War of the Burning Sky: IC

[Redshaw]

War of the Burning Sky

http://cdn.obsidianportal.com/assets/44258/TorchoftheBurningSky.jpg

November

Desolation (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTSjmjo7agI). Gray earth trod beneath boots on the march; snapped trees waiting for the flames. And soon, the victorious emperor knew, there would be that fire. There always was. Often enough he brought it, but even when he did not it arose. After every battle something burned — as if the universe followed some unwritten protocol that conflagration should be the epilogue to carnage. It was even more reliable than the crows.

Castle Korstull was taken. The mighty emperor figured he’d lost, at worst, one man in twenty. He’d known it would be so. Tonight, he would sleep on the sheets of a fallen prince, and the only cost had been a week’s planning and the blood of men he did not know. If the victory had meant anything to him, he would have called it a bargain.

When had conquest lost its luster? Was it just the ease, or was it something else? The glorious emperor stared into the flames of the torch he bore in his left hand, the famed artifact he had christened the Torch of the Burning Sky. Since the day he had acquired this strange token, born a century before in miracle and catastrophe, he had never lost a battle. It was as if he’d forgotten how.

He feared his own restlessness, and was all the more frustrated to realize that it might be the only thing he feared. What would the ache for challenge drive him to? The inscrutable emperor had begun to calculate the betrayal of his oldest ally; whether it was out of strategy, ambition, or boredom, he could not tell.

That ally, of course, planned to turn on him first. There had been no intelligence of such an act, but it went without saying. His ally went by the unlikely name of Shaaladel, and if the invincible emperor had forgotten how to lose, Shaaladel had forgotten how not to betray.

The all-knowing emperor’s foresight fatigued him. He’d spent the final hours of many brave men’s lives hoping for some surprise — a sudden ambush, unexpected reinforcements, even a mere change in tactics — that might lend the least excitement to this clash of nations. But like the planets in their courses, his enemies plodded, unwavering, along the path he had laid out to their defeat.

Fate’s arsenal had been emptied, it seemed, and no ordeals remained to try the blessed emperor. He had conquered Sindaire tonight, a nation that had already been his in all but name, for no better reason than that they had given him an excuse. Soon, he would test himself against his other neighbors — Ostalin and Dassen — but knew that they would fall just as quickly. He wondered what he’d done to anger the gods before his birth, that they should curse him by giving him only a single world to conquer. Perhaps, he mused, he should avenge himself on the heavens. He peered up through the gathering cloud-rack and contemplated this, until his view was obscured by a high-vaulted arch passing overhead. He trained his gaze forward now, as the warhorse he sat upon ambled through the yawning entryways of the castle.

Built to resemble the maw of some great beast, the front gates of Castle Korstull had impressed the magnificent emperor when he’d first seen them, but he had raised palaces of his own in the decades since. Now they looked to him like nothing more than the hastily assembled sets of some Wayfarers’ comedy. He remembered what Leska had told him before he’d left, that some young bard in Ragos had penned a play about his life, probably in an attempt to earn his patronage.

He’d laughed at the folly of that, yet he found himself wondering about it now, about how such a play might begin, about what soliloquies this crowing upstart had written into his mouth. Would there be a scene of his childhood, a half-orc raised among backwoods highlanders, tribesmen who wandered the mountains of the North seeking sacrifices for wise Uller, having no land to hold as their own? How many acts would it take him to carve out a nation for his kin, how many trumpets and alarums as he turned it into an empire? Which of his enemies would be judged worthy of their own death scenes, which allies would rhyme couplets after his dramatic exits?

He was certain Shaaladel would be the handsome scene-stealer, declaiming regally on the nature of their fragile peace as they debated the rebellion in Gate Pass, with no hint of the craven schemer beneath the regal facade. And surely Leska (http://www.digitalartistdaily.com/users/720/thm1024/leska.jpg) would be cheated of her rightful prominence, as misunderstood by a grasping playmaker as she was by all the rest of his subjects. They all looked at her and saw a frightful mask, unaware that the creature behind that grisly visage was far more human — and more terrifying — that they could have imagined. Leska should have been the subject of a play, he thought. She had all the makings of a tragedy, while he had none. His play would be boring, the legendary emperor decided. After all, he always won.

As soon as he dismounted his horse, he was frightfully attended. Jägare bodyguards in their horrific masks and blood-splattered lieutenants with word from General Magdus fell in step behind him as he walked. Within a few moments, they had ascended to the throne room, where he took his dinner and dispatched orders. The throne room and the royal bedroom adjoining it were appropriately princely, festooned with tapestries, murals, and other palatial regalia.

When the castle was built, these rooms had been prayed over by priests for three days. It was said no one could enter these rooms against the will of the one who sat upon the throne. The great emperor was unimpressed. He placed the Torch of the Burning Sky in a ruby-studded sconce, scraped his boot against the corner of the throne to remove a clump of gray mud, then sat down and called for the leaders of the force that had resisted him.

Hoping their deaths would provide some distraction, he ordered their executions on the spot. He watched attentively, eating stew from a brass tureen, as his bodyguards went about their work. Jägare all, trained in the art of torture by Leska herself, the men of his personal guard sensed the dread emperor’s apathy, and stretched their imaginations to make each prisoner’s end more entertaining than the previous one. But the spectacle soon descended into farce and common vulgarity; he grew listless again. He called for wine from the castle cellars and sat in silence, drinking 50-year-old vintages straight from their bottles. Before long, he grew lethargic and announced that he would retire.

All but a handful of his guards bowed deeply and left. The remaining three would stand outside his chamber as he slept. The immortal emperor extinguished the torch as he pulled it from its sconce and walked towards the bedroom, yet he stopped before the door, turned to one of his guards, and began to speak. He said, “I am more weary than I ever knew a mortal or immortal man could be. This world of half-men and vain posturing, this age of sheep who masquerade as lords, diminishes in my eyes by the day. I thought the gods would not long tolerate ambitions such as mine, but like a pack of beaten whores, they offer not defense but more accommodation. Everything that I once coveted turns stale. I grasp the fruits of conquest and each morsel tastes of ashes in my mouth. In seven months, my pennants could cast shadows over all the nations of the known lands, and yet this spent and whelping bitch they call the world cannot, for all my ravaging, yet birth a cur whose sharpest fangs don’t break against my skin. When I bid you to kill those men tonight, I found myself searching their eyes for signs that, in their fatal throes, their dying souls might glimpse Ysgard... another realm... any realm that better suited me. But I saw none. Did you see anything at all?”

The Jägaren, Daro, stared for a long time into those wild eyes, dumbstruck by this strange and sudden candor. In the end, shamed by his lack of a proper answer — or any answer at all — the bodyguard merely shook his head. Somehow disappointed, and knowing himself a fool for it, the doomed emperor walked away without a word and locked his bedroom door behind him.

His name was Drakus Coaltongue (http://api.ning.com/files/F6kBJElJzOaeHyWuUq00PbJrkgr8brvOxh3vj97M-h9hTHDfdSO04LCzsIwRbKE19kyB7LR53JfSCTbGVLt61FEsCKU 9IdXH/Skjovar.jpg), and his curse was to be the most powerful man in the world.

* * * * *
The General of the Emperor’s First Army camped far from the castle that night. He did not eschew the comforts of the stronghold he had seized out of some sentimental desire to sleep in the same conditions as his soldiers. Even in the field, he had a larger tent, better food, assistants to see to his needs, and finery on which to rest.

He simply felt as though here, with his troops, he could get things done, and in the castle he would be up sending messages all night. General Magdus was a practical man, and from the camp he could run his army better. Yet for all his practicality, he was superstitious. Soldiers were like sailors that way, spending so much of their lives subject to the whims of fate that they sought signs of good and bad luck, not out of imagination, but out of fear. And the general did not like the clouds racing above his head tonight.

A storm brewing would be trial enough. Trudging through rain and muck was enough to demoralize even disciplined men. But these low black clouds moved faster than the wind, it seemed, as if intent on their destination. And they all seemed to be congregating in one place. The black thunderheads billowed highest directly above Castle Korstull. And they were not traveling, but remained stationary, whirling in place like water down a drain.

It was clearly an ill omen, he decided. Magdus was practical enough to grant fortune its place in his calculations. He gave orders to increase the frequency and size of his patrols, and told his adjutant to wake him half an hour earlier in the morning. All the confidence his victory had afforded him was melting away, and he was left with a deep unease. There were not enough soldiers between here and the sea to give his army a moment’s worry, but who could say what trouble the raging heavens might bring him?

As he put his head down to seek sleep, the general was reminded of a strange saying he’d once heard from an old sergeant. “You can conquer a land’s people; you cannot conquer its gods.” He did not know if he believed that, or even what it was supposed to really mean, but he did believe this: if the heavens were angry, tonight someone would be paying the price.

* * * * *
Daro saw the other two bodyguards die before he even knew they were under attack. The murder in the peripheral vision to his left he barely saw. It was just a smudge of motion that made a wet sound before it was over. But turned to his right as he was, he caught his other comrade’s end. He saw the last half-second of a man stepping from the shadows in the corner, as if walking out of a door, slashing the guard’s throat with a curving black blade and receding as swiftly and stealthily as he’d come.

Hefting his mace, Daro drew in air to shout, but there was a sound like a thunder strike and a sharp pain as something lashed across his adam’s apple. He saw a woman in the doorway — had it opened just now or had she been there all along?

She yanked the handle of a whip, and he found himself pitching forward, his throat burning and constricted. Her weapon had him by the neck, and he struggled to keep his feet as she pulled him towards her. Helpless against the tight constriction of his windpipe, he struck out wildly with his mace, bludgeoning the air. The woman was rushing towards him — or he was hurtling towards her — and for a split second he had the incongruous realization that she was beautiful.

Yet the colors of her hair and skin were wrong. Had she dyed them? Something knocked the mace from his hand. Her face came at his. What was happening? Was she head-butting him, was she going to bite him? Had the Emperor been attacked by lunatics?

Still choking, he felt her lips on his. A kiss. Her mouth was warm. Was he awake? She tasted like blood.

When she released him, there was something in his mouth. A grainy liquid, it tasted the way violets smelled. He felt the whip slip from around his neck, and realized the woman had already moved past him, towards the Emperor’s bedroom. He spun, looking for his mace, but the world kept spinning when he stopped, and he crumpled to the ground. This was no dream. He’d been poisoned.

When he recovered his breath, he finally called out. There was a clatter as the Jägare from the waiting chamber rushed in, but of the attackers he could hear nothing, until the din of clashing blades arose. His vision was too blurry now to see who fought or who fell.

The poison moved through Daro like a shiver. Helpless, the world dimming around him, he thought of the Emperor’s question, hours before. Would he see a better world now, he wondered, in what had to be his last moments? But there were only shadows moving in the blur. Now, as before, Daro could see nothing.

* * * * *
It was instinct that awoke him. There was someone in his room.

The Emperor’s reflex was to spring from his bed and find a weapon, but as soon as he had opened his eyes, his torso exploded in pain. He went to move and found himself pinned to the bed. He looked down at his chest.

Someone had driven a stake through his heart.

Another man would have panicked. But Coaltongue had faced death many times before, and while he was alarmed, he could not help being curious. He looked around the room, but saw no sign of his attacker. None of his generals would have pulled this off, not with dog-loyal Magdus, the best of them all, camped so close. Shaaladel would have planned something more intricate, more unnecessarily complex, something he would have seen coming. Leska?

His hands had found the stake — everything was harder now, it seemed, with his heart no longer pumping blood — and tried to summon up the strength to pull it out at once.

Then, from the shadows, an aged face, dyed with ashes. A black scimitar, edged with smoky diamonds, arcing at his throat.

Him? Coaltongue thought. Of all the enemies I have in this world? Him?

The blade fell. Staked to the bed, the emperor could not roll out of the way, and his arms were too weak to pull it out or block the blow.

The pain of the beheading was not much, he found. Far less than that of being stabbed in the heart. He was less conscious of the blow itself than of the cold air on the insides of his neck. Completely severed from his body, Coaltongue’s head rolled over to the left side of his pillow.

His head was still alive, still conscious and bewildered. From the angle at which his head had fallen, he could see a second assailant, her hands lifting the Torch of the Burning Sky from the wall-mount where he’d left it. They were thieves as well as assassins.

The Emperor heard sounds of swordplay from the room outside. There were at least three of them, then. It was all starting to make sense. He even knew how they would make their escape. Suddenly, he became very tired. It seemed to happen all at once. He tried to rub his eyes, but obviously could not, and this simple fact provoked in him a very acute distress.

He was falling asleep. There was no preventing it. The Emperor of Ragesia had gone down without a fight, without even a sword in his hand. In other circumstances, he might have laughed.

As oblivion claimed him, he thought, I must applaud the Fates. This, I did not see coming. Then there was a sudden pang of regret; disappointment that he would not be there to see the cataclysmic change his death would wreak, the conflict which would ensue. This, he thought, would have been a world worthy of me.

Then, darkness.

[Redshaw]

http://p1.pichost.me/640/14/1375511.jpg

December

The cold snap had come, that was certain. You breathe in, and feel every hair in your nostrils freeze into rigidity and your breath crystalizes as it escapes your lips. The ridge was only a half mile ahead: it would be pleasant soon enough when your group made camp and started a fire. Be patient, rub your hands and you will keep yourselves warm. Were there the sun with which to see, your position on the mountain would grant a fine view of the lake below, irregular patches of gray surrounded by an expanse of white. But there is no warm sun, nor even its comforting sister, the moon. Instead, there is only the stars; the constellations of discordant Kordo and stoic Dáin affixed in the sky above you, battling for all eternity. Despite seeing their midgardian representatives festooned in the celestial wreath above you, you do not feel their presence. You do not feel anything. You wonder if you have found a place too frozen for even the gods to tread.

Soon you begin to cough, a dry, thin cough, as the bitterly cold air touches the bottom of your lungs. Your ears and face and lips hurt, and then your feet hurt. You draw yourselves inward, thinking of home, thinking of hearths and mead and the healthy curves of a welcoming woman.

Ten more minutes of hiking through the drift, you guess, and the ridge will be yours. It's become too cold to shiver. Your eyes hurt. This was not simply cold: this was abyssal. Somewhere between here and the safety of Gate Pass you left the Jotun-Tooth mountains and entered the 23rd layer of the Abyss, you guess, where the frost-rimed demon prince Kostchietchie reigns and the life-giving sun is little more than a myth.

Your clothes might as well have been netting or lace, your bear-skin cloaks little more than cotton shawls: the wind blows through them, freezes your bones and the marrow in your bones, freeze the lashes of your eyes and grow icicles from the moisture under your noses.

And then you arrive. The relief flooding your system is potent substitute for the lack of heat. A camp fire is made priority, though it is not large - you would not wish to warn your quarry of your position, even if they are miles away. As you all work together to erect a shelter, someone begins singing (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EOVdrggsh2o) an old, but common tune in the giant's tongue. It is not long before all join in, which helps the work go faster and distract from the biting numbness in your fingers. Eventually, a camp of three mammoth-hide tents are assembled and the five of you, changed into a dryer set of clothes, gather about the small fire in the center.

In your company is an elderly half-orc with a gray beard and gray flesh covered in tribal tattoos and scar tissue. He is equipped with thick leather armor, a long-bow, quiver, and a steel bearded axe. At his side is a white wolf, almost as ancient as he is, gnawing on a favored bone that has long since lost all its meat. The tracker calls himself Borg (http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lhww81FGJk1qhmbjyo1_400.jpg) and speaks, as far as you can tell, only in Orcish, and even then very rarely. He calls his companion Hundur.

There is a half-elf arcanist as well, dressed in a bear skin cloak and beneath that the thick wool robes, freshly dyed red, marking him as a new student of Gabal's War School. He is young with a trim beard and a narrow face, coveting a fine-spined book in his lap. Before leaving the city, he had a tendency of talking without end, but never actually saying anything; the cold seems to have changed that habit. His name is Able (http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs8/i/2005/352/c/c/NWN__Half_Elf_Mage_by_wycked.jpg). The twitching nose of a rat occasionally peers out from the breast line of his robe before disappearing once more into the folds.

Finally, the patron and leader of your mission party. Tall, red haired and handsome, this man is armed with a decorated greataxe and a smirk that suggests he thinks himself invincible. His name is Rantle (http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/72/46/75/724675a1440af322f0e1140cb8711538.jpg), a hero of the people, and if the weather has put a damper on his spirits, he does not show it. In his lap, bundled up in several layers of blankets, roosts a gold-scaled pseudo dragon, which he has named Lotho (http://nerdworthygames.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/pseudodragon.jpg) and dotes on endlessly.

The reason you are here, suffering the cold and the wind and the ice, is that you are on a mission for the Resistance. Since Coaltongue's death, there has been a geo-political conflagration and Gate Pass has enemies on all sides. And of course, the most deadly of all is the enemy within. Smugglers, paid by corrupt city officials, are relieving the city of arms and resources that will be critical in the coming conflict. According to Rantle's information, they have already left the city with the supplies and he has spear-headed an operation to stop the traitors, recover the supplies, gather evidence on the corrupt politicians and then return to the city.

Borg the half-orc, a mercenary from Ragesia who knows the Jotun Tooth mountains better than any soldier, has led your group through a treacherous and hidden short-cut across the mountain range in an attempt to intercept the supplies. Able, the half-elf, is an idealistic and well-intentioned wizard, hoping to prove himself useful to the Resistance by volunteering for this dangerous mission. Hákon the half-Jotun was chosen personally by Rantle for this task, for his sheer size, strength and his cold-weathered heritage. Jerid the human with curious abilities was requested to accompany this mission on the behalf of Torrent, a cleric of Farlanghn and a representative of the Resistance.

The flickering of the campfire does little to bring warmth or light to your tired party so much as it amplifies the yawning emptiness of the mountains. Nestled on a cliff side above the only road which navigates the peaks of the Jotun Tooth mountains, fifteen miles west of Gate Pass, you roost, praying you survive the night and waiting for sign of your prey. You've made good time; you should be several hours ahead of the wagon. The sun will rise in a few hours, you can only hope.

[Redshaw]

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t1uVTJg1mjY/UL6VFkbdJ2I/AAAAAAAAAB4/8VhMMyS-LF4/s1600/johnson-lynn-campfire-burns-in-a-snow-covered-high-altitude-landscape.jpg

Burly and broad-shouldered, Rantle lumbers over toward the pack he left in a tent, freezing snow crunching beneath his large, oiled boots. "As your employer, I feel obliged to compensate you fine men for the pain and ardor of our journey beyond simple coinage." He grunts as he retrieves a small wooden casket and five drinking horns from his equipment and returns to the humble camp fire. Using the pick-head of his great axe, he pries the lid off the small barrel and sets it gingerly in the snow, revealing sweet-smelling mead splashing about its insides. "And so, to assist in the resistance of this infernal chill, I might offer you both honeyed wine and gratitude. He dunks the first of the horn cups into the sweet-tasting brew and begins passing cups out to each of you individually, addressing you all as he does so.

“First, to young Able. I imagine you’re older than even poor Borg here, but your long ears look damper than a mermaid’s.” The jest is made in a tone not meant to insult but to generate a lightness of mood in an otherwise heavy atmosphere. The half elf smiles nervously, unsure of how to respond, bu accepts the offered cup nonetheless.

The words he shares with Borg are in Orcish, spoken clearly but with halting grammar, “Thank you for your patience and wisdom, old one. The hunt was good and the Gods are undoubtedly pleased.” He lowers his head in respect and tilts the horn cup intended for the orc to spill some of its contents into the snow, ”In gratitude to both thirsty Kordo and to you. May our Fathers feast in friendship.” He offers the remains of the horn to Borg, who accepts it with a neutral expression.

The next mug is offered to Hákon of the Hästesko, his gesture made in the common tongue, ”Tall Ivarsson. I can only pray I brought enough mead to warm your Jotunn veins!” His laugh is loud and boisterous enough to cause Able to wince.

Finally, he addresses the farmer from Gate Pass, mead splashing from the cup’s rim as it’s passed forward, ”Jerid, my clansman, it makes my heart warmer than any fire to see a fellow farmer take arms with me in our people's time-honored tradition of killing Ragesian dogs. Through solidarity and faith in the Gods, we shall overcome!”

Finally, taking a horn mug for himself, he thrusts it upward in a cheer. “Hail Coaltongue,” he toasts boldly in the ironic tradition that all residents of Gate Pass did – a habit adopted following the Dragon Emperor’s failed occupation of the city forty years ago. Lotho squeaks its approval and the large man empties the horn's contents in a single, long swallow. Borg and Able both drink their fill, the latter joining Rantle in his toast.

[Greymane]

Hákon sucked the cold mountain air into his lungs as the group trotted up the mountains. He was no stranger to traveling in frozen wastelands, where the cold rattled your bones, and Auril's promise of death echoed on the winds. The cold in these lands did nothing to his bones, and the snow goddess' macabre words were no where to be found. His initial astonishment had nearly gotten the better of him. It was enough to nearly lull a veteran traveler into a content stupor. Nearly.

The half-giant stood over eight feet in height. His frosted white hair was long enough to reach the middle of his back, and was tied into a neat braided ponytail. Fanciful hairstyles and dress were popular among his giant kin, and was a habit he had not dropped. His facial hair was ungroomed, a chilly white scraggly beared and mustache clashed against pale blue skin. He was dressed primarily in animal hides for warmth; bear-hide cloak, wolf hides on his torso and hare on his boots, accompanied by leather breeches under the small skirt the wolf hides made. A great deal of animals died to gird someone of his size. He was armed with club, slung at his hip, and an enormous tree branch slung on his back. Over the tree branch was slung an old oaken door, the image of a mug wearing a pair of boots carved into it. A trophy of his first brawl in the One-to-Go, the door had been torn off its hinges when he had sent someone careening into it.

He towered far above that of his travelling companions. Not an unfamiliar event, as he was used to travelling with smaller humans all the time. That said, they were still smaller than his northern human kin. Especially the elf-blooded mage. He looked as if the gusts of wind could carry him away in their icy grip. Borg, the half-orc, was no doubt the biggest of his compatriots. His scars also spoke of a great deal of experience. Upon hearing he would be their guide, Hákon initially worried that the Ragesian mercenary was leading them into a trap. While that remained to be seen, he had the bearing of a warrior, and Hákon doubted duplicity more and more as they traveled.

The two humans were more of an enigma to the half-jötunn. Rantle had the stance of a warrior, but the heart of a scoundrel, and it seemed like they would be at odds with one another. His laughter, his grin, and his sticky fingers seemed to compliment him well, however. He'd known him for a short time now, and was no stranger to doing as the man asked. He never ordered Hákon, though. He always took the approach of a friend asking a favor, and so the half-giant never had issue with him like he did with the commander of the militia. The man known as Jerid was unknown to Hákon. Rumors abounded of the man's connection to dream magic and peculiar abilities, and he had caught Able watching Jerid out of the corner of his eye on more than one occasion. If Jerid knew dream magic, that made him far more interesting to Hákon.

When they had arrived at their campsite and begun setting it up, he had silently been humming an old tune from his homeland while he waited. Whether or not someone else heard him, he does not know, but the whole group had broken out into singing the chant, which had pleased Hákon's homesick heart. Before long, Rantle, true to his style, made his attempt to get on everyone's good side by producing mead for everyone. When offered the small horn, Hákon grinned at him. He could likely drink the whole barrel, but he would reign himself in and allow his companions to have their fill.

"Hail, Coaltongue!" he joins in with Rantle, and downs the glorified nightcap.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid was cold. There was no denying that fact. Even though dressed in skins from head to toe, the cold had found a way to sneak in. Growing up on a farm, he was used to having to work in all sorts of weather conditions, but this...this made getting up to feed the livestock in the early morning winter look like a warm summer's day. He wrapped his bear-skin cloak around him even tighter and wondered if this was ever going to end. He could feel Ankou's presence in his mind, pushing him to keep pace with the rest of the party. At least he didn't have to suffer the cold alone.

It wasn't much comfort seeing his companions deal with the cold. While the weather respected no man, it didn't seem to have any effect at all on the half-giant, Hakon, who walked as though it were the middle of spring. Jerid felt a surge of jealousy at the ease with which the half-Jotun could travel in this terrain. It hardly seemed fair, but complaining wasn't going to make the cold go away. He could see the half-orc, Borg, at the front, the cold doing it's utmost to stay him but failing. "No doubt he has traveled this course before," thought Jerid, admiring the half-orc's experience and resolve. Their leader, Rantle, also seemed to keep his jovial demeanor despite the weather. Jerid had heard tales of Rantle's exploits, but did not expect them to be as true as they now seemed. Truly, Rantle seemed invincible.

Glancing towards the last of his traveling companions, Jerid thought he saw the half-elf, Able, staring back at him. This came as no surprise. Jerid knew very well how the wizards at Gabal's school felt about him, and he could only imagine what Able was told when he discovered they would be traveling together. "At least," Jerid thought to himself, "if we're going to suffer, I'm not going to let him bear it better than me." With this thought, Jerid quickened his pace determined not to be the last to reach the ridge.

As they reached their campsite and began setting up their tents, a song started from somewhere. It was a familiar tune, and he happily joined in, grateful for the distraction from the cold. Later, as drinks were being shared, he couldn't help but feel a sense of optimism for what lay ahead. True, the way may be difficult, but like the cold it could not hope to break their spirit. Gate Pass would persevere, just like it did in the past. "Hail, Coaltongue!" he cries, adding his voice to the toast, and drinks his fill from his cup.

[Redshaw]

Time passes and the cask empties rather quickly - it was never large to begin with and the appetites of four grown men and a half-giant amount to quite a lot indeed. As you feast on the honey wine and dried meat, also courtesy of your bearded benefactor, the large human regales you with a tale of cleverness rather than morality.

"A woman in Sindaire had a son who took sides with a king who lost his battles - how could he win against the Dragon Emperor? - and had to flee the country. The aged mother mourned deeply over her son's absence, and beseeched the Gods and the Emperor with prayers to allow her son to return home and to make her a visit, at least.

At last the son was granted permission to return and visit his mother till "the next harvest," as the order read."

Rantle grins now and his white teeth flash as they chomp into another bite of jerky.

"On this, the mother sowed pine seeds in her fields."

His laugh is hearty and a large hand slaps his knee in self-congratulation. Able stares at the human with confusion for several moments before he catches the hook and joins in the laughter while Borg continues to stare into the fire placidly.

Eventually Rantle sighs, eyeing the horizon, "The sun will rise in but a few hours. Get some rest, all of you." He begins carving out a seat in the snow that will allow him to overlook the road below, "I will keep watch until our quarry arrives... and again, thank you all for coming." He pauses in his work to smile at each of you with emotional sincerity.

The half-orc grunts and stands, retreating into one of the tents along with his wolf and Able collects his belongings before wandering into another, cheerfully bidding "good night" to all his companions as he does so. The half-elf stares at Jerid a few moments longer than absolutely necessary as he bids good night, but his expression is not one of mistrust nearly so much as poorly suppressed curiosity. A torrent of questions are likely dammed behind his tongue and, at this moment at least, none break loose. His retreat is swift.

Three tents exist and two are occupied; it is unlikely that Hákon will comfortably share one with another person, leaving Jerid to choose between the remaining two.

Make a FORT Save against cold weather effects. Add a +5 bonus from Cold Weather equipment and a +2 bonus for full ranks in Survival.

[Greymane]

Normally on winter travails, Hákon's time is spent in a more solitary fashion, having jokes and laughter about him was a welcome change. The mead was delicious, it had been sometime since he had such a drink, as ale and Shahalesti wine was more common and more affordable. He drank, but no more than any other member of this expedition.

At the humorous story, Hákon adds his raucous laughter to Rantle's. Wise woman! Hah!"

Borg's staunch stoicism was slightly bothersome to the half-giant. He supposed- and hoped- that he was simply professional and didn't want to involve himself with people who hired him for anything beyond the job.

As Rantle tells them to take their rest, Hákon returns the heartfelt thanks with a deliberate look of his own. "More than happy to help. And should you need rest, call on me, I will take watch."

After speaking, he turns and lumbers towards the last, unoccupied tent. He wouldn't mind sharing with another, but it's doubtful they would be comfortable with him taking up most of it. He lies down, wraps himself in his cloak, and gets as much rest as possible.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid did not want to leave the fire, but eventually his weariness started to get the better of him and he figured he'd better turn in. He watched Hákon take the last unoccupied tent, and wished he had the sense to leave earlier. Now he'd have to pick a tent to share with someone.

Standing in front of the tents, Jerid considered his options: 1) He could try and share a tent with Hákon. The half-giant was certainly large, and that meant little room for himself. He doubted either of them would get much rest if they were always in one another's way. However, warm bodies kept close together keep one another warm. That didn't seem so bad, but then Hákon was half-frost giant. Did he even generate heat? Jerid shivered at the thought of sleeping next to a giant freezing...giant. It did not seem appealing. Also, Hákon hailed from Ragesia which put Jerid a little on edge. Yet, Rantle seemed to trust the half-giant. Perhaps it was worth giving him a chance.

2) He could sleep in Borg's tent. Jerid didn't think the orc would mind. He seemed to treat everyone in the party equally. He almost never spoke, so it would be quiet at least, unless the orc snored. Jerid wasn't sure what the wolf would do. It took up space, so the tent was likely going to be a little cramped, though not as much Hákon. Then again, Borg was also Ragesian. Rantle seemed to trust him, but Borg never seemed to return the sentiment like Hákon did. Jerid feared that he might not wake up in the morning.

3) He could share Able's tent. Jerid wasn't going to deny it; he did not like the half-elf wizard. Aside from the fact that Able was a student of Gabal, his incessant chatter was extremely annoying. Jerid dreaded even risking having to hear that voice again without something else to distract him. He doubted he could get much sleep like that anyhow. However, Able's tent would be the most spacious as he was not a giant nor had a pet that was almost as big as he was. Also, Able's behavior toward him did not what Jerid expected of a Gabal mage. That in and of itself piqued his own curiosity. Why did he act the way he did? He was also from Gate Pass, which made things more comfortable than having to deal with Ragesians. Maybe just one night to give the man a chance wouldn't be so-

Jerid stopped himself. He didn't like where that train of thought was going. Quickly, he considered his final option.

4) Sleep outside.

... ... ... No, not going to happen.

Sighing to himself, Jerid realized he had already made his choice, and he quietly cursed himself for being so soft-hearted. "I better not regret this," he mutters to himself as he stepped into Able's tent for some much needed rest.

Could I make a Survival check to help with the Fort save, or is that already taken into account with the +2? (PHB pg. 83) If I exceed the DC I'd like to give the same bonus to Able as he would be sharing the same tent and doesn't seem like he's accustomed to harsh weather.

At any rate, I'll roll the Fort Save now. If the Survival check is allowed you can have me roll it out of game, I suppose.
[roll0]

[Redshaw]

The night passes without event. Able seems too fatigued to riddle Jerid with questions, but grateful for assistance in staying warm; his smile is broad and genuine. Three hours later you all rise one at a time from your tents to find the sun has risen and the morning has a clear, blue, cloudless sky. Snow glitters as a westerly wind pushes it off the peaks of the nearest mountain summit and dances down evaporating to nothing. It might be considered a beautiful day were it not for the belching black billows of smoke rising over another summit to the west. The stench of industry and manure is heavy in the air.

Rantle sits on the bluff’s edge ponderously, a bone white pipe, carved from mammoth ivory, clutched in the corner of his mouth. The pipe’s bell is designed with gorgeous runes, similar to the ones found on his axe head, and brown, wispy tufts of smoke rise from its lip to disappear into the air, accompanied by the smells of sweet, dark mountain tobacco. Despite the obvious activity brewing in the West, the warrior’s small green eyes keep focused on the East – towards Gate Pass and, hopefully, your still-approaching quarry.

Able shuffles nervously, eyeing the violently billowing smoke. "Wh-...what is that?!" Rantle frowns and responds with a neutral, controlled tone. ”The Ragesian army… it is camped much closer than I expected. They must have stolen up on us during the night. It was known that they had assembled and were on the move… but to see them a day’s march from our gates…” The man shakes his head with a grim expression – this is the most serious you have ever seen the Theives’ Guild sympathizer act. ”We will need to act quickly. With the enemy so near our doorstep, those supplies are vital.”

Using a burnt stick left over from the small campfire, Rantle begins drawing shapes in the snow – they are basic but understandable illustrations of your immediate landscape. ”We are in a fortuitous spot for an ambush. The road, thirty feet at its widest point, runs from East to West, as you can see. We are on a bluff that angles at about thirty feet above the main road with a sheer edge on the North so they would require all the eyes of a hydra to spot us. On the South side of the road is a roughly 10 foot drop into a lake that is frozen… though its ice is of dubious thickness and completely impassable with a nervous horse and cart, I’d imagine. Their options are limited.” He draws a square inside the illustrated road, signifying the targeted cart. ”My sources tell me that the cart has an escort of at least four men. We should be prepared for more. They will be tired and they will be complacent… but still very dangerous.”

There is a crunching sound as Borg enters the camp - it seems he was awake before the rest of you. And he has brought breakfast. Sitting with the rest of your war party, he begins skinning a freshly caught rabbit, tossing the unwanted parts to his white wolf who laps up the blood eagerly.

"I would hear everyone’s ideas on how best to skin this cat… preferably before its arrival.” He holds up his finger as another thought occurs to him, ”I would warn you that wise Borg here will not be assisting us in the coming battle – it is not out of misplaced loyalty or lack of constitution for blood that stays his hand, but currency. He is a mercenary hired strictly for his indispensable knowledge of the mountains and his keen eyes as a look-out. With only his brain and his eyes purchased, he will maintain strict vigilance on our behalf, but will not raise his blade in our defense.”

He offers the stick outward for anyone who will take it, ”Now. Speak your minds. I will decide our best course of action in the end – and accept the responsibility of either its failure or success – but there are brighter minds than mine here and I would welcome them to find a voice.”

You survive the night without suffering any cold damage or exhaustion.

You have an ominous dream. A beautiful woman with dark skin and blue eyes. A black horse trodding across the embers of a burning city. Scaled wings blotting out the sun. An endless army of men with bear skulls instead of faces. Your dreams are vague, violent and unpleasant.

[Greymane]

Hákon bursts from his tent, bleary-eyed and discontent, a long frown from his face. The dream he had was unpleasant, and infuriating. He was never sure if it was a small portent of things to come, or simply some strange thing that took glee in tormenting his mind. This one was no different. His frustration and restlessness were close to peaking, and all he wanted to do was smash something. There were only comrades and snow here, and while the idea of hoping Borg was a traitor and smashing him for it briefly entered his sleep-addled mind, any venting of his irritation would have to wait.

His nerves were not settled at Able's exclamation, and Rantle's explanation. The half-giant peered out at the billowing smoke where the Regesian army supposedly was, and gritted his teeth. If Gate's Pass was going to weather such a force, when his homeland could not, they had best hope nothing less than a Thrym's axe was being carried by their quarry. He muttered under his breath, "Looks like war is coming to my new home all too soon." and took space next to Rantle, and eyes his drawing and planning critically.

He rubs his chin, squinting at the makeshift strategy board in the snow. He looks for a more narrow part of the main road, and then takes the stick from Rantle. He then marks that spot, preferably one that is around a bend in the road and not easily spotted from a distance. "If we're going to ambush, we're going to need to cut off ways for them to get away from us. I say we get a road block setup. If we don't have good materials on hand, we can always use the snow itself to build something they couldn't just rush on through." He strokes his beard for a moment. "And then? We jump them from the ridge. I can even take up their rear to discourage them fleeing back the way they came."

