Part 7>>>The Shadow of Love (an LoF adventure)

[Larry_OHF]

For Vincent and Yevaud

Vincent would not be so lucky this time. The keen senses of the marilith could not miss the sneaky half-elf in the murky water even over the sounds of swords clanging and elvish clerical divine supplications...She knew of his location, but rather than dealing with him herself, she decided it was time to call in some assistance.

Ssayonele casts: Summon monster

Three Dretches appear near the place where Vincent is supposedly at. They see who summoned them and since Dretches fear stronger demons moreso than even death, they immediately hunt down their target and attack all at once.

Meanwhile, Ssayonele decides its time. She begins her whirling dance of death, changing up her entire attack and defence method in order to show this bladesinger who the elves stole the idea from!

OOC>>>For the Dance of Death, she moves around about five feet per attack. Good luck, Yevaud!

Vincent, see the other thread for Dretch detail.

[ 04-21-2006, 06:12 PM: Message edited by: Larry_OHF ]

[Morgeruat]

Yevaud


Injuries stung, torn and sliced muscles slowed his movements, while the she-bitch was getting into her deadly game. He took advantage of any advantage, any distraction caused by mud was immediately acted upon, with minor strikes to fingers not encased in basket hilts from the enchanted blade while the nonmagical one blocked, parried, turned aside what it could, and reflexively re-aimed those shots that could not be turned away, ensuring that they would only score minor hits. The dance was a quick one with no room for error, although it seemed that Yevaud had made a rather sizeable initial mistake, picking this fight in the first place.

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Joseph

The kid cracked, and that ain’t good seeing as he was fragile to begin with. From the looks of things the dame ain’t gonna be far behind. “As long as nobody gets stabbed when she snaps……” he mutters. Not that anyone can hear him over the pounding of the drums. The fear, a guy in his line of work can handle the fear – hell he makes his own living manipulating emotional energy like that all the time. The noise, now that’s another story. The pressure of the swelling sound is stifling. And painful. He presses his eyes closed in concentration.

So difficult to stand. So difficult to think. Impossible to focus. ~ How much longer before my ears start bleeding?

There are spells, of course, that would provide relief from the terrible thunder of the drums, but it is impossible to cast them, or any other spells for that matter. What little strength he has left will soon be spent in the terribly simple and simply painful struggle to prevent himself from collapsing into incoherence beneath the weight of the sound. The barrier will remain for hours but the sound promises to overwhelm him in a matter of minutes.

His senses have grown numb. Sight, touch, smell, even hearing – these have no meaning. There is only the overbearing pressure, the terrible weight of the drumming. ~ My bones are rattling. How long before they shatter?

The big guy. If anyone can put up with this for a little while, it’s gotta be the big guy.

His hands shake as he opens the small satchel he carries. With effort he removes a surprisingly large and sturdy book, a book far too large for so small a bag – a book simply and beautifully bound. A spellbook.

So heavy. He nearly drops it, he who is so scrupulously careful with such things. So heavy. He cannot hold it. So tired. So much noise. Better to simply fall. After all, he has done enough and he is spent. No shame in letting things end here…..

“The hell there ain’t!” he gasps. His eyes flash awake. “Worked … too ….. damn …. hard ….” The sound of his panted words is lost within the beats of the drumming. Stumbling to the warrior he thrusts the book forward to his hands. ~ Hope he’s got enough sense to open the damn thing for me. Not gonna loose all this work …..

His balance begins to fail once more.

[ 05-01-2006, 01:51 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Originally posted by Larry_OHF: The Tavern thread was not big enough for you...so you had to branch out...mettle in my doings and try to become that dark hero that all the girls will adore.....

Elsewhere – A place where the Sky is terribly close

He glances about. There are, of course, no adoring girls to be seen in this place – unless one were to include a certain small owl in that category. “Tell me, Whisper,” he says, “are you really so attracted to the dark hero type?”

HOOT!

For a moment the tension lessens as a bit of humor rises unexpectedly between them. The moment is quickly and decisively cast aside, however. “Is that what you want?” There is no warmth in his voice. “A return to the spammy silliness which passed for your kingdom before the clouds gathered about this game? Consider well what you were despite your power, O Mage – a joke of a ruler whose power was not respected and whose singular victory involved the turning of a group of do-gooders into monkeys. And for a creature of shadow where did you dwell but in a brightly humorous little world of no depth nor any real darkness. No, my enemy, you realize as well as I that there is nothing of either substance or of significance waiting for you in those former things, you who were far greater in death than ever you had been alive......”

His voice trails off and he stiffens. The air is still beneath the silent and heavy expansiveness of the Sky. And within the stillness, a readiness and ..... a call:

Finish it.

Here where death is final and even immortal lives are fragile.

Finish it.

FINISH IT.

FINISH IT.

FINISH IT.

FINISH IT..

