<font color=seagreen>Yevaud 45/45

The elf smirked as his cloud dispersed, and began chanting again, this time he called forth arctic air, shaping a wall of ice summoned from a plane of frosty death, where snowmen put hats on children and watched with wonder as they came to life (and were then summarily consumed by teeth of coal and ice), But the elf had a twist in mind for this spell, instead of making a barrier, he was causing the wall to drop into the room, and hopefully onto one or more of the priests.</font>

<font color=white>For Yevaud and the Group:

Yevaud cast his spell, and a wall of ice formed from the ceiling, and then fell by gravity towards the ground. It had been fashioned above the Emerald, but Cleric 2 was also in the area of effect.

As the wall of ice came crashing down, two things happened.

1. The Ice Wall was melted straight through the middle as it fell upon the emerald as though the jewel was amazingly hot. Amazingly still, no heat actually radiated from the big green rock.

2. The cleric was not so lucky, having no defence against the ice nor the bludgening effect of it coming down on him, so he took the blow at a 3d10. He laid there, covered in ice shards and did not move.

</font>

OOC>>>Marcos was sufficiently out of the way enough that he only felt some ice spray across the back of his head as the chair carried him nearer the party. If Anarrima's spell had not been cast, Marcos would have been creamed.

[ 12-16-2005, 10:27 AM: Message edited by: Larry_OHF ]

<font color=white>Lady Sombra</font>

<font color=skyblue>The Other is no longer within the ancient circle of standing stones. She smiles. “Let her run,” she says softly. “Yes, let her run. Let her try whatever desperate measure she would use, it shall come to nothing ....... as in the end shall she.” Her laughter is soft. Stooping, she places her hand in the thick grass. She closes her eyes and hums softly, gathering her strength, savoring it, this power that now is hers alone. Soon – O yes, very soon – even more power shall be hers. Soon it shall be the Other who stands as a mere shadow, and soon after that even the shadow of the Other shall be dispelled. Still she hums and her pack lends the monotone of its growl to the notes of her song. For some minutes she continues in this way, content simply to hum and to feel the life within the grass beneath her hand and to savor the power that moves within her.

Then with a sudden hiss she expels her breath and breaks off her song. The grass withers – age and death running outward from her touch until nothing is left alive in this place, a place marked as sacred by those who presumed to yoke her with the Curse, a place that shall no longer offer refuge the Other. Standing, she tears loose a clump of dry and withered grass. “Grasp at your straws, my sister, in the end straw is all that you shall have.” She opens her hand and these bits of straw – so recently blades filled with the green vigor of life – are lost and dispersed in the wind.

The bright notes of her laughter speed them on their way.</font>

OOC: changing Plaxica's color to limegreen (hoping no one uses that) following the discussion about font colors (and in particular, red) in Lockesville.

<font color=limegreen>Plaxica 85/85

The decision to walk to the foothills, and then possibly towards the mountains, looking for a high place from where the winds might carry his call to the Windbringer, had not been an easy one to make. In the harsh, rocky terrain he knew that Ramella and Daniel would suffer.

Under a rocky overhang the three of them slept. Plaxica halfsuspected, half knew that should any danger approach, the werespirit inside of him would alert him to the danger. The way the spirit's behaviour had suddenly changed the last day had been a major surprise for Plaxica.

Not only had it accepted Plaxica's search for the Windbringer, but he seemed to be even helping him.

His dreams shifted and he found himself in a small village, with peasants brandishing pitchforks and scythes surrounded the three of them, while he tried protecting Daniel and Ramella from their blows. A song started playing in his ears, the words voicing one of his deepest fears.

<center><font color=lightgrey>His theories and knowledge
Mean danger in these times
And those accused of heresy
Will not longer be alive
Hide, hide your secrets well
For in your darkest hour you should dwell</font></center>

Being persecuted for being a werecreature was a recurring nightmare for Plaxica, ever since he had contracted this disease, this 'curse'. It was second only to his fear of losing his own sanity and becoming a malicious, evil creature.