Will Save: [roll0]

[Redshaw]

Rantle strokes his thick beard in deep thought as the half giant explains his tactics. Lotho, the scaled pet, yawns deeply as its tail curl about his neck, it perched on his shoulder sleepily. "Simple. I like it, Hákon, however, it will be impossible for us to scale this bluff once we have descended it; it is far too steep. And so if we were to build a barricade, we would need to find a suitable hiding place on the road - something which I am relative sure does not exist."

Able pipes in now, standing up from a meditative position where his book was laid open in his lap. "Yes, but... what if only a few of us were to build the block and wait at the bottom behind it, while the rest waited atop for an opportunity... that could work!

Rantle smiles at the half elf's eagerness and nods, "Indeed. That could work." Able blushes and shuffles his weight as he awkwardly stares downward, apparently having won some private battle by earning the rogue's compliment.

The adventurer's intense green eyes slant towards Jerid now and though he does not say anything, his expression is expectant.

Hákon's will succeeded and the troubling dreams do not transmit into waking life activities

[PersonofJid]

Jerid listens carefully as Rantle explains the situation, and at the suggestions offered by both Hákon and Able. Their suggestions were sound and seemed like they would work. However, he found the situation frustrating as they had to focus on reclaiming the cart rather than stopping it. It would be a simple matter of knocking the cart off the road and into the lake to stop it, but since the city needed the supplies, they have to keep the cart intact.

"Stopping the cart is only the first step. We still have to deal with the men guarding it. I suggest any who plan on fighting them face to face should be the ones building the blockage. Any who fight at range should stay up top where we have the height advantage, and only descend when necessary." He furrows his brow in concentration as he stares at the drawing. "Do we know how they are armed and armored? Do they have anyone who can shoot back at us? Just how narrow is the road there?" Jerid motions at the area Hákon marked on the map, "And if we're overwhelmed, what do we do then?"

[Redshaw]

Rantle lifts a hairy eyebrow as Jerid talks, the corners of his lips curling upward as the smoke from his pipe continues to billow. "That sounds to me as good a plan that crafty Grimnir himself would craft. There will be a horse-drawn carriage with a rider and an escort of at least four. I would not expect them to be overly-well equipped; they are neither Jägare or magicians. But I would expect them capable hands with dagger and bow. The cart itself is laden with magical scrolls and artifacts of priceless value in the proper hands, but these are penniless, Godless mercenaries and traitors selling loyalty and honor for coin. They possess little amounting to cleverness between them. As for being overwhelmed, loss is always a risk when entering combat, but the shining gates of Ysgard will always be open to warriors who die well."

He stands now, plucking the pipe from his lips and using its mouthpiece as a pointer, indicating the road below the bluff. "The road curves up here, at the cliff's edge; the road should be no wider than thirty five feet." He turns on his heel and points out Hákon, "You and I shall descend and make a wall of stone and ice as mighty as we may. He turns to Jerid and Able, "You shall pack up the camp and make ready for a hasty escape as soon as we've taken the cart. This hillside will be covered in dirt-worshipers before long." He pauses, glancing at the half-Jotunn, "No offense."

"Like the woman who sowed the pine seeds, do not fight the fair fight, my brothers; win the fight. Use the trees, the earth, the birds in the sky, your tooth and claw. A single mind is more powerful than all the spears in the world. Gate Pass is a key in the coming war, which will cover the land with fire and crows. Make no mistake: the Gods are watching. Gambling. Judging. Let us give them a good show." The man taps his head with two meaty fingers for emphasis and then licks his callused thumb before using it to stamp out the remaining embers of his pipe, slipping it into his shoulder pack. "Well then. No time to lose!" The warrior slips his greataxe out from its sheathe on his back to grip it in his large hands as he leaps without fear off the buff's edge to land in the snow and slide down the 30 feet to the road. Able makes a startled shout as the man disappears from view but running over to the edge will reveal he landed safely at the bottom and is waving up at the rest of you.

Gain +1 morale bonus on saves against charms and fear affects. Gain a +1 bonus on attack rolls and weapon damage rolls.

Acrobatics check DC 5 to descend safely at half speed. DC 10 to descend safely at full speed. Failure results in falling prone at bottom of the bluff.

[Greymane]

Hákon creases his face in contemplation at Jerid, and then at Rantle. He drops the charred stick onto the ground and smirks, his chest puffed out slightly. Seems he could still plan a battle, at the very least. Not unlike raiding caravans in the north. At least there were to be more actual warriors in this coming battle. Though, as much allure as Ysgard had, Hákon would not be falling to Regesian mercenaries. He added a "Here here!" to Rantle's statement nonetheless.

Though the half-jötunn shrugged off Rantle's unintended insult, never considering himself part of Regesia anyway; his mention of the Gods did remind him he had not offered tribute to Thrym on the eve of battle. He would need to offer the heart of a fallen enemy after the battle now. Auril could not be heard this far south, but the frost giant god had claim on Hákon's very blood. So he was warned by more than one völva at least.

"Well then. No time to lose!" Rantle leaps off the edge of the bluff. Hákon grins, and while sliding down with wild abandon would be more to his liking, he was carrying far too much. The half-giant leaps off the edge, and slides sideways down it, careful not to damage his equipment.

Acrobatics Check: [roll0]

[PersonofJid]

While Jerid appreciated Rantle's insight on the coming battle, he couldn't help but feel some frustration toward the folk hero's response. True, the risk of death was always there, but Jerid prefered to have a back-up plan in case things turned south so as to keep that risk as small as possible. He would defend his home to the end, but he would prefer to not die if possible. Still, Jerid was grateful that they took the time to make any kind of plan and that everyone knew their jobs. Rantle may not be one for contingencies, but he knew how to lead with the original plan. "I guess he never needs to think that far ahead. He must do everything right the first time." Jerid hoped that would be the case now.

As Jerid began to pack up their camp, as instructed, he looked around for the old half-orc. "Hey, Borg. I know you may not be paid for this, but could you help us pack up camp? We need to be ready to leave as soon as possible."

[Redshaw]

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mvj_lI3uxfM/RmZhiel1FZI/AAAAAAAAAlA/hljYWDFOCrQ/s400/epoque+nuit+sonore+043.jpg

Borg has finished skinning the rabbit and rekindled the remains of the previous evening's fire. Using branches harvested from his morning's hunt, he's constructed a rudimentary spit over which the pink, bloody breakfast now slowly roasts. As Jerid addresses the hunter, the ancient half-orc furrows his brow and scowls. Whether or not he understood Jerid's questioning is left unanswered as the expression he offers is less-than friendly. A few awkward moments of silence pass before Able gently tugs on Jerid's sleeve, "I think... I think we better let him eat..." The half-elf's tone suggests a worry that should the tracker be harassed further, he might eat the both of them instead.

Rantle wastes no time in designating a line of road that is at the tightest curvature, its flank immediately meeting the cliff face; this position would allow for a barricade to be erected and not seen by Easterly travelers until immediately falling upon it. "Here is the confluence." He turns to Hakon, "Boulders. Branches. Chunks of ice. Anything will do." He uses his axe's haft to begin carving a narrow ditch along the width of the road. It's obvious, however, that Hakon's size and strength will be of the greatest use here.

The work of packing up camp is tedious but simple. As Jerid and Able work together, the wizard's penchant for endless questioning without listening begins to reappear. "There are no books on dream magic. How do you study it? Is it like a gibbering sorcerer, flinging fireballs in ever direction? Or are the powers granted by your patron deity? Is there a deity of dream magic? I think the gods are rather silly, to be honest; they have all that power but do nothing to better the world."

[Greymane]

The half-giant grunts an affirmation at Rantle. "Right. There should be something around here to use. I should be able to use ice and snow easily enough too." Hákon peers around them, and begins to look for anything that could be used for blockading the road. His palms itched, and he hard a hard time containing his enthusiasm, even with the task of searching. This was going to be the first real battle he'd been in since he left Regesia, and he couldn't wait to smash some little Regesian heads. He hand instinctively squeezed the grip of his club for a moment, then released it. He missed his axe.

In his mind, he strained his concentration and, under bis breath, began muttering in Giant. Not caring if Rantle could hear him or not, but not speaking loud enough to confuse it with conversation. A small prayer to Thrym, not asking for protection in battle, or for his guidance, the prayer has more the connotation of asking the god not to kill him yet, and that offerings were soon to come.

Survival Check to look for objects to help blockade the road. If Hákon can't locate any, he'll build the blockade out of snow and ice.

Survival: [roll0]

[Redshaw]

Hakon finds, hidden beneath the snow on the edge of the road against the cliff face, the frozen branches of an old tree that must have fallen in a landslide earlier in the summer. Among these there are also several boulders of varying sizes that must have been carried in the landslide as well, though it takes some fishing from the snow to retrieve them.

Rantle exclaims his pleasure at the find and immediately sets to work, hauling one stone at a time with his large hands.

[PersonofJid]

As the half-orc scowls in response to the farmer's question, Jerid considers rephrasing the question in Orcish, but after Able's little plea, he decides to leave the orc alone and focus on taking down the camp.

Things were going well, until the questions began, and then it started. Like fingernails scratching a chalkboard, each question coming one right after the other with no pause to even consider a response, much less listen to one. How could someone not see that this way of talking was pointless? Was the wizard so oblivious to the world outside his tomes to notice that people weren't talking back? Jerid seriously considered voicing these thoughts, but wasn't sure if the half-elf would even notice. Even his psicrystal, Ankou, felt irritated by the spellcaster's inquiries as they kept Jerid from focusing on taking down the camp.

They were about halfway through packing the second tent when Jerid couldn't take it anymore. As the tent fell to the ground to be rolled up, Jerid took a deep breath to try and calm himself before proceeding. "Able," he said in a tone that was serious but not hostile, "could you stop with your constant chattering? It's making me want to kill myself. We need to get this camp ready to leave immediately, and your questioning has become more of a distraction than a help."

[Redshaw]

Jerid's complaint has two effects. The first, Able becomes immediately cowed, as if the farmer's words were a slap to the face, and stares downward with very sudden embarrassment; this half-elf is obviously not native to the typical thick-skinned lifestyle of the Jotun Tooth mountains. The second, a gutteral horking sound bubbles up from Borg's meaty throat: the half-orc is laughing. The wizard continues to assist, but does so with a pouting silence. After the rabbit is sufficiently cooked to the tracker's liking, he disassembles the spit and suffocates the small fire with a pale of snow.

Time passes and as it does, the weather turns; the uncharacteristically bright sky is steadily invaded by dark clouds with premonitions of poorly weather. Rantle and Hakon steadily built a road block that would be difficult to traverse with a horse, let alone a cart. Lotho perches on the branch of an anchored trunk, watching the two men work with curiosity, her scaled head cocked to the side. As they finish piling the last of the stones, Hakon's sensitive nose would catch a wiff of scent; the Easterly wind is in his favor and the smell of approaching sweat and manure comes from the West. Simultaneously, atop the ridge Hundur perks his ears and stands up with an anxious growl. Borg pauses his feasting as his companion grows alert and frowns, replacing the roast rabbit in hand with a bow.

Your quarry nears.

[PersonofJid]

Having silenced the mage, the work seemed to move much more quickly for Jerid. Once finished, he did not have much time to rest before Borg's reaction reminded him of why there were there in the first place. Quickly, he found his scythe amidst his other belongings and unwrapped the protective covering, revealing its long, curved blade. A common farmer's tool, but Jerid knew from experience that it could cleave a man's head off just as easily as it could reap wheat. He hastily gathers the rest of his gear, and picks up one of the tents. "Let's go. I get the feeling the others are going to need us soon."

[Greymane]

The half-giant grows quickly bored with the task of building the small blockade. While he'd done it before, his compatriots at the time were much larger than his current company. Strong as he was, Rantle was no giant. He forced himself to continue the drudging task, however. After placing one of the boulders down at the path, he paused to let out a groaning sigh, and crane his neck upwards towards the darkening sky. He catches the sight of Lotho, who was perched above and watching them, and for a brief moment there was a flash of black down feathers and a screeching caw echoing from the raven. The bird stared back at him, with a gaze filled with nothing. Hákon blinked, and the curious gaze of the small dragon met his eyes again.

If it was the gods' idea of a joke, Hákon didn't find it funny. He wouldn't be cowed by them or his curse. The giant began to sing (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tq4seuBFxIM), a song that called for ravens to come and gather, because there would soon yet be a feast. The song also renewed his spirit in his work.

If the powers that be were infuriated by his supposed audacity, they made no indication of it.

Hákon flares his nostrils and sniffs, just they put the finishing touches on their small road block. His eyes narrow and the giantkin grabs his club and his shield/door. "They're coming." He grunts quietly. "I smell sweat and horse." He trudges up to stand in front of their road block, and puts on his most menacing face possible. He squeezed his club in anticipation. He couldn't wait to use it.

[Redshaw]

Hakon's warning summons Rantle's invincible grin. The man hefts his heavy waraxe over his shoulder and comes to stand proudly in the center of the road, Lotho coming to roost at his shoulder. "Tall Ivarsson. I am in little mood for negotiations with these godless coin-worshipers, I think. We shall follow your lead in this, mountain-son; you will know what is right." He winks at the half-giant just as the first of the horses round the bend and appear before the ambush party. The wagon is large, drawn by a massive fjord horse of thick muscle and fur. The cart holds two raggedy, armed men and woman with raven black hair and dark eyes. Drawing up the wagon's flanks are two more horses, mounted by a man with a bow and a full-blooded orc with a warmaul. All whom ride in the caravan wear an identifying blood red strip cloth on the left shoulder with the silhouette of black horse sewn and runes none of you can identify into it.

You recognize this arm band as the identifying marker for members of the Black Horse Bounty Hunters. A disreputable band of relatively small numbers from places unknown that have recently moved within the wall of Gate Pass. They are led by a man named Renard, a human from Dassen. Their members include ruffians from all walks of life, though generally the less-than law-abiding type. They are known for working odd jobs, smuggling and - in particular - ambushing, capturing and collecting on Ragesia's bounty on mages; something which is not technically illegal in Gate Pass, with exception for War School students.

Able growls from his position a top the bluff and nearly gives away his and Jerid's position, his hands beginning to form the shapes for some arcanic spell. Fortunately, he stops himself, deciding to bide his time and await the opportune moment. The appearance of these scoundrels has obviously angered the young wizard.

The wagon comes to a halt in front of the blockade and for several moments nobody speaks; dead silence fills the canyon and the cold air grows heavy. The woman exchanges a glance with her horse-driver, frowning, and then stands up. She wears a long coat, disguising any armaments she may or may not be wearing underneath. "Well, then..." She looks from Rantle to Hakon. "Is there to be a parley or will you be taking this cart from my cold, dead hands?"

Rantle looks to Hakon and shrugs.

http://i.imgur.com/ABKIEsw.jpg

http://i.imgur.com/JVWdOAr.jpg

http://i.imgur.com/zCx1UL3.jpg

http://i.imgur.com/k36GeeD.jpg

http://i.imgur.com/8otGrJh.jpg

[Greymane]

Hákon nodded at Rantle, and while he met his grin with one of his own, giving the half-giant the option of talking or not made him look pensive. "I'm yearning for a skirmish, but we'll see."

As the wagon and the hired blades turn the bend in the road, his gaze is first drawn to the insignia they all wear, but he'd never seen the black horse on a red background before this day. He instead turns his attention to the men and woman, keeping as stoney of a glare on his face as possible. They had a fair amount of people, but nothing they weren't capable of routing, as far as Hákon's eyes could tell. His companions would probably enjoy having those horses when the men riding them met their gods.

His gaze snaps to the woman as she speaks. "I'm eager to fell your pretty head and take the cart." the pale blue giant bellows angrily. "It's been far too long since I last crushed a human's skull in with my hands." He pauses for a brief moment, letting that statement linger. "However, you can leave with your lives, but only if you leave the cart to us. Otherwise..." He raps his club against his shield in challenge. "You can be sent to Ysgard at the hands of someone with the strength of ten men, and another who felled three brigands, alone and with a single blow!" Hákon readies himself to charge at them, hoping they would not heed his words.

Intimidate: [roll0]
Initiative: [roll1] (If necessary)

[PersonofJid]

Jerid scowled as he recognized the emblem each of the mercenaries wore. "The Black Horses..." He heard Able's growl and attempted spellcasting, and could not blame the young mage for his hostility. It made sense the Black Horse Bounty Hunters would be the ones leading the caravan. Their operations in Gate Pass gave them a rather foul reputation as smugglers and thugs. In addition, Ragesia had posted a bounty on mages, and the Black Horses were known to like collecting on that particular bounty. Jerid was fortunate not to have been targeted by them. Whether it was his reputation or simply luck, he did not know, but he wasn't going to give them that chance now. Especially with the fate of his home at stake. Whatever hesitation existed previously about confronting these low-lifes, it was gone now.

Jerid closes his eyes and takes a slow breath to help him concentrate as he draws on his power. A translucent, glistening substance begins to form over his body and clothing but quickly evaporates after a few seconds. He opens his eyes again ( which now burn like points of silver fire) causing a rainbow-flash of light to sweep away from him briefly illuminating the space directly in front of him and then dissipating as quickly as it came.

He turns his attention to Hákon and watches the exchange between him and the mercenaries' supposed leader. A woman. How unfortunate. "You tell her, Hákon. If she has any sense, she'll run."

Just so you know, the little flash of light only extended 5 ft in front of him. Also, in case we need to roll initiative, I messed up with rolling and now it won't let me roll again. So, DM could you roll for me? It's 1d20+1.

Manifest: Precognition, Offensive: +1 insight bonus to all attack rolls. pg. 125 XPH

[Redshaw]

The woman visibly swallows as she's taken aback by Hakon's violent introduction and the men behind her all stir uncomfortably, exchanging uncertain glances. The orc however, growls not in defense, but challenge, sliding down from his horse and stomping through the snow to come face-to-face with the half-giant. The creature is as ugly as one might imagine, rings piercing the length of his sellion, from nose bridge to nostril. The purple-skinned orc unslings his warmaul and smashes it against the earth, disturbing the snow around its impact in a shock wave pattern. It appears as if the creature is preparing to lead with a strike when Rantle lifts his hand and bellows, "Hold!"

All turn to stare at the interrupting human who stands forward and grins, "I have an idea. Your orc is obviously the strongest among you, yes? A battle-proven and mettle-tested veteran of the Emperor's army, no doubt..." The Black Horses glance among each other, still uncertain of how to handle the situation. The woman herself purses her lips with distrust, "Aye, 'tis so. Korg'mar the Hulk." The orc thumps his fist, clutching the warmaul, against his chest proudly as she says his name, steaming hot air wafting from his nostrils. Rantle bows, almost out of respect, "A champion no doubt, if I ever saw one." He now gestures to Hakon, "I, too, have a champion. He is named Hákon the half-Jotun. His strain is a proud one, as you could no doubt tell from his boasts. But, he is young and unproven. I suspect good Krog'mar has taken thrice as many heads as tall Hákon has seen winters...

Rantle's smile grows even wider as he leans forward on the haft of his greataxe as though it were a cane, "I have no desire to spill unnecessary blood. Your champion against mine; winner takes the cart."

The woman clucks her tongue, glancing from Hákon's tall height and her orc before she nods with decision, "...acceptable terms." Rantle claps his hands together, "Excellent!" He turns around to come stand next to Hákon, speaking quietly, "Make it quick." He winks at the half giant, hand lifting to stroke the gold-scaled pseudodragon with his fingers.

Krog'mar comes to stand in front of Hákon and roars in challenge, spittle and phlegm erupting from the tusked mouth. Steam pours off the orc's shoulders and he slams the warmaul into the earth.

As Rantle comes to take a seat on the barricade, the man turns to coddle Lotho, rubbing her belly and speaking into her ear. After a moment, the dragon flips onto its claws and takes flight. As she lifts into the sky, Jerid and Hákon hear a feminine voice enter your minds with instructions, On my master's signal, kill them all.

You may go first. You still are gaining bonuses from the inspiring speech.

[Greymane]

Hákon grins as the orc approaches him. Each step of crunched snow the orc took sounded like the glorious beat of a war drum to the half-giant. The shockwave caused by the orc's warmaul was the exact answer to his challenge he had been craving. Rantle's call to hold was more than a little disappointing to him. The ensuing explanation returned his grin, however.

Rantle was a cunning man, and one less orc in the world, and sparing the humans while getting the cart seemed like his normal level of brilliance-


Jerid and Hákon hear a feminine voice enter your minds with instructions, On my master's signal, kill them all.

Or perhaps he really did hate them all, and this was a good opportunity to focus their attention on the largest among them, while the others got a better drop on them.

Hákon bellows angrily at the orc in front of him, tightens his grip on his club, and swings at him.

Hákon initiates Wolf Fang Strike. He opens with his club, and then follows up with an unarmed strike on the orc. Unarmed strikes don't have to be with one's fists, and can utilize elbows, headbutts and kicks. If they're not already five feet from each other, I stand ten feet away from him so I can still hit him, and forcing him to take at least a five-foot step to me.

Attack Roll: [roll0]
Attack Roll: [roll1]
Damage Roll: [roll2]
Damage Roll: [roll3]

[Redshaw]

The half-jotunn's club is blocked with the orc's warmaul, unable to find flesh to bruise or bones to break. For a moment, Krog'mar offers the half-jotunn a toothy, awful grin. That grin is split open by Hákon's follow up swing, a massive fist, which crushes the orc's face, sending blood, teeth and broken tusks scattering onto the snow covered ground. Hákon feels the orc's skull give way with a crack underneath the massive power of his blow and falls to the ground in a fit of convulsions; the fight is over nearly before it has properly begun.

The valley goes dead silent, broken only by the gurgling and twitching of Krog'mar the Hulk. Several moments pass like this, the Black Horses staring in confusion and defeat, Rantle laughing (http://soundbible.com/2010-Laughter.html) like a mad-man. The woman stands suddenly, hands criss-crossing to reach into the folds of her long-coat as if to grab something. The raggedy man sitting next to her on the cart curses and begins to pull his bow taut with a black-feathered arrow. The remaining men appear to remain too stunned by the battle's outcome to take action.

You may attack as part of a surprise round now, before regular combat begins, if you choose to do so.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid felt both relieved and disappointed at Rantle's decision to have only Hákon and the orc duel. He couldn't deny the practicality of it. They would win the cart without further fighting and go home, and Jerid was certain they would win. At the same time, not giving the Black Horses what they deserved didn't seem fair. These ruffians threatened the safety of the entire city of Gate Pass by stealing these supplies. They would only keep stealing if they let them go. Surely, Rantle knew that.

"On my master's signal, kill them all."

Apparently, he did.

Jerid took a step closer to the edge of the bluff to better view what happened. Seeing Hákon smash the orc's head in with his fist, and the subsequent reactions of the rest of the mercenaries, convinced Jerid that the time for waiting was over.

He quickly scanned the battlefield assessing threats: two men still reeling from the duel. For the moment, little threat. The woman looking as if reaching for something, potentially dangerous but it didn't matter. Hákon and Rantle could deal with her. The biggest threat appeared to be the man aiming his bow, but he was too far for him to attack.

Concentrating once more, Jerid points a finger at his nearest foe. What sounds like the humming of many bass-pitched voices issues from the mercenary's vicinity, growing from the sound of a whisper to as loud as a shout in only a second, followed by a firey ray of death issuing from Jerid's finger heading straight towards the man.

Move:5ft adjust forward. If possible during a surprise round.
Manifest: Energy Ray (Fire): A ray of chosen energy type deals 1d6 damage on successful ranged touch attack. Fire: deals +1 point of damage per die.

Ranged Touch Attack: [roll0]
Fire Damage:[roll1]

[Redshaw]

The ray burns an immediate hole into the wood of the cart and the man shouts in surprise, its aim only just off. Able watches Jerid with fascination, almost forgetting to take his own opportunity to strike. His hand cups the air while his other grips his iron-bound spell book, though its face remains closed. His eyes close as he recites the arcanic words within and as he does so, energy builds around him, causing his robes to swirl and his beard to whip; a spherical, translucent shape forms in his cupped hand and as he concludes the recitation, he hurls the palm-sized orb down the cliffside. The sphere whistles as it descends, growing louder as it travels a wicked curve before striking the would-be archer square in the gut with a thunderous boom (http://soundbible.com/1469-Depth-Charge-Short.html). He makes no sound as he falls from the cart onto the snow, blood pooling from ears.

The unmanned horse kicks nervously, but does not charge. The horse drawing the carriage, however, the closer of the two beasts, immediately falls into a panic, its hooves kicking snow and gravel in confusion and fear. Rantle quickly steps forward to snatch the reigns with one hand and point his axe at the woman with the other. "Fair's fair, thief." He practically spits the title.

She bites her lip, but concedes the loss as her narrow eyes glance upward at the newly revealed reinforcements atop the ridge; she raises her hands very slowly out of her jacket revealing they hold nothing. The single man remaining in the cart drops his weapons, while the one on the horse jerks the reigns to turn his mount around and begin riding back towards Gate Pass.

Rantle lifts an eyebrow at the retreating horseman but shrugs in defeat, "Well, then... it seems we already have someone to deliver a message to the rest of your Black Horse traitors, thief..." He gestures at her with his axe, "Why don't you come down and tell me why we should let you live, hm?"

The rebel lowers the axe but keeps a firm grip on the horse's reigns. With whistle and a beckoning palm, he waves down the party at the top of the hill to descend. Able looks positively giddy, "Can you believe it?! We won and we barely did anything! No one told me that war was so easy!" He giggles, hefts one of the rolled up tent packs over his shoulder and leaps down the bluff's cliff face.

As the two new captives descend from the wagon, Rantle offers Hákon a length of rope, "Search them. Bind their wrists - hands in front. And remind me what the penalty for theft is in our city."

[Greymane]

Must must have been overeager. That must have been it. Nearly an entire season without a decent battle, and when one finally appears, he ends it immediately. The orc's skull caving in at the force of his blow had a delightfully nostalgic quality to it. Krog'mar had not been one of the veterans who had fought his kin in the north. He might have known better than to use force against him if he had. At least he had done as Rantle asked, and made it quick. And he approved, judging by his raucous laughter.

Just after the orc warrior had fallen, he knew he'd have to engage the rest of them. He readied himself to charge the people on the wagon, but before he could take a single step, a low, bass-pitched shout erupted from that direction, followed by a red beam of fire from the top of the hill. It missed the bowman by mere inches, but the following explosion of sound certainly didn't.

After their wise surrender, Hákon couldn't help but be a little disappointed. However, with Regesia's forces not far away, it was only a matter of time before he got to use his arms for more than scaring people. With the battle concluded, he looked down at the orc's body one more time, and spoke solemnly in giant. "<You died in battle. There is no greater honor.>"

Hákon almost balks as he's offered the small rope from Rantle, but he grasps it in his large hands nonetheless. He pulls a small length of it taut, and grins at their captives. This was going to be like threading a needle with mole hair. At Rantle's question, he keeps his gaze fixed on the mercenaries. "Thieves..." He starts with emphasis. "Lose their hand."

Seeing no rush at the moment, he takes his time in searching them, and then with binding their wrists together in the front, not wanting to overlook anything or make a mistake.

Hákon takes a 20 on both Searching the mercenaries and then with his Use Rope check to bind them.

This makes his Search check a 22, and his Use Rope a 20. Any weapons he finds he tosses aside on the ground out in the open. If he finds a dagger or something like it, he keeps one for himself.

[Redshaw]

On the man, Hákon finds a shortbow and quiver with ten arrows, two daggers, a shortsword, a sap and a purse with ten silver pieces. He is wearing studded leather armor underneath a set of cold weather gear. Beneath the woman's floor-sweeping jacket, Hákon finds four throwing axes, a shortsword, a sap, two thunderstones and a purse with five gold pieces. On the inside of lining of her jacket are six pockets of varying shapes, two of which are occupied with a wand and a potion. Even the half-jotunn can tell that the leather, while mundane and useless for protection, is of particularly fine craft. She wears a chain shirt.

As her hands are bound, the woman scowls and spits on Hákon. Rantle chuckles heartily and steps forward to gently stroke the prisoner's cheek with the flat of his ax blade. "Who paid you?" he asks gently. She sneers and turns her head away. Rantle responds by backhanding the exposed cheek hard with gauntleted hand. "WHO PAID YOU?" he asks again, a little less gently. The woman cries in pain (http://www.sounddogs.com/sound-effects/104/mp3/429915_SOUNDDOGS__sc.mp3) and shies away from her inquisitor, but it is the man next to her who speaks. "A... a Jägaren. Human. Named Guthwulf." The woman has begun shaking, eyeing Rantle's ax anxiously. The rebel smiles cheerfully, "There. That was not so difficult was it?"

He sighs and turns to face the billowing plume of smoke rising in the West to contemplate before speaking, "It occurs to me that you two are not only thieves... by stealing these, you have declared yourselves enemies of the city; strangers in my home. By taking these supplies, you might as well have slit the throats of a hundred men and women and children yourselves.." He turns to stare at the two prisoners with a maddened stare now, "There is only one suitable punishment for such villains..."

The stare continues and he allows the two to twist at the thought of the unsaid, but perfectly understood. He smiles once again, showing off an ever-changing temperament, "However... you did not succeed and you volunteered information without much resistance. I would like to think that I am a gracious man. You have commited two crimes... but you need only be punished for one. Which do you choose?

He points the ax at the woman and stares expectantly. Using her bound hands to rub her rapidly bruising cheek, the woman glances from her companion to Rantle, she sobs and quitely whispers, "...thievery. I accept judgement for theft."

The rebel nods with a little too much cheerful enthusiasm, "As you wish!" He pulls a desiccated stump out from the assembled barricade and plants it in front of the woman. Coming behind her, he kicks the back of her knees, forcing her to kneel and gestures to Hákon to pull the rope taught so that both her arms and hands are laid flat out on the face of the stump. The woman stares up in confusion and fear at Rantle, "But... " Rantle cuts her off before she can protest any further. "You stole two things my dear. The supplies, of course. But also hope. The hope of a people who face an army of ten thousand crazed, maniacal earth-worshipers who would rape our women, enslave our children, and slaughter our sons and fathers; all this not for the gods, but in the name of a half-man who is cold and dead in the ground." He practically spits as his speech grows in volume and animation before it comes to a climax. "Two thefts," He shouts in her face, raising middle and index fingers, "Two hands." The woman immediately cries in horror at the judgment and in a panic, attempts to wriggle free from the bonds, but they are fastly tightened about her small wrists.

The red-headed war hero now comes to stare pointedly at Jerid, after he's descended from the bluff. Silently, he offers the farmer his ax. The implication is obvious.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid carefully descended the bluff once the battle was over. He could hear Rantle interrogating the prisoners, but had a hard time making out what was said while, at the same time, trying to keep himself from tumbling head over heels to the bottom. As he reached the bottom, he saw the woman, confused and with both her hands pulled taught on a stump, with Rantle shouting in her face.

"You stole two things my dear. The supplies, of course. But also hope. The hope of a people who face an army of ten thousand crazed, maniacal earth-worshipers who would rape our women, enslave our children, and slaughter our sons and fathers; all this not for the gods, but in the name of a half-man who is cold and dead in the ground. Two thefts. Two hands."

So they were to be punished for thievery. An odd choice. Jerid was certain Rantle was going to execute them. It was even more surprising when Rantle offered Jerid his axe. He didn't know whether to be flattered at Rantle's trust or repulsed that he would have to perform the grisly deed. The thought made him uneasy, and it showed on his face, but he quickly fought that off, took the axe, and approached the kneeling woman.

Jerid couldn't help but glare at the woman. How dare she threaten his home and family. He couldn't agree more with what Rantle said about her. She stole the hope from his people, and therefore deserved everything that was about to happen to her. Seeing her sobbing before him brought a sort of grim satisfaction for what he was about to do. Oh yes, she deserved all of this.

As he began to raise the axe, another thought started to nag away at his mind. This was a woman, tied, and helpless before him. Where was the honor in this? He thought he heard a voice in his head, that of his father speaking to him many years ago, "Never dishonor a woman, Jerid," he could hear him say, "They can be the greatest gifts the gods can give you. Respect them, honor them, treat them well, and they will do the same for you."

Jerid's arms hesitated as the thoughts continued. How could he say that? This woman brought dishonor upon herself, and there were many others like her. They were not uncommon, and they faced every punishment that men did. Why would his father say this to him? He had to know it didn't apply to all. However, it wasn't as if his words were false. He remembered how his father treated his mother. He treated her well, very well, and she never forgot it. She who was always understanding, always forgiving, even when they had their rough moments. Jerid looked down again at the woman struggling to free herself, the fear readily apparent in her eyes. He wondered what his parents would think if they were here to see this. His mother, at least, would be appalled, and he realized that cutting this woman's hands off may not be a dishonor to her, but it would dishonor his mother, and Jerid couldn't bear to do that.

It took Ankou to break him out of his reverie. The urging was simple: stop daydreaming and cut her hands off. He realized that he had been standing there with the axe raised for much longer than he had anticipated. "Rantle, I...," he said lowering the axe, "...I-I can't do it." Reluctantly, he tossed the axe aside, adding, "I won't do it."

[Greymane]

Hákon begins tossing the armaments into a pile nearby, though taking the short sword and 'sheathing' it in his belt for himself. He even removes their armor, but allows them their warm clothing. He adds a lecherous smirk and a light chuckle when taking the woman's armor off. Defeat was always demeaning, more so for women.

When he came to the woman's armaments, he couldn't hide the surprise on his face when he found the throwing axes. Hákon assumed daggers for her, but her weapon of choice was stronger than her male compatriot's. "A shame you didn't get to use these, kona, these are weapons of a warrior." He took her finely crafted coat as well, while too big for him, perhaps one of his number might find use for it. He threw it in a separate pile with the armor. Binding her hands was a little more colorful, as she finally showed some spirit and spit on him. He thought about hitting her for it, but he'd allow her the defiance for now. "Careful, kona, you don't want to make it tempting for us to sell you as a pleasure slave."

Rantle's interrogation peaked Hákon's interest, though. He hated Jägaren. They had slain Álfdís, the vǫlva who had taken charge of his education when he stayed with his giant kin. Among many others. Any who called upon magic seemed particularly vulnerable to them. Guthwulf was not a familiar name to him, though.

Things took a strange turn as Rantle had the thieves select what they wanted to be punished for. With binding up their hands as they had, Hákon thought they were going to return them to town for an official trial. Metting out justice here and now seemed a bit strange. Was he toying with them? He recalled Asgeir offering to let some female captives go if they agreed to lie with him. He would kill them afterwards.

"You stole two things my dear. The supplies, of course. But also hope. The hope of a people who face an army of ten thousand crazed, maniacal earth-worshipers who would rape our women, enslave our children, and slaughter our sons and fathers; all this not for the gods, but in the name of a half-man who is cold and dead in the ground."

"Two thefts," Rantle shouted in her face, raising middle and index fingers, "Two hands."

Or maybe he hated them so much he wanted them to suffer. Definitely not something Hákon would do, but that's a matter of preference. They'd certainly earned this treatment. A look of doubt graced his face for only a moment, as he pulled the rope taught as instructed by the red-haired warrior. Understanding dawns on him as Rantle offers his axe to Jerid. He wanted to test the lad. See what his character was.

Jerid tossed the axe aside, after a few moments of a terrified woman squirming underneath the shadow of it. Hákon liked the farmer.

[Redshaw]

http://37.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m8ge3q6DIC1ryab2so1_500.jpg

Rantle sighs with disappointment, striding over to pluck the ax up off the ground. He steps toward Jerid, ax gripped, his hands lifting to take the farmer's cheeks in both palms. Jerid feels the cold flat of the ax blade stinging against his face as its owner's green eyes peer deeply into his own. A few moments pass like this, the extremist staring as deeply as he may into Jerid's eyes, searching for who knew what, before eventually he releases his grasp to step back. "You have your father's eyes, he says simply before turning around and chopping the ax downward, cleanly severing the woman's hands at the wrist. Blood splatters across the wooden stump and stains the purity of the white snow. The woman offers gutteral crying as she curls onto the ground, binding rope slipping off her stumps.