“Hurricane ....... at the very least,” he whispers. “Yes. At the very least.” His fingers tighten around the handle of the Stormreaver. He exhales slowly, and the air about him begins to move in time to his breathing.

In the distant days of the original game there was a conversation much like this between himself and the Mage. A conversation with a subtext that none know save he and the Mage, a conversation that narrowly avoided producing a blood-letting and a conflict within the outsider lands of IronWorks unlike anything those forums so far from the Sky had ever witnessed – battle joined beneath the open Skies and in the free and living air between a silent and reckless foreigner and the One Who Mods at the height of his power, between these two and no others. No paladins. No self-styled heroes. No minions. No generals wielding uber-abilities. Only these two beneath the open Sky and before the great and terrible Stillness, Death Who neither moves nor breathes......

His own story did not permit such a battle to be joined that day.

But this day. In this place. That is another matter entirely. Hurricane at the very least.....

At the very least.

[Morgeruat]

Morguerat

The knight felt fear begin, clutching at the edges of his mind, trying to find purchase. Thoughts came unbidden racing in and out of his mind; the tower will be your tomb, Helm cannot take a soul lost in a place like this, the mage Joseph cannot be trusted any more than any other practicer of vile enchantments.

As he felt his edge begin to slip under the onslaught of the drums' enchanted terror he steeled himself and rolled his save, a 6 came up as the die in his minds eye stopped spinning, a failed save, by a single point, Crap, he could hear distantly. He prayed to Helm as a more distant rustling of papers sounded, mumbling was also heard, something about finding a bonus as pure dread congealed around his heart trying to sieze it up. The prayer came to his lips and he chanted it aloud, but it was not the prayer he had expected.

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

Ah, there it is, paladins get a +2 to their saves, I made it (just barely). The panic attack passed as the knight practically shouted the litany drowning out the drums with his own words. He took the book Joseph had been offering to him. He opened it to a random page, gazing curiously at Joe as he waited to the mage to do his thing, still shouting, hoping Larry might hear, and begin reciting the litany himself.

[Legolas]

Inquisitor Marcos of Snowdale - 75/98

Unarmed and with a head near to bursting from the sensations of evil abound, the inquisitor stood rapidly reviewing the options left to them.
The chances of delivering a mortal wound to a creature as they now faced he considered slim at best. Battle, then, served only with an aim to delay.
Perhaps the priestess was capable of channelling the required power to vanquish their foe, though from her actions this was unlikely. It made poor basis for a victory plan.
There was the witch, who, he had to conclude, had met with limited success in sundering or bypassing the wards holding the earth at bay. The tales of dwarves trapping (and, always, generations later releasing) scores of devils, daemons and undead through the collapse of mines were legion, and though he did not know the extent of their adversary's powers it would make a decent final gamble.
Third awaited the portal. Do not try magic against her, the witch had said, and draw her away from there. How reliable such words?
He was confident the monsterous entity drew no power from that place, as too was there no residue within the gem. The snakewoman had made no move towards it, but neither had she recoiled. She, or they. If the portal was to be a weapon in this engagement someone had to pass through.
There was no telling what awaited. A prison for souls, perhaps, or a temple brimming with blackhearted clericfolk. It seemed unlikely to lead to a place of innocents who might fall victim to the being.
Then, the final option. Or rather, his first with a slight adaptation.
It was clear that these people would fight to their deaths, imminent though they would seem. A pointless struggle if there were no solid plans for victory. More important by far be it that the world was informed of the evil unleashed, that it might be fought and beaten by they who are trained, armed and prepared to battle this type of foe. Would they not, then the burden fell on his shoulders. Though his ancestors had had a role to play in the shaping of this present situation, it was not necessarily his fight. Doubtless she was as nothing to the threat Silverfall presented should he be left to roam.

First though, he would test the magical passage.

The inquisitor strode towards one of the dretches, making a grab for the test subject he'd toss through.

[Larry_OHF]

For the Desperados:

Yevaud was being hammered now, and even though the murk on the floor was slowing her down in her deadly dance with the blades...It was Yevaud that was losing ground and beginning to lose confidence in lasting much longer. The Marilith Ssayonele appeared to be confident in her ability against the entire group. She was already hinting at a change-up of tactics...but she was teasing with a taste of several styles so as to confuse Yevaud as to which one might be coming. Some of them were totally alien to him, and some he recognized easily. Maybe she was testing styles out to see which one would be most effective against this bladesinger. Therefore, he was nothing but what humans called a lab rat.

Marcos had come to the conclusion that the portal needed to be studied, and so intervened upon the war party of Dretches that were attacking Vincent who had been discovered and gone to defensive stand against the three creatures. Marcos grabbed one and with his might hurled it at the portal that was still shimmering purple brilliance. The short and very ugly Dretch hit the portal and stopped hard as though he'd hit a wall. He fell to the floor face-down. His back had been severly burned with the contact to the portal. He croaked out a strange sound as he lay there, then died.
(He attempted to call forth more dretches, which is an ability these foul beasts have, but died before he could finish it.)