A peasant's pitchfork pierced his chest, and Plaxica suddenly woke up. His body was covered in sweat and he was shivering all over. Ramella was just rearranging the blankets on him.

"Did I wake you?" - he asked her.

<font color=pink>"Shhh...Daniel is sleeping. Drink this."</font> - she said, handing him a hot bowl of liquid, which turned out to be some tea. The taste reminded Plaxica of his homeland, the place he might never see again.

<font color=pink>"Dreams again?"</font> - Ramella asked him in a soft voice.

Plaxica nodded, closing his eyes as he sipped the tea. He felt Ramella's arm around him.

<font color=pink>"Don't worry, if all goes well, soon your dreams shall go away."</font> - she whispered. Plaxica hoped that she was right.</font>

<font color=white>The Tower of Shadow</font>

<font color=gray>The hard dark stone of this place allows sound ready movement and even now the sounds of Larry’s frantic struggling with the zombie, Grey, are carried swiftly throughout the corridors of the tower. With the silent flight of Echo from the scene of struggle, all else is silent – save for the young man’s reckless battle against a foe he cannot possibly harm. Even as Larry grunts in pain as the zombie’s thrashing hands wound him slightly, another sound rises upward from the lower levels of the tower, a sound of vigorous blows striking in a rhythmic pattern, a sound as of drums.

There is a stern discipline about the sound, a precision to its rhythm. Such a sound seeks not to conceal itself, but to announce its presence as a presence that must be taken with the utmost of seriousness. The young man wrestles the dead man and in his desperation does not hear – but the sound is present all the same, present and growing stronger. There is something chilling about this drumming, something that has room neither for mercy nor compassion, something that knows only grim and unrelenting purpose. Something dwarven, and yet darker, more somber and fatalistic, than even the most ancient and bleak of dwarven songs of heroes tragically fallen and hopeless battles defiantly fought.

Without pause the drumming swells to fill the corridors of the tower with the pressure of its sound. A voice then rises, confident and strong, above the drumming, a voice that in a matter of but a few notes becomes a chorus of voices all singing in precise time with one another. That the voices are many is clear, but their number cannot be discerned through the unified precision of the singing. For one is the song that accompanies the one beating of the many the drums. One is the vigor of the many voices. And as one many mailed fists swing heavy weapons in time to its cadences and many heavy boots ascend into the tower from the lightless warrens beneath.

They do not pause to ask direction or permission, they simply arrive. They speak to no one. They answer to no one. They are not those trusted with the defense of this place, but defend it they shall, showing neither pity nor understanding – only purpose. They are the sons of the sons of Shadow, the children of mighty Terrakis, the child of the Mage, and none shall deny them their place within these walls. Many they and as one they arrive, for one is the purpose and one is the singing and one is the song – the song of their slavery and the song of their freedom, the song beneath whose singing is the enduring of hardship and the thrusting aside of opposition:

<font color=plum>And it’s go, boys, go!
They’ll time your every breath.
And every day you’re in this place
you’re two days nearer death.
But you goooooooooooo!</font> <font color=white>*</font>

And the song thrusts aside all lesser sounds as it fills the stairwells, the hallways, the chambers, of the lower tower.</font>

<font color=white>* From The Chemical Worker's Song by Great Big Sea</font>

<font color=skyblue>A lot of things happen quickly. She watches with narrowed eyes, then chuckles softly as the ice wall splats on top of one of the clerics, but perks her ears towards the emerald, as she watches it slice thru the ice. ~interesting...~. She lifts her nose to the ceiling and sends out a chilling long howl into the room. The sound vibrates into the very stones of the walls, floor and ceiling.

Small cracks begin to appear here and there among the ancient mortar between the stones. She turns her head and watches one cleric, the one who pulls out a dagger and looks at the blue flame barrier with interest, and locks on to the fact he has probably figured out that he can walk through if he doesn't use magic. She woofs softly to Vincent and jerks her head towards that cleric.