It occurs to you now that, in Gate Pass, these two would be considered war criminals, according to custom. It would be the duty of every civilian to either capture or kill these thieves. If turned over to the law, there would be no trial; there would only be an execution. After all, it is war time. Though there is no legal precedent for torture.

Able grows immediately green-faced, glancing nervously at Rantle and then to his compatriots; the question he has is unsaid but obvious: is this right? If Rantle notices the wizard's queasiness, he does not show it. Instead he points the blood-baptized ax head at the remaining prisoner, unsaid question once again put forth. The prisoner stares at the woman writhing on the ground with a pale face but neutral expression. He then looks at Rantle and tilts his chin up proudly, chest puffing before responding, "...I choose death."

Rantle smiles, not sadistically, but compassionately. He steps forward to clasp the thief's shoulders as though he were a comrade. "What is your name?" he asks. "Bimfur," replies the prisoner. Rantle nods his head and steps back to take a position near the stump. Bimfur follows, keeping his head upward and forcing himself to smile. "Bare witness, brothers, Rantle bellows ceremoniously, "Though he led a life of dishonor, he has chosen to die a man with faith in his heart." Bimfur comes to stand before the stump and then kneels. Rantle offers the flat of his ax blade toward the man's face, who bows to willingly kiss the cold metal. Rantle then offers a dagger to the man; no one may enter Ysgard unless they die with weapon in hand. Bimfur takes the dagger with both hands and clutches it with all his strength against his chest. "May Dáin and the All-Father see your bravery, Bimfur. And may Death grant you Ysgard." Cold tears begin running down Bimfur's cheeks, but he does not sob. The doomed man lays his face against the blood-dampened stump and Rantle takes a position for a clean stroke. The executioner looks around, capturing the eyes of each of his companions, "For his sake, do not look away. He goes to meet the gods." And with that, the large man lifts his ax and brings it down swiftly. There is a wet thump and Bimfur's head rolls off into the snow.

Were it not for the still-bleeding woman's sobbing, silence would fill the canyon. Rantle stains the tips of his index and middle finger's with Bimfur's blood, seeping from the corpse's neck, and draws a crimson line across the brow of his forehead, speaking a quiet prayer to himself.

Able looks to be in the verge of losing his breakfast. Borg, however, grunts and lifts a hand to point toward the Western sky. All now notice what he sees: a triangular black dot in the sky. It might be an eagle, were it not so large. It must be miles away.

You recognize this from your first encounter with a Ragesian show of force. Wyvern-riders are an elite division of Ragesian soldiers used as both advanced scouts and shock-troopers in combat. The mounts are a horrifying foe and the riders themselves are exceedingly dangerous in martial combat. Though it's difficult to see at this distance, you feel in your heart as though this is the identity of the distant intruder.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid could only look on in horror as Rantle severed the woman's hands. He knew this was a possibility, and he knew Rantle's reasoning. Yet, as he watched the scene unfold before him, he felt something break. He was no stranger to violence. He had protected his home from the odd brigand and wild animal, and he'd even see his father slay a man to defend their home. He knew criminals deserved punishment. But this? There was no honor in is, be they war criminals or not.

It took a moment for Jerid to finally break from his stupor. That is, once he noticed that the woman was bleeding out on the snow. "No. No, no, no-no-no. What have you done?!" He rushed forward trying to do anything he could to stop the bleeding.

Attempting a raw Heal check [roll0]

As Rantle finishes executing the other prisoner, a cold fury becomes evident on Jerid's face. "You heartless, hypocritical, cretin. You offer her to suffer only the sentence for thievery and instead you give her death."

[Greymane]

Hákon's hand snaps back as the rope he was holding gives way as the woman's hands are severed. They dangle for a moment before the giant drops them into the snow. He grunts and unties his handiwork from around the grisly hands and lets them lie. If the woman lived, she would never have a normal life again. It would have been better for her to have died in battle. Krog'mar's fate was to be envied now.

The next captive wisely chose to die immediately. Wandering the mountain with no hands and bleeding to death must have seemed the worse of the two punishments. Hákon folded his arms stared into the eyes of a doomed man. All of this ceremony over the execution of prisoners reminded him of home, only those were sacrifices. These were punishments. Rantle loves the gods, maybe even considered himself to be doing their work. He wondered if that was how the man would justify atrocities- should he ever commit them.

The half-giant watches Bimfur's head roll away from his body, and listened to Jerid's protests. Their business. Now, Hákon had his own grim work to perform. He pulled out the short sword he had taken from their captives, and went to the fallen orc's body, and plunged it into his chest. He needed his heart.

It's then that he notices the dark, familiar shape in the sky. He curses in giant, and leaps from his position, dashing to where he had placed their spoils and grabbing them. "Vi måste gå! We must leave right now! We have no rocks and no jötunn! That winged beast will be on us if it sees us, and we must return to the city!" He takes their spoils and throws them into the cart. An offering to Thrym would have to wait. Hákon hoped he understood.

[Redshaw]

As Jerid successfully staunches the arterial blood spurts emptying out from the woman's wrists, Rantle claps his hands in applause. " Ha! So you do have some fighting spirit." The man wags his finger as though the farmer were some pet that had misbehaved, "We must still wonder if you have no appetite for this work, but at least you are not apathetic."

Able rushes to Jerid's side, attempting to aid the man in sustaining the woman's life, "We can lift her into the cart..." Borg, who has descended the bluff as well, has begun searching the bodies of the dead, removing armaments and weapons. Rantle spits onto the snow, "Why bother? Not only is she a coward; she is a dead woman anyway. She would be hung by the neck from the portcullis if we took her back, as a gift for kindly Vöra and a warning for our future besiegers." The alleged cretin turns to face the distant drake, "...if, however, you are earnest in your altruism, Jerid, her best chances would be for the Ragesians to find her." Rantle strokes his beard and a smile splits his face, "...in fact, that may be suitable. This way they might know that it is not helpless peasants and craftsmen they fight, but an entire city of skalds and shieldmaiden. They might even let her live... or they might feed her to the lindwyrm." He gestures toward the West as he speaks. "The Jägare are not famous for their pity.

He turns to Jerid and shrugs, "Her fate is in your hands, son of Sigimund. End her suffering now or extend it; make your decision swiftly. It is as Hákon says: we must avoid the lindwyrm and make haste for Gate Pass." Rantle leaps up into the cart and so does Hundur the wolf. Borg, after throwing his ransacked claims from the dead into the wagon, takes the remaining horse - the one which bore Krog'mar. Lotho licks at the blood in the snow idly for a few moments before taking flight above the wagon. Able looks to Jerid for direction, "...this... this isn't right. Is it? What do we do? Gabal never said anything like this would happen."

The woman shivers and whimpers helplessly in Jerid's arms, her skin pale and covered in sweat. Though the bleeding has stopped, she seems barely able to respond to stimulus, shock and pain overloading her system.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid had no idea what a lindwyrm was, and at this point he didn't care. All that mattered was keeping her alive. "Help me lift her into the cart," he motions for Able to help him. For Jerid, there wasn't even a choice in the matter, "I'm taking her with us, and the city doesn't need to know about her. As far as they're concerned she's a common thief who has already paid for her crimes. What possible harm can she do to the city now? Besides, they seem to be in the habit of pardoning thieves," he would say this, giving Rantle a none-too-friendly stare. His meaning is obvious.

"As for the Ragesians," Jerid would say trying to lift the woman into the cart, "they already know we're not helpless. We drove them out, after all. A wounded mercenary lying in the snow is not going to intimidate them, and if you don't believe me, perhaps you should ask some. We are traveling with two of them."

Provided that Able helps, Jerid would lie her down where it seems the most comfortable. He has no idea how to treat shock, and therefore wouldn't think to do anything else. However, he would offer his own cloak as an extra precaution against the cold, even though she is still in her own cold weather clothing. He'll roll for saves against the cold.

[Redshaw]

Rantle shrugs indifferently, taking reigns in hand as the woman's shivering body is loaded into the cart, "As you wish, master Jerid. My quarrel with the bitch was severed with her hands."

Able lifts her into the cart with Jerid, but immediately steps away grimacing as he notices the blood which stained his robes during the process. It takes some fancy horsemanship to guide the wagon about in the narrow canyon, but the thief guides them like an old farmhand.

Able struggles to lift himself into the cart, falling on the first attempt and covering his rump in snow. He is successful on his second try, though he is clumsy in mounting. Hundur licks the half-elf on the cheek when he falls prone next to the wolf.

Bringing the cart about the corner of the canyon and out of immediate sight of the lindwyrm, Rantle peers back, "It is a day's travel to Gate Pass. Forgive me, Hákon, I do not think there is room for you in the cart now." Borg, mounted on his new horse, keeps a position about fifty feet toward the rear of the wagon so that he might spot any followers.

Able catches Jerid's eye and speaks quietly, though not so silently that everyone else cannot hear, "What's a lyndworm? And what are we going to do with her? Rantle says she'll hang. How do we get her past the gate? There were so many guards. By the gods, what if they hang us too?! They might think we're helping her. By the gods! We are helping her!" As the half-elf works himself into a panic, the wagon-driver begins singing a song to himself as much to everyone else. It is a slow-paced and lonely song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T55qGY4qNCo).

It becomes apparent that the once clear, beautiful sky you greeted the day with has since grown overcast with gray clouds and whipping winds that speed through the canyons of the mountains. Snow begins to fall, delicately landing in place or melting on your heads and shoulders. The dreadful weather does little to improve the mood of anyone.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid tried to be strong, but eventually he began to shiver, having given his cloak as a blanket to cover the woman. "You don't have to continue to help if you don't want to, Able," he would say, trying to stop the wizard from panicking, "I won't blame you if you denied ever helping her, but for what it's worth...thank you. You've been far kinder than I would've expected, and you didn't have to be." He gives a small laugh as a thought comes to mind, "I never thought I'd be saying that to a Gabalist." He starts to rub his hands in an attempt to keep warm, especially once the winds pick up. "I'll take responsibility for her. You do what you think is best. As for your first question: I have no idea what a lyndworm is."

Survival: [roll0]
Fort vs Cold (if necessary): [roll1] (+4 if Survival is successful)

[Redshaw]

Able blushes in the face of Jerid's compliment, "No. You are right. She is our responsibility now."

Rantle sighs dramatically and glances back at his companions, Jerid in particular. "I would remind you that this thief did not steal a loaf of bread or wheel of cheese to feed a starving family. She did not lighten the load of a fat, greedy merchant to clothe a naked man. She did not kidnap babe magicians, such as kind Able, to make the world a safer place." As he speaks, his voice raises in volume, but not in anger so much as in emphasis; he speaks well, with passion and from the heart. Reigns in one hand, he uses the other to lift a corner of the tarp, revealing the payload: crates. "Elixers, Jerid. Staves and wands. Arms of mystical power. Tools with which to fight the venomous lyndworms and the rock-hurling jotunn and the bloodrage berserkers and the undying mammoths and the stone-crumbling firebombs and the mage-hunting Jägare and the dragons." He hisses this last word for emphasis, "In a blizzard she would have stolen our bear skins and wind shields. In a famine she would have stolen your very family's tills and grain seeds." He turns to refocus on driving the cart.

Able glances at Rantle and then back to Jerid for direction. The man's words appear to have affected and even shaken the wizard, "...I don't... I want to help, Jerid. I really do, but..." He swallows and very pointedly looks away from Jerid, "...maybe..." The thought is not voiced, but the question is obvious. Able's resolve is deserting him.

[Greymane]

Hákon grunts and nods in affirmation at Rantle. No, he wouldn't be able to travel on the wagon. A gift of heritage. The spoils having been thrown into the wagon, the fire-haired warrior turned the wagon around, took off down the road. The half-giant followed, managing to keep pace by virtue of his longer strides. Seeing Able fall off the horse would have normally elicited a chuckle from him, but he eyes the sky continually, more worried about the venomous winged beast there. He had seen them before, and while his giant-kin were able to fight them off spectacularly well, he was not as skilled in hurling boulders and rocks as his brethren. Fighting one in these conditions would be difficult. He pulls a javelin out and holds it; it was no boulder, but it would have to do.

Hákon was having a difficult time understanding Jerid's desire to save the woman. She had her chance to surrender the cart peaceably, and she received a punishment fitting for her crimes. Its execution was perhaps a little more cruel than necessary, but that hardly mattered. Far worse things could have been meted out to her in a time of war. Was it pity, perhaps? Or perhaps his resolve for violence was weak? He did manage to miss in their battle. Perhaps it was not an accident? If that's the case, he is squandering his gifts.

At Able's wavering resolve, Hákon's frustration finally peaked. "Stop it, elfling." He spoke haltingly. "At least have the courage to stand by your convictions. Going back and forth is cowardice of character. As strange as his stance is, at least the farmer has strength to stand by his beliefs." The giant then faces Jerid. "You're bringing only trouble with you, farmer. She stole, she was caught, and she was punished for her crimes. We live, and die, with the consequences of our actions. The skalds will not sing of you heroically returning with a wounded thief, alive because you took pity with only her own choices to blame." He turned his gaze back towards the sky. "I hope you understand what you'll be returning home to with this decision."

He keeps his gaze fixed on the sky, and addresses Able again. "And a lyndwyrm, elfling, is a great winged beast, with scales as hard as steel, and talons as sharp as blades. Its barbed tail strong enough to pierce the strongest of armor, and is quite venomous." He turns to the elven mage. "Some say they are related to mighty dragons."

[PersonofJid]

Jerid doesn't even bother to meet Rantle's glance, "Then you should have executed her. Her crime demanded it, and I would not have objected. However, if you feel like you can give a criminal like her mercy by sparing her that fate, then I can do likewise."

He does meet Hákon's eye, however, and nods in understanding. "I know. Believe me, I do, but I couldn't leave her to die. If I did, I felt I would've dishonored my family, and what Jägare would spare a mercenary who failed in their charge and was rendered useless? I'll admit, I pity her, but it felt like the right thing to do."

He reaches out and removes the red cloth emblazoned with the black horse from the woman's clothing. He stares at it for a few seconds before throwing it away. "A little kindness goes a long way. Saving her life could be the one thing that will change her for the better."

[Redshaw]

Able shrinks in the face of Hákon's lecture, sinking into his robes as deeply as he may. "I... I'm sorry..." is all he can muster in response.

Jerid's riposte, surprisingly, earns no heart-felt speech or patronizing lesson from Rantle. The man seems content to let the argument drop and soon the commute falls into silence. As the hours slip by, the weather only grows worse; rolling cloud blot out the sun and the pitch-colored pillar of smoke to the West disperses into the air, creating a polluting smog that becomes trapped underneath the thick cloud cover. Though they are miles behind you, the wretched stink of an army camp fills your noses and seeps into your pours. No songs are sung and no stories are shared to help the time pass; the day is drudgery.

At one point, the monotony of the traverse is broken by the blood-curdling roar (https://www.sounddogs.com/sound-effects/26/mp3/214313_SOUNDDOGS__dr.mp3)of something horrible and reptilian. The sound causes the wagon's horse to stir nervously and Rantle tugs on the reigns himself so that he might look back. He sees what you all see: unwelcoming dark skies and distant flashes of lightning, but nothing with wings.

Ten hours pass, yet it feels as though it has been ten days by the end of them. But, ten days or ten hours, your travel eventually comes to an end.


http://www.wallpapers4desktop.net/_ph/8/2/2458686.jpg

You find some relief in staring at the walls of Gate Pass. The city, from the outside, is imposing; its walls are massive and thick, armed guards patrolling all along its battlements and ballistae and catapults permanently festooned into architecture. Besides the wall itself, the road leading to its gate is harsh and narrow, craggy outcroppings and cliffs making it impossible for formed ranks to march against the city. How could any army, even an army of ten thousand men, march against this wall? But then again, it was been done before. Chunks of the wall were still missing from the last siege, though repairs have continued daily in the last forty years since the city's first occupation.

Humans didn't always live in Gate Pass; it was common knowledge that the dwarves constructed the city over a thousand years ago, its massive walls designed to withstand rampaging hordes of goblins, giants and orcs. Nobody knows what happened to the reclusive dwarves that built the incredibly fortified city, but there are theories that its tall walls could do little against the irresistable breath of fierendraken - the red dragons who descended to steal the vast wealth the dwarves harvested from the depths of the Jotun-Tooth mountains. Today, the mines have long since been sealed, the fierendraken are nowhere to be found and the only thing that remains of the dwarves is the beautiful architecture and the mostly harmless ghosts that appear to haunt the city's new residents from time to time. Children of the city spend a fair amount of their time exploring the nooks and cracks of the city, seeking out entrances to the mines below where it is rumored that a dragon's ransom of gold is hidden.

A high-pitched screech (http://soundbible.com/1517-Screaming-Hawk.html) above you captures your attention and you are treated to a view of three gryphon-riders, the city's proud vanguard, flying over the walls on a patrol. Customarily, it is a good luck to have a gryphon fly over your head in Gate Pass (and even luckier to receive a gift of excrement from one).


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As you approach the city, you are halted by the picket men some several yards down from the main entrance. "Halt," he commands, clad in armor that has not been polished in some time. He approaches cautiously, spear in hand, before smiling in recognition. "...I see." The smile broadens more widely and he turns to wave back at the fellow guardsmen, "The Resistance strikes again!" There is a small cheer in response; luckily, these are the same guards whom were on post the previous night, aware of your mission and all to eager to see your return. They share their rations and their congratulations with you all, begging that you stay and tell the tale of how the supplies were recovered. Rantle politely declines the requests, claiming the necessity for a speedy delivery. Some of the guards cast wary eyes at the sight of the pale, but breathing woman in the cart, but are too happy to see your return to question it.

Before you enter the city, Rantle retrieves a sack of what can only be a generous amount of coinage and tosses it to Borg, who still remains mounted on the horse. The tracker catches it, lifts the sack in recognition of Rantle, and then turns to ride off into the mountains, Hundur following closely behind.

As you come close to the walls, you all feel senses of electric warmth fall over your bodies; though you are unable to detect the nature of this sensation, you feel as though you are passing through several magical protection layers before being granted access. You enter the gates to find yourself in the Western most section of the city. In peace time, this is a relatively busy district, littered with cheap vendors and poorly trained street performers, eager to greet and liberate coin from passer-throughs. But this is not peace time and the square is littered with soldiers, equipment and moving wagons. It occurs to you now that tomorrow is New Year's Eve and, traditionally, the Festival of Dreams. In all years before this, the square would be adorned with colorful kites, painted pottery intended for wish-holding and sugar-coated breads. But not this year; it will be the coldest, dreariest Festival of Dreams in nearly half a century.

Rantle turns in his seat, capturing the attention of all still remaining with the cart, "You've done well. All of you... he stares at Jerid as he says this last part. "All was achieved and more. The spoils from the battle are yours to take and barter as you wish. Tonight and tomorrow are yours to do with as you will, but I have another mission for the three of you." His voice lowers now, eyes glancing to the left and right conspiratorially, "Be at the Poison Apple Pub tomorrow, an hour before midnight."

You know the Poison Apple Pub is a tavern found three districts in from the Western wall. It was owned by a man named Trehan, who was taken under the protection of the city guard, until such a time he might be questioned by the "representatives" of the Ragesian Empire, and found innocent of hostile collusion. Upon his arrest, his wife sent their children to live with friends in the countryside, while she herself took up arms with the Resistance.

Legally, Gate Pass is an ally of the Ragesian Empire, and there are those among your government who openly welcome the coming occupation force. Seeds have been let in and the Jägare have a small, but influential political grip on the city.

Withe exception for students of Gabal's school and ordained clerics, spell-casters are legally considered "invalids" within city walls.

Rantle glances at the wounded woman still in his cart, "...and deal with her, Jerid. I hope I don't have to warn you against bringing her tomorrow night..." Despite the gravely worded caution, Rantle smiles and then slaps the reigns of his wagon so that it might begin moving again.

It is evening and the night is yours.

[Greymane]

Hákon nods his head and gives a neutral grunt as a response to Jerid. Allowing the conversation to die there. The lad was naive. He'll learn soon enough, and it wasn't going to be Hákon who dragged him into the light of understanding. He doesn't even acknowledge Able response. The elfling was young, too. Locked inside of a tower to learn magic apparently didn't leave much time to learn about the world around it.

The journey was long a dull. The trek was easier on the road, but Hákon found himself going through more water than he would've liked. He supplemented his waterskin with snow occasionally. A potentially lethal practice to someone without his ancestry to ward off cold, and not something he would attempt if they were further north.

The reptilian roar sets him immediately on edge, and he grips his javelin even tighter, scanning the skies for its source. Finding nothing leaves him both disappointed and paranoid. The rest of the journey is a boring mess of drudgery. The atmosphere wasn't even good for singing. They won, they succeeded in their mission. And yet the quivering mess of a thief in the wagon punctuated the whole journey with uncertainty and anxiety.

At seeing the city of Gate's Pass, his heart stirred. The unwelcoming sight it gave from the approach always made him smile. It wasn't the sort of defenses his kin would ever create. His human tribe would always move away from danger, and the giants had no need for large steel or stone walls. In truth, it was reminiscent of something the perfidious dwarves would create, or perhaps the sons of Surtr. Either way, it was a testament to what even the small races were capable of. He tried to imagine giants attacking such a fortification, and could only see failure. Hearing the winged gryphons screeching above their heads, they seemed the least threatening to giants. Hákon really wanted to know what they tasted like after being cooked over a spit, though. Bird? Or big cat? Perhaps both.

At the joyous greeting from the guards, Hákon's face finally breaks into a grin. Finally a good mood is to be had. As Borg is payed and leaves, the half-giant offers him a respectful nod. They never spoke, but Hákon now decided he liked his bearing.

Being given free reign over the spoils, and the freedom of the night, Hákon takes the throwing axes and the purse with five gold coins, tucking the gold into his pack, and leaving the axes on his belt for now. He continues grinning and gives both Jerid and Able hardy slaps on the back. "He's right, we did well! Celebrate tonight! War on the horizon, and diminished festival is no reason not to drink your fill after a good raid!" be chuckles gregariously as he leaves their company for now.

Hákon is going to first look for weapons merchants, if any still exist in the town, anyone who's been to the north. He's hoping (likely in vain), that he'll find weapons sized for a giant. Regardless of success or failure, his next stop is the One to Go.

[PersonofJid]

The argument seemed to have come to a close. Jerid was grateful. He had either made his point or the others didn't think it worth it to argue anymore. Either way, it didn't matter. They weren't going to talk about it anymore.

Jerid didn't mind the silence so much. It was the wind coupled with the cold that made the journey miserable. Upon hearing the blood-curdling roar, he felt that he might get a chance to move and warm himself, but was only met with disappointment when nothing appeared. This was going to be a long trip.

Seeing the gate to Gate Pass brought little comfort. He had passed this way many times; the grandeur of the fortifications having lost their wonder. Instead they brought a sense of dread. What was he going to do about the woman? How would he explain what happened, if they asked? What would Rantle try to do? In the end, he figured he would have to face the consequences of this action, whatever it might be. Fortunately, the guards didn't pay the woman much mind. However, Jerid's heart skipped a beat when they asked to hear the tale of their success. He readied himself to face whatever happened, but Rantle insisted they keep moving. The hero's action took Jerid completely by surprise. Whatever their disagreement, it seemed Rantle was willing to respect Jerid's decision.

Jerid only nods at Rantle's dismissal. He may respect the man, but that didn't mean he had to like him. He removes the woman from the cart and sets her down before dividing up his share of the spoils. Jerid takes the chain shirt, the two thunderstones, the woman's long coat, and the potion, leaving the rest for Able. Hákon's slap nearly causes him to drop everything, and he hastily secures the thunderstones lest they fall and accidentally detonate. "I'll do my best, Hákon, but I don't think I'll have much time for celebration." As he picks up the woman, he nods a farewell to both Hákon and Able, "Until tomorrow."

About the time Jerid is out of sight of his companions, he quietly laments over the dreary state of the city. The Festival of Dreams was always his favorite time of the year. Though he doubted his urn would ever be opened, it was still something to look forward to. That, at least, gave him some comfort. The city needed something to take it's mind off the coming war. Any festival, even a bleak one, is still better than having no festival at all. As he thinks this, his thoughts turn to the woman in his arms. Here was a soul who could not participate in the festivities. No hands means no means to write a dream and put it in an urn. He felt another wave of pity tug away at his heartstrings, and he silently cursed himself. "Maybe Hákon is right. Maybe Rantle is right. Maybe I am being too soft-hearted." Still...no one should be left out of a festival. Least of all, this one. Another kind deed wouldn't hurt. He can harden his heart tomorrow after the celebrations are over.

"Woman," he says as he tries to get her attention, "What is your name?" His voice is kind and sincere, "...and what is your dream?"


Jerid will look for anyone willing to buy the thunderstones and the chain shirt, then he will head to the nearest temple of Pelor. If there isn't one, then he'll go to the nearest temple of any good aligned deity, or to Olidammara, whichever is closer. He'll pay for whatever care is needed to treat her shock and whatever else she is suffering from due to losing her hands. He won't ask them to restore her hands, however.

[Redshaw]

You find that merchants, in preparation for wartime, are unwilling to buy armaments of any sort. However, you are led in the direction of an army quarter master who is willing to purchase the goods at a 25% upgrade of the usual bartering price for armor and weapons. If the quartermaster does possess giant-sized weapons, he's not selling any of his stock.


The jacket can be worn over light armor, but not medium or heavy. It is a masterwork garment that holds up to 15 pounds of equipment, and it can hold items of a size similar to light weapons or smaller, including potions and wands. Pulling these items from the jacket does not provoke an attack of opportunity. Hiding an object inside the jacket gains a +4 bonus on the hide check. It weighs 3 pounds.


http://www.enworld.org/ap/gate_pass_no_text.jpg

Hákon, Jerid and Able are all stopped at the interdistrict gates on their way toward the inner portion of the city, each one of them guarded by at least twenty armed men and a sergeant. Hákon is requested to submit to a search of his belongings, though nothing is confiscated. There is some light questioning regarding the wounded woman, but seeing that she is already being tended for, the posts decide not to take on responsibility for her well-being.

As Hákon splits from the group, Able mutters a quiet farewell and makes his own way deeper into the city. He undoubtedly returns to the safety of the war school where he lodges. He leaves you a quieter, more somber wizard, head no longer held high and shoulders sagging. The voyage into the mountains appear to have changed him.

The 'One to Go' is a seedy tavern one interdistrict gate in from the Western most entry gate. It is built against a series of walls paralleling the elvish ghetto of the district. There are three known elf ghettos within the city and though Hákon's typical haunt is in close proximity of one, the giant has never actually seen it. The elves prefer their privacy and isolate themselves by hiding entrances to the ghetto behind secret doors which humans and orcs (and giants, in this case) are aught to not notice.

Hákon may notice that the door has been replaced since his last visit; this one thicker and of better lumber. The tavern itself is lightly populated and even though there is a fire in the hearth, it feels almost as cold inside as it does outside. A trio of elves in shoddy clothes sit in a corner, muttering in their ancient tongue and playing a game with wooden dice. The half-elvish musician who commonly plays in the evening time is nowhere to be found and even red-cheeked Brom, the ever half-drunk barkeep, is sober tonight. He stares at nothing while wiping a glass with a rag foul enough that it might be used to clean a latrine as often as it cleans dishes. Still, Hákon's arrival does bring some cheer to the otherwise dour mood of the bar. Brom forces a smile, "Hákon! Come to drink me out of house and home again, no doubt!" An incredibly bushy eyebrow lifts as he spies the shield on Hákon's back. "I see you brought back the door. I hope you brought enough Emperors to pay for the new one." "Emperor" is a colloquial term for gold currency featuring a profile of Coaltongue; another remnant of the last occupation that the city has ironically embraced as custom.


***

Jerid's question causes the woman to stir. As she does, she gains recovery of her legs and comes to stand, leaning more than a little on the farmer for support. His question washes over her unanswered, perhaps she did not hear or perhaps she did not care to respond. Still, she does not resist the man's guiding efforts.

The church of Mora is not as popular these days as it was before the occupation years ago, though the griffon riders, vanguard of the Gate Pass military, still bear her sun on their tabards. Faith shifted toward a more militant aspect and the churches of the All-Father, Dáin and Sigarda; some might even argue that Kordo has become more popular. Still, the temple to Mora remains tall and in good upkeep, no doubt in thanks to the generous donations from Knights of the Aquiline Cross, who revere sweet Nuala, generous Gylfi and wise Mora as the patrons of their order's altruistic quest.

The Knights of the Aquiline Cross are clerics and paladins who see healing as the best way to fight evil. They cannot refuse using their healing powers to those who ask (though they're not required to heal enemies who have not surrendered). They may be found anywhere, though most often in human-settled lands. Followers of the order who maintain their vow of healing are said to miraculously survive injury, as if they simply do not bleed from seemingly fatal wounds. Knights of the order quest to locate the Aquiline Heart, a healing relic said to have been torn from the chest of a mighty eagle by a fierce dragon.

The temple is found six gates into the city and with each gate, there is less and less military presence. But the streets are nearly empty, covered in snow and ice. There are no decorations, there are no vendors selling hot and sweet drinks, there are no magic shows or musicians. Just the cold and the dread of coming battle.

The temple is a warm difference to the dread outdoors. It is constructed into the side of the city's wall and is quite tall, several bridges from its upper stories connecting with other neighboring buildings. The inside is warm and populated by the homeless and the scared. A young priest, bearing the tabbard of the Aquiline Cross entertains a gaggle of children with a beautific rendition of the age-old fairy tale.


http://www.goldismoney2.com/attachment.php?attachmentid=11824&stc=1&thumb=1&d=1318729631

"Two of the primordial elemental forces, their hunt and chase of each other created the sun and the moon, storms, lightning, thunder, and fire.

For the Dragon, the water’s Kraken was bane, impossible to reach and fight. The Worm of the earth was too simple a foe, completely blind and unable to fight back, too slow to flee. So the dragon fought the Eagle of sky and wind, swift and nimble, soft and hard to grasp.

For the Eagle, both sea and stone proved no sport, barely able to give chase. The Worm was too hard-mantled to be hurt, too lumbering to give chase, too dim to ever be a challenge. The Kraken was trapped in the depths, and was like grass under the wind, always moving, but never damaged. So the Eagle provoked the Dragon of blaze and quickfire, long and sinuous, trailing flame from its whipping tail, its heat able to sear the Eagle’s wings and to bear the Dragon aloft to give chase.

Legend says they flew in chase and pursuit before mankind was born, spanning the world eight times. The Eagle always evaded the Dragon, dancing higher into the clouds than the Dragon’s heat could carry it. But one long day, in a land where the sun’s warmth did not fade, the Dragon’s wile overcame its hunger, and it let the Eagle alone for a day. When the Eagle looked for the Dragon, to see why it would not give chase, it found the serpent sleeping in a molten canyon rift.

The Eagle questioned the Dragon from the clouds above, “Why do you not chase me today? Have our eight flights around the world tired you? I see that you sleep. Perhaps you’re not the challenge I thought you were!” The priest changes his tones and accent to represent the characters. The eagle is feminine and haughty. The dragon, tempestuous but refined, with rolling syllables and bass vobrato.

“You do not know your head from my tail,” the Dragon laughed. “In my chases, I have nipped at you, seared your wingtips, and scalded your belly even when you tried to trick me into the ocean. But never has the opposite been true. I grow bored.”

The Eagle dived under a low anvil cloud to hear better. “What do you mean? I have seen you hungering for a bite of my thigh, a lick of my breast. You have not yet won.” And with that, the Eagle began to wheel away, until it heard the Dragon’s laugh.

“You are not worth pursuit. Where are the wounds on my scales from your talons’ rake? Where do my eyes scar from your bite? I could sooner create warriors to hunt me than expect a challenge from you.” (And this was the Dragon’s only mistake, because with that sentence, it gave the gods the idea to create men, who even to this day do hunt for Dragons.)

The Eagle spun in the air in dismay. “I am not made to fight. My wings are fragile, my tail for swiftness, not made to crush life from prey, or to crack the air with a whiplash.”

The Dragon said, “And that is why I will sleep here until something worth hunting arrives. Perhaps the Kraken will play with you, child.”

The Eagle crackled with thunder in anger. “I am no child! I have claws, and a beak as sharp as the Southern Wind! Lightning strikes at my call, and gales will tear down mountains at my command!”

Finally, the Dragon raised its head, looking at the raging storm surrounding the Eagle. The Dragon lowered its gaze in a shrug. “Yet you still have not harmed me.”

The story-teller pauses to notice Jerid, smiles, and stands to approach him, much to the vocal complaint of his audience. He hushes them and focuses on the woman in Jerid's company, "...I see." He is young, quite young, but his eyes possess a wisdom in them that even a blind man would see. He possesses an angelic beauty, his hair an unearthly shining gold and his eyes as blue as sapphires."Welcome, traveler, to the temple of Pelor." He takes the woman's scabbed wrists in his hands and closes his eyes. As he does so, he continues the story aloud.

With a cry of challenge, the Eagle sent down a stroke of lightning, striking the Dragon’s left arm and spraying magma to the wind. Roaring in pain, the Dragon rose into the air, and the Eagle dove, eager to prove its strength. But the Dragon dodged the Eagle’s claws, and twisted its neck away from the Eagle’s bite. Then the Dragon flew away, carrying its flaming tail close across its own belly. The Eagle gave chase.

Swifter than the Dragon, the Eagle caught up and tried to attack, but always the Dragon would evade an attack, or shove the Eagle out of reach, then fly on, letting the Stormchaser Eagle give chase. Over and again, the Eagle would try and fail to strike a blow upon the Dragon. In its frustration, it shook loose many feathers, which fell across the world as the Eagle tried to wrestle the Dragon.

They crossed the world in the chase, and slowly the Flameset Dragon began to tire, the pain from the Eagle’s first lightning bolt finally having a toll. The Dragon flew back to its lair and dove into a wide tunnel that lead into the earth. The Eagle dove after, sure that the Dragon would soon be too weak to fend it off, but it was only after a long chase deep into the tunnel that it noticed how narrow the tunnel walls were. The Dragon could slither through the passage easily, but the Eagle only barely had enough room to lance its great wings. Afraid of going much deeper, the Eagle gave one last great flap, then pressed its wings to its body and dove for the Dragon. The man's hands have begun to glow and energy shifts from his finger tips into the woman's wrists.

And it was just then that the Dragon let loose its flaming tail.

Unable to dodge, the Eagle flew into the fire, which seared its eyes and blinded it. Before it could turn to flee, the Dragon had its coils wrapped around the Eagle, squeezing out its life. The Eagle’s screams echoed through the tunnels, and with one swift bite, the Dragon tore out the Aquiline Heart. At the first taste of blood upon its tongue, the Dragon felt a great power tingling through its body, giving it strength. Its flesh began to change, and wings began to grow from its back. The Dragon discarded the dying husk of the Eagle, and dropped the still beating heart protectively in its coils, then began to lick the blood from the walls and floor, every moment feeling itself growing stronger.

Then came the rumbling voice of the Worm. “You have killed the Eagle, and now you grow too strong. I can feel it through my skin, and if you do not leave, I shall bring down stone upon you. This is my realm, and none defy me.” The glowing energy dies and as it does, the woman's stumps have collected flesh. Her hands are not restored, but the wounds have sealed. He turns to focus once more on the children, coming to walk among them and touching each of their heads as he speaks.

But the Worm was blind, and with another bite from the heart, the Dragon gained mastery of sound. In the voice of the Eagle it said, “You are mistaken, oh Worm. Our chase simply led us deep into your realm as it never has before. Hear me now, I am well, but if you command it, we will leave.”

