivering palms. He held the sword in front of him and settled into a stand, knowing that he had no place to go, and hoping that Mistral was looking down on him from the Spirit World and forgiving him for dying here instead of saving her soul from its prison.

"Mistral forgive me...I have failed you..."</font>

[ 05-18-2006, 01:29 PM: Message edited by: Larry_OHF ]

<font color=white>Just a guy named Joe</font>

<font color=darkseagreen>Nothing matters but the reader of what has been written. Not his exhaustion. Not the terrible pounding of the drums. Not Larry. Not the dame. Not the big guy. Not a thing. Even to worry about preserving the integrity of the spell book is a luxury he must not allow himself. The surest way to lose both the casting and the book is to be distracted. And the work MUST be signed and the tools of his art must be well used. He reads, not even noting the passing of the angry dwarf through the barrier, nor that the barrier itself still stands. And as he reads the air about him thickens and the wall of the chamber twists in shape as if being drawn to the thickening air.

The writing over which he had labored so long disappears from the page and, after the writing, the page itself simply fades to nothingness. The book however is intact and he quickly closes it.

<font color=gray>“None shall contest our claim!”</font>

He casts only a the briefest of glances in the direction of the source of the angry shout. Nice and easy, he tells himself - don't let on that you're tired or worried. “Don’t look at me, Jack. I’m just a guy named Joe and I was just on my way outta here.” He steps to his side and vanishes into the seam of twisted shadow formed from the wall of the room. “Grab the others and let’s get going!” He shouts to the warrior as he does so.

"And tell the kid to stop it with the melodrama," he mutters and then, his strength spent, he falls - a graceless arrival to a point of safety. He should stand and get his bearings before the others enter, but there ain't nothing left in the tank.</font>

[ 05-18-2006, 04:31 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]

<font color=white>The End of Kynnen the Drow Mercenary</font>

<font color=white>The drow had lived a good life, having extraordinary luck so far. He had come to the surface for work, hooked up with a powerful and evil anti-paladin that was calling himself the Reaper, and had survivied a battle against some humans and elves back in Lesismoore. After that, he had entered this swamp and discovered sunken tombs within a subterranian death trap. He survived it all. That is how he had come across the head of this warrior; some guy called Lord Snowdale. He also had in his possession the head of an accomplice to the Mage, an enemy to his Master. His name had been Andrion.

The drow found himself in the evening sun which was weakening to his strength and most undesirable for one of his race. It was time he head North-East and rendevous with his master the Reaper.

The trek through the swamp was no fun at all, and in fact, became worse as he tredged through it. It was slow going, but the safest, and helped protect him from the sun as it was very shady in this area. It provided cover he needed to move without detection, for drow on the surface was not a welcomed sight by men nor especially elves. He had to lay low, and these swamps was the best he could do for now.

However, there was a flaw in this poor drow's plan. He had assumed that whatever creatures might lurk within the swamps would be easy enough to defeat...for how many creatures on the surface could really be that much more vicious than anything in the Underforums? HA! Nothing on this surface could surprise him!

Those would be the final thoughts of a drow named Kynnen. </font>

<font color=999933>Chuul

The Chuul had heard its victim coming for several minutes now, and sat in excited anticipation for the drow's passing. It would eat well this day. Within the next few minutes, the drow was within range and did not even notice the chuul submerged nearby. This was it. Attack now! The creature leaped from its spot at the same time that it reached out with its pincers, grabbing the drow's leg. It pulled the squirming drow in before he could reach for a weapon and stung him with its tentacales which protruded from its face. The drow went limp, twice now in less than twenty-four hours! But the Chuul would not know that this delicious creature had almost been the meal of a subterranian creature earlier...it was more concerned with the now and present. The drow had no ability to fight anymore. He sunk into the murky swamp to drown even before the chuul began to devour him.

Two heads in a sack bobbed nearby. That of Lord Snowdale who had been cursed and Andrion Wilgor, the errand-mage to the Mage of Shadow. But the Chuul was not concerned with either of those. It had its meal in its grasp.</font>

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v3...egil/chuul.jpg


<font color=skyblue>Larry Silverfall, Morgie, and Senora

The situation was critical and timing was the line between making it out of here or remaining at the mercy of the Shadow Dwarves. Their leader, an especially ugly one, had challenged the group, but Joseph had finished his spell in time and stepped through the shadow-weaved wall into safety. The others had to follow, but there was just one problem. Senora lay prostrated on the floor, oblivious to it all. Larry was blind and could not see where the door had opened, or that there was actually a door. Morgie was stuck with two helpless people, one of which he had sworn to protect. Larry just stood there with his sword out in front of him and a dumb, blank expression on his face as he was trying to figure out what was going on around him.
<font color=99ffcc>
"Damnit, Larry! Get outta here!" the tall paladin shouted and he stepped toward Larry, grabbed him up and slung him toward the wall where he had seen Joseph pass through. Behind him, he could hear the dwarf making a move and he turned and dodged the hammer just in time to avoid the smashing attack. </font>

Larry had no idea what was going on, nor how to follow Morgie's instruction to flee. No sooner had the tall hero said it, he had reached out, grabbed Larry by the shirt and hoisted him up, only to sling him through the air with incredible strength. Larry had no idea where he was flying to, nor that he had passed through a wall that had been solid only a moment ago. When gravity took over and he landed, he was surprised to see that he had held onto the Nightblade during his first-class flight. He picked himself up and called..."Morgie? Where are we? Where are you?</font>
<font color=99ffcc>
Morgie could not hear the cry for his attention. He was busy trying to rush over to where Senora's body lay. He made it, grabbed her up and his intention was to rush towards the wall like a charging bull. The dwarf was there. He stood his ground against the tall man, and as Morgie came close, expecting to barrel over the shadow dwarf, the tricky creature showed that it was more nimble than it appeared. The dodge and counter-strike by the hammer was not even seen, for Morgie was staring at the wall. Safety. The dwarf had dodged away, leaving the path clear but suddenly a pain had hit his head and he stared at the wall as he fell to the floor, dropping Senora from his arms, and saw everything fade into black.

He did not make it out.

Senora was still unconcious, oblivious to the fact that this human had tried to save her, and that the others had left her behind. </font>

[ 06-24-2006, 04:38 PM: Message edited by: Larry_OHF ]