Anarrima was now ready for action. She stood from her kneeling position and called out:

I summon forth an ally to assist us in our time of need!

Anarrima casts: Summon Monster IV

A Lantern Archon comes forth near the cleric, then zooms off towards the marilith to help Yevaud. It first casts aid on the bladesinger, then turns its focus on attacking with its powers of light.

[ 05-11-2006, 11:08 AM: Message edited by: Larry_OHF ]

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Joseph

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he smiles beneath the din of the drums and the shouted litany of the warrior, “It’s cheesy stuff like that what a guy looks for at a time like this.” He does not even need to look closely at the beautifully scribed pages of the book, so well does he know the location of each enchantment – and a good thing too as he’ll be needing every bit of energy to concentrate on what must be done.

Well, maybe not all of it.

After all this is a big step he’s about to take here and he risks not only losing the spell he has so carefully scribed but of damaging the entire tome. The gesture is so practiced as to be practically automatic. His fingers move swiftly in an intricate series of gestures and a golden coin appears in his grasp. Stepping back from the book he tosses the coin into the air. Heads he casts the spell, possibly ruins his book and gets this bunch out of here. Tails he saves himself.

He catches the coin and turns it over on his wrist. Heads. It’s always heads, of course, but a guy’s gotta observe the proper formalities at a time like this. ~ And besides ~ he thinks as the big guy drones on ~ anyone what can come up with a corny litany like that at a time like this has just gotta be saved.

He closes his eyes for a moment and his brow tightens in concentration. He places both hands upon the book, gripping it so that he can steady himself and, breathing deeply, he gathers his voice for the casting.

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Originally posted by Larry_OHF: He had grabbed a magical elven bracelet that the elven lady would adore.....

ooc: Posting in Salinye’s place and assuming a bit of interaction between Larry and Senora.

Senora

The bracelet was stunning, composed of woven wires of what must be platinum – wires that themselves are individually no thicker than a strand of hair. Indeed, while its style has something of the elvish about it, never had she seen such a subtle delicacy of craftsmanship among the handiworks of her people. The dance of the shifting colors of the wall is reflected by the platinum strands in manner that is almost hypnotic and she finds herself simply staring with widened eyes at the masterwork that has been so swiftly thrust into her hands. Surely a piece such as this must have a storied history. Surely something of such beauty, of such artistry, should only be passed from one hand to another with the precincts of a temple amid the burning of candles and the burning of incense and the chanting of ancient hymns. Surely.....

But, unthinkably wondrous, in this place of unremitting shadow and unrelenting danger it has found its way into her possession!

Reflexively she places it around her right wrist and the bracelet closes itself of its own accord as if asserting ownership, or a claim at the very least, over the one that wears it. There is a surprising firmness about the clasp of the delicate strands about her wrist, a firmness at once reassuring and comfortable. Reflexively, she runs the fingers of her left hand over the bracelet, savoring its feel even as her eyes delight in the dance of shifting light reflected upon its surface.

So great a hold does the bracelet and the wonder of it having so suddenly, so curiously, fallen into her possession command over her attention that she is taken unprepared by the sudden rushing of violent sound that thunders into the chamber from the drumming of the dwarves. Crash after crash after rhythmic crash assails both hearing and thinking, allowing no space for either silence or reflection. So much sound. Such a weight of sound. Crushing. Thunderous. Oppressive. The visceral directness of dwarven anger beating without pause against the delicacy of elven ears. Rude and violent, without pause or beauty, it fills the very air of this place. Inescapable. She presses her hands against her ears. It will not be shut out. Her eyes press closed.

Within the sound, a touch. Something tainted. Something horrible. The stuff of nightmare. Not yet recovered from the assault on her mind of just a short time ago she is not ready for something like this. Surrender or shut down – the choice is clear.

Once more she collapses. Once more her head strikes the floor, the thud of its collision swallowed up by the thunder of the drums.

Once more an observer comments:

“Damn! That just had to hurt! Does that dame do anything that don't involve bashing her head against solid objects?”

[ 05-14-2006, 07:51 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]

[Cyril Darkcloud]

Elsewhere – But always in relationship to a certain lady druid [img]graemlins/blueblink.gif[/img]

Lady Sombra

The Other is hidden from her. Still alive, this much she knows, for the death of that one who is hated beyond all others is not a thing that could escape her knowledge. “Let her hide,” she laughs. “Let her find what empty comfort she might. Let her waste what strength she has standing with those fools whose friendship she so desperately seeks.” Her laughter is bright and playful. And cold, even bitter. “Ah my sister! Even now you drift. Even now when life drains from you with each and every beating of that heart which grows more substantial within me. Even now you cannot act on your own behalf.” She tosses her head and a long braid dances beneath the light of the moon. Still her features have a vague and dusky character about them. But the lines of her face are most definitely hard. “Drift then! I most assuredly shall not.”