The Worm was suspicious, but it could still feel two hearts beating, so it moved to let the Eagle and the Dragon pass back up the tunnel. The Dragon lifted the body of the Eagle, and carefully held the Aquiline Heart in its teeth, then started to leave.

But as the Dragon passed, the Worm said, “You must never fight so dangerously. If one of us were to grow too strong, we would have to destroy that threat. Your fight has endangered the balance. Remember that before you fight again.”

The Dragon left quickly without another word, but it knew that despite the great desire it held for the blood and flesh of the Heart, it could not destroy the Heart, or else the Worm would know, and it and the Kraken would destroy the Dragon. So the Dragon, strong now with its new body, swift as the wind and dangerous as flame, buried the Eagle’s body in a land halfway around the world from its lair. Then the Dragon hid the Aquiline Heart near its lair, but in a place even it would not be tempted to feed upon it.

Then, fearful of its remaining companions, the Worm and the Kraken, the Dragon returned to its lair to sleep, content to bask in its new strength and power."

At the tale's conclusion, the children smile and whisper to one another. The young priest stands, "And so, children, we must remember: much like Emperor Coaltongue, the dragon became the strongest creature in the world. It also teaches us that those with too much power risk being turned upon by those around them. Would that the old Emperor heeded this tale, perhaps he would yet still rule."

The children applaud at the conclusion of the tale, which the priest accepts graciously, bowing generously. The audience then disperses to find their mothers and fathers, who gather at the rear of the temple in prayer and quiet conversation in the intimate coziness of the temple. The priest approaches Jerid and the woman once more, "I apologize for dividing my attention. She has wounds that I cannot heal... and not just her hands, I fear." The woman stares silently forward.

"There is no charge. Dark days approach and I believe that only kindness will see us past them. If you must offer an exchange, there is a collection box at the front."

[PersonofJid]

Jerid more than welcomed the warmth inside the temple. The atmosphere inside, filled with the fearful and the needy, actually gave him hope that he would find help here. He waited patiently, listening in while the priest told the grand tale. It was one Jerid had heard many times before, and he hoped he would get the chance to hear it many more times hence. Everything seemed uncertain right now, but having something familiar helped to ease the tension.

Jerid could only watch and steady the woman as the priest healed her hands, but the priest's comment afterward only served to confuse him. "I don't understand. What other wounds does she have? Is she sick?" His mind frantically tried to think of an explanation. It did not occur to Jerid the other dangers of being so severely injured. It was possible that she contracted some sickness during the journey home. Wounds, even bound ones, could still become infected if not properly treated. The priest could have only healed the wound, but not the disease. Or perhaps it was something else. She had not spoken since the interrogation, and she had been in a delirium during the whole rest of the journey. Did the trauma of losing her hands somehow take away her ability to talk, or was she so emotionally scarred that she had lost her mind? Was it both? "What am I going to do? What more can I do?" Jerid didn't know. He truly, honestly didn't know.

[Redshaw]

The priest smiles generously, reaching out hand with thin fingers and oddly well-manicured nails to touch Jerid. Should the farmer allow it, the contact would instill an almost immediate sense of peace and tranquility within the man, as if all the troubles of the present were eons away. The battle is over, for now. There is nothing left to be done. "Be at peace, sir. You have done all you can. I speak of wounds within." He points to his forehead, "Here." He points to his heart, "And here."

He now gestures toward the temple's entrance, "You may stay here for the night, if you desire, though I imagine more of the flock will gather here as the hour of besiegement approaches. You may be comfortable elsewhere." The woman swallows nervously at the prospect of leaving and mouths a protest, though no words come out. Whatever trauma she suffered in the mountains, it keeps her from speaking aloud now.

"When in doubt," the priest turns and gestures above toward the candlelit carvings of Pelor and his martyrs, permanently and beautifully captured in the architcture of the temple's ceiling. In the center of the temple's ceiling sits a massive, bright orb, unflickering and brilliant - not at all unlike the sun which Pelor holds in his domain."Look to the Gods."

[PersonofJid]

The priest's advice was...oddly comforting. Unnaturally so. However, considering he was looking for comfort, he decided not to worry about it. Maybe that was also a part of the priest's influence; Jerid didn't know. After a minute or so, he realized he was thinking about it too much and decided to just go on.

Jerid arched a brow at the woman's silent protest. She seemed very much awake and alert now. Perhaps it was only her ability to speak. "I think staying here would be best. She doesn't seem to want to leave, and I think she'd be safer here, and more welcome, than anywhere else I can think of." Yes, the thought seemed the most rational. Yet as Jerid looked around, he couldn't help but feel that there had to be something else he could do. The priest gestured towards the center orb, "Look to the Gods," he said, but it was the sight of an urn that caught Jerid's attention. An urn...he hadn't written in his yet. Perhaps the Gods could be of help.

Jerid turned to leave, but stopped as he passed the donation box. Pulling out the money he received after selling his share of the loot (about 105 gp), he donated all of it to the temple. Then returning to the priest, he offered the woman's jacket. "This belongs to her. Please, make sure that she's taken care of." Then, as an afterthought, he removed the necklace that bore Ankou, giving that to the priest as well, "And give her this. I will return for it in the morning."

As he turned to leave once more, he focused his thoughts to his psicrystal, "Ankou, I want you to keep tabs on things while I'm away. Watch over her as you would me. Alert me if there's any danger. I'll be back tomorrow." He could feel the psicrystal's silent affirmation, "Oh," he added before stepping out the door, "Try to learn her name."

Jerid will be travelling to the cave where he found the Trillith. Oh, and just so you know, Ankou isn't powerful enough to move or speak telepathically yet. His method of communication is all through thoughts, feelings, and impressions. Still, he will try to do exactly as Jerid instructed him with single-minded determination.

[Redshaw]

The priest clutches the necklace as though it were a robin's egg and bows deeply before the psion, his left hand forming a symbol of peace by straightening the index and middle fingers, while clenching the remaining, "May the sun always shine on your path, goodsir."

By the time Jerid arrives at the Southern gate, leading to the outlying farms of his family and the caves hidden within the cliffs, night has fallen completely. Jerid finds himself standing before a barred gate with at least forty men patrolling its length and guarding its entrance. It would appear as if the city has closed itself for the night. Not an uncommon practice, especially with looming battle.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid stared at the closed gate and the large number of guards patrolling it. It would seem that his plans would have to wait until morning. Until then, he would have to find a place to spend the night. Fatigue had begun to weigh heavily on him. Yes, sleep sounded very good right now.

Jerid will find the closest inn to rest in for the night. Returning to the temple right now would be too awkward. He has no other business tonight. Tomorrow morning he will return to the temple like he said he would.

[Greymane]

He will sell the throwing axes to the quartermaster, gladly.

Hákon squints his eyes at the wall surrounding the elvish ghetto, on his way to the tavern. Elves were small and fragile, but quick and clever, and their women had an otherworldly but alluring quality to them. He liked the idea of finally spotting one of the ways into their quarter, but it wasn't something he was overly concerned about. He had never dealt much with them, and didn't expect that to change anytime soon. He had difficulty relating to a people who wouldn't laugh at a bawdy joke over some mead, and preferred quiet conversation and wine. Able seemed nice enough, but then he was a mutt, much like Hákon himself was. Perhaps he enjoyed a bawdy joke over some wine.

The One to Go was a seedy tavern, but Hákon's favorite stomping ground. Its reputation for harboring thieves and criminals never bothered him, but maybe that's because he never put much stock in the town's laws themselves. Men will do what they must to get by, and no ordinance, law, or punishment was going to change that unless it wielded enough influence to stop it altogether, either by uniting the people together under complete benevolent rule under a universally loved and respected ruler, or violently snuffing out all thoughts of dissension.

He opened the new door a little rougher than he needed to, but he wanted to check it was as strong as it looked. Satisfied it didn't rip off its hinges, he marches into the tavern. He'd hoped the bard would be here, not only for some good music after a successful raid, but so Hákon could tell him about it, and spread his name and his deeds. Although smashing one orc, even a supposed veteran of the Regesian army, was not much, his story needed to start somewhere in these southern lands.

Hákon grins mischievously at Brom, in spite of the the quiet and somber mood of the tavern itself, as he approaches the bar itself. "Aye, Brom, aye! Though I still think you should get your coin from the carpenter who sold you the first door!" the half-giant pats the his 'shield' as he sets it down next to the bar just before he takes a seat. He reaches to his belt and takes out the coinpurse with five gold coins he liberated in the ambush earlier and sets it on the counter. "I trust this'll be enough for the door and my drinks tonight?" He chuckles.

Cursory spot check to locate an elven ghetto entrance (even though I'm certain a Search would be required)

Perception:[roll0]

[Redshaw]

Brom takes one of the offered coin and bites into it with blackened teeth. Satisfied with the quality of the currency, the man stashes the coins behind the counter and pours a large drinking horn of mead for the giant; the quality of the drink is questionable and might definitely be accused of having been watered down. An hour passes without incident, Brom idly chatting up Hákon and taking care to keep the customer topped off with honeyed wine.

Hákon never hears her approach, but a tug at the belt draws his attention. There is a tiny hand wrist-deep into his pockets, searching for whatever it might find. At the other end of the hand is a face the giant knows only too well. Marna (http://www.skullknight.net/avatars/Isidro.jpg), muddy haired, bruised knees and missing more than a few of her milk teeth. Her hair is cut short to make it difficult to grab and wears pants, which are undoubtedly easier to run in than a dress; to most, she would be easily confused for a boy. She wields a finely kept short sword, which on her small frame is proportionate to a longsword. She offers a gap-toothed grin upwards with all the innocence of an imp.

"Um... hello."


The cursory search finds no doors

[Greymane]

The quality of the drinks were always in question with Brom, but sometimes it's the location, not the drink itself. Going elsewhere for a drink would be more of a hassle for Hákon. Poor drinks was an acceptable trade for better company. And the finer taverns and alehouses usually discouraged his exuberant patronage. The half-giant happily drinks and talks his time away with anyone willing to listen and share a mug.

Feeling the all-too-familiar sensation of one's pockets being rifled though, he immediately turns about at the would-be thief. Hákon's hands immediately dart all over his pockets and satchels, making sure nothing important was taken. "Dålig tutta!" He exclaims at the familiar face, glaring at the young urchin girl. Marna. This wasn't the first time the little girl had rifled through his pockets, and there was no telling what she'd gotten away with in the past while he was sodden with drink. Despite that, he liked the lass. She respected nobody, and knew how to take care of herself. So well in fact, she was a big reason Hákon himself had a livelihood here. The colossal half-giant levies his bold glare at the girl for a brave, but ultimately scant few seconds before it breaks into a grin. "How are ya, tutta? If you're runnin' and ducked here to hide, I'm not saving your sorry hide again!"

[Redshaw]

Marna offers a devil-may-care giggle and wiggles up onto a bar stool next to the giant. Hákon may notice that this behavior has only recently been developing in the time they've known together; typically Marna is very cautious to stay out of arm's reach of every body. Perhaps she has slowly grown to trust the half-giant. She flicks a copper piece onto the bar and Brom responds by planting a mug of watered down mead in front of the lass. "As if I'd need you to protect my skinny ass," she always did have a foul mouth. The lass is forced to use both hands to pick up the mug - which is almost too large for her - in order to tilt its lip back far enough for her to drink. Mead dribbles down her chin onto her filthy clothes and she wipes it off dramatically with the back of her arm.

She leans out towards Hákon and grins conspiritorally, "Besides, my Teeth tell me that it's you who might be in the Dragon's mouth. Not me." Among the underworld of Gate Pass, there are few crews that live up to the reputation of pocket-fishing and secret-stealing as Marna's infamous Anklebiters gang; a rabid assortment of orphans and run-aways. "Normally I'd want an Emperor for this kind of grit. But I do owe you, sooo..."

Marna pauses, tipping her head as if to consider offering a different charge, before shaking it dismissively. "Sod it. Word’s spread fast and that idiot Renard Woodsman has been swift to politically separate his gang of Horses from the thieves in the mountain, but also has declared war on Rantle, his boys, and some pet jotunn of his for the 'insult of false accusation.' It doesn't make him any more popular than he is already and nobody believes him, but he’s got the coin, the muscle and enough guards in his pocket to get away with it. He’s also got a new pet himself."

She tips the mug again to precariously drink, "Kratos. Ragesian. New in town. Some say he's the bastard son of a Ragesian general. Others say he's the bastard son of a witch. All seem to agree, he's one bastard of a fighter." She shrugs, "Maybe you two bastards can have a bastard fight to see who's a bigger bastard, you fat bastard."

[Redshaw]

The blue giant laughs off Marna's warnings, confident in his abilities and entertained by her voraciousness. The night slips along easily enough, Hákon hardly having a difficult time entertaining himself with the lack of large company. At some point Marna slips off into the night and by the time he himself is ready to leave, Brom has already swept the floors and cleaned the mugs.

The giant stumbles out of the bar, humming a drunken war shanty as he saunters his way to the shack he calls home. Unfortunately for Hákon, getting there requires stepping through many back alleys and side streets. Typically, the giant has little to worry from pick pockets and muggers, who prefer to target easier marks than him. But this morning, blue light just beginning to wash the city in a morose hue, Hákon finds himself surrounded in a cutthroat alley by men with dark cloaks and murderous intent.

The giant shakes his head, attempting to clear his mead-soaked mind as he recognizes the immediate peril. A stray dog barks, a blade sings at is unsheathed, blood splatters on frost-rimed cobblestone.


***

Jerid wakes with a start. It is not bad dreams that stirs the man, but an immediate, tearing emotion of both horror and confusion. Not his own, but Ankou's.

The Inn Jerid resides in is 3/4ths of a mile from the Temple.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid didn't know how long he slept, but it wasn't long enough in his eyes. Fighting off his drowsiness, he tried to focus on the surge of emotions that woke him. Whatever caused it was strong enough to rouse him from the deepest part of his rest. It felt familiar, and yet intensely alarmed. Something was very wrong, but what could...?

Ankou!

Once the realization finally clicked, Jerid grabbed his things and was out the door of the inn as fast as his legs could carry him. Ankou was in trouble, and that meant the woman was in trouble. There was no time to waste.

He's heading back to the Temple of Pelor. He'll be looking for either the priest who he gave Ankou to, or the woman as soon as he gets there.

[Redshaw]

Snow has purified the city's streets and the sun would barely be visible cresting the eastern gate, were it not for the thick, broiling clouds that polluted the sky in all directions. Puffs of fog escapes Jerid's breath as he moves through the streets, crunching sounds echoing beneath each foot step; before long the snow will melt and then freeze, making the cobblestone dangerous to tread.

The streets are nearly abandoned at this hour, save for huddled guards and stubborn merchants who make shop despite there being no customers. A great pillar of smoke has begun arising in the west and it can only be assumed to originate from the besieging army; they must be near.

But priorities first: Jerid's second soul's terror calms as he draws near the temple, replaced by despair. There are a mixture of tracks moving in and out of the cathedral's entrance, leading in different directions. Jerid enters to find some refugees sobbing and clutching their children close, but besides that there is no sign of a struggle. A quick search reveals that Ankou is on top the collection box but neither the girl nor the priest are where Jerid left them.

[PersonofJid]

Seeing that Ankou was safe brought a great deal of comfort to the young farmer. However, it was quickly replaced with concern for the woman and not a small amount of confusion. Where was the priest? What had happened? Jerid intended to find out.

Jerid will first question Ankou about what happened. Then he will ask the other refugees if they know where the priest is or what happened to the woman without hands.

[Redshaw]

"They took him, master. Men with swords. Men with daggers. They took him and she followed." Ankou, despite his distress, speaks in Jerid's mind in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'm sorry I failed you, master."

The witnesses seem to have a similar story. They claim that the thugs did not harm anyone and that the priest went with them willingly, although did so under the threat of violence. Although many of the men seemed interested in harming the refugees to keep them silent, the man leading the thugs refused to let them. They were led by an immensely tall human in gray armor with oil black hair and an emotionless gaze. A broken helmet, cloven in the face, was hung from his belt, and a massive greatsword was sheathed to his back.

All of the men, purportedly, wore a red sash on their left arm, detailing a horse head in black stitching along with script in an unknown language.

The girl demanded that the priest leave the purple crystal on the alter before they left and the tall man who led them forbade any of his thuggish followers from stealing it.

Tracks in the snow would reveal nothing to Jerid: either a number of people have come and gone to the temple this morning since the snow fall began, or the thugs split in different directions upon leaving the temple.

Silence and snow. There is not else to assume but that this is a bad omen.

"The man with the broken helmet... he did say her name. He called her "Brida."


***

The guard have a lot of questions for Jerid and he has to answer most of them multiple times. It is a serious thing to kidnap a priest from a temple and the law takes it as seriously as it should. Unfortunately, there are other things occurring in the city that distract from the investigation. It seems that the impending doom of an imminent Ragesian siege has put most citizens on edge, if not driven them right off it. Reports of looting, vagrancy, and a whole gamut of minor crimes keep the city guard busy, while the military doubles down its security at each gate.

It seems as though all access to Gate Pass from the outside is shut down. The city is in quarantine, for the time being, and all of its residents are trapped like rats on a ship in a maelstrom.

It is nearly mid day by the time Jerid is released, but there is not left for him to do except wait for nightfall and the meeting at near midnight. Besides the missing priest and the handless woman, another thought might weigh heavily in Jerid's mind: his parents, as far as he knows, would still be at their property in the farmlands to the south of the city. They would have no way in now and Jerid has no way out to them. Still, as his father would remind him, he had a duty to perform on behalf of his city and all the souls within it. Ankou stirs every hour to remind Jerid of the time, counting down to the rendezvous at Poison Apple Pub.


***

http://36.media.tumblr.com/cbc360e4776768e48ccdd15b09d85791/tumblr_n1yieqIy6p1r254zzo1_500.jpg

Night descends and if they did not know in the morning, all of the city is now informed: an enemy sits on the doorstep. Nobody occupies the streets, festivities this New Year's Eve are muted if not killed outright, allowing Jerid to travel unmolested. The pub is in one of the poorer districts of the city, about a mile from the western wall, filled with slush-covered cobblestone streets and dark snow-filled alleyways. The evening is dark and claustrophobic, the multistory buildings of the city looming in the night, no lights in most windows.

The pub is a two-story building, new to the city and made of wood rather than stone, attached to a neighboring house by a wood bridge walkway. The door and windows are boarded up, and the curtains drawn. A back alleyway around the side of the building leads to a side door that is not covered in planking, which seems a much more friendly entrance. Jerid will find the door to be locked from the inside, however, trying it causes a small voice to speak indescernably from the far side followed by approaching foot steps.

There is a metallic click and the door swings inward, allowing a rush of war air to escape into the night, exhaling onto Jerid's cold face. Greeting the young man is a young and beautiful woman with dark skin and bright green eyes. The only armor she wears is a breastplate, fastened at the shoulders. Besides that, she seems to favor hardy but lightweight travelling clothes: leather pants and a wool frock. Her name is Torrent and she is a friend.


http://i.imgur.com/WPivArW.jpg

Jerid has only recently been acquainted with Torrent, but so far she has been more than agreeable. She is a cleric of Mora and hails from the far southern edge of Dassen. She joined the Resistance out of the belief that her patron, Goddess of Sun and Roads, would want the link between Shahalesti and Ragesia to remain open to all travelers. Though her reasons are quite alien to the deep-felt sense of independence most resistance volunteers share, she has worked as hard if not harder than any other member of the rebels. She has gained Sigimund's trust and to Jerid, despite knowledge of his powers, has treated him no differently than anyone else. On the contrary, she seemed genuinely fascinated to hear of the capabilities of "dream magic" and claims to have met a few practitioners herself while on the road. She was originally asked to journey into the mountains with Rantle and the others, but another mission came that required her attention even more, so she asked Jerid to go on her behalf; he accepted.

Seeing Jerid, the young woman smiles brightly, stepping forward grip his shoulder with one hand and take his hand with her other, squeezing in comraderic affection. "It's good you're here, Jerid." She steps aside and gestures for him to enter. She closes the door behind him and locks it with a deadbolt.

The darkened pub appears mostly empty, its many tables and chairs pushed to one wall and covered with sheets. At the back corner of the common room beside the bar, a staircase leads upward to the next story. The windows and door facing the street are closed, and you know they have been boarded up from the outside. On the wall behind the bar hangs a bronze bust of the former emperor of Ragesia, Drakus Coaltongue himself, a regal and aged half-orc with a scar cutting diagonally across his face.


A single table sits in the middle of the room, with enough chairs for Jerid and everyone else gathered there. A small oil lamp and keg sit on top if it along with several mugs, some of which are already filled and being tended to. At the table sits an incredibly tall and powerfully muscled woman with pointy ears and an observant look, a grimly dark and beautiful woman with red hair, an invincible smirk, and the red-dyed robes of a War School student. There is also a mature, tan-skinned man with blue eyes and an expression of consistent guilt and finally, a tall, somber looking man with graying black hair and a dominating mustache: Sigmund.

Besides his father, Jerid recognizes everyone gathered here, but only by slight acquaintance. He knows they're all involved with the Resistance in one form or another

Torrent stands behind Jerid and claps him on the shoulder boisterously, "Have a drink! Just because we're about to go to war doesn't mean we can't celebrate the New Year."

[PersonofJid]

"You did not fail me, Ankou. You did precisely what I asked of you. Thank you."

The psicrystal's story did little to ease Jerid's concerns. Why the Black Horses would kidnap a priest was anybody's guess. It was very likely they were simply paid to do it, but there was no evidence (in Jerid's mind anyways) that could identify who. Furthermore, hearing that the woman had left was...disappointing. It seemed Jerid had been duped, but he could not blame her. Better to be among friends than stuck, alone, in a temple surrounded by strangers. All he wanted was for her to be taken care of, and if what he heard was correct, her comrades appeared willing to take her back. That was enough. At least, she had the decency to leave Ankou behind, and at least now he knew her name: Brida. It was better than nothing.

Jerid's mood hadn't improved much by the time he made his way to the Poison Apple Pub. He didn't like seeing his home in a state of fear, and knowing that it was the Ragesians causing it only served to make his anger grow. He wanted to stop all of it, no matter the cost. However considering the past couple of days, he wondered how true that was. After all, he wasn't able to execute a known enemy to Gate Pass, and he even brought her back. For all he knew, it was his fault the priest was kidnapped. Could he really protect his people? His family? He didn't know, but he was certainly going to try.

As he tried the door to the pub, he found that it was locked. Unsurprising, but what was surprising was the face of the woman who opened it from the other side.

"It's good you're here, Jerid."

Jerid stood speechless as she clasped his hand. Torrent was here? He suddenly felt much better about things. Of everyone in the Resistance, his family excluded, she was the only one who had no misgivings about his abilities. In fact, she seemed to welcome them and wished to learn more. In many ways, she reminded him of Able, only less annoying and much more socially adept.

As Torrent motioned Jerid inside, he was more than happy to oblige. The cold never did agree with him. He quickly observed the room and the occupants inside it. His gaze easily found his father, and Jerid was relieved to see that Sigimund hadn't been trapped outside the city. If he was here, then it was likely that Jerid's mother, Viola, wasn't too far away either.

As Jerid sits down, he would nod in greeting at the rest of the occupants, though his gaze lingers slightly at the Gabal-dressed woman. While Jerid's past encounter with Able had helped to soften him towards students of Gabal's academy, this one seemed to radiate the arrogance that Jerid had come to attribute with students of the famed evoker. For the sake of his homeland, however, he would be willing to endure it.

[Navian]

The half-elf sat in her chair with her back straight, out of a conscious intent not to hunch over. It was her face, nothing else, that gave away her race; not fine, pointed, or angular enough to be elven, though no human would have mostly triangular ears over five inches in length, or dark eyes almost like those of a woodland animal, with irises patterned like calligraphic writing in amber flame.

Her hair looked almost black in the firelight, though it would appear greener in the daytime. It was fairly thick and cascaded down past her shoulders, like the waterfalls of her homeland. The rest of her wasn't much to look at, unless one had an eye for great muscles and light scarring. That muscle seemed more a matter of nature than training, she did not have the hard look of one who pushed herself to the limit each day. Few of her kind were larger, but she showed no signs of brute confidence, more a calm wariness, almost but not fully resigned to fate.

She wore thick pants and boots, and great wool coat hung over her shoulders, left open to reveal mail armour draping over her chest. A cloak was thrown over her chair, a steel cap large enough to cook soup left topside-up on the table, and a black wool cap with a large pom at her side, next to a five-foot-long straight-bladed sword of elven make. Behind her was a collection of three javelins, each almost large enough to be spears; an iron crowbar, and a tremendous wooden kite shield that was taller than most men, bearing some sort of faded draconic imagery etched into the wood.

Her hands rested loosely on her knees, which were left uncrossed in front of her. Those hands were not unlike the hands of a child in any way other than their size. While she had callused palms, there were no signs of weathering or hard work in the fields. They were unblemished and fine, like those of a noblewoman, yet simple and square in form, like those of a manual laborer. Another sign of her mixed heritage, perhaps.

Yelara hadn't known what to expect at the meeting. Normally, she wouldn't consider that to be a problem, as she wasn't good at making predictions even at the best of times. She'd reconsidered, today. Perhaps she could make predictions, on some level, most of the time. But some days held surprises that could change everything, not the mundane sort that merely stirred the pot for a bit, and today was starting to look like one of those days.

She was still examining the others who already sat at the table with her, and had not proven a great conversationalist. The red-haired woman in particular seemed to have her on edge, and Torrent's swift return brought her enough relief that she spared the woman a grateful smile. Yelara's eyes then passed over Jarid, before finding some way to avoid eye contact with anyone without moving from her position. She drummed on her left knee with three fingers, as her smile faded away.

It had been a long week, with many mysteries and few certainties. If she gave more thought to what was to come, she would have hoped for, expected, or even sought out answers to her questions. As it was, she merely did what she was told, and waited for the next task. It was habit. Though she had made exceptions before.

[Moustro]

Jael awoke with a pounding headache. "I must have outdone myself last night," he muttered to himself as he worked the cold and stiffness from his joints. "I haven't felt this bad in weeks." He searched around for his mug and looked inside, hoping to find something to take the edge off this nasty morning. No such luck. He sighed and got about the business of readying himself to face another day, the events of the previous day floating back to him as he did so. Rantle had sent word. The bugger had just returned from some sort of daring mission and had apparently decided that Jael's marginal involvement with the Resistance was no longer acceptable. They met up in an alley not far from the Western gate.

"The Resistance needs people like you." went the pitch. "The city needs people like you. I know you've given up trying but you can be useful and we will use of everything we have to keep this city free. Be at the Poison Apple Inn tomorrow, an hour before midnight. Hear the old man out. Do what is asked of you."
Then came the honey: "Your grandfather was a good man, he helped the city more than once in its time of need. I'll consider your debt repaid if you prove yourself worthy of his legacy."
And lastly came the stick: "You can refuse, of course, but you'd be robbing me of payment and robbing the city of a valuable resource. I forget what the penalty for theft here in Gate Pass is, maybe I'll look it up if I hear you've gone missing. Whatever it is, I'm sure it's not pleasant. I'd make the meeting if I were you. And Jael..." He paused, looking him over. "Show up sober for once."

Jael finished dressing and stepped out into the cold air, wrapping a warm cloak around him as his feet crunched the packed snow. The sky looked particularly grim this morning, and the smoke to the West could only mean that the Ragesian army was getting very close. Two bad omens. Unsure of what to do, he headed to the Temple of Mora to pray for guidance. When he got there, however, it was clear that there had been come sort of commotion as there were guards questioning citizens around the church. Jael left as soon as he learned that a priest had been kidnapped from inside the temple. His heart sank. That made three bad omens in one morning.

He spent the rest of the day readying his things and listening for news. He resisted the urge to drink, figuring that he'd need to be sober if he went to the meeting, and he'd need to be sober if he decided to skip town instead. He wasn't the least surprised when word came down that citizens were being barred from leaving the city, it was as if the gods had decided to conspire against him. With a heavy sigh, he resigned himself and waited for the appointed hour to arrive.

He recognized the young woman as he was let into the pub. He had met her a handful of times before and got along fine with her, even if neither cared much for the other's demeanor. Torrent was her name, all bright and shiny with purpose. She was one of those that really believed in this Resistance. He nodded his thanks as he stashed his backpack and shortbow in the corner of the room. The others around the table were strangers to him and they made small talk as he sat down. They seemed to be as new to this as he was, only Torrent and the man with the mustache looked like they knew anything. He was handed a mug of ale - his first of the day - and Jael sipped it gratefully. They were clearly waiting for more participants, he would enjoy his ale in silence until things got underway.

[Redshaw]

A small amount of time passes as Sigimund, stoic and silent as usual when away from his family, apparently intends to wait for any expected late-comers. He makes no motion of recognizing his son. This treatment is something that Jerid would be familiar with; it was not lack of love or affection that caused his father to act so, nearly so much as an intensity of focus. While attending to his family, there is no man as kind, wise, and generous as the old farmer. And when it comes to defending Gate Pass, there is no man as cunning, sober, and intensely devoted as the old warrior.

The gathered keep mostly silent, the atmosphere in the room quite thick. Torrent apparently seeks to break this as, filled beer stein in hand, she jovially sits next to Jerid, "Rantle says you were utterly incorrigible in the mountains." She chuckles, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, "And, as he put it, 'a complete pain in the ass.'"

Her emerald eyes slant toward Sigimund, who's expression remains immovable stone. Her focus returns to Jerid, eyebrow raised curiously.

"...I love Rantle, but he can be a little... zealous." She sips from the cup loudly, "I think you chose well, for what it's worth. He respects you, you know..." She clears her throat, waving away the rather candid discussion, "Where are my manners? Jerid, you may recall master Jael," she gestures to the older man, drinking from his mug as though it were water during a drought. "Rantle rescued him from the mead cellar," she comments, only half-joking. She then sweeps her arm toward the tall elven woman, "Yelara, a refugee from Shahalesti." She leans in to whisper in his ear, "They call her 'the Mule', but she seems nice to me." Finally, she points out the buxom woman in red, "And the good lady Ramira, who once again lends her aid to our cause. I don't know if you've met her yet, Jerid, but the Resistance is very much in her debt." She smiles broadly and leans back, apparently satisfied having fulfilled the roles of an introducer.

You heard that.

[Navian]

Yelara doesn't immediately react to the whispered conversation. She's too busy puzzling over being described as a refugee. She was fairly certain a 'refugee' was a strange sort of troublemaker who went from village to village complaining about their house having burned down, and she was even more certain that not only had she not complained about anything, but her mother's keep remained quite intact.

As far as she knew, she was in fact an 'outlaw', which had the much simpler definition of 'someone who broke the law and is getting away with it'. It was annoying to think about. Still, it was much preferable to being an 'in-law'. She wasn't sure what those were--it wasn't intuitive--but they were far more dreaded than outlaws.

After some careful thought, Yelara simply raises one eyebrow in Torrent and Jerid's direction. The delay makes it a rather ambiguous gesture. She relaxes somewhat upon hearing Torrent's description of 'Ramira', though she stops short of fully loosening up after making eye contact with the woman again.

[Tychris1]

It was all so very easy. Really, once you get to wearing a mask for long enough, the details and the minutia begin to blur together until it becomes an entirely second skin for you. A natural process of actions and reactions brought upon by the most unnatural of ways. Reg-Tal had spent most of her day wandering about the city of Gate Pass, taking in all of the sights and sounds during such a fretful period of woes. Not because she desperately wished to see her home before it was dashed away, in truth she would rather see the city waving her banners and tearing down that old Orc's statue to place her own, but because that's what Ramira would do. So gentle and caring, the poor whelp was too nice for her own good in the end, coming to the aid of a homeless beggar with a "mysterious skin disease". The first example she set however acted as a good benchmark for how to spend her free time on the surface.

Her breaking bones gave details on the rest of her schedule.

It was because of this selfless and charitable nature that Reg-Tal so quickly accepted Rantle's invitation to the Poison Apple Inn. Looking at the array of mortals laid before her, a part of her regretted saying yes and submitting herself to such dull and one sided banter. Deciding to ignore the current situation at hand, she thought back to the details surrounding Rantle's invitation. She was at the.... Blasted Pony Pub? Or maybe the Tipping Sailor Tavern? Something along those lines, eventually all dirty establishments dedicated to drunkardness just blend in the mind. She was going through the daily procedure, masking her infernal nature with layers of disguises, when suddenly there was a knock on her door and a voice coming from the other side.

"Ramira? It's Rantle, may I come in?"

Excellent timing on his part, she had to admit, as she was just putting on the finishing details to her disguise. Closing the disguise kit she bought from one of Rantle's "friends", she promptly placed it on the ground and slid it underneath her bed. With one swift motion she brought up her "Spell Book" that she used for appearances, and began to read it over.

"Yes, please, do come in."

Rantle cracked the door open slightly so that he could step partially inside, not wishing to intrude fully on her privacy.
"The City of Gate Pass needs your services today. I know I've been asking for quite a bit recently, but it's only in the face of an inevitable and destructive enemy that forces me to come to you so frequently. Come to the Poison Apple Inn tommorow, about an hour before midnight. Torrent will give you the rest of the details....."

He sighed to himself before looking down back at the inside of the tavern.

"I still can't believe this city is being put through such trials. A generation born in fear of an army at their doorstep. I can only imagine what's going through their little minds," The little thief did always have a way with words. "I hope Torrent will see you there tomorrow. Stay safe, it's a dangerous world out there for a lady on her own, never know what might befall her. But I'm sure you can take care of yourself."

And like that, he was gone. Yet another talent the little thief possessed, perhaps she could use that in the future for herself. Shaking off the idea for now, Reg-Tal slipped out of her night gown and into the red dyed robe commom to all Students of the War School.

And now here she was, at some run down hovel in a muddy back alley ditch of a city. Standing on its last legs. Oh how the mighty have fallen. Still, there was little time to lament her current situation, she had far more concerning matters at hand, such as keeping up appearances and making nice with future pieces in her multidimensional game of chess. Pawns were particularly useful pieces to have, and there were never enough of them for Reg-Tal's liking.

Sitting there, she leaned in close to the table, drumming her fingers in a rhythmic beat that she remembered from ages past. Ripped from the dying gasps of some heroic swordsmen who fancied himself a swordsmen. Barely a man, calling himself a hero, he should have stuck to playing that little.... Whatever it is he played.

At the mention of her pseudonym, she stopped continuously drumming her fingers against the table and flicked her eyes up. She now fully took in the sight of the mortals at the table. A drunkard man, who might be useful with a sword, a half elf of extraordinary build, and some young man who seemed adept at annoying Rantle. A skill she would deeply enjoy using at every possible moment. A smile spread across her face from ear to ear, flashing white teeth inbetween the slight crack of her lips.

"You do me too much honor Torrent. Truly, my skills are of limited service in this dire time we face. I just wish I could do more with what I have, but alas, I think the time for diplomacy and niceties have long passed."

She was absolutely radiant, beaming afffection and warmth from her very pores, as if her own heart were made from a loving hearth. Which it was, actually, if the hearth was wrought with hellfire and brimstone that is. Finished with her display of modesty, she sat back into her chair, sitting upright. Humming the tune she drummed earlier, she noted the looks the Half-Elf was giving her, and after drawing eye contact with her she decided to focus her charming grin upon the simple Half-Elf.

Doesn't cost her to be nice.

[Redshaw]

Torrent nods decisively at the mage's suggestion to address the business, but she still looks to Sigimund for guidance. The wisened face catches Torrent's look with grey eyes before nodding once in affirmation. Torrent turns to regard the group, "Right. We were hoping for more to show up, but..." she shakes her head, deciding that sentence unnecessary to finish. She grimaces, "The city's in trouble. The Ragesian army has begun its siege and I doubt even the gods could predict when they'll start firing the catapults. But before that happens, we have a mission."