Silently, she starts moving forward on quiet paws, her eyes intent upon the emerald with only a passing glance at the man tied to throne, which is slowly grinding its way towards the barrier.

She stops a few mere feet from the barrier, and watches the emerald.</font>

OOC>NOTE: the howling spell is quietly eating away at the mortar holding the stones in the walls. This spell will most certainly effect the stone throne carrying Marcos. I leave that effect up to Larry as to what it will do.

Vincent Pathfinder

Not much of a chance to hide in here with this damnable green glow, he thought for a moment and then noticed Tao's slight motioning. Looking to where she motioned to, he saw one of the cleric's. I only have few chances at doing this. Hmm the word Silt used will have to wait. he smirked and then slid Silts sword back into it's saya and then went to his wrists where a couple throwing pins were stored. Taking site he threw the throwing daggers at his intended target and hoped he hadnt lost the skill of throwing dagger's.

<font color=white>For the Castle group

Marcos: The throne that carries you is hit by the howl of the wolf, and takes damage. It loses its leg, and can carry you no further. The bands that held you bound are broken, but you find yourself a bit weak. You see Anarrima leave the safety of the blue aura to come to your aid.

Vincent:The thrown projectiles sped towards their intended target, but are reflected by the Blade Barrier that the cleric had conjured. Vincent's attack is wasted.

Anarrima: She had been focusing on watching the throne bring Marcos to safety, but when it collapsed, she reacted the only way she knew how. She left the safety of the aura and went to him, trying to help him come to safety, closer to those that were there to help him.

Tao:The power of your howl normally would have done much damage to the room, but you lack the companionship of your shadow...a shadow is stealing something from you. As you continue to feed her growing life with your failing one...you also must endure the cost of the bite you've suffered at the merciless fault of a banewolf.

Yevaud: Causing the Wall of Ice to appear from the ceiling and come crashing down right after casting a Stinking Cloud

Cleric 1: Stands clear of the ice covering the floor, on the far side of the room. He begins to work on a spell.

Cleric 2: Cleric 2 still lays in the nest of ice shards, unmoving.

Cleric 3: Smiles at the half-elf in a most mocking manner, and enters the blue aura area. Now, Tao's blue aura of protection against magic should have dispelled the Blade Barrier that surrounded him, but shockingly it does not! It continues to encircle the cleric as he nears Vincent in open challenge.

Cleric 4: Struggles to a sit-up position and begins to work on a spell. </font>

Vincent Pathfinder 98/98

Realizing the futility of his attack after he let loose the dagger's, he reaached for another set to take aim on the recovering cleric near him when the one he had just thrown at advanced towards him. Shifting his movents towards Silt's blades he thought back. quithpa maybe, no that wouoldnt be it. Why would he invoke a food stuff. I know it was similar to that though he thought. " <font color=silver> Querhvah </font color=silver>" he said in hope's as nothing happened to the blades, he readied a defesive spin for the coming attack. "<font color=silver> Quella, Quhvella, Quhallava </font color=silver>" he blurted out and on the last word the sword's began to gleam...

<font color=darkgoldenrod>Nanashi

The sound of Thunder awoke her where she lay. There was no pool of blood, but she was more than a little tired. She had been beaten, and left for dead it appeared. How long had she lain here?
<font color=gray>
Boom.
</font>
What ? That was not the sound of thunder...
<font color=gray>
Boom.
</font>
She could not figure it out, but it sounded as though it were getting closer.

She tried, but could not get up. She had been beaten...beaten by something powerful and smart. Not too many of those that have both qualities around on these forums...
<font color=gray>
Boom.
</font>
Nanashi began to worry. Was the Master's Tower being beseiged by yet more would-be heoroes?

Oh, but her head ached. What had happened to her?</font>

[ 12-20-2005, 12:39 AM: Message edited by: Larry_OHF ]