She leans in, "There's a lot of working parts here, so pay attention. Before I came here, my journeys took me to a Mage Academy to the South, known as Lyceum. They're good people. So when word reached their headmasters about Ragesia's "scourge" they sent out missives begging anyone fleeing Ragesia to come to them."

Everyone here knows the "scourge" refers to the bounties on mages being placed by Ragesian jaegeren.

Sigimund speaks up now, elaborating on Torrent's information. His voice is deep and his words are sharply punctuated, "Lyceum wants to fight against Ragesia, though they've not said as much publically, their actions indicate as much. And the Resistance wants... needs their help. We just need to open the door and get them a message. Torrent will be our voice, appealing for aid on the behalf of Gate Pass."


http://img2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20090601191054/forgottenrealms/images/a/a5/Nasher.png

Torrent bobs her head energetically, though her expression remains grim, "Of course, normally I would have left via teleporting courier. But, as Ramira is no doubt aware, something... strange is occurring in the planes. The last courier who teleported into Gate Pass arrived as a pile of ash. Other attempts haven't gone any more successfully."

She sighs now, closing her eyes as her next statement bears quite a heavy weight, "I have to reach Lyceum... On foot. And to do that, I have to escape both the city walls and the siege..."

She catches the eyes of eye individual in the room, "There's a crew of Lyceum mage couriers outside the city, a few miles to the South, near the border of Innentodar Forest. But to get to them, we'll have to get out of the city... and I'm open to ideas on how to do it... I'll need your help - all of you - to make the rendezvous."

"But we have another mission even before that. The short version is that we've got to meet a contact in the city - a gnome named Rivereye Badgerface - in about an hour, at the depository."

You know that this depository, a bank that holds the valuables of citizens under guard, lock and key, is about a half mile east of the pub, beyond a gate and closer to the center of the city.

"He's carrying a case of vital military intelligence, stolen from the Ragesian palace, and the heads of the Resistance, Sigimund included, think that it needs to reach Lyceum. We've got to get that case, get out of the city, and get far away from here before the idiot city council lets the Ragesian jaegeren in. Once that happens, the odds of escaping are..." she pauses to sip from her mug, "...slim."

She leans back now and gestures toward the group, apparently expecting input. She doesn't bother to ask if you all are willing to do the job; apparently she's already assumed you've volunteered. Sigimund keeps a focused expression, mouth hidden behind steeped fingers.

[Navian]

Yelara returned the smile, or most accurately approximated it, in the same manner that a pile of barrel staves might approximate a chair. The pieces were there, but they weren't assembled in such a way as to have any practical use, let alone the intended one. She shifted slightly on her own chair, not long afterward, and of Ramira's last comment, she said, "I hope not."

From the look she was giving Torrent, she was asking a question about it, not making an idle comment. No more words came forth, however. Yelara was not hard to read, but neither was she easy to communicate with.

---

At the conclusion of Torrent's speech, Yelara offered, "We could climb the walls..?" She fully expected something so simple to have been dismissed, for some reason, by all others present already, yet to remain silent unnecessarily would have been unconscionable.

After a brief pause, she raises her index finger and adds to clarify, "And the mountains," just to impress she hadn't missed anything.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid listened closely to Torrent's explanation, and helped himself to a drink while doing so. From the way she explained everything, he figured he was going to need one.

What they had to do made sense, but it was not going to be easy. Going deeper into the city was going to make it even harder to get back out. The half-elf's suggestion was simple and straightforward, he liked it, but it was forgetting a detail or two. "Not a bad suggestion, except the walls are designed to make climbing over them unseen almost impossible. The grates at the top make sure of that. If there was a way to circumvent those, then I'd be all for it. Climbing over the mountains would be slow, but possible. It'd be a lot easier for us than for an army." He didn't like the idea of braving the mountain cold again, but if it had to be done then it had to be done.

As he sat pondering the situation, Ankou piped in inside his mind, "Master, what about Rivereye the gnome?" Jerid blinked, "Oh...," he had forgotten about him, "...and what about our contact in the depository? How will we know him, and does he know we're coming?"

[Redshaw]

Sigimund speaks now, nodding his head to affirm Jerid and Yelara, "The walls were never designed to be easily scaled. The mountains are unavoidable. But there are paths that lead South from the city, deep into the mountains; our own goat herds use them in the summer, Jerid."

You're somewhat familiar with the goat paths that your father speaks of. Several of them lead to the caves were dream urns are hidden, along with many other secrets. It's suspected that many of these are the sealed off entrances to ancient dwarf mines.

He continues, expression serious and calculating, "I doubt you traveled so very far while tending our flock, but if you can keep the trail, most of the paths lead to the old Elf Road, which will in turn lead further South to the Fire Forest. The rendezvous point is about thirty miles south of the wall. Until last night, gryphon patrols watched that road regularly and my contacts in the military have yet to report anything unusual. Of course, that may have changed without our knowing."

You know that years ago, the Elf Road ran through Innentodar, which was occupied by a tribe of wood elves, to the nation of Dassen, where the Lyceum academy is found. But during the last war something catastrophic occured. The forest was set on fire, and it has not stopped burning since. The wood elves, despite their self-inflicted isolation and typical spite for all outsiders, traded somewhat regularly with Gate Pass until then. They have not been heard from since.

When the question about Rivereye arises, Torrent looks to Sigimund for permission to elaborate before continuing; he allows it. "Rivereye is wizard of decent talent, trained at Lyceum. He spent several years deep in enemy territory as a spy in Ragos, preparing for the eventual invasion your father has known would arrive since the last occupation. Rivereye had a contact here in Gate Pass; a human named Peppin Tallman. Tallman would pass information he retrieved from Rivereye on to the Resistance.

She sighs with some defeat, "You'll recall I had you take my role for the ambush in the mountains Jerid, at the last minute? It was because of this: it brings me no joy to tell you that Tallman was found dead two days ago. Freshly killed. We were able to capture and... interview... his soul before it passed on, and discovered the time and place that he was to meet with Rivereye - the depository, tonight, at midnight. We did not discover the identity of his killer and, as far as we know, Rivereye has no idea that his contact is dead."

She summarizes the dread presumed outcome, "We can only assume that Rivereye has no idea we're coming, that he still intends to meet Tallman, and that Tallman's killers will be there to assassinate him and steal back the intelligence. We have to intervene. Worse still, when Rivereye doesn't see Tallman, he might take us for enemies as well; he never interfaced with the Resistance personally; only through contacts."

She smiles now, perhaps a little inappropriately, "As for recognizing him? Well. He's a gnome, for starters, and also... I hear that he is exceptionally ugly." She covers her mouth to hide the curl of her lips, while Sigimund very obviously glares at the woman. She withers under his gaze and immediately reasserts a somber disposition.

[Navian]

Yelara did not waver in suggesting, "If we throw ropes over walls, we don't have to scale them." Aside from that, she glanced back and forth as the others spoke, without comment or understanding.

Once their dialogue had concluded, she interjected with relative authority and solemnity. "Badgers are not good on the face." With this done, she relaxed and toyed with her gear, satisfied to have addressed the most pressing issues. She seemed ready to depart at any moment, as if it were just like any other job.

[Moustro]

Jael's mood darkened more and more as Torrent and Sigimund unfolded the details of their quandary. He had read the omens right today, the situation was bad and things were going to get even worse than he had imagined. He looked down into his mug and felt his mouth go dry as the empty bottom stared back at him. He fantasized for a few moments about what he really wanted to do about the bloody Ragesian army: sneak into a mead cellar, lock himself up with a few dozen crates of his closest friends and wait for this whole thing to blow over. If he got really lucky, the jaegere would take care of Rantle for him so he wouldn't need to worry about skipping out on the job. He grimaced at this last thought. Rantle was a pain in the ass, but he was a good guy - he did not really wish him dead. He just wanted to be left alone.
This led Jael back to what Torrent was saying. Lyceum, in the South. The far, FAR South in the land of his grandfather. Away from this war and the memories that haunt him doggedly through the city. Maybe he could escort Torrent the whole way - Rantle couldn't object since he'd be doing it for the Resistance and once he was there, well, maybe he'd try his hand at wizardry for a change, or maybe sailing. Anything that would keep him from having to return. Yes, that would be good. He could feel the sea breeze already. His grandfather had said that the sea air felt salty. Jael wondered what that would be like.

With a shake of his head, Jael cleared his mind and refocused on the task at hand. If he wanted any shot at his sea breeze, he would need to complete the mission at hand. The essence of the task is simple. Get the goods, take them to the right people. It's no more complicated than delivering groceries, really. Nothing to it. There are a few wrinkles, of course, like convincing the proprietor of said goods to entrust them to people he's never met, or breaking through a perimeter guard that will be on high alert due to the army squatting outside the city walls. Not to mention navigating unfamiliar trails through the mountains while avoiding detection.

He looked around at those gathered around the table. The war school girl looked trustworthy enough and her magic would prove useful. The other Resistance members regarded her with respect, which was good enough for him. The half-elf looked like she could crush Jael's skull without breaking a sweat, and she carried enough weaponry to outfit a small army. She would be useful in a scrap. Her comments puzzled Jael, however, and he could not decide if the girl was insane or merely had trouble expressing herself. She reminded Jael of some old prizefighters he'd drunk with - they'd been hit in the head so many times that their mental acuity had dropped to the level of a child. She seemed too alert for that to be the case though. Jael would need to watch her more closely before making up his mind about her. The boy worked with Rantle and managed to rile him up some, so he couldn't be too bad. Plus he's sharp, his questions so far have been lucid and on target. Lastly, Torrent had proven herself very capable past dealings with her, and Jael wondered if the escort was strictly necessary. As for himself, the best he could do is help the others get the job done and try not get anyone killed.

Noticing a flick of Sigimund's eyes in his direction, Jael hesitantly speaks up as Torrent finishes her description of the gnome. "The first part of the job seems easy enough." He says to the group. "Get to the depository and convince a double-agent gnome wizard that we're on the same side before fireballs start lighting up the sky. I don't suppose there's a super secret Resistance handshake that would help put him at ease?" At this he offers a smile that would be charming had his eyes offered any warmth to go with it.

"Sneaking out of the city, however, will require some planning and a good deal of luck. And if we're to make the rendezvous with Rivereye we don't have a lot of time to put a plan together."

He pauses to look up at the old man. "Any chance your military friends can spare a couple of gryphons for a night or two? Or heck, couldn't they just let us out the Shahalesti gate if we asked nicely with a bag of Emperors in hand and promised to be good?"

[Redshaw]

Torrent keeps a raised eyebrow in Jael's direction as he speaks, accompanied by a doubtful expression, almost as though she were expecting him to say something less-than productive, let alone helpful. Still, when he finishes, she has no insinuating comments regarding mead or sobriety. Although the two have never come to address their differences outright, Torrent has kept her judgmental opinions of Jael's habits no secret from him.

Sigimund strokes his beard thoughtfully, considering the man's input, "Gryphons are out of the question. Their numbers are monitored quite rigidly, they're marked with ink that identifies them as city property and they have magical scrying sigils in place so that they might never become 'lost.'"

"As for the gate, your most direct route would be the Southern gate, rather than the Eastern. The barracks posted there is captained by a half-orc named Herreman; he's a good man, but very strict with the law, and runs a solid crew. Neither he nor his men will be bought... though they might be reasoned with."

Torrent coughs politely, drawing Sigimund's attention. He gestures for her to speak, "Another option is to try contacting councilman Erdan Menash."

You know Erdan Menash as a half-elf city councilman who is, surprisingly, very outspoken in his support of the Resistance. Though this has earned him quite a few political enemies and forced the city to put him under unofficial "surveillance" which limit his abilities to assist the Resistance, he still has more than his fair share of ways of helping your plight from behind the scenes. He his also a bit of an eccentric; he's a blacksmith by trade and considers himself an artist. His equipment is famous for being both of masterwork quality, and extremely odd or even ugly-looking in design. He lives on Summer Bluff and his house is impossible to miss.

Sigimund nods his head in agreement, "Erdan is... unorthodox, but he might be able to produce official visas that grant extrication from the city..."

[Navian]

Yelara grew somewhat more nervous as each additional option was proposed. They each seemed to involve strange dealings with strange people, and she'd become much more comfortable negotiating with inanimate barriers. She energetically suggested something that seemed more her style. "The sewer exit goes underground. The waters will be very low at this time of year. No one would watch or track us that way; we would just need a path to the surface."

After waving her arms, she stopped her leg from jumping, and clasped her hands together in her lap so she couldn't fidget. Concentrating on all these things, she forgot about her resolution to keep her shoulders back, while she looked around the table again for reactions.

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal's mask cracked, it was temporary, lasting barely half a second before mending itself perfectly, but still there was a moment of doubt when Yelara started speaking. Was she merely stupid, awkward, underdeveloped, or all three? It was an impulsive twitch that rippled across her left eye, a physical manifestation of her disbelief that she could not suppress.

Near instantaneously she corrected herself and began to reevaluate things. The Half Elf wielded the brain of a child..... This would certainly alter things. Keeping her smile firmly planted on her face, Reg-Tal spoke up on the topic of escaping the city. But not before first recognizing the Half Elf.

"You are a clever lady aren't you? Thinking of ways to escape if things go south. We'll certainly need you to guard our escape. As for how we intend to escape, I'm sure I could talk the councilman into giving us papers, even if they end up being unofficial. I'm well versed in dealing with the eccentric types in life."

She leaned against the table, staring at her nails, observing their shape and curve before wreathing it in arcane energy.

"I'm not entirely comftorable with trying to convince guards to abandon their post, and potentially endanger themselves. But if need be, and the councilman turns out to be incapable of aiding us, I could always ensorcel the captain of the guard."

[Navian]

Yelara freezes for a moment, then pushes her cheeks up to look at 'Ramira' with equal parts confusion and incredulity. "Things have already gone south, and we need to go south, too. Past the army," she added, waving a finger."The Ragosians." Her tone was one of almost petulant protest.

After having said this, she hunched over a bit more, enough for her to take note of her own poor posture. She decided against correcting it for the moment, something felt right about hunching over the table, just now. She'd been invited to a meeting. Surely, it would be rude to maintain an aristocratic air of indifference to it. Or attempt to, at any rate.

[PersonofJid]

Even as comments and suggestions were being offered, Jerid could only stare intently at the center of the table as his mind processed the information. As much as Jerid hated to admit it, the drunkard was right. There wasn't enough to time to formulate a proper plan with the time they've been given, and that made him nervous, causing him to unconsciously tap the tabletop with the tip of his finger.

"I think getting the papers would be our best bet of escape, as it would rid ourselves of trying to convince the guard to let us leave," turning to address Ramira he added, "If you're confident that you can convince the councilman, then I think that should be our focus once we've met with Rivereye."

Thinking of Rivereye brought something else to mind, and caused him to immediately start pondering again, "Also, Master Jael made a good point. If Rivereye is likely going to consider us as enemies, there has to be a way to help him realize we're on his side."

He turned the thought over and over in his mind. Something had to convince the gnome.

"I suppose we could...," he stopped himself before finishing the thought. It was manipulative and risky, but it would definitely endear them to their contact. Sighing, he finished his comment, "We could arrive early and wait for the assassins to attack him, then jump in and save him before they can get their hands on the information. He might be grateful enough to trust us, then."

The idea sounded even worse out loud. He felt dirty just by suggesting it.

"Or we could just walk up to him, introduce ourselves, and hope he gives us a chance to explain things before running and/or attacking us."

That didn't sound much better. He really hoped someone had a better idea.

[Moustro]

Jael nodded as the others spoke. He agreed with Ramira, the councilman was worth a shot. It would be easier to talk the guards into opening the gates if they had some documentation in hand, no matter how suspect. Also, Menash's reputation as a Resistance sympathizer would make it easier to prove that this was a bona fide Resistance action rather that a bunch of troublemakers trying to break the lock-down.

"I'm with the wizard." he said, pushing his chair back from the table. "We should try the councilman first an' see what he has to say. If memory serves right his residence is not far from the South gate anyway."

He rises and continues talking as he makes his way to the bar, mug in hand.
"As for the gnome - we can't just wait around for him to be attacked. We don't know what forces Ragesia was able to smuggle into the city and can't afford to let them succeed in their asssasination attempt. I think Torrent and Ramira should make first contact with the wizard."

Reaching the bar, he refills his mug and turns back to face the table, smiling back at Torrent's disapproving frown. He takes a drink the gestures towards her with his mug. "I think the mere appearance of these these two lovely ladies should be enough to put the gnome at ease. More so than the sight of the rest of us." His eyes flicker to the half-elf. "No offense. The rest of us can be at hand if the wizard needs subduing or the three of you are attacked...Or we could split up and send one of us to speak with Councilman Menash while the others deal with the gnome."

He hesitates for a moment, then grabs an unopened bottle of honey wine before heading back to his seat.

"For our brave soldiers guarding the South Gate." he explains at Torrent's glare. "It's a cold night and this Herreman can't be as uptight as master Sigimund makes him out to be. Alcohol can be a powerful weapon, don't you know?"

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal mulls over the idea of waiting for the gnome to be ambushed. On the one claw, she didn't exactly care about using live bait in a plan, and underhanded tactics never bothered her. But on the other claw she wasn't herself right now, and this was a time sensitive matter.

"Waiting for the gnome to be ambushed leaves too many variables out of our hand. Timing for starters is already loosely held by us. If we wait around for the assassins to show before we do then Rivereye might grow impatient and simply leave. Or worse yet the assassins strike in such a way that we can't interfere with them in time. Poison and arrows are hard to stop or notice in the blink of an eye."

She ground her teeth, physically torn by the problem laid out before her. Taking a deep breathe in through her nose, she seemingly came up with a decision.

"As blunt as it may be, I feel as if we have no other option but to trust in the idea that Rivereye will be able to tell that we are speaking the truth."

[Redshaw]

Torrent roles her eyes as Jael passively taunts her, but still offers no insult. On the contrary, she glances first at Sigimund before nodding in a soldierly fashion. "...subtlety. I imagine a spy like Badgerface can appreciate that."

Sigimund's mustache bristles and he places both his hands flat on the table, "Acceptable. Of course, no plan survives its execution." He stands up straight and looks to Jerid now, stern and stoic, "...the Resistance is counting on you. Do us proud."

As the plan is agreed upon by both Resistance leaders, everyone begins to hear the bells (http://soundbible.com/253-Church-Bells-Ringing.html) in the distance. The bells signal midnight, the New Year, and the opening ceremony of the Festival of Dreams.

You detect the sound of creaking floor boards above you. Somebody is upstairs.

[Navian]

As Jarid and Jael speak, Yelara shrinks back from the conversation, looking increasingly unengaged and despondent. Before long, she's returned to sitting up with her back straight while staring straight ahead, at attention. Once the bells begin to toll, Yelara swiftly got to her feet. It was a long way up, but she shows no signs of dizziness, nor does she pay any mind to the others gathered in front of her.

After a moment of twitchy silence from the large half-elf, she steps quickly around the back of her chair and seizes her sword from the wall, announcing in a hushed tone, toward the wall to the left of the table, "There is someone else here, above." She slowly drew her sword free of its scabbard.

[Redshaw]

Torrent looks at the suddenly alert half-elf quizzically, almost amusedly. "Impossible. The upstairs is locked and no one can get up there, unless..." she trails off as realization dawns on her. She strides behind the bar to grab her equipment and effects; she's armed herself with a steel mace and a massive slab of an oaken shield built into the symbol of Fharlanghn (http://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/dungeons/images/1/1c/Fharlanghn.gif/revision/latest?cb=20100628104312). Sigimund pulls a shortsword which apparently had its sheathe tied to the underside of the wooden table you gathered around; none of you noticed until now. His expression is grim as he assumes a warrior's stance, preparing for whatever comes next.

Though you cannot hear what she hears, if you choose to act on Yelara's warning, you have one round to take any actions you like and include an initiative roll, assuming your character is preparing to enter combat.

[Navian]

Yelara casts away her scabbard as the others rise to equip themselves. She glanced over the rest of her equipment, and decided to neglect it for now, freeing herself to step into position, with her sword held in a two-handed guard, searching for the trespasser.

[roll0]

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal casts a hand over her fleshy form, materializing a shimmering layer of power over her skin. She mutters a constant stream of words under her breathe, seemingly as if she were casting a spell to create the layer, but in truth she mutters litanies of battle in infernal. She had yet to battle test her new form properly, and she was unsure whether it was even combat capable. Better to see now then later.


Initiative:[roll0]

Spend my action to activate the Evil's Blessing feat, increasing my saving throws by +6 for the next 5 rounds.

[Moustro]

Jael mutters a curse, then downs the rest of his drink as he stands. He walks over to the corner where his backpack and bow had been stashed then lounges against the wall, wine bottle in hand. He didn't sign up for a fight. He stays back from the staircase, fingers playing over the bottle's neckline, and eyes the others closely.

[roll0]

[PersonofJid]

Jerid quickly rose and readied his scythe as soon as he saw his father's expression. He knew that look. If Sigimind felt that danger was near, then it was time to ready oneself for trouble.

Whoever they were, they were not going to catch him unawares.

Jerid will take a full-defense action (+4 dodge bonus to AC. Cannot attack. AC=17 now)

Initiative: 1d20+1

[Redshaw]

The creaking stops and the atmosphere in the pub suddenly becomes quite thick. A dread sets in like a viscous fog that everyone inhales and settles in their stomachs like lumps of lead. The bells continue to ring their jubilation of the New Year, but hidden behind those bells is another sound. It's difficult to determine the source of this new noise: distant muted thumps, like the sound of ripe fruit landing on the roof of a house. The thumping is not occurring on the tavern roof, but rather the roofs of other buildings. The thumps are getting louder and closer.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Then, a voice from behind the front, boarded up entrance to the tavern. "Front door: go! There is a crashing sound as something massive and heavy heaves against the front entrance, causing wood to creak and then snap from the blunt force. Whoever, or whatever, is on the far side hasn't managed to break down the door yet, but they will soon.

Sorry, I won't have access to my batttle map or miniatures until tomorrow. Please make due with imagination until then. You have another round to take any actions that you desire. If you try the door to the upstairs you will find it locked and a key necessary to open it. Their is another door to the back of the tavern, but it is also locked without a key immediately apparent. The only other doors are the front entrance and the side door to the back alley you entered through. There is a bar toward the rear of the bar that is long enough to hide all of you behind it if you crouch. There is one window, on the front wall of the tavern, but it is also boarded up, like the door. It is large enough for one medium creature to slip through if it were opened and the glass broken. If you have any questions, feel free to ask in the OOC thread.

For initiative order, feel free to post your actions, regardless of who or hasn't posted before you; I'll organize them as I need to, for the purpose of chronology in the results post.

[Navian]

Yelara nods to herself in affirmation, steps back toward her shield, and relaxes her guard to heft the great tapered slab of wood, and hold it facing the door. She gives her sword a distinctly elven flourish as she twirls it into a striking position above her shoulder, nearly scraping the ceiling, and considers the state of the front door. Playing a joke on the bashers was very tempting.... but how fast would the invaders move? She held ready and pondered.

If the door opens before her next turn, consider her to be using her shield for total cover.

[Moustro]

Visibly shaken and thoroughly confused, Jael simply stares at the door as it struggles to hold together. Numbly, he drops the bottle into his pack as he grabs his gear. "What the hell is going on?" he wonders. Even with the army camped outside he had felt safe within the Gate Pass walls. His eyes dart from door to door to window to door as he backs up towards the relative safety of the bar.

"Sigimund, Torrent, were you expecting company?"

[Redshaw]

Torrent takes her queue from Yelara and comes to stand next to the tall half elf. She raises her shield so that its edge overlaps with Yelara's. Torrent may be a priest, but it appears she's a warrior as well; there are no faults in her posture or stance.

Sigimund comes to regard the door upstairs defensively, swiftly coming to stand on the inside of the outward-swinging portal. He takes his short sword in both hands and holds the weapon above his head, preparing to swing downwards on whatever comes through.

They do not answer Jael's question, but the truth is obvious: these are unwelcome strangers.

Even with the short warning, these Resistance members are trained well to respond with action, unhindered by hesitation or worry for consequences. These are soldiers prepared to die.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid's heart began to pound inside his chest. This wasn't like before in the mountains. Here, the enemy was close, and they meant business. His eyes flashed a silver light as he manifested his power. If it was a fight they were looking for, then he wasn't going to hold back.

Looking around, it appeared that the only entrances not being covered were the back and side doors. Why were they not coming through the side door? Did they not know about it, or had they simply not reached it yet? "It's better than nothing," he thought. Jerid moved to stand on the side of the side entrance. If the enemy did decide to breach the side door, it was better to have someone waiting for them than have them catch everyone by surprise.

Manifest: Offensive, Precognition. +1 insight bonus on attack rolls for 1 min. pg. 125 XPH

[Tychris1]

This was madness. Had the assassin's some kind of precognitive sense that lead them to their hideout? Treachery! Yes, that was the only explanation, treachery amongst the ranks! But by whom? And for what purpose would it ultimately serve? Were Torrent and Sigimund less truthful then originally thought, outcasts amongst the Resistance, and now the lion has come to put down the defective cubs? Or perhaps the city guard was less Resistance tolerant then anticipated, and with the pressure of an outside force they snapped and turned sides. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. Reg-Tal was stuck in her filthy meat-bag outfit, de-clawed, de-fanged, and clipped of her wings. Her magic, while certainly potent and useful, were not of great use in frontal conflicts, and her beautiful form was not intended to absorb damage.

Spotting the bar with ample room to hide behind, Reg-Tal sprinted towards it, clamoring over its surface before sliding down to hide behind the slab of wood. Her arms searched about, trying to find some kind of weapon to arm herself with. Discarded wood, glass shards, a broken bottle, anything would do.

Reg-Tal will move behind the bar and then look for a weapon to use. If a spot check is needed, here:[roll0]
If Search:[roll1]

[Redshaw]

The bar appears to have long since been emptied of all valuables and useful items, however it does appear that an old beer stein was left behind. It counts as an improvised weapon and will deal 1d3 points of bludgeoning damage, on top of any STR bonuses you add. Remember to take a -4 penalty to attacks while using an improved weapon.

There is another splintering crash against the door and the tavern's entrance gives way. With a roar and a charge, four human men charge into the building, each clutching the handle of an iron ram, which was used to crush the door. The men's charge continues as the door swings inward and barrels into Yelara's shield with the intention of running the warrior over.

Feel free to make an attack of opportunity on one of the charging attackers.

You may either abandon the shield and step to the side, avoiding the attack, or stand you ground. If you stand ground, please make an opposed STR check to avoid being over run.

At the same time the doors come falling down, the door to the stair way is kicked inwards, nearly slamming into Sigimund. With a holler and a bellow, a massively tall, she-orc armed with a greataxe steps through the portal, along with a human companion, armed with two daggers. Sigimund cries in rage and anger, cutting his short sword downward on the orc from behind. The blade bites deep, cutting blood and sinew, but the orc does the not fall. The she-hemoth instead turns to scream in the old farmer's defiant face, phlegm and saliva splattering on him.

All of the attackers, save for the orc, wear burlap hoods with holes cut out for eyes, disguising their identities. They also all bear strips of red cloth on their right arms that detail a Black Horse head with nondescript runes. These are Bounty Hunters.

You recognize this arm band as the identifying marker for members of the Black Horse Bounty Hunters. A disreputable band of relatively small numbers from places unknown that have recently moved within the wall of Gate Pass. They are led by a man named Renard, a human from Dassen. Their members include ruffians from all walks of life, though generally the less-than law-abiding type. They are known for working odd jobs, smuggling and - in particular - ambushing, capturing and collecting on Ragesia's bounty on mages; something which is not technically illegal in Gate Pass, with exception for War School students.

The thumping sound continues through the din of battle. Its mysterious origin is definitely coming from outside. Its coming closer and is occuring more frequently.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It is a new round. Post your actions.

[Navian]

Yelara lowers her stance and presses forward with her shield, as the invaders proceed to force the door into her. Mentally, she's somewhat taken aback that no missiles have been fired, nor had any attempts been made to blind or deafen her. Physically... she hasn't been knocked down in years, and if four men with a battering ram balances that equation, it will be a learning experience. She remains on the defensive, expecting to identify a second line of attackers, soon. Eventually, she might come to realize Black Horse mercenaries raided taverns in a manner most unlike that of the people of Shahalesti.

Yelara stands her ground. Strength check: [roll0] She can't make an attack of opportunity because she's using the shield for total cover this round.

[PersonofJid]

The Black Horses. Again. Of course it would be them. Who else would it be? First, the encounter in the mountains, then they kidnap a cleric from a temple Jerid visited, and now they somehow disrupt a supposed secret meeting of the Resistance. How did they know? Jerid's tolerance for them was becoming increasingly thin. He knew that the Black Horses had been hired by a Jägaren to steal the supplies they recovered, and it made sense that Ragesia would use them again to attack the Resistance. In fact, everything seemed to be making sense. Members of the city council being pro-Ragesia, a bounty on mages, stealing city supplies that could be used against them, attacking the Resistance, kidnapping priests; it was all to make the taking of Gate Pass that much easier. That had to be it.

Still, how did they even know about this meeting? As far as he knew, the only people who knew about it were those in attendance, Rantle, Hakon, and Able. As he thought about it, where were Hakon, Rantle, and Able? Weren't they required to be here just as much as he was? Had something happened to them? Not that seeing the master thief would give him any sort of pleasure, but seeing as how Rantle told them to be here, and his warning about bringing the woman, Jerid found it odd to find him absent. Yet, Rantle would never work with mercenaries that threatened his city. He may be overzealous, but that was a zeal directed against the city's enemies. Had Jerid been followed? If the Black Horses didn't know about him before, they certainly would now. One of them fled back to the city after the attack in the mountains, and Jerid had personally attended another one of them back. She had rejoined her comrades and no doubt had informed them of him. They would know he was a member of the Resistance and a spellcaster of sorts. The meeting wasn't until before midnight, which gave them ample time to find him and track him. "Wait...," something dawned on him, "...she was there. I was taking her out of the cart when Rantle told us of the meeting. I thought she was asleep. Was she? I didn't check. Oh no." If Brida had been faking being asleep, she could've heard everything Rantle told them. They wouldn't need to follow him. They would have a time, a location, and opportunity to prepare. This was bad. This was very bad.

"Master, we are under attack. Leave your thinking for later. We could use some help."

Jerid looked around. Ankou was right. An angry orc and a masked...somebody were about to bear down on Sigimund. While he believed his father could handle them, he didn't want to take the chance. Angry orcs alone are never to be trifled with. It's worse when they have someone else to back them up. Yelara and Torrent were currently being assaulted by four masked men, but if Yelara was anything like Hakon (she was certainly big), those four men would be gone before Jerid had time to think. And Jerid always had time to think.

Moving within range, Jerid focused his attention on the masked figure with the daggers. They hadn't yet engaged his father, so it should be easy enough to hit them. As Jerid stares, a familiar bass-pitched hum emits from the area, and a ray of pure frost shoots from Jerid's finger towards the attacker.

If he isn't already within 25 ft, Jerid will move until he is 25ft from the attacker near his father.
Manifest: Energy Ray(cold): ranged touch attack, deals 1d6 cold damage. Cold: deals +1 damage per die.

Attack: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

[Redshaw]

The warrior maiden's shield stands firm, stopping the charging ram dead in its tracks and scattering the hooded ruffians. They all immediately drop the tool to the ground, which thuds heavily on the wooded floor. With chuckles and cut-throat promises, they all begin drawing their weapons. Two of them are dual-wielding wooden saps, designed more for incapacitating than actual killing, while another carries a large warhammer with both hands and the fourth draws his longsword and shield.

Will post the results of the round once everyone has typed up their actions.


Jael and Jerid (http://i.imgur.com/Fx1C8pj.jpg)
Rag-tal and Yelara (http://i.imgur.com/HasyCRs.jpg)
Sigimund and Torrent (http://i.imgur.com/0GPmjI9.jpg)

http://i.imgur.com/5Hkz7Qs.jpg
http://i.imgur.com/SUXWCE9.jpghttp://i.imgur.com/J5MpoQ3.jpg
http://i.imgur.com/IoVW2Sc.jpg

Some notes: please disregard the small "door" at the bottom wall of the map. It does not exist. Please pretend the main entrance is actually a ten-foot wide door, rather than a five-foot wide.

Sorry this took so long to get out; I've been away from my stuff for a few days, working and sleeping at different stations. Thank you for your patience.

Jid, there is a little brown door marker next to your character. This signifies the side door you entered through.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask.

[Navian]

Surrounded by foes, the first step on the path to victory, is to even the odds. This was the terse summary Yelara had received from an instructor after failing to comprehend the initial lecture. Something about circles and walking trees? Yelara didn't understand tactics, but she did understand procedure and mathematics. The odds were against her, and her procedure was clear: Remove the most dangerous and vulnerable opponent first.

It didn't take thought, she would at least make the man with the war hammer regret his ambition. In the first half of her step, her shield arm relaxed. In the second, her longsword sang as it split through the air between them. In this way, Yelara engaged what she saw as the enemy's first line. A faint memory warned her that her station was no better than theirs, in her first battle for Gate Pass.

[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]
[roll3]

[Moustro]

"Everyone, stay on your toes!" Jael shouts, his voice showing more confidence than he has displayed at any point until now. Inside, however, he feels just as worried and hesitant as before. It always surprises Jael when he feels his military training take over in these situations, even after all these years. His mind races as he spots the armbands the intruders are wearing. The Black Horse, here? They couldn't be acting on their own, someone must be directing their actions. It makes sense for Ragesia to hire them as mercenaries - by doing so they've basically purchased an army behind enemy lines - but could some other group be in charge here? And how did they learn of this meeting? Traitors within the Resistance itself?

"It doesn't matter right now," he thinks, struggling to tamp down the questions invading his thoughts. The ominous thumping outside does nothing to ease his mind. He knows he needs to find out what's going on, but dreads what he might learn. "Time enough for that later...assuming any of us are still alive." He focuses on the battle inside the pub, his trained eye taking in every detail. His mind evaluates and plans with the practice of hundreds of wargames and training scenarios. His instincts had allowed him to seek cover just in time, he was out of danger for now. The wizard was next to him, presumably seeking the advantage of cover like himself - the War School trained its students well. This was good, he could cover her spellcasting if needed. He trusted Torrent and the half-elf to stand their own against the four humans, but Sigimund was in trouble. The old man had scored a good hit on the orc and seemed to know how to handle his weapon but was no trained warrior and definitely at a disadvantage.

Taking advantage of the orc's misdirected attention, Jael readies his bow, takes aim and fires, trying to avoid clipping Sigimund as he does so.

Jael uses his Direct Orders feat (WOTBS 20), giving all allies within 30 ft a +1 to Reflex Saves until his next turn.
Jael makes a ranged attack at the she-orc: 1d20 + 1 (BAB) + 1 (Dex) + 1 (Point Blank Shot, PH 98) - 4 (Shooting into melee, PH 140)

Attack: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal grabbed one of Yelara's leftover Javelins, as a last resort it would prove to be useful in slashing some poor fools veins. How fortuitous that it would be left right within claw reach of her. Scanning the battlefield, her eyes fell on the massive orc. Such a big brute would have great physical endurance, but most likely little mental fortitude. Having such a beast under her thrall would certainly tip the tide in her favor against these mercenaries. Standing from her cover, Reg-Tal raised her free hand and began speaking an incantation, gutteral and curt, her infernal words were both alien and hauntingly beautiful all at once, like a banshees melody wailing in the clear midnight.

"Born of blood, bone, and steel
Your every action must pass my toll
Your very whims tied to how I feel
For now I stake a claim inside your soul."


A charm spell, a shadow of what she was once capable of, but still a potent tool nonetheless. Still, the charm would only hold if the Orc believed Reg-Tal and her associates to be allies. Out in the open like that, she wouldn't be surprised if one of these moronic mortals took a pot shot at the Orc and accidentally break the bond. Cupping her hand she called out to the Orc.

"Come hither!"


Move Action: Grab Javelin.
Standard Action: Cast Charm Person on the Orc.
Free Action: Speak

[Redshaw]

Jael's arrow torpedoes across the room and lands with a heavy thud as it penetrates the orc's flank. Her spine bends backwards hand coming to grip the arrow by the shaft in pain. The hooded man at the bottom of the stairs yells in surprise as Jerid's beam frosts the floor at his feet, which spiderwebs across the tops of his boots. He shakes them free of the chill and points at Jerid with one of his daggers, "That's the one! Get him!"

Yelara blade slices across the face of the man with the sledgehammer and blood splatters outward from the slashed cloth, but he does not fall. "Thon of a bitchth! Torrent responds in kind by ramming her mace into the same man's gut with an upward swing that catches his solar plexus with a crunching sound and lift his feet off the ground momentarily before he falls limply onto the floor.

One of the men dual-wielding saps growls, "Lay down your weapons and come quietly. We don't want to break your valuable little heads." Torrent laughs and beats the head of her mace against the face of her shield tauntingly, "Just try it, buddy." Sigimund sneers in defiance of the orc's rage and attempts to stab into the warrior woman's gut with his sword, but his blow is parried with her weapon. The orc lifts its arms as it prepares to bring bloody death downward on the mustachioed hero, but Rag-tal’s magic-honeyed words penetrate the battle’s atmosphere and the hulk’s puny mind. She stops mid-swing and immediately turns around to go striding toward the bar. She is the dragon’s willing thrall.

The bounty hunters are too caught up in their fight against Yelara and Torrent to notice. Once Jerid is identified, the two men with saps go tumbling past the massive shield-maiden too quickly dexteric for her to respond and surround the young man. They come up on either side of Jerid and both begin swinging their wooden clubs at the inexperienced psion. The first swing, Jerid is able to fend off with his forearms, but the second strikes him in the back of the head.

Jerid is dealt 5 points of nonlethal damage.

The man with the shield and sword attempts to keep Yelara’s focus on him, lashing outwards with his blade, aiming for the woman’s eyes. The tip of the blade is able to lick over the edge of the half-elf’s tower shield and carve across her flesh, breaking skin.

Yelara is dealt 6 points of lethal damage

The man with the daggers abandons the fight with Sigimund and sprints toward Torrent’s back, recognizing both the woman’s combat expertise and peril at being surrounded. He lashes at the dusky-skinned woman’s with one of his daggers, but its blade cannot find purchase beneath the protective casing of her breastplate, causing him to curse.
The thumping sounds outside have become almost deafening, but the voices from upstairs are still obvious, accompanied by the sounds of more footsteps coming down the stairs. There are reinforcements on their way down.

But suddenly, the building shakes as a massive explosion occurs on its roof. Ceiling boards crack and buckle and the flaming oil upstairs leaks down into the room like fiery rain. Overhead a handful of screams sound out as the remaining bounty hunters are caught in the flaming burst. A dying man rolls down the stair case, on fire. The bust of Drakus Coaltongue falls onto the floor with a thud. Sigimund roars in outrage as fire spills down from the stair case and immediately surrounds him in flame.

Everyone make a reflex save. DC 10 to avoid 1 point of damage from spraying oil.

Something hit the building. Something large, explosive and fiery. Something the bounty hunters did not intend

http://i.imgur.com/wFd0loe.jpg

For right now, there are two of those points immediately to the left of Jael, the table is on fire, Sigimund is surrounded by fire on the three sides closest to the stair case.

[Navian]

Yelara wore a sour expression, as the fire rained down all around. Avoiding it was an afterthought. She was shaken by how easily the man had penetrated her defenses, on a personal level, but a melee was nothing if not impersonal. What annoyed her so thoroughly, was that the odds seemed to be getting worse even though they weren't outnumbered anymore. It was no time for laying blame, but had she the time to consider it, she would have blamed 'tactics'.

She was dimly aware that this was not a raid, but a smash-and-grab. She could not, however, remember what the practical differences between these were, other than that they were heavily focused on the magic-using man to her right. As much as she'd like to assist him--which wasn't very much, all things considered--her best opening into that fray was occupied by the hammerman's body, and 'how to fight on a mountain of corpses' was one of those parts of her training where she was outclassed by nearly all of her peers (or more accurately, superiors who she was privileged enough to be receive similar training to). If she couldn't defend herself now, the poor footing would only make things worse.

If she couldn't defend herself now, the most clever thing she could think of was to drop the pretense, and instead ensure that she wouldn't have to. Still wincing from the blow to her face, she loosed her shield, letting it fall in front of her, grabbed her sword hilt with both hands and brought it up high as the swordsman recovered his stance. As soon as he had returned to his guard, she struck fast and hard... her sword at his sword, while wearing an eager grin.

This may not be the smartest decision, but Yelara is looking for a 'guarantee'. She's attempting to sunder the swordsman's sword with a standard attack (not using power attack), and expending her psionic focus to ignore half its hardness, if successful.

Opposed attack roll: [roll0] (I don't believe using a one-handed weapon in two hands gives the 'two-handed weapon' bonus, but Improved Sunder helps!)
Damage roll: [roll1]This means there's no chance of a mundane longsword surviving a hit, having 5 HP and its hardness reduced to 5. An enchanted weapon has some chance of survival.

...and that Reflex save goes here. [roll2]

[PersonofJid]

"That's the one! Get him!"

"Uh oh," it seemed Jerid had given himself away. This wasn't an attack on the Resistance, per se, they were simply claiming the bounty on his head. At least his companions weren't making it easy for them. Jael's shot looked like it hurt, and Jerid may not have understood what Ramira said, but he knew magic when he saw it. He had a feeling that orc wasn't going to be much of a problem anymore.

Jerid stood firm as the two men assaulted him with blows. He may not be a warrior, but he was not going to yield. Though, in hindsight, separating himself from the others wasn't the smartest move. Having heart only takes one so far, and he was anything but invincible. A fact driven home as he felt his head explode in pain as one of his attackers struck him upside the head. As he fell into unconsciousness, he thought he heard something crash above him, but all he could think of was, "They're better than I thought."

I only have 4 hit points. 6 non-lethal damage means I am out. Because of that, I think I automatically fail the Reflex save.

[Moustro]

Jael grins as his arrow scores a solid hit into the orc's flank. He reloads quickly and watches the orc's exchange with Sigimund, looking for another opening. He's momentarily puzzled as the orc stops mid-attack and turns to walk towards them, abandoning the attack and doing so without charging at him. Jael takes a quick glance over at the mage beside her and notices her satisfied smile. His pull on the bow relaxes as his mind connects the dots. Whatever cantrip the mage had performed had successfully eliminated the big orc as a threat, at least for the moment. Nicely done. Glancing around the battlefield, Jael turns just in time to see Jerid receive a devastating blow to the back of the head and witnesses the fight go out of him. Damn. He didn't know the kid well, but he wouldn't wish the Black Horse's attention on anyone. The sound of footsteps overhead whispered a dark promise of reinforcements and the ominous thumps outside were getting closer, way too close for his liking. Thing were not progressing in his favor. His attention snaps back to the fight as the sound of a thug's dagger against Torrent's breastplate reaches him through the din. "Torrent's my ticket out of this madness," he thinks as he draws the bow tight, "you keep your dirty blades off her!"

He barely manages to get the shot off before the bar shakes from a massive explosion on the roof. Jael almost loses his balance in surprise as the buckling ceiling beams above let forth a spray of liquid fire in his direction. Trying to avoid the flaming oil, he steadies himself on the bar and stares dumbly as the bust of old Coaltongue topples heavily beside him. Like many a time before this night, Jael feels a tightening in his gut that tells him he has stayed in the bar for entirely too long and it is in his best interest to leave. This time, tragically, the feeling is not accompanied by a blissful alcohol-induced haze but by the roar of pure adrenaline. With fire spreading across the bar and the table beyond, Jael cannot see a way out that doesn't involve cutting a swath through friends and enemies alike.

"Torrent, Yelara, we need to get out of here! The ceiling won't hold for long!" he shouts. As he eyes the globs of fire dripping from the ceiling, he adds "Everyone watch your step!"

Spotting the half-elf's crowbar, Jael puts his bow away to free his hands and ready his escape. Dropping his voice to speak to Ramira, he tries to stay calm as he asks: "Got any ideas?"


Swift Action: Direct Orders feat, giving all allies within 30 ft a +1 to Reflex Saves until his next turn. Note, this should still be active from last round giving everyone +1 on their checks to avoid the spraying oil.

Standard Action: Ranged attack at the dagger-wielding thug: 1d20 + 1 (BAB) + 1 (Dex) + 1 (Point Blank Shot) - 4 (shooting into melee)

Attack: [roll0]
Damage: [roll1]

Move Action: Put away the short bow.

Reflex Save: [roll2]

[Tychris1]

"Really?"

That's all it took to break the mind of a mortal? A simple glamour placed on the mind, a cantrip she had learned in her early years in the barb covered cramped pits of her crib. A landscape of eternal night and damning silence only shattered by the anguished screams of tortured whelps, scraping blades, and dripping blood. A divine parody of life and dense metropolitan environments taken to the most horrific and unnatural extremes. A place where the circle of life was a spiraling cycle careening over the edge of morality and sanity, burning and plummeting down the endless dark pits. This wretch that stood before her filled her with nothing but disgust given the ease at which she bent to her, to think that Reg-Tal was almost impressed by her entrance.

"Home....."

The sudden rain of burning oil only further fueled her home sickness, eliciting a tiny mental smile at the memory of boiling tar raining down outside her den, the droning sound of "patter-patter sizzle" dancing her mind to the edge of sleep after a long days work. Sadly, she couldn't properly enjoy this brief bout of home sickness because, although Reg-Tal the Hellfire Wyrm was immune to the effects of fire and heat, Ramira the Student of War was not, and thus she would have to atleast try and put effort into dodging the fiery downpour. Skirting underneath the bar for a brief second, Reg-Tal looked over at the drunken oaf from earlier, Jon or something like that, and smiled slyly at his inquiry.

"Oh I do have something in mind...."

Rising from over the bar, she resumed her alluring speech to the halfwit orc women under her thrall, but this time she added a new dimension to her speech pattern, one of fret and worry mingled with humility.

"My sweet, my dear. They're taking my husband! Oh please, you must save him! Bring him! I can't live without him, don't let them take him from me!"

Her voice suddenly grew with conviction near the end as she raised Yelara's javelin and ran over the bar, charging through fire and flames. What had Reg-Tal to worry of the blazing inferno? She was conceived in a womb hotter then any mortal forge, a volcano of eldritch power. And if her heroic charge succeeded in saving Sigimund from a fiery death or a more unnatural death, then she would only hold that much more power. Truly, it was good to be a dragon.


Opposed Charisma test to order the She-Hemoth Orc to save Jerid with utmost haste and effort (Because he's Reg-Tal's "Husband"):

Move Action to move 20 feet (3 squares of difficult terrain taking up 30 of my movement allotment, and then the last square/5 feet on standing where the Orc previously stood)

Standard Action, Melee Attack with Javelin:1d20-1[/ROLL]
Damage:
In case of Crit with Javelin:1d20-1[/ROLL]
Damage:[roll2]

Reflex Save to avoid the burning oil:[roll3] (+6 to Reflex Saves for the next 2 turns because of Evil's Blessing counters the -1 innate reflex save)
Reflex Save to avoid the fires (She's trying to look heroic and selfless by charging through fire, so these results don't really matter aside from "Are my robes going to turn to ash"):[roll4]
Square 2:[roll5]
Square 3:[roll6]

[Redshaw]

Everyone, except for Jerid, is able to avoid the fire damage from the spraying oil

Jael's arrow makes a thunking sound as it pierces the boiled leather jerkin worn by the bounty hunter. He snarls as the swordsman behind him is taken by surprise by Yelara's sheer strength. Blood seeping down her face and splattering on the wood floor, the half elf's sword bites the bounty hunter's brittle sword and it cleaves at the middle, its tip hurtling upward toward the oil-seeping ceiling. Still in stride with Yelara, Torrent sheathes her mace and stretches out her hand to grip the pommel of the half-elf's sword, finger tips brushing hers. Her eyes glow a bright emerald green as she speaks word in an angelic tone and as she says the prayers, runes begin curling down the woman's arm, stretch past her palm and begin branding themselves into the flat of Yelara's blade; its edge grows sharper and its weight more balanced.


http://derhobbit-film.de/rune/runes.php?fsize=50&write=000000&back=ffffff&font=1&text=magic%20weapon@@@

Your blade is now receiving a +1 to magic bonus to attack, in addition to Jael's morale bonus. It also receives a +1 magic bonus to all damage roll

As Jerid falls, Sigimund releases an outraged scream (http://www.soundjay.com/human/sounds/man-scream-02.mp3) of piteous rage and horror. Short sword gripped in both hands, he charges through the fire, flames leaping up to attach themselves to his clothes. Despite the obvious peril of oil and heat, the man is not deterred, charging for the man that disabled his son. The short sword buries itself in the base of the man’s spine, piercing upward and the hooded bounty hunter’s head jerks down to stare at the tip of Sigimund’s blade, which has punctured outward from his groin. The man begins to convulse and then topples over onto the ground, Sigimund’s blade slipping outward as he falls.

The remaining rogue with saps cries in anger is his companion is skewered by the old farmer and steps over Jerid’s still-breathing body to begin attacking the offender, but even as his clothes are still alight with flickering fire, Sigimund is able to fend off the beat-sticks.

http://i.imgur.com/i90JZ2A.jpg

The orc ponders Rag-tal’s directions with a curious tilt of the head, but as the burning oil seeps down to distract the barbarian, the dragon’s spell is weakened by distraction and then broken. She bares her tusks in anger and retakes a warrior’s stance. As Reg-tal moves to the aid of Sigimund, the orc returns her orders with anger and rage; she leaps up onto the bar and completely bypasses Jael and Torrent and Yelara to attack the one who dared force her will, swinging for the woman with her great axe. The blade finds purchase, ripping the disguise’s robes and flesh. In the confusion of battle and the pain of the orc’s bite, Reg-tal’s attack does not find purchase, glancing off the boiled leather armor of the hooded man.

Armed with a bow, Jael is unable to make an AoO against the orc. The orc stepped off the bar for two diagonal movements, bypassing AoO's from Torrent and Yelara. Reg-tal is dealt 8 points of lethal damage.

His sword cloven in two, the man stares incredulously at the half elf. He drops the useless sword onto the ground and draws in its place a long sap with the Iron Fist of Kordo carved into its head. The club lashes outward, again aimed for her head, but she’s ready for it this time. The club is easily knocked aside with her blade.

The final bounty hunter roars as both his blade twirl and are brought up together in tandem. Torrent screams more in anger than pain as one blade sinks into her arm pit and another into her bicep. The backstabber twists the blades before ripping them out and blood splashes on the ground.

The tavern continues to burn and smoke has begun to fill the ceiling of the room and its quickly beginning to descend. The entire floor at the bottom of the stair case is on fire and it’s spreading quickly toward the center of the room.

The thumping sounds which preceded the building’s sudden explosion and subsequent fire continue, though they seem to be growing more quiet and further away as time passes. You can only assume several buildings in the city are experiencing the same fiery anger that yours does.

http://i.imgur.com/L2HDZHU.jpg

[Navian]

Yelara glares as she parries the strike of the man before her. There were enemies all around, fire rained from the ceiling, the city was under siege--she didn't know what was going on, things didn't seem to be going according to anyone's plan, not even her own, despite her efforts to keep it simple--and her allies were in danger of falling. It was shameful, she remembered; mere mercenaries had no right to defeat anyone who fought for the cause, not even a half-bred outlaw.

One problem at a time.

The ex-swordsman did not retreat, despite her show of force. That was a problem. Torrent had blessed her sword, so, it was the most apparent solution. She swept her sword low under his shield side and raked it upward, aiming to spill his guts. It was not her preferred way to defeat someone, but there were too many enemies, and too little time; judging from all the shouting.

[roll0]
With her sword deep inside her enemy's guard--and perhaps further--Yelara offered a few words to those not yet fallen with only somewhat more eloquence than the average ogre. "Flee now, if you can."

[Moustro]

Jael stares as the mage leaps over the bar, heedless of the flames, and joins the thick of the fight. Mages. He thinks, shaking his head. I'll never understand them. As he thinks this he's also reminded that he understands women even less, and wonders which factor plays the bigger role in explaining Ramira's action. He winces as the big orc's attack slams into her and hesitates for a second, his hand on the half-elf's heavy crowbar. Should he go to her aid? The orc was wounded but still as angry and mean-looking as ever, and the mage did not look like she knew what she was doing with that javelin. But the smoke pouring into the room behind her reminded Jael of their peril and solidified his course of action. For now, the mage was on her own.

"Stay alive." he mutters, eyeing the three ladies deep in combat. "Stand strong."

Gripping Yelara's crowbar, Jael leaps over the fire towards Jerid's prone body and the closest exit: the side door through which he had grudgingly entered not long ago, before the world had turned to madness.


Swift Action: Direct Orders feat, giving all allies within 30 ft a +1 to Fortitude Saves until his next turn.

Move Action: Draw the crowbar as an improvised weapon and move to the side door.
Reflex Save for walking over fire 1: [roll0]
Reflex Save for walking over fire 2: [roll1]

Standard Action: Total defense, +4 dodge bonus to AC. Not sure who's blocking Jael's way, but he'll use the crowbar to parry any attacks against him as he tries to get to the door. If there's noone in the way he'll try the door instead.
Strength Check to force open the door (if needed): [roll2]

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal gasped as the blade punctured her fleshy disguise, blood flowing from her crimson robe, in her dark mind it was almost ironic. So this is what it was like to be wounded in a mortal coil. She didn't like it. It had been so long since she'd felt the sting of combat, and at the hands of an oaf she had just recently bewitched? To say her eyes went wide with surprise would be an understatement. Gritting her teeth, she glanced around the room frantically for an escape, but with that massive bastard nearby, she'd be run down before she could reach the door.

There was no hacking it, she was stuck in the thick of it.

This is what she gets for trying her claw at heroism. Leave the heroics to naive mortals and presumptuous wretches with dreams and a sword. Her dreams were far darker, twisted nightmares lightened by hellfire. And now? Now all she dreamed of was revenge. Lunging forward with her spear, Reg-Tal stabbed at the Orc that dared to strike at an emissary of desolation.


Attack:[roll0]
Damage:[roll1]

[Redshaw]

Jael charges for the side door, flames kicking upward at his feet as he rushes past them. His pants alight and charge the cloth of his garments with thermal energy. But despite being on fire, he is able to dodge the back-handed swing of the she-orc, standing atop the bar.

Jael takes 3 points of lethal heat damage from catching on fire. Either make another reflex save next round to put it out (DC 15), or take a full round action to put it out.

Reaching the door, the man finds that he isn’t required to force it with the crow bar, as it is locked by a latch on the inside. He is able to unclick the latch and swing open the door, allowing a sudden influx of freezing cold air into the room. The sudden introduction of more atmosphere fans the flames inside the building, causing it to spread even wider. Fire licks up the bar and spreads over the she-orc’s legs. She bellows and wails as she is unsuccessful in kicking out the fire that is now attached to her.

But cold air is not the only thing that charges the building’s interior. As the door is opened, Jael hears the sound of enraged barking and suddenly his vision is a blur of teeth and tongue and fur as an attack dog is released on him. Yellow teeth sink into his forearm, lifted in defense, tearing flesh and sinew.


http://hintonalfert.com/images/dog-attacks.jpg

Jael is dealt 4 points of lethal damage from the dog

With a flourish of strength and dexterity, in a fashion that only an elfish blademaster could accomplish, Yelara’s longsword knocks aside her opponent’s sap with an arcing swing that immediately reverses to carve along the throat of the human. Her gurgles and chokes on his own blood as he immediately drops his shield and club to grip his newly opened windpipe with both hands uselessly, falling to his knees as he whimpers for his mother.

Torrent redraws her mace and, armpit still bleeding quite profusely, swings at the dagger-armed villain at her flank. Her mace catches him across the brow and he stumbles backwards, completely stunned, crashing into the table and knocking over chairs as he falls. He lands in the fire and he begins to scream in horror and agony as his flesh is melted. The dusk-skinned cleric offers no hurrah or cheer of success, but allows herself a moment of grim satisfaction. The horrifying stench of burned flesh and feces penetrates the atmosphere.

Sigimund uses the flat of his blade to beat out the fire attached to his burlap pants, which is quickly extinguished. He uses the same blade with the intention of gutting the remaining bounty hunter and though he fails to eviscerate the man, his blade pierces armor to find flesh and cause much pain to the man. Wreaked with pain and suddenly very fearful for his life, the man crosses his saps in what can only be interpreted as a defensive stance, the intent to harm others beaten out of him. He wants to live.

Greataxe held in both hands, the orc releases a roar of pure rancor and hatred as she swings downward at Reg-tal, pouring all of her strength and will into the blow. And what a blow it is, splintering hard oak wood with incredible depth in a strike that would have assuredly cleft a horse’s head from its body. But the dragon is spared this fate, for a blow, no matter how powerful, cannot harm what it does not hit.

Ducking saves Reg-tal’s life – and her head – but the consequence for life means that she cannot properly align her attack with the javelin, which glances against the she-orc’s skin, but does not pierce it.

The entirety of the ceiling above is alight and the fire is beyond control at this point, the descending smoke gray as stone and thick as butter. The heat is impossibly stifling, the blinding smoke is claustrophobic, the feeling of impending doom fills the air. It's too hot to breath. It's too hot to sweat.


http://i161.photobucket.com/albums/t205/dennismenace56/firesim.jpg

You hear a creaking sound above you.

http://i.imgur.com/fLYJ3Kk.jpg

Because you cannot share an ally's square, Jael is technically one square out of the building on the board. Game wise, he's under the doorframe.

[Navian]

Sensing danger, but still finding herself penned in by foes, flames, and smoke, and with an inferior weapon, Yelara attempts to dispose of her orcish match swiftly, by whirling about with a sword strike aimed to hamstring her.

As her blade meets the orc, she lets go of her sword with her right hand, and pushes herself back and away, falling to one knee. Near the floor, where the air is slightly clearer, she reaches for her kite shield to turn and lift it, and spares a glance for the impending death from above. Her own blood runs down her face and cinders fall, so she blinks furiously to keep her eyes clear. It was past time to escape, but all her allies were still inside, and the enemy seemed more than willing to fight to the death.

She stopped to ponder, and struggling to think and keep track of the enemy in detail, she hoped it wouldn't be for the last time. Examining the structure of the pub itself took too much effort. "Have a little strength, old wood," she muttered under her breath, as she fumbled with her shield.

Power attack against the orc. [roll0]
[roll1] 20% Concealment
(1d8+12)[17]

5 foot step into the empty space past Torrent's position, move action picking up her shield. (In that order, if possible, since picking it would provoke an AoO from the orc if she's still standing after the attack.) She can't don the shield this turn, so it's not providing any benefit, and her sword is being wielded one-handed.

[roll2] Perception, if she gets a chance to look at the ceiling to see what may have made the noise.

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal's eyes went wide as the axe slammed down infront of her, silently thanking Ramira for having such a flexible body. Still, fury and vengeance are powerful motivators, and in the face of this bastard Orc she was prepared to stand her ground and fight it until either one of them died or the roof buried them in the same grave. That is, however, until the equally brutish Elf stepped in to intervene and assault the Orc. She smiled, hoping that the two would kill each other in a tangle of metal and limbs, it was almost poignant.

Almost.

Clarity brought upon by her vengeance being sated, Reg-Tal noticed Jael being mauled by a particularly vicious dog. Smirking, she readied her javelin and advanced on it. She wasn't particularly fond of abusing animals, but this deranged mutt presented the perfect target to release some stress on. She growled, letting loose some of the inner dragon hiding under flesh, and stabbed wildly at the hound, hoping to skewer its eye or nose.

Attack:[roll0]
Damage:[roll1]

I'm not sure if I can move diagonally past Jael and into the snow outside, but if I can I'll use a five foot step to do so.

[Moustro]

With his focus solely on the door and the promise of fresh air and respite from the battle, Jael completely forgets the sturdy bust of Coaltongue smoldering between the lapping flames. This oversight is immediately remedied when his sandaled foot connects heavily with the emperor's visage as he leaps, dousing his leg and foot in oil and fire and excruciating pain. The blow throws Jael off balance and he stumbles, the erratic motion allowing him to narrowly and miraculously avoid the she-orc's surprisingly quick attack. He somehow finds himself in front of the door, relieved to find it secured with a simple latch. Urgent to get outside and tend to his wounded leg and burning clothes, he undoes the latch and swings the door open. Compared to the heat and smoke and sweat of the battle behind him, the cool night air feels like a lover's kiss on his lips (or an ice-cold mug of the Lucky Moon's infamous Summer Brew, which to him is just as wonderful).

The moment is short-lived as Jael's world explodes in a flash of fur and teeth and pain. Distracted by the night air and the rising pain in his leg, the attack catches him completely by surprise. His years of training save him from losing his face and throat to the beast, but the arm he manages to reflectively raise in defense is torn to shreds by the hound's ferocious attack. Pain courses through him again and Jael has to fight to keep from blacking out. Barely managing to shake off the attack, he maneuvers his way out the door and beats at the flames creeping up his body, eyeing the beast and hoping to avoid another attack.


Misc action: Take a 5-foot step into the alley.
Full-round action: Extinguish the flames on his person.
Not sure if he can take a look around and see what other surprises are waiting in the alley...

[Redshaw]

Leaning against the side of the doomed tavern, Jael is able to batter out the flames that would otherwise consume his flesh. The open door is now a portal for a long, steady stream of milk-thick smoke to pour out of, obscuring his vision of the alley that leads toward the front of the tavern, though he hears some voices echoing from that direction; he is unable to determine the words said, or the number of people speaking. The rear of the tavern meets the mighty wall of Gate Pass and there is nowhere to turn from that direction. As his senses return, Jael is assaulted with the sounds of distant battle; men and their horses screaming and dying, accompanied by thumping explosions.

The bitch that attacked Jael now turns its ferocious attentions on the woman in the door way, snapping at her spear rabidly, but finding no flesh to tear and rend.

Yelara's spin slices both the orc's heels and she falls into the fire with a horrible scream. The flames and smoke make short work of her. There is another sound above that captures the perceptive half-elf's attention, however; the sound of creaking wood, complaining of an unsupportable weight. Whatever caused the initial explosion and started the fire has undoubtedly had its toll on the upper supports of the structure.

Torrent sheathes her mace as she watches the orc fall and die. She pauses as she considers unconscious Jerid before stepping over his body and gripping his tunic with both her hands to begin hauling the young man out of the fire. She barks at the bounty hunter who has given his surrender, "By Mora, help me carry him out or it will be you who's left behind!" Scared into reticence, the hooded man drops both his weapons to help carry the psion out into the alleyway. The dog snaps at the Torrent's heels, as she's the first one out of the building, but she kicks its muzzle away without a second thought. Sigimund follows a hair's breath behind and the moment they're out of the building, he immediately begins tending to his son.

"My boy... stay alive, boy..." He demands in a voice barely above a whisper, stroking Jerid's hair possessively, resting his son's head in his lap. His voice is even and controlled, but it is impossible to tell whether his eyes are tearing from smoke irritation or worry for Jerid.

Teeth gritted and anger resolved, Reg-tal's strike is finally true. The tip of the lance skewer's the back of the dog's throat, mid-bark, and pierces its brain, killing it instantly. The animal begins to convulse as it sprays blood from its mouth and falls into the snow.

Everyone outside is now aware of the explosive pandemic occurring in the city, though none of you can see it. You hear the voices of approaching men from the otherside of the smoke pillar, as well as seeing some silhouettes, although you cannot make out their numbers. From the outside, you can see that the second floor of the Poison Apple Pub is completely decimated. Something exploded on its roof and now the entire level is fully involved with a rampaging fire. The building's skeletons are laid bare and there is no questioning that it's only a matter of time before it collapses.


http://www.colacherald.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/cabin-on-fire.jpg

The smoke and the heat have descended to unsurvivable levels. The air is poison, the atmosphere is scalding. The fire consumes all. The entire rear and staircase ends of the building are covered in flames, including the path to the side door.

To remain in the building after this round will begin incurring 3 points of damage per round from heat, no save. You have a number of rounds equal to double your CON modifier to get out before you're forced to take a breath, which will cause smoke suffocation. There is one square of fire between you and the side door, which will require a reflex save to cross without catching a light. There is no fire between you and the main entrance, which still stands wide open.

[Navian]

The pub was an oven, with the most unpleasant ingredients and the world's least talented cook at the helm. Now it was time to leave. Yelara took her last breath of the moment and stood.

She let her ears do the work. The smoke was blinding, though the inferno made navigating this environment easy, in an unpleasant way. Except for her steel cap, the remainder of her possessions that had been left about her chair were already burning merrily. That cap was likely the only artifact on this floor of the building that could survive the pub's destruction intact, and Yelara found the thought comforting enough to allow her to leave it be on the table.

She was already moving toward what was left of the front entrance, donning her shield as she went. From the edge of the interior, she surveyed the outside from the safety of her shield. What was there?

[Redshaw]

The heat conditions in the room make seeing anything difficult, as it is simple agony to open your eyes. But Yelara can spy at least three figures outside of the front entrance, and at least one of them either incredibly tall or mounted on a horse.

[Navian]

Given a choice between stumbling blindly through fire to reach the side door to evade a few potential enemies, and simply moving around the outside to reach the same destination, Yelara decided to maintain her momentum. Sword and shield at the ready, she proceeded steadily through the door and toward her companions, with her nerves on edge. She set her eyes on the enemy as much as she could as she sidestepped across the front of the pub to the alleyway, though the sky was also a source of alarm.

Yelara's move action takes her outside and around the corner until she's two squares from the square just outside the side door--in other words, three squares to the left of the one she started in, on the other side of the wall. Not only is she using her tower shield as cover, she's also using her standard action to ready a Move action to escape from anything her shield can't defend against: Chiefly, fireballs, explosions, and trampling from warhorses.

[Moustro]

Jael felt much better now that he could breathe the night air. Not trusting the integrity of the burning pub's wall, he crosses the alley and slumps against stonework on the other side. He nods his thanks to the mage and nurses his wounds, bandaging his arm haphazardly with a strip of cloth. It wouldn't help much, he knew, but experience told him he'd be grateful for the added pressure if he had to exert any amount of strength with it. There was panic in the city, and what sounded like a battle in the distance. Chances were good he'd need the use of all his limbs if he was to stay alive long enough to see the next round of drinks.

Looking around and realizing that they were boxed in with the city wall behind them, Jael raises the crowbar defensively and waits to see who or what is approaching through the smoke. He desperately hopes to see a friendly face, even if it's Rantle's ugly mug. Not seeing the huge half-elf anywhere, he wonders how they would fare without her if more hooded figures appear. He knows that he himself has little fight left in him.


Move Action: Walk across the alley (probably a 5-foot step but he's not doing much else anyway)
Standard Action: Total defense, +4 to AC.

[Tychris1]

Licking her wounds, Reg-Tal looked about the landscape feverishly, soaking in the gravitas of the situation they were in. Chaos was running rampant, their plan had been met with a surprise knife to the gut, and fire rained down from the heavens to wreak desolation. And she wasn't the one raining said fire down. Her pawns were crippled or scattered, and now she herself was in danger and wounded. Truly this was a poor state of affairs for her dreams of vengeance.

But, she had other concerns to attend to aswell, those being of Ramira's false convictions and carefully planned choreography. Pulling the javelin out of the dog's cadaver, she swiftly wipes the blood off on the snow and moves to help her fallen comrade to his feet. Wounded as he was, time was of the essence, and pinned against a burning tavern while a riot raged around them was not the best place to be. They needed to move, and move fast.

"Sigarda watch over this city. Hár knows no one else can." She prayed softly to no one in particular. She could practically feel the bile from uttering the name Hár build in her throat, but she forced it down swiftly. Whether or not Jael took her aid, Ramira would take a defensive stance with the javelin and state to the others her mental processing.

"We need to leave. Now. Is there any place we can go to for shelter to weather out this storm?"

Move Action to move next to Jael
Standard Action: Total defence

[Redshaw]

As Yelara extricates from the building, there is a whistleing shriek that pierces the air shortly before something heavy clangs loudly against her shield. Peeking over its edge will reveal two more hooded men, each armed with slings, standing on either side of a massive human in equally imposing plated armor, mounted on a muscle-bound warhorse. One of the hoodlums has already loosed their sling on Yelara, which undoubtedly is what caused the loud, but ultimately harmless ping. The other has begun swinging his thong about in the air, preparing to unleash the stone within, but is stayed when the mounted man stretches out his arm in front of the attacker's chest, bidding him to stay the attack.

The man gestures for the half-elf join her friends around the side of the building and if the chaos of invasion has perturbed this man, he does not show it in the slightest, for his body language betrays nothing but careful consideration of each and every movement. If she does not attack outright, the man will steer his mount to follow the woman around the side of the building where she might rejoin her fellow rebels. He gestures for the hooded men behind him to stay where they are, which they do not seem pleased about, but neither do they disobey.

Torrent bends down next to Sigimund and squeezes his shoulder to gently gain his attention. His head snaps to look at her, but his violent expressions softens and he lowers his head in deference.

"Guiding stars.
Seething tides.
By your blessing,
Give him life."

Energy slithers down from Torrent's hands and enter Jerid's body. Bruised bones mend, ruptured blood vessels seal; conciousness is slowly restored to the young man.

With similar prayer and gentleness, the cleric also tends to Jael's newly opened wounds as well as Reg-tal's. At the end of the ritual, she seems exhausted. Her wounds from the fight are obvious, but she seems less eager to tend to those.

Jerid heals 6 points of hp.

Jael heals 5 points of hp.

Reg-tal heals 2 point of hp.



http://fc03.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2011/051/4/c/ostagar_by_milulya-d3a07yy.jpg



Following Yelara, the man casually guides his mount through the smoke, where he may receive the countenance of all resistance members. He is impossibly tall for a human, with haunted dark eyes and a pronounced jaw line with greyish skin that suggests orcish blood somewhere in his family line, though not immediately. His hair is oily and black and his gaze is reminiscent of a judge. A zweilhander as tall as he is is sheathed to his back and a broken helmet is hooked to his belt, its face shield cleft in two at a diagonal angle. Unlike his companions, he wears no band identifying him as a Black Horse.

His dark eyes catch the attention of each resistance member, sparing a few moments on each with an intensity that suggests that if he could, he would peer into your very souls. An explosion rocks the alleyway as a nearby building leaps into conflagration, but he does not falter. Instead, he looks upward and speaks in a tone as if to comment on the weather, "...well. I'd offer my sword in surrender. But I feel as though we're all about to die anyway."

[Navian]

Yelara had been backing away from the man, on her toes, until she reached her companions. Inexperienced with healing magic, she was sure they were all in a terrible state, and continued to ward them while waiting for further word. Her blood was no longer running where it shouldn't--the heat had seen to that--though it did nothing to lighten her mood or her countenance.

In response to the man's words, she spat, "We still have work to do." In large part this was meant to refute him, though it doubled as a nagging reminder to those kneeling and resting behind her.

She'd regrouped with her comrades, and the wind was chilly without her cold weather gear. Pain, discomfort, and a sense of vulnerability were thoroughly negating her patience. Yelara scanned her surroundings for an excuse to press on, or better yet, a better route by which to do so than through more armed opponents.

[Moustro]

Jael sighs with relief as Torrent's touch revitalizes him. The sharp sting of his ravaged arm eases away as the magical energy flows through it, sealing torn blood vessels and suturing the wound. "Minon be praised", he mutters in thanks as he rubs his arm, fist clenching and unclenching. He knew better than to resist the cleric's aid, though part of him would always associate that surge of wellness with his failures on the battlefield. His old teacher's barked admonishments echoed back to him through the years: Mind your position! Use the battlefield to your advantage! Let yourself be cornered and suffer the consequences! And here he was, singed and weary, clothing burnt and grasped by the stench of smoke and battle and boxed in on three sides by flaming building and unyielding stone. Chaos all about, and the only way out blocked by what was presumably the enemy. He blamed himself for their tactical blunder. He had not intended to lead - merely to escape - but the group had followed him anyway and their actions reflected his decision. He did not enjoy being responsible for others. He enjoyed failing at this task even less.

Somber of mood, Jael looks on as the half-elf rejoins the group and eyes the tall human as his mount follows her through the smoke plume. Huge and imposing, and solidly blocking their escape, the dark figure is the very antithesis of what Jael was hoping to see. Vöra had apparently taken special care in making sure Jael's wishes were thwarted at every point so far today. His words, however, confused Jael.

"...well. I'd offer my sword in surrender. But I feel as though we're all about to die anyway."

Jael agreed with the sentiment - he very much doubted he would survive the night - but...surrender? The man was surely toying with them. He may be outnumbered in the alley, but a trained warhorse would do short work of them in this confined space. The heavy Zweihänder at the man's back made the crowbar in Jael's hands look foolish by comparison. He also knew the countenance of a leader when he saw it. This was a man in command, which meant that backup would not be far away even if their little band were to miraculously stand against him. He considers calling the mounted man's bluff and accepting his surrender, but decides against it. If the man wanted to talk, he'd encourage it.

"We're sorry about your guys in there." he says, waving at the burning pub. "We would've helped them escape the fire if they weren't, you know, trying to kill us."

"What is it that you want with us anyway?" he continues. "I can't speak for everyone here but I at least can think of more pleasant things I could be doing while the city burns." He looks again at the burning pub. "Do you know if the Lucky Moon still stands?"

Standard Action: Search for clues or details about the man and his mount. Perception check: [roll0]
Move Action: Peer through the smoke to determine what waits on the other side. Perception check: [roll1]

If we're no longer in combat and talk goes on for a minute or more, Jael will try to Sense Motive on the tall man.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid started to come to as Torrent's spell healed his wounds. He could feel extreme heat nearby, and the smell of smoke filled his nostrils. Was something on fire? He slowly opened his eyes, and as his vision came into focus he could see the image of his father looking down on him right next to the sight of the Poison Apple Pub being entirely consumed by fire. That explained a lot, but it was hardly comforting. At least the pain in his head was gone.

Jerid leaned on his father for support as he stood up, "Father, what happened?" The smoke made seeing difficult but he thought he could make out the rest of the party and someone on a horse. They were talking, but he hadn't been able to make out what had been said.

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal hissed as the gash across her hip was stitched back together with positive energy, her body tensed slightly in anticipation of a dagger to be plunged into the healed wound, and was met with only the numbing cold of snow. Right, in this plane there are such concepts as "charity" and "teamwork" were common place. Still, she made sure to make a mental note for the future, staring into Torrents eyes for a second she thought to herself.

"When I forge my empire from fire and blood, break the backs of your people and your gods, and bend these mortal nations to my whims, you will be the last to die. Little dove..."

Adverting her gaze, she glanced at the scar tissue and patted it gently. It still stung something fierce, but atleast her insides and her outsides were in there proper places. It wouldn't do well for a future Empress to die bleeding out in a backwater alleyway in a flee ridden city on this earth ball. Speaking of the flee ridden inhabitants of the city, one just so happened to appear before them now, alongside the hulking Elf brute. So, she survived the fire and the combat with the equally grotesque orc, how sad. Still, it did prove her usefulness and tenacity in combat and in the face of adversity. Perhaps there would be more use for her in the future, assuming that tenacity is given a.... "proper" outlet in Reg-Tal's eyes. This new man was almost as repulsive, though he atleast had the good fortune of not snarling constantly or being confused by such simple concepts as "Deceit". Well, not yet at least, the inhabitants of this cess pool had an almost instinctive behavior towards disappointing the Hellfire Wyrm.

"...well. I'd offer my sword in surrender. But I feel as though we're all about to die anyway."

That however, wasn't disappointing for Reg-Tal to hear. Well, in the traditional sense it both is and isn't disappointing to hear, as Reg-Tal both wanted to rip his throat out and also wished to avoid a direct conflict after what happened inside (And given the current environment). But both of her predatory instincts paled in comparison to the single driving force that pounded at the back of her throat. A slithering golden tongue choked by the time spent in combat or in torture, now writhing it's way through her body and screaming to be used. This was a man without cause, dejected, disheveled, hopeless in the face of a Ragesian army.

And who's hopes were better to instill in him but her own?

"Bah. And here I thought the Black Horse Bounty Hunters were men and women of the north. Hardened and embroiled by the unforgiving truth of life in this cruel world. I had no idea that a single Ragesian assualt was enough to send them into a lethargic state of pathetic apathy,"

She began to approach the man now, resting her javelin at her side until she was within spitting distance of him. Stabbing the point of her javelin into the ground, she held her hand out and above her to catch some of the ash blowing through the wind. Staring up at the aerial chaos, she continued.

"This is nothing, another hurdle to be pushed aside and endured like so many times in the past. I've known the men of Gate Pass all my life, heard the stories of what they do to survive, and trust me when I say they survive. If the Ragesian's wish to burn my home let them, it's only 4 walls and a roof, but I will survive. Gate Pass will survive. You can lie your sword down in premature defeat if you wish, call it destiny, fate, the wrath of gods or Demons, whatever makes you feel better in those last fleeting moments but I intend to live a long life. Now, are you a boy pretending to be a man, or a true son of Dáin intent on kicking and clawing at the world on every step to the grave?"

Reg-Tal held her hand out, her face a stoic statue of stone staring into the grey man's eyes.

"Until this chaos ends? Then we can return to the natural cycle of you hunting mages and us killing Ragesian scum."


Diplomacy!:[roll0]

[Redshaw]

The smoke is too black to pierce with vision and the sounds and screams of proximate combat create too much of a din to hear specifics. The world beyond the small alley is a chaotic and death-filled place. The man's armor is of supremely fine make, the skull of a dragon molded into the breastplate of his armor and the hilt of his sword seems to be constructed from blackened bone with a fur-trimmed hand guard.

The tall man lifts an eyebrow as Jael speaks, "I can't speak for the well-being of the Lucky Moon, but unless it is made from stone, I would not bet an Emperor on it." He doesn't speak on his comrades left in the building, but hardly seems concerned or distressed by the loss.

As Jerid returns to consciousness, Sigimund helps the young man sit up, though keeps a firm grip on his shoulder. He forces Jerid's scythe back into the young man's hands - apparently he dragged it out of the death trap along with his son. He doesn't respond to his son's question, standing and drawing his short sword to take a defensive stance, muttering a quiet prayer to Dáin.

Where Jael illicited a minimal response from the stoic soldier, Reg-tal's infernal charisma seems to pierce his leathery skin. He furrows his brow, almost in anger, as she calls on the reputation of the Black Horses, steering his horse forward toward the buxom woman.

He keeps his head tilted as she speaks, staring at her with intense focus and the stare continues when she's finished, as he considers her words. Finally, he speaks, in that low gravelly voice, "...it is true, there was no honor in this fight. You are soldiers true and that is more than can be said than the men who attacked you. But do not think that honor can be traded from honeyed words and chaos in the streets." He kicks his horse to begin facing out toward the main street, "You've won the right to your lives tonight and my respect as a soldier. My name is Kratos and our paths will cross again - perhaps our swords as well."

Unless he is stopped physically, Kratos leads his horse back into the smoke and out into the unseen chaos. You are on your own.

[Navian]

Yelara glances toward Reg-Tal with keen-edged confusion as the mounted man advances on her, in front of her. She does not step forward to stand by her side, but waits, on her toes with sword and shield ready, until the man has disappeared into the smoke. Finally she relaxes, and cleans her sword on the dog's coat, working hard to sort out this mess. "I know where I want to go, but... the paper-piece. Are it and the badger-gnome lost? Are there wounded to carry? We have to go."

She looked around at the others worriedly, except for the unarmed mercenary, who she gave a terse snort. The sky was falling and they stood next to a building that was about to collapse. She shifted from foot to foot anxiously, trying to keep her eyes and ears pointed at too many things at once. She wasn't panicked, though, not yet. Her moods did not shift very quickly.

[Moustro]

Jael shrinks back with a grimace as Ramira speaks. He knows the words coming from the charming mage are intended to elicit emotion from the mounted stranger, but he cannot help but feel that they are directed at him as well.

"Now, are you a boy pretending to be a man, or a true son of Dáin intent on kicking and clawing at the world on every step to the grave?"

Her words cut through him, and he realizes with a sinking feeling that shrinking back to weather this storm in a wine cellar is no longer a viable option. Her words would rattle in his head and sour the taste of any mead he may put to his lips while the city burns. He too was a son of Gate Pass, and though it may be a fool's crusade the resistance members were at least trying to make a difference.

He listens closely as the stranger - who identifies himself as Kratos - responds then eyes him closely as he leaves. He is relieved that the immediate threat appears to be over, if only postponed. He puzzles over the half-elf's words for a moment, then speaks.

"Yes, we have to go. Finding the gnome now will be next to impossible, but standing about will just get us killed. I need to see what's going on out there, there may be people who need our help. Or that Kratos creep could be gearing up to run us down. Either way we're blind in here. I'll yell back if it's safe to leave the alley...not that we have much choice."

He walks over to the big half-elf and returns the crowbar to her. "Thank you for your help in there, you are indeed a formidable warrior. I could use your assistance scouting out the way, if you would join me?"

He then covers his nose and mouth against the smoke and moves through it, hugging the far wall of the alley. He avoids making eye contact with either Torrent or Ramira as he moves and speaks, glancing at the ground instead.

[Navian]

Yelara seeks to sheathe her sword once its clean--oh. Right. She left her scabbard on the floor, in the flames, along with everything else save her sword, shield, boots, inner clothing and mail shirt. ...She'd had worse, on one occasion. Small comfort that she could now make that claim.

Instead, Yelara walked past Jael to the end of the alley, leaned her sword against the wall, reached over to take her crowbar from Jael, placed it back on her belt, and then finally set about reattaching her shield's neck strap to her neck, so that she could sling her shield across her back, and pick up her sword again.

At the end of her long queue of actions, she would most likely give him a shrug in response. No need to wait up for it. It seemed she'd eventually be ready, weather permitting.

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal nods her heard sternly as Kratos departs them.

"Safe travels."

She grunts in such a way that it could be viewed sarcastically or truthfully. Even she had her limits at times for holding it in. Pulling her Javelin free she returns to the aid of Torrent to see if she can "assist" with anything, pausing only to recognize Jael.

"Good idea, we're in rough shape so the sooner you find a clear path the better."

Kneeling down beside Jerid, Reg-Tal almost felt a sense of pity for the child's confusion on the subject of what just happened. Well, if her stint at heroic theatrics didn't pan out well, she could always try her hand at the bard. They always made the best prisoners.

"You got beaten pretty hard by those Black Horse thugs, nearly lost you in the flames if it weren't for Torrent, and one of those same thugs. Seem's as if the world has taken a right **** on our fine city at the moment, and it's using Ragesians to wipe it down. Now come on child, I'm as lost and confused as you after that point, and I don't intend on seeing what comes after."

Gripping his hand she stared at him intently, bracing her body to help lift him up and walk. A crippled glass jaw child was generally something she left to the wolves to eat, not help them along to safety. But in this case the Child's father and friend are her best bet at survival and recuperation, so an act of mercy is worth being spared..... For now. Plus she wanted to know what made him so special to warrant the ambush to begin with.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid nearly pulled his hand out of Ramira's as she tried to help him up. The mage was being quite forward. He didn't need her help, and her calling him a child did not make it any more welcome. If she was trying to insult him, then she was doing a good job of it. Typical Gabal student behavior. However, maybe she wasn't being insulting. Jerid had been wrong before. It could very well be that she was simply trying to help. Besides, a single invasion of personal space of this sort was not something to get worked up about, whether insulting or not. There were more important things to worry about, right now.

"I'm not a child anymore, mage..."

Gripping her hand in return, he allowed her to help him stand.

"...but thank you."

"Master? You're awake! Quickly, we have to leave. That was him."

Ankou's sudden chattering in his mind dispelled any worry about his psicrystal's fate. The fact that the crystal hadn't noticed Jerid's recovery until now was not surprising. Its ability to focus without being distracted made it difficult for Jerid to get its attention even on the best of days. If Ankou noticed him now, then it must have seen something important enough for it to try to get his attention.

"Slow down, Ankou. What are you talking about?"

"The man called Kratos. The one on the horse. The one we were just talking to. We can't let him escape. He had a broken helmet on his belt. I saw it. It was the same as the man who kidnapped the priest at the Temple of Mora. That was him. I'm sure of it."

This couldn't be a coincidence. Moving toward Jael and Yelara, Jerid removes Ankou from his necklace.

"Master Jael, I think I have a better candidate for scouting."

Focusing his power on the psicrystal, tiny ectoplasmic spider legs sprout from Ankou's form allowing him to move as he pleases.

"If there are people waiting to ambush us out there, it's less likely they'll notice something this small crawling around. It's fast, and can relay anything it sees back to me, so I can tell us if it's safe to go out. Also, it can see through the smoke without difficulty. If you think it'll help, then it is at your service."

[Moustro]

As Jael readies himself to walk through the smoke, Jerid's approach gives him pause. The young man extends a crystal out towards him, tiny legs wiggling from its sides. Jael raises an eyebrow as the he listens to Jerid's proposal.

"That's a very..." Interesting? Valuable? Creepy? A number of descriptions go through Jael's mind as he speaks. "...useful...item you have there, kid. But time is short. Send it ahead and tell the others what you see - I need to see what's out there with my own eyes."

With that, he covers his mouth and nose again and continues out towards the end of the alley.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid nods at Jael's command.

"You heard him, Ankou. Scout ahead and alert me to any danger. If the coast is clear, then start looking for Kratos. I want to know where he's gone. If anything happens, let me know, and if you find him, stay out of sight. I don't want him to know you're following."

Tossing Ankou on the ground, Jerid watches as his psicrystal scurries off into the smoke and out of the alley.

[Redshaw]

As Jael and Ankou make their way through the smoke, the Poison Apple Pub's pillars fail and the building crumbles inward, while the bridge connecting it to a nearby structure buckles and gives way, dropping lumber and stone onto the earth below which, mercifully, is not occupied by life. The flames grow higher and heat in the alley builds, though it remains tolerable, countered by the winter night air.

On the far side of the smoke, Jael, Ankou, and Yelara find a world of chaos and horror. People screaming and running toward the inner gates of the city, while soldiers press forward to the Western gate, crowds of citizens running around them like water against rocks. You both think you see an armored man on a horse moving toward the inner section of the city, along with the rest of the crowd, but he'll be difficult to follow in the steady stream of people without separating with the rest of the rebels gathered in the alley.

Torrent grinds her teeth as Jael and the crystal depart and she glances at Sigimund for direction before speaking, "...sir?" Sigimund twitches his mustache before he comes to grab the captured and abandoned bounty hunter by the back of his shirt. Standing behind the man, he kicks the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel and he places his short sword against the man's neck. "This changes nothing," he growls as he carves his sword across the man's throat, splashing blood and giving the prisoner a short and simple death. He gurgles in pain and confusion, but dies quickly enough. Torrent gasps quietly at the sudden violence, but the old patriot wipes off his blade with steady, guiltless hands, "Badgerface still holds possibly critical information. Gate Pass will not fall to Ragesia in a night; it will cost them blood and hours for every inch they take."

He captures his son's attention, "The path is clear: you must retrieve the information and then sneak Torrent out of the city by any means necessary."

He sighs and draws close to Jerid, lifting a still-bloody hand to squeeze his heir's shoulder, "You are my son. I know you will do me and Gate Pass proud." The hand moves to grip the back of the psion's neck while Sigimund leans in to kiss the top of Jerid's forehead in an unusually public display of affection.

[Navian]

Yelara's eyes dart around, and struggle to strain some meaning she can comprehend and express from the scene of absolute chaos. Her eyes study groups of people, their motions, where they look, where they place their hands, what they do when their motion is impeded, how they regard the rain of fire from the sky. Though she loses track of Jael while so focused, she eventually learns what it seems that she needs to know, and rushes back toward the alley, only moments after she ran out.

Yelara yells back into it from beyond the smoke. "Haiyi! The coast is clear, I see no enemies. Everyone is goes to safety, or defending west side." She keeps her back to a wall, and continues to search. For now, she waited for instructions.

[Moustro]

Jael stands at the end of the alley, taking in the scene. He keeps one eye on the crumbling ruins of the Poison Apple, part of him in disbelief at how close they came to being under that mess and the more cynical part of him lamenting the loss of the stores of alcohol left within. Mostly, however, he watches the people of his city cope with the chaos. He recognizes the determination in the eyes of the guardsmen moving through the crowd, moving against the current of this humanoid river. Gate Pass would hold, he realized with sudden certainty, because of such men. He wonders if his eyes too would have that steely countenance were he still wearing the uniform. If the last several years had never happened, he bets they still would.

He spots the mounted Kratos headed inwards towards the city center, but it seems a trivial matter now that his goons weren't trying to kill him. Still, going West was not an option unless he planned to martyr himself on a Ragesian spear so he'll need to keep an eye out to make sure he did not run into him again.

As the half-elf ran back into the alley, a thought popped - unbidden - into his head.

I could leave.

It hung there, tempting him. The others wouldn't see him go, and even if they spotted him it would be trivial to lose himself in the crowd, the night, the chaos. The gnome was probably long gone, and what chance did they have of finding him anyway? It had seemed far-fetched when they discussed the plan over drinks, and now? Even Moira would have trouble turning this in their favor. He wanted out. He could deal with Rantle. Probably.

And yet his feet did not move. Maybe it was that look in the soldiers' eyes as they passed him, or the way the older men of the city headed East with faces not fearful, but darkened with grim determination. His old scars itched under his bandaged forearms, and he scratched them thoughtfully as he looked around. Gate Pass would hold a long while but will need outside help eventually. The Resistance's planned alliance with Lyceum made sense, and the stolen intel would go a long way in securing that alliance. Besides, staying with Torrent and the rest is still the best chance he has of getting out of the city. Of course, it's also the best chance of getting himself killed, but those odds are high either way. Making up his mind, he steps out into the street and attempts to get a soldier's attention.

"What news from the gate? Are the central districs still safe?"

As he looks around, Jael would make note of anyone paying more attention to him than would be expected. He's not convinced that the Black Horses would just leave them be.

[Redshaw]

A grim-faced sergeant somehow manages to catch Jael's question from the sounds of exploding bombs and screaming citizens and, seeing Jael, bids his command to continue while he stays behind to approach the middle-aged man. As he approaches, Jael would recognize this soldier to be barely old enough to shave. His eyes are youthful and glassy, though his face offers a very convincing expression of stoicism.

"The word is chaos, kinsman. But a controlled chaos. Dáin stands among us and the walls are as unyielding as Isveggen. The churches are harboring refugees and there are more soldiers garrisoned deeper in the city." He pauses to consider his words, absorbing Jael's countenance, "...the garrisons are equipping and training volunteers. There is a call-to-arms for any who can hold a spear."

The young man doesn't salute Jael, but he does nod in a soldierly fashion, "Moira's fortune, citizen." He then turns and doubles-times to catch up with his squad of marching men, all likely as young as he.

[PersonofJid]

"Master, the coast is clear, and I think I see him. I'm following now."

"Stay with him, if you can. We will be continuing our original mission. I'll tell you when to meet up with us."

He knew that sending in Ankou alone was dangerous, but he had faith in the little crystal. In the chaos of war, noticing an object that size would be difficult, and it was tougher than it looked. If it did get into trouble, Jerid was sure it'd be able to escape.

After hearing Yelara call out from the smoke, Jerid nodded in agreement, "She's right. The way is safe enough, but the crowds are growing thick. If we still want to find Badgerface we should leave now."

[Moustro]

The sergeant's words did little to ease Jael's mind. His youth less so. Part of him had expected as much since many of the more experienced fighters would be held back to help coordinate defenses and to guard the more strategically significant points around the city. It was young men like him who would do the most fighting, and the most dying.

"May Vöra have plans for you beyond this evening, soldier." Jael mumbles at the sergeant's back as his squad disappears into the crowd.

He looks back into the alley, expecting to see the others and frowning slightly as he spots only the half-elf. Time is not our friend tonight. He thinks to himself as he crosses back through the smoke plume. If the battle has not completely shaken their resolve, then we must act quickly.

[Redshaw]

http://insulabaranaria.files.wordpress.com/2014/01/castle_on_fire.jpg

Sigimund hurries the lot of you outward, "Go! The Resistance has much work to do tonight and you are no different! Go with the All-Father.

You move out of the alley and into the street and monsters are flying through the skies overhead. Buildings are crumpling and exploding a few streets over. People clog the streets trying to see what’s happening, and you must push through them to accomplish your mission. You press out into the crowds, heading East, where you see a huge cluster of burning buildings, and as you get close to the gate to the next district, you are swallowed up in a huge throng of panicked townsfolk.

Soldiers from the Eastern districts are trying to push through the crowd to reach the battle at the main gate, while civilians try to flee in the opposite direction. The gates, designed to hold back invaders, are too narrow to let all through. You’re being crushed, separated, pushed back and forth, and though many are trying to yell for order, for people to let the soldiers through first, mayhem reigns supreme.

And then something overhead roars (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rPSx_cSPw_0), and all reason flees the minds of the crowd and yourselves. You are prey, helpless, and hundreds of shapes silhouetted against firelight swell close to you. As one, the crowd screams (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zZuH4_Zn6YM), and you fight to get away from the Horror in the clouds, the thundering, dread-inspiring beats of its wings (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V4cTsbuqNkg&t=0m5s) driving you on in swarming terror. It’s all you can do to avoid being crushed in the press of bodies, and after hour-long minutes of struggling, you stagger wearily out of the crowd on the far side of the gate.

Finally, you regroup on the far side of the gate - all inexplicably alive - watching panicked mothers crying out for their children, fathers carrying children burned to death by the firebombing. Despair and confusion fills nearly every face, but you force your way onward, and you see your destination — the tower — standing high above the glow of your burning city. You rush past a building on fire, hearing the screams of a woman trapped on a top floor, the roars of pain of those few who have managed to stagger out of the inferno.

You pass looters smashing down doors of shops and pulling away trinkets that will be worthless in the coming days of battle. You even see a bewildered noble, so shocked by the attack that all he cares about is finding a lost pet. There is also evidence of heroes fighting against the chaos — a city guardsman carrying a young girl, trying to find her mother; thugs from Rantle's thieves’ guild gathered out in front of their hideout, shouting orders to organize a fire brigade; a cluster of young men in white cloaks shouting for the injured to follow them to a nearby church — but most just look to the skies, watching helplessly as Gate Pass griffon riders battle the lindwyrm knights of the Ragesians. Overhead you spot one of these battles, and then hear a thunderous crack as the griffon rider shatters his lance in the throat of a lyndwyrm - a massive scaled beast with a hooded snake's head and bat wings. He tosses his broken lance down to the crowd with a cheer as the wyvern spirals out of control and crashes to the roof of a building the next street over. Then moments later a deep, challenging roar fills the air, thumping, pulsing wingbeats fan the city flames and kick cinders into the sky, and you witness a massive drakn, scales of red, eyes of pitch, fly forth from the smoke and crush the stunned griffon and rider in its snapping maw with a sickening, crunching sound. Gallons of sticky, crimson blood splatter outward from its teeth and rain down on the people below.


http://i2.minus.com/jhOeuz4BhthWC_e.jpg

Once again, after too short a reprieve, pandemonium besets the crowd. The streets clear as people flee desperately, foolishly into the nearest buildings, and as the dragon swoops away into the night, headed for the colossal statue of Emperor Coaltongue on Summerbluff, you see that your path to the depository tower is clear.

Jerid senses his psicrystal's presence is close, but feelings of frustration and confusion and anger emanate from it rather starkly. Within a few moments, it waddles forward, dodging between the legs of a running soldier, to come stand at the feet of his master, waiting expectantly to be picked up.

The tower is at least four stories tall, piercing the heavens with its stone craftsmanship; another testament to Ori and the craftiness of his immortal folk. It is surrounded by pitched metal gate, with an barred entrance at the front manned by two very nervous, yet still armed guards, dissuading looters to go find easier prey.

Your psicrystal lost track of Kratos in the press and chaos of the crowd attempting to squeeze through the gate. He was trampled on and has been dealt 1 point of damage.

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal was not at all used to this new sensation. In all her years hiding, scheming, fighting, and lurking in the bowels beyond this world she had never felt truly small. Certainly she felt it in a physical state, her mother dwarfed her in size and age easily, yet on a psychological scale she always felt significant. But here? Cramped and rushed, tossed about like a rag in the wind as looters ran amok, it was like crawling in the den of demons. Staring up at the massive dragon that inspired terror in these lesser beings, crushing a knight within its gaping maw, she felt a small pang of jealousy that it was not her scaly form invoking such panic.

All in due time, all in due time.

Staring at the depository tower, Reg-Tal looked to the other raggedy warriors that followerd her here, and motioned for them to follow behind her. As she stalked forward, she began to whisper back to the rest of the group.

"Jerid, scope around the outskirts of the tower with your dream construct, check for hidden danger, even with this chaos we can't risk assassins. Yelara I'm going to need you nearby the entrance with Jael in case the assassins already showed up. Torrent you're with me, let's go."

And with that she strode over to the entrance, looking at the two guards with infernally charming eyes.

"Gentlemen."

[Navian]

Yelara had struggled to keep her sword facing upright, its hilt nearly pressed to her chest, for most of the journey, so that no one in the crowd would accidentally crash into it. It took considerable effort to relax and lower it again, so as to not look as though she were planning to raid the repository.

She felt vaguely ill, it was a matter of her mind being days away from catching up on recent events. She knew she should say something, feel something, or react in some way beyond following orders, but to determine what that was seemed somehow more difficult than joining the aerial battle by flapping her arms.

Not that she'd considered it. She wasn't in a state to consider much of anything other than the plans she'd come up with before this all started, and those were on hold, pending approval from her allies, who were still on mission that seemed about as related to 'survival' as a tiny, flickering star was to the noonday sun. Of course, they wouldn't listen--why would they, or anyone else?--so she'd wait and do as she was bid, her rebellion limited to looking considerably paler than usual.

As she followed behind Reg-Tal, Yelara took what looked like a cue to vaguely wave her sword at the looters, threatening them wearily and without conviction, to "Stay back."

[Moustro]

Blood pounded in Jael's ears as the group aproached the depository. The combination of screams, explosions, fear and adrenaline making his head hurt worse than the most awful of hangovers. Beyond that, he was pissed. He mutters a litany of curses at the Ragesian army, the lyndwyrm, the drakn, Rantle, the Resistance, the city guard, the Black Horse, gnomes and orcs in general and Coaltongue most of all. The furious press through the gate was even enough to elicit a few choice words for the citizens of Gate Pass as well.

He nods at Ramira's instructions, gladly letting her take the lead on this, and glares at the two guards barring the entrance.

[PersonofJid]

Fear, confusion, anger, grief, determination, chaos, mayhem, death; these words could not adequately describe the scene playing before Jerid's eyes. He had only heard stories of battles fought against the Ragesians, but to actually be a part of it...it made him sick. Jerid tried to focus on keeping up with the rest of the party. It was all he could do to keep himself from falling prey to the panic that was growing inside him. It wasn't just him either. The sheer terror of those around him was so thick, Jerid could swear it was as real as the air he breathed. He could feel every shriek of pain as though it were his own. Every cry of anguish and every worry tearing away at him like the claws of the drakn above him. It was a raging sea, and Jerid was drowning in it. Why? Why did this have to happen? This was his home. Why was he so powerless?

As they reached the depository, Jerid leaned, trembling, on the handle of his scythe, fighting just to keep himself upright.

"Master Jerid, you are not well," he could feel Ankou was close. Looking down Jerid saw the psicrystal climbing its way up his body back into its place on the necklace.

"Ankou, what are we doing? We can't win this. We're going to die."

"Master, ignore that. You're letting your emotions get the better of you. Remember, you control your emotions; they do not control you. Now, focus on me. Breathe. This city needs someone who will do what has to be done. It already has an abundance of crying children; I do not want to add you to the mix."

Jerid's grip tightened on his scythe. Did his psicrystal just call him...? "I am not a child, Ankou!"

"Of course not, but one could not tell the difference, to look at you. You have a job to do. Your own father said it. Do not let him down."

Gritting his teeth, Jerid did as was told. Sometimes, he wished he had never formed that crystal. It was never very gentle in its reprimands, but they were always what he needed to hear, even if he didn't always want to hear them. He could still feel the fear inside him, but it had lessened enough for him to act.

Nodding at Ramira's command, he once again took Ankou in his hand and tossed him to the ground. "You know the drill."

[Redshaw]

The psicrystal pops out of Jerid's hand and begins scurrying across cobblestone around the perimeter of the gate, while the women approach the two guards. They're both human and they both look quite nervous, each immediately gripping their spears defensively with the approach. One of them lowers a blade toward Reg-tal as she speaks, "What is your business?! You'll find no spoils here!" Torrent looks as though she's about to speak up, then pauses and looks to Reg-tal for direction.

AS for the party members staying back, a few ill-looking thugs armed with clubs and iron prods approach them, but one grimace from the tall elf and flourish of her blade is enough to dissuade them.

Outside of the mass of people, the situation around them seems calmer. Significantly fewer buildings are on fire on this side of the gate and there are still soldiers streaming in from the West.

[Tychris1]

Looking down at the spear, Reg-Tal raises a single finger and pushes it to the side with a gentle nudge. Her smile remains ever present even as her eyes lose their warmth and begin to brutally bore holes through the guards heads.

"Now gentlemen, I'm rather disappointed right now to think you'd look at me and suspect I'm some common looter running forth to steal the goods within the Tower. If you hadn't noticed my red robes and the current warzone we're standing in allow me to clarify that I am with the Gabal School of War, we are currently at war, and within this tower is an associate that I must meet with to fix this situation. Now if you'd be so kind as to simply stand aside so we can meet our friend in need it would be greatly appreciated, otherwise I will have to inform your higher ups that you're obstructing the efforts of saving Gate Pass from it's inevitable demise, and could potentially be charged with treason,"

Her smile diminishes, her teeth no longer visible as it transforms into a more coy beast, and with it she slides forward to one of the guards and leans in close to his ear in an almost seductive manner to whisper.

"Or maybe I'll just cut the middleman and have that massive elf bisect you while I roast your friend in fire and let you watch him scream away his last breath. Who would find your bodies in this chaos?"

Leaning back, her toothy grin reappears and she gives the guard a hearty wink.

She did not have time for this.


Intimidate:[roll0]

[Redshaw]

The guardsman quivers under her ministrations, but quickly regains his composure, standing up straight. He stares at the woman a few moments, then at the obscenely large elf, then his compatriot. He clears his throat and props his spear against the gate which frees his hands to unlock the iron cage with a key, "O-of course, madame. No offense intended. Only wishing to d-do our jobs."

With a metallic click, the gate unlocks and is swung wide, allowing the volunteers to enter the Depository's campus. Torrent eyes Reg-tal suspiciously, after witnessing the exchange, though perhaps not the private words she shared, but does not speak a complaint. In fact, the cleric does quite the opposite, "...thank you."

[Moustro]

While Ramira and Torrent speak with the guards, Jael paces back and forth outside the gate. His feet thump angrily on the dirty, trodden snow that seems incongruous with the blaze of war and the heat of panic. He stares daggers at the guards and the departing goons, eager to get this over with. The tall building looks more imposing than he remembers, and Jael considers it for a moment, trying to decide if it would make a good refuge from the chaos surrounding him. There's no safe place here. I have to get away as soon as possible.

Shaking his head, he stomps over to Jerid as the guard begins to fumble with the door.

"Hey kid, can you really see with that thing? Anything look out of place?"

[Redshaw]

Besides the somewhat more organized chaos of the streets and the opportunistic hooligans moving up and down the street, there is nothing in particular that draws the psicrystal's attention. No sign of Kratos nor the dragon nor even any lyndworms at this point. A nearby bakery is in the midst of conflagration, but a fire line to a nearby well has already been established.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid eyed the despository while the women dealt with the guards. It would be good to be inside again, if only to be shielded, even if it was temporary, from the war. Not that being inside would be any safer, especially if their contact was targeted by assassins. He was already attacked once today. Twice, if he counted the Ragesian army. He preferred not to have to fight for his life for the third time, if he could avoid it. As he saw the guard work to open the gate, Jerid breathed a small sigh of relief. It seemed Ramira had convinced them. She was good at what she did, he gave her that.

Jael's question prompts Jerid to check in with the psicrystal. The area appeared normal, at least as normal as their situation allowed.

"Not exactly. I don't see through it, it simply tells me what it sees. But as for your other question: no, nothing looks out of place. I think we can enter safely."

At this, Jerid would begin walking toward the depository.

[Moustro]

It talks to him? Jael understood the importance of magic, and respected its power. It was a useful tool. Strong magic could be used to shape the battlefield, elevate whole armies and even redefine warfare altogether - Coaltongue had proven as much. It could be lifesaving both in and out of battle. But even so he was not a big fan. Talking, wriggly amulets were part of the reason why.

He brushes off his distaste for the thing and focuses on its message. It appears things are normal out here, all things considered. Gesturing to the tall half-elf to follow, he starts towards the depository entrance.

As he nears the gate, he nods to the man standing guard, then points to the entrance and growls his command: "No one enters through these doors until we leave. Understood?"

Intimidation check (if needed): [roll0]

[Redshaw]

The guard furrows his brow at Jael and opens his mouth to speak, but the roar of what can only be the massive drakn evaporates the words from him. Instead, he nods curtly and assumes a suitably "guard-like" posture with straight back and eyes forward.

The first floor of the tower is one huge room, and though the far side is hidden in shadows, it looks to be about sixty feet in diameter. A broad stone ramp circles clockwise upward to the left of the door, while the interior of the room is filled with aisles of metal lockers, each slightly larger than a coffin propped upright. The ceiling is twenty feet high, supported by squat round columns.

A coughing noise is heard originating from the top of the stairway and slowly, a small shape descends, covered in a cowl. He approaches and you recognize a gnome with a broken nose, a lazy eye and a large hump on his back that forces him to bend over as he walks.

He sneers at the lot of you suspiciously.


http://www.dungeonsdragons.nl/WotBS/NPC_lijst/Pic_NPC_R_U/Rivereye%20Badgerface%20portrait.jpg

[Moustro]

Jael stops just inside the doorway looking about for thugs, assassins or anything else to take his frustration out on. Instead, he is met with the cold, impersonal interior of the depository. The metal lockers did pique his curiosity a little, but he doubted they'd have much time to ransack the place. Or that they'd be very successful if they tried. The depository was specifically in the business of keeping stuff from being ransacked and Jael was pretty sure they'd be face better against the drakn than if they tried anything too liberal with those lockers.

To be fair, it was nice to be able to close the door and put a barrier - however ephemeral - between himself and that screeching beast. He looks around, inspecting the door for a way to bar or lock it behind them, when the descending gnome's cough catches his attention.

Eyebrow raised, he turns a quizzical look at Torrent and Ramira as if to say, rather doubtfully: Is that him?

Perception check (if needed): [roll0]

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal looked about her newfound surroundings with a small measure of mock joy. Despite the ferocity of combat raging outside and the storm of chaos sweeping the streets, atleast she could rely on those half wit guards outside and the shoddy construction of mortals to keep her self.

How wonderful.

Quietly casting a spell, Reg-Tal ensured that she would register as Torrent would for almost all magical forms of detection that Badgerface could possibly bring against her. She didn't know Torrents character perfectly, but she was certainly of a better moral and mortal fiber then Reg-Tal was. She didn't know entirely whether she should sit for this meeting or not. Normally she was used to towering over her subjects, as staring down at them would subtly imply her superior status and reaffirm their own subjugation to her. But she was dealing with someone who she wanted to seem like a colleague with, and considering his rather..... deficient height, she didn't want an arrogant air about her when speaking to Badgerface. Sitting down would atleast even the playing field a little more when it came to making eye contact.

Whatever time she had to decide such tactics evaporated when the disgusting little beast made its appearance known with a haggard cough.

"Eugh, that thing looks like it crawled its way out of a torture dungeon."

A playful smirk grew across her face as she looked at the little abomination, her demeanor taking on a playful and almost quirky manner. Kneeling down to extend a hand out to this wretched creature, she finally opened her mouth to speak.

"Greetings Mr. Badgerface, may I call you Rivereye? My name is Ramira, I'm an emissary from the Resistance, and while it brings me no joy to say this, it has been placed upon me to be the bearer of bad news,"

Her smirk faded away slowly into a frown, her eyes looking down dejectedly as she sighed.

"Your apprentice, Peppin Tallman has been found dead. I have been sent in his stead to recover the vital intelligence. I understand that this is a flood of information to take in, that you probably don't trust me, and that you might be in disbelief of this truth. But I implore you to believe me, the truth is all I have right now, and currently the Ragesian army is burning my home and memories to the ground."

Standing up now, she summoned forth as much emotion as she could, cracking and bending her mind to drag out every dark and depressing memory to elicit a single tear from her left eye. Her voice trembled aswell with the fake gravity of her situation.


Cast Misdirection on Torrent.

Diplomacy (Charisma?):[roll0] +10 if Diplomacy +6 if Charisma.

[Redshaw]

Jael notices nothing that doesn't belong in the depository, however, he might notice there aren't nearly as many guards to protect people's valuables as there might otherwise be. In fact, there's none at all in this room; perhaps they've joined in the city's defense; perhaps they've run home to see to their families.

Badgerface's horrid countenance remains untouched as the woman tells him of Peppin's death, his mouth barely even twitching downwards. "...th-then you're part of th-the Resistance. Hmmm." He taps his chin and then motions towards the stairs. "I'll n-need your help."

Turning around, the short, horrible creature begins to waddle up the stairs. He does not seem at all perturbed by the heaviness of the news. Torrent glances at Ramira with uncertainty and then at Jerid, but then cautiously begins to follow the gnome.

[Navian]

Yelara grudgingly follows as close to the rear as she can while still keeping an eye on the gnome. There was good reason her training with the Resistance had focused on counter-spying. If the assassins had already come and gone, and no one else was around, this might not be who they were looking for, after all. She examined him closely while she could, though there was no telling what awaited on the second floor. She would ready her shield before crossing the threshold.

[roll0] Sense motive to evaluate him. [roll1] Perception, in he has a magical disguise.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid followed close behind the others, yet kept an eye out for anything strange. The assassins could still be coming, if they hadn't arrived already. The many shadowed areas and lockers provided ample places to hide. Now was not a time to let one's guard down. Anything could happen.

Perception: [roll0]. Jerid will be looking for intruders. Basically, anything that looks like it doesn't belong there.

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal followed behind Badgerface, a smile dancing across her mind at how easy that was, yet her face remained stony and wracked with the pain that the Ragesian army was inflicting on her "homeland". Couldn't risk the gnome looking back and seeing her out of character. Assuming of course this was Badgerface. As she glanced at his bumpy exterior one more time, she was fairly sure he fit the description perfectly, but you can never be sure. And in her line of work it always paid to be prepared.

Her eyes glowed with arcane energy as she peeled away the material world and viewed the flow of magic that lay just below the surface, picking at it with her imperious gaze.


Cast Detect Magic
Perception:[roll0]

She's not great at it, but Reg-Tal's going to try and pick out any unusual magical or physical presences that might reveal the assassins.

[Moustro]

Jael looks suspiciously at the gnome's back as he follows the group up the stairs. He does not much care for the ugly little creature or the further delays.

"Our help? With what? I thought you had something to hand over to us, and I for one am eager to get on the road."

Catching a look from Torrent, he reconsiders his words. "That is to say, I'm eager to speed the materials on to our allies, as must you. And I'm sure you would feel more at ease with that burden lifted. Time is of the essence after all..."

He forces on his winningest smile, just in case the gnome or Torrent decide to look back in his direction.


Diplomacy check, if allowed: [roll0]
If possible, Jael will lock the door behind him before going up the stairs.

[Redshaw]

The half-elf's vigilance is broken, momentarily, by an explosion occurring outside the stone tower; at least of the bomb-dropping lyndwyrms made it past the third gate, it seems. Still, neither she nor anyone else detect any assassins or thieves or ne'er-do-wells skulking in the shadows of the depository.

Their guide pauses as Reg-tal casts her spell, and he turns to glare at her with a shriveling expression that would make a babe cry in horror. A minor Illusion aura permeates from his form, though considering the nature of gnomes that might not be unusual. He stares the woman down for a few moments longer, before turning around again and limping up the stairs - that engorged hump on his back seems to create a lot of difficulties for the creature.

The second story reveals a layout almost identical to the first, with another rising stair case to a third story, and also a door leading out to a balcony. "I imagine he died painfully," he grumbles as he leads the group to one of the lockers at the edge of one of the rows, near the balcony door. He gestures toward the locker and then stairs at Reg-tal expectantly. Torrent furrows her eyebrows in confusion.

[Navian]

Yelara walks on up to the locker to open it, assuming it's possible to do so using just a few fingers, while still holding her sword and shield. She figures that if it's a trap, she may as well be the first one to find out, given that she was expecting one already. Isn't the gnome supposed to be afraid? came her most concerning thought. It seems he has no fear for us at all. Sadly, she had little skill in conveying her doubts, beyond the obvious notion of keeping her kite shield ready.

[Redshaw]

Alas, Yelara finds the deposit box to be... locked! There is a rotating mechanism that reveals 10 jotgnar runes of different animals and 4 swivels. It's easy to discern that, if the runes are rotated into the correct order, the lock will open.

[Moustro]

Seeing Yelara struggle unsuccessfully with the locker, Jael moves closer to get a better look. The locker requires a code or combination of some sort, one they did not possess as far as he knew.

"What's the meaning of this, gnome?" He says, turning to the diminutive creature. His patience was stretching thinner by the minute and the commotion outside was helping none at all. "We don't have time for games so why don't you tell us what we're doing here?"

[PersonofJid]

The area appeared secure...for now. The explosion made it clear that they wouldn't be safe for very long. They needed to hurry, and fast.

Examining the locker himself, Jerid racked his brain for any information that could help. "He said that he needed our help. It's likely he can't open this lock himself, and is hoping that we could do it for him. If he is who we think he is, then the information is probably inside."

But if it was Rivereye Badgerface, why would he put valuable information inside of a locker he couldn't open? Did he forget the combination? Was he testing them? Torrent said that Badgerface might be hostile or, at the very least, highly suspicious of them. This could be a ploy to see if they were who they said they were. A lock that only members of the Resistance knew how to open.

Beckoning Torrent over, Jerid indicated the lock, "Do you know anything about this? You've been with the Resistance longer than any of us. Do we use this kind of lock?"

Knowledge check on the lock. Is there anything I know that could help us open it?

[Navian]

Yelara knows exactly what to do in this situation. Step away, put her back to the wall, try to remain calm and stay focused. Nobody likes a rampaging barbarian, or so she'd heard. She wasn't sure what that meant, but it still seemed applicable. She started counting in her head.

Yelara is attempting to regain her psionic focus, most likely just in case she needs to smash open the lock. It's not good for much else at the moment. On average, this takes her 5 rounds to do, but taking 20 would be easier, here.

[Tychris1]

This was...... Interesting, to say the least. Reg-Tal was like minded with Jael in that her patience for these games was short considering the danger of their current predicament. Deep within the recesses of her mind she chuckled a bittersweet laugh, thinking of how her life has been a series of mysteries, traps, and puzzles one after the other that lead up to a literal puzzle that could kill her. The irony was delicious.

Tapping into her pockets of Ramira, Reg-Tal held out her hands to act diplomatically and soothe Jael.

"Calm yourself Jael, there's no reason to get worked up over this, the same goes to everyone, I'm sure this will all make sense soon enough,"

She began walking over to the lock herself, when she noted the behavior of Yelara.

"Deep breathes my friend, it'll be over soon."

Approaching the lock, she began to rub her chin as she stood next to Jerid. Glancing at the Dream Wizard she bent over to take a closer look at the lock, humming the same melody she hummed back at the meeting less then an hour ago, and then slowly trying to work on the lock herself. That bard truly was talented, decent looking aswell, perhaps she should have kept him as a slave.

As her hands worked on the lock mechanism, she glanced up at Jerid once more to softly mumble.

"I have no idea what this thing is."


I am told that this is just a straight roll so here I go:[roll0]

[Redshaw]

Torrent has only a concerned expression and a gentle shake of her head in response to Jerid's question. She's as lost as he is, it seems.

Reg-tal muddles with the combination lock for several moments to no avail. As her frustration grows, Badgerface's expression grows more and more grim. "You don't know it, then..." he grumbles defeatedly. He seems almost disappointed. With a sigh, he turns around... and sprints for the door leading out to the balcony of the building.

As he closes the distance on the large, wooden door, the portal swings open allowing him to run through it without needing to pause and open it and once he's through the door slams shut behind him, again, without his physically touching it.

Torrent shouts in surprise and anger, drawing her sword and running after the gnome, "Get back here!"

If you want to chase after him, roll for initiative

[Moustro]

Ever since the gnome's appearance, Jael had felt a pit in his gut that suggested things were not going as planned. He had chalked up the little bastard's lack of explanation to the high-and-mighty posturing common to wizards, but could his reticence be hiding an impostor's ignorance? Even if this was their contact, running away without explanation was a rude way to end this rendezvous. And besides, he needed that intel even if the gnome refused to give it up.

"Stop, you miserable runt!" Jael yells at the receding figure as he gives chase.


Initiative: [roll0]

[Navian]

Yelara opened her eyes, tensed, and stared after the gnome.

[roll0]

[Tychris1]

"Why is it that everything that could go wrong always goes wrong? Did the fates have a sick sense of humor? Do the Gods look down upon me in my pitiable state, ironically cursed to work towards their own ends, and deem it fit to strewn my path with obstacles?"

Reg-Tal ranted within her own mind, her nose flaring for a second as the wretched creature scampered off away from them. Clutching the lock device she was working on with an iron like grip, she hoisted herself up and stabbed a finger at the door.

"Don't harm him, he may think us assassins, and he might yet have the information."

Rushing towards the door, her mind burned with irritation as a single sentence floated through.

"Because if anyone is going to kill that gnome, it's me."


Initiative:[roll0]

[PersonofJid]

Jerid watched as his companions started off after the gnome. He almost called for them to wait, but he couldn't think of any good reason why they should. The gnome clearly knew something they didn't, and they needed his help to get the information they were sent to retrieve. He felt he should join the others in order to help in case something happened, but another part of him was curious about that lock. At the very least, he wanted to examine it more. Maybe there was a pattern; some kind of clue that would help to open it. There had to be something important about it, otherwise the gnome wouldn't have brought them there.

"Ankou, we found the gnome, but he's running from us and blocking the way. Last I saw he was running towards the balcony. Find him and follow him."

The others could deal with the gnome. They worked well without him before, they could do so for a minute or two longer. Right now, he had work to do.

Jerid will perform a general search on the locker/lock. Search Check: [roll0]

[Redshaw]

Jerid and Reg-tal reach the door and, with Torrent's assistance, they manage to swing it wide - it feels as though an unnatural force was attempting to keep it shut. The door opens just in time to watch the the little gnome finish quaffing a potion. A thin film of black hair grows over the ugly creature's palms. His hands flatten out against the stone wall of the building and he begins to climb up its face as deftly as though it were solid ground, towards a third story balcony twenty feet up.

Jerid finds the lock to actually be quite inutitive. It seems mechanical in nature - something rarely seen in this day and age. Most likely made by the near-extinct dwarves. It has four rolling pins that reveal up to ten different animals in blocky illustrations; the right combination of animals in the right order should open the lock.

[PersonofJid]

A mechanical lock. Immediately the numbers started going through Jerid's head.

"10 animals per pin. Four pins in total. 10x10x10x10...that's over 10,000 possible combinations."

He knew that with enough time he'd be able to find the correct combination, but given the circumstances it might take too long.

Setting all four pins to the same animal, Jerid began to estimate the time it would take.

"Assuming it takes one minute to go through one pin. That's about 10 minutes to go through two pins. 100 minutes for three and so forth. That's...1000 minutes at most to find the combination." That equated to about 16 hours and 40 minutes, and that was if everything went uninterrupted, which was very unlikely considering there was a war going on outside.

Jerid decided it wasn't worth the time to find the combination. In fact it'd be faster to simply break the locker open. It wouldn't be quick, and it wouldn't be quiet, but it'd still be faster. If that was going to be the case, he preferred having help. Besides he didn't want to draw attention to himself when he was all alone. Thinking this, Jerid turned and left to follow the others.

[Navian]

Belatedly, Yelara blinked, finding the door already open, before she could begin pursuing the gnome. She ran out through the opening and strove to spot the foul, duplicitous creature. Finding him well out of reach, she sought to strike at him by the only means available to her. She gripped her sword by the blade and levered it back over her shoulder, then hurled it spinning upward to strike her foe, like a misshapen and oversized throwing ax.

[roll0] Unless he's so low on the wall that he's still within reach, this roll probably demands a natural 20.

[Moustro]

Jael watches as the gnome climbs quickly up the wall. Figuring he has to stop the wizard somehow, Jael draws his bow and fires off a "warning shot" directly at the gnome's back. Ramira's intentions were good, but they couldn't just let him get away.

Move Action: Draw crossbow.
Standard Action: Fire at the gnome [roll0], +1 if Point Blank Shot applies (within 30ft). Damage roll: [roll1]

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal looked up at the escaping gnome, her teeth grinding silently as her temper boiled underneath her skin. To make matters worse her "comrades" were shooting at the gnome and.... chucking swords? Had she been anywhere else she would have audibly groaned at the sight, but for now she had an ugly duckling to catch. Her flesh-suit might not bear the mighty wings she once blocked the sun with, but it still had two hands to climb with, and with a roar of anger she began to chase after the gnome.


Climbing action:[roll0]

[Redshaw]

Jael's arrow clatters against the stone wall and falls harmlessly. Reg-tal's fingers cannot seem to find the grip that the damnable gnome has, chipping a nail against the snow-wet stones. And Yelara's blade, hurled in a fit of temper and desperation scrapes against the building side but clatters on the ground next to her, nearly taking off a foot. Within a few moments, the gnome has ascended the wall and is on the third story balcony, with Torrent cursing as she turns around, reenters the building and begins ascending the staircase - the long way up.

[Navian]

Yelara slings her shield with a look of utter consternation, gritting her teeth as her sword falls, and leaves it there--it's a bit large to carry in the teeth. With the gnome on the balcony already, and nowhere to aim her javelin at him from that isn't extremely precarious, she crouches and , prepares to follow before she's made a decision. When her mind catches up with her body, she leaps forward onto the wall and attempts to grab hold to start climbing above Reg-Tal.

Jump: [roll0] Not enough room for a running start, so height attained is equal to check result divided by 8. Climb: [roll1] Unless the masonry is pretty rough, the odds are not good.

[Moustro]

Jael grimaces as his arrow clatters harmlessly away. With Yelara's thrown sword and Ramira's climbing attempts both proving just as fruitless, Jael grunts in frustration and takes off up the long way, following Torrent up the stairs. His knuckles grow white with the strength of his grip on the shortbow as he takes the stairs two and three at a time. How did things go so wrong? He had half-expected to be shot at with magical energy, but not a frenzied chase around the damned building! That gnome was going to pay.


Move Action: Chase the gnome up the stairs
Standard Action: Same

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal kicked the wall in frustration as her attempts to climb it were rendered futile. Had she her mighty wings she could have easily ascended the height of the wall and eaten the gnome in one fell swoop. Sadly her wings were.... dysfunctional at the moment thanks to her enervated state. At least her legs were still empowered by her draconic heritage, and she could easily outpace any man. Turning around she ran back and around the stairs, dashing past Torrent and Jael, her eyes meeting the drunkards for a moment before proceeding past him.


Move Action: Moving 40ft
Standard Action: Moving 40ft

[PersonofJid]

While Jerid made his way to the balcony, he thought he heard some commotion outside. Perhaps his companions had caught the gnome and were now trying to subdue him. He did catch a few choice words that were said and figured the gnome must be putting up quite a fight. He did not have much to time to dwell on the thought as the next thing he knew, he was watching Ramira, Torrent, and Jael running past him towards the stairs inside at full speed. He wanted to say something, but it did not look like now was the best time. If they were in a hurry, then it was best not to delay them.

Jerid will follow the rest of the party.
Move Action: Move 30 ft
Standard Action: Move 30 ft

[Redshaw]

Yelara's fingers grip and claw, but the stone is smooth and the snow has made them damp and slippery. Her nails come close to supporting her weight for a moment - a very brief moment - before she's forced to release and is back to square one on the escarpment.

Jael, Jerid and Torrent hustle their way up to the second story, following closely behind the incredibly swift-footed sorceress, her red robe whipping behind her. Reg-tal ascends the last few steps to discover the third floor is identical to the second story; there is a door leading out to a balconey in the same spot as the floor below and there is another spiraling staircase paralleling the outer wall, leading to a fourth floor.

As the dragon in disguise makes the last step, she discovers a bobbing orb shedding a warm radiance. The orb bobs and moves with a preternatural silence and otherworldly grace, sliding back a several steps away from the voluptuous woman. Suddenly, a bolt of light arcs from the orb's core, smoldering the stone floor in between her feet.

Reg-tal recognizes this orb as an otherworldly presence that is typically a servant of the gods and protector of goodly mortals - and a sworn enemy of both the Abyssal Weird and the Betrayers, though the nature of its abilities remain a mystery to her.

On top of everything Reg-tal knows. Jerid, once he can ascend the staircase - 20 feet up from his position on the stairways - will recognize the being as Lantern Archon, a humble servant with base intelligence that is known to act with good intentions. He has seen them before, acting as assistants and aids for the clergy of the more prominent gods in Gate Pass.

A righteous aura surrounds this celestial being and there is no question that it considers all on the stair case to be of hostile intent.


http://fc06.deviantart.net/fs71/i/2012/235/f/8/lantern_archon_by_prodigyduck-d5c54sj.jpg

[Navian]

Yelara drops and picks up her sword, before loping back into the building, neither hasty nor ready. She briefly considers the locker, but reluctantly decides to jog toward the clamor upstairs, instead. Yelara had no idea what was going on, which wasn't unusual. The gnome was clearly not on their side... probably. She didn't like him, so she didn't consider it too hard. With no other instructions, she simply followed the crowd.

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal glared at the glowing orb bobbing vigorously before her, filled with a holy light that made the illusory skin she coated herself in crawl. She had met such a creature in the past before, though her stature then was of such power that she could have swatted sway this pest with ease. Now, it represented a serious threat to her life, and to her chances of getting to that damnedable Gnome in time. Time was of the essence in hunting him down, with Reg-Tal having the swiftest stride she could bypass the orb and continue her hunt, and yet..... She longed to relive the battles of yore and sink her fangs oncemore into a celestial body. Turning to face her incoming compatriots, Reg-Tal shouted.

"Can you handle this.... Thing on your own? If so, I shall continue the hunt."


Initiative:[roll0]

[PersonofJid]

Jerid looked at the golden orb floating in front him and couldn't help but feel optimistic about the situation. This was a servant of the gods. If it was here to protect the gnome, then it could vouch for them if they could convince it that they were friendly. Whatever it took to gain the information they needed, and fighting would only waste more time. Besides, they weren't here to hurt Badgerface, they needed his help.

"No, wait. That's a Lantern Archon. It can help us."

Removing his scythe and putting it on the floor, Jerid stepped forward towards the Archon with his hands up in a non-threatening position.

"Please wait. We're friends. We're members of the Resistance on a mission. We...um..."

Jerid realized that he had put himself in a very uncomfortable position. Speaking was never a strong talent of his. He knew they were here for good reasons, but convincing someone else of that was a different matter entirely. In the end, he figured it would be best to tell the Archon exactly why they were here. If it was a being of good intentions, surely it would recognize their intentions were just as good.

"...we are looking for Badgerface Rivereye. He has critical information that we need in order to save Gate Pass. We mean no harm. We only want to help. Will you take us to him?"

He knew it wasn't much, but it was all he could think of to say. He looked back at his companions in distress. Torrent was a cleric to one of the gods. Maybe she could relate to it, or what of Ramira. She convinced the guards to let them in. She could do it again, right? Whoever it was, Jerid just wanted someone to back him up.

Diplomacy: [roll0]

[Moustro]

Jael skids to a halt at the top of the stairs, narrowly avoiding a collision with Ramira. He stares at the floating being of light ahead of them, his mouth twisting into a grimace. At the mage's question he looks back and forth between the guardian, Ramira and the scorched spot on the ground at her feet. Handle it? How?

He's still pondering the situation, hesitant to make much of a move, when Jerid speaks up and approaches the thing unarmed. The kid had guts, that's for sure. He may lack common sense, but he had courage aplenty. However, Jael nods in approval as Jerid pleads with the archon, glad that he kept to simple honesty rather than attempting to trick the thing. Even so, the kid's assessment of the situation could be way off - and may end up being his last.

Surprising himself, Jael decides to trust him on this one. He shoulders his bow and raises his hands with a smile, trying to exude goodwill while contemplating the many things he'd like to do to that accursed gnome if they caught him.

"Our friend here speaks true. We aim to defend the city and finding that Badgerface gnome is critical to our mission." he pauses, thinking quickly. "Our business is with him - we have no interest in the items safeguarded in this building."

With that, he keeps his smile but watches the archon closely for any sign of further aggression, ready to warn the others and dive out of the way if needed.

Move Action: Stow shortbow
Standard Action: Diplomacy check [roll0]
Swift Action (if attacked): Direct Orders feat, giving all allies within 30 ft a +1 to Reflex Saves until his next turn.

[Redshaw]

The orb continues to bob ponderously. A lilting music echoes from its center, similar to the chiming of heavenly bells; its communication attempts are useless on your unfortunately basic Midgardian ears, though it no further scorching rays ignite from its core. Torrent adopts an expression of uncertainty, but bobs her head eagerly. "It must understand you," she speaks with some relief, undoubtedly afraid she'd have to take her weapon against such a holy being.

Reg-tal bounds past the orb and begins climbing up the stairs in her heated pursuit. She's taking the stony steps two at time, her infernal speed pushing her much faster than any normal human could match.

She reaches the fourth story and again, she finds rows upon rows of depository boxes and again, she finds two doors on opposite sides of the room leading to a fourth balconey. However, there are no stairs going further up. She has reached the top floor. In the center of the room are a number of bodies. Three human men clad in the armor of Depository guardsmen, and a small, filthy creature are tied and bound with the ankles roped to their wrists, weapons and helmet gathered in a pile. The small creature is stripped naked and he is covered in warts and his bones are thin and his face is identical to the gnome she met down on the first floor. A body lays on the floor near her - a grey half-orc in the same uniform as the men, laying spread eagle. Half of his face has been burned off to reveal a smoldering, black skull beneath.

The tied up individuals immediately begin wriggling and writhing, growling through the ropes that are binding their mouths shut, attempting to gain Reg-Tal's attention.

[Navian]

Yelara belatedly charges up the steps as the others are speaking. She takes them two at a time, much like Ramira, except more ponderously, and with greater concentration. To her dismay, she finds nothing the likes of which may clarify what she ought to do next on the third floor. She opts to stare at the heavenly orb in lieu of further instructions, while she listens for signs of the imposter, or other troublemakers.

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal stared down at the bound and gagged bodies infront of her, raising an eyebrow as her lips formed a slight smile. This was certainly proving to be interesting, what with shapeshifters, celestials, and dragons running amok. Wasting no time she picked up a weapon from the pile and dashed to who she believed to be the true Badger-Face. Bringing the weapon to bear she cut the cloth binding his mouth, throwing it away as she hurriedly began to express herself.

"Here from the Resistance, invasion outside, time of the essence, where is the information? Does the clone of you have it?"

Atleast something good would happen today..... Hopefully.

[Moustro]

Jael watched Ramira's departure with some unease, still expecting the glowing orb to strike her down from behind. He relaxed somewhat as her figure disappeared up the stairs, and Yelara's arrival helped boost his confidence somewhat.

"Umm...thanks for trusting us." He says awkwardly to the archon, as he sidles around it to make his way after Ramira. "Keep your eyes peeled for an ugly gnome. He's acting suspicious and should be held for questioning." He then bounds up the stairs, following the red mage.

Jael chastises himself on the way up, replaying his interaction with the archon. Keep you eyes peeled? Smooth, Jael, very smooth. Does that thing even have eyes? Reaching the top and spotting the bound bodies, he calls back down to the others.

"You'd better come up guys. Torrent, we've got some injured guards here."


Move Action: Run after Ramira
Standard Action: Speak. If possible, look around for hidden enemies. Perception: [roll0]

[PersonofJid]

Jerid breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He had no idea what the archon said (if it said anything at all), but Torrent seemed to be relaxing and since it didn't attack Ramira or Yelara when they ran past it, he figured it must believe them. He gave silent thanks to the gods for Jael's help. He doubted the archon would've believed them if he hadn't.

Bending down, Jerid retrieved his scythe from the floor once he heard Jael's call from upstairs. He nodded his thanks to the archon and made his own way up.

[Redshaw]

The gnome growls his response with a snarl, "The package is already gone but they haven't unlocked it yet. If he's still here, you have to catch him! He's a Shahalesti agent!" The guards around him groan and begin to stir.

The archon follows Jerid and Torrent ponderously up the stairs, neither hindering nor helping in particular. Lilting music continues to twitter from its core as it goes. Torrent quickly inspects the dead orc before moving past it and inspecting the victims. "You must be Badgerface," she sighs in exaserpation. "And you must be an idiot," he snaps impatiently. "Help untie me!" The dark-skinned woman huffs, but resists the obvious temptation to throw back the unwarranted spite in his face. She makes quick work of the knots with the aid of hunting knife.

[Navian]

Yelara continues to search the third story for signs of the imposter, or at least where he might have went. The package was 'gone'? The lock downstairs hadn't gone anywhere... She'd leave the analysis to someone else, for now, catching the spy was still first on her mind. This one was much more tricky than the ones she'd found before, though. Where else could he have crawled to, after reaching that balcony? And just how many magic tricks had he brought with him?

She hauled her sword around as she worried anxiously. It wouldn't answer any questions, but if she was lucky, it might give her a chance to strike first and ask questions later. That would make this much easier.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid watched as Torrent freed the gnome, and scowled at the gnome's response.

You'd think he'd be more grateful.

He didn't like the gnome's attitude, but considering the situation they were in he was willing to ignore it...for now.

"We saw him run up here. Where did he go? Have any of you seen him? What happened?"

[Tychris1]

Glaring at Badgerface for a second, Reg-Tal ignores his ingrateful fit of childish anger and instead focuses on the far more important issue at hand. Namely, finding the imposter and then stringing him by his entrails so that all can gasp in fear and awe. Or atleast that's what she wanted to do. This little tromp through the life of a flitting mortal showed just how tedious and chaotic it was to be grounded and fleshy. Turning away from Torrent and Badgerface, Reg-Tal sprinted towards the balcony so as to look out and see if she could spot the imposter or some way of reaching him. Had she but wings to fly over......

Thinking on it, as she moved towards the door, Reg-Tal also found it a little exhilirating. Not in a very humorous or pleasurable way, like the taste of a well fermented chalice of the darkest wine or an overly complicated plan concocted on a whim to see how far she could make a puppet dance. It was more akin to the pleasure of wrestling in the spawning pits and soul-leech bogs, a dirty and grimey energy that invigorated her purely on how taboo it was. She had never really thought much of it while she walked in Ramira's skin, but when faced with a catastrophic event the idea wormed its way into her, and she was left with the slightest desire to write a ballad about it. Even Badgerface, disgusting dwarfish urchin that he was, gave her a sense of dimensional vertigo that curled the corners of her lips.

[Redshaw]

The gnome growls and mutters as he rubs at his newly-freed wrists, rope burns marking their place on him. "I was to meet my contact here. Peppin. I had a case of information vital to the resistance. I was ambushed by alfar warrior-mages." He shakes his head in disgust, "They haven't opened the case yet. I hope. I convinced them it was trapped. And that Resistance members who knew the way to open it would be coming..."

Reg-tal swings the door wide to find a scene that would not be out of place in her home country. Fire lights up the western sky, the result of lindwyrm-bombing and of trebuchets hurling flaming balls of pitch into the city. There's a screech and suddenly, above her, a squadron of Gate Pass griffon riders swoop past over the city rooftops, heading to join the battle, their battle horns blaring. Focusing her attention, she can hear the sound of scrabbling from the depository's roof top, and a chunk of snow slips from its rim to land on the balcony stone next to her.

[Tychris1]

Growling, Reg-Tal span on the ball of her heel to face the roof, her fists clenching tight enough to become bright red. No more. This trifling duplicate gnome would understand the true depths of Oblivion after she ruthlessly shoved him into it with tooth and fang. Not to mention she could imagine beating on that ingrateful toddler sized aberration earlier all the while. A win win situation. Gripping whatever surface she could, she began to climb up to the roof, intent on finally getting the chance to shed her skin and revel in bloodshed.

It had been too long since she last used her fangs.


Jeez Reg-Tal please don't fail me now.

Climb Check:[roll0]

[Moustro]

Jael rested against the wall by the entrance, content to let Torrent and the others do the talking while he caught his breath and pondered the situation. So the other gnome was an impostor, as he suspected. He cursed his luck for getting caught up in all this - why couldn't one thing go in their favor? He heard a light tinkling from his bag as he shifted his weight and was reminded of the bottle of honey wine he'd pilfered earlier. He paused for a moment, thinking of how dry his throat felt and how good the amber liquid would taste and how he longed for the comforting fog of the mind that it could provide.

Ramira's sudden rush to and through the door to the balcony snaps him back from his reverie, however, and his old training propels him into action.

"Yelara!" He says, getting the big half-elf's attention and pointing to the balcony. "Go with the mage, she'll need your help if she finds the gnome up there."

He then pulls a blanket from his pack as he approaches Badgerface and hands it to the gnome. "The impostor tried to get us to open a locker downstairs. That wouldn't be the package, right? Disguised or something?"

He listens for the gnome's reply as he helps Torrent get the guards back on their feet - if he was lucky he could enlist their help in finding the Shahalesti agent. If he was really lucky he wouldn't have to bother.

[Navian]

Yelara wasn't having much success searching the third floor for clues, so taking orders, even from Jael, was something of a relief. She went upstairs to the next balcony. Since Yelara had nowhere to carry her sword except in hand, was not inclined to hurl it again, and would likely not be appreciated if she attempted to lift her companion up by the scruff of her neck to assist her, she merely gazed into the darkness, looking for the imposter gnome on the roof. She did still have her javelin, in case she spotted him, though it seemed dubious he'd be much easier to catch after wounding with one... at least, alive, and not decorating the street below.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid did what he could to help Torrent and Jael with the guards. Badgerface's story made sense. If they already had the information then they would already have left. Since they thought the case was trapped, they would need the Resistance to open it for them, and Ramira did say that they were from the Resistance. It was very likely that the locker in question did contain the information. Now that they found the real Badgerface, he should be able to tell them what to do to open it. However, it wouldn't be a bad idea to find the imposter, but where did he go?

While Jerid listened for the gnome's response to Jael's questions, he realized that he had forgotten about something. Ankou was still outside. He thought he ordered the crystal to track down the gnome. Either it hadn't found anything or had been so focused on something else that it didn't hear his order. Jerid wouldn't be surprised if it was the latter.

Ankou...Ankou...Ankou! Where are you? Have you seen the gnome?

[Redshaw]

Reg-tal's finger nails grip and pinch on the small spaces between the stonework of the building. It was wet and freezing cold, this far up from the ground, and bricks are slick and difficult to grasp... but she manages. Slowly, she is able to ascend upward toward the roof's edge and soon, she is hanging from edge of the building, legs dangling. A gust of warm wind blows her dress to-and-forth in the wake of another explosion releasing a few blocks away, but she keeps her grip. With one last summoning of strength, she hauls her small frame over the edge of the roof, rolling away to lie flat on her back. It is dizzyingly high from the ground. She looks to the right and sees not a gnome, but a rather tall humanoid with green and yellow braided hair, a long jaw line and pointed ears. He sneers as he looks at her, but he speaks in the tongue of her people: an ancient phrase with magic behind it. "Ekess wielg hefoc vi nasir."

He has cast a Featherfall Spell

Badgerface snatches the cloth out of Jael's hands as if it belonged to him and the warrior somehow thieved it from him. He regards the former soldier with a crooked snear as he wraps the blanket around his shoulders and sheks his head, "No, you fool. The package is a box. A locked box, but with the same mechanism used as in the depository. A container of pure adamantium, built by dwarves, with enough protective charms on it to level a small city if the lock's forced... at least that's what I told them."


Ankou rewards Jerid's concern with an immediate update, inside of his mind, "I've just found him, Master. He's on the roof! As well as the she-witch. The gnome's casting another spell... something tricky, no doubt. Hurry, Master!"

The guards all stand, regain their composure, regather their weapons and then, after checking to make sure Badgerface himself isn't too worse for wear, surround the Archon. It hums and sings something melancholy before the first spear pierces its core. Then another. On the third, the large orb seems to visibly shake before shattering into a million pieces of bright light. A sense of grim satisfaction falls on the men and one of them approaches the dead orc on the ground to say some private words in mourning.

[Navian]

Unable to resolve any target amidst the gloom, but hearing the voice that spoke to Reg-Tal as she reached the top, Yelara leapt up and began climbing as fast as she could. There was an enemy--of the Resistance, presumably--and in lieu of instructions to the contrary, she was most likely expected to pursue and capture them.

It was better than waiting idly by until the situation started to make sense. At least, she was less likely to be scolded for it.

Taking 10 might be ideal, but rolling anyway, just in case. Looks like a coin toss. [roll0] for accelerated climbing.

[Moustro]

Jael shrugs at the dirty little gnome's answer and the lack of thanks - he'd expected as much on both counts.

"Yes, I suppose that would have been too convenient. So the impostor must still had the package with him then. In that case should try to..." He trails off as the roused guards surround and skewer the floating archon. What in Hár's name is that all about? He looks from Badgerface to Torrent, concern growing on his face and hand instinctively reaching for his dagger. Not that it would do much good against those spears. Hoping for the best, he keeps an eye on the guards and forces himself to continue.

"We should find that impostor before he leaves the depository. We'll lose him if he makes it out into the city. He was climbing towards the roof, so there aren't too many places he can be right now. We can cover more ground by splitting up." He nods in the direction of the guards and lowers his voice before adding: "Can we trust these guys?"


Jael doesn't know they're on the roof yet, I'll post again when Jerid or Ramira sound the alarm.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid's face fell as he saw the archon fall. It didn't even bother fighting back. Why would these men do such a thing? This night was getting more and more confusing by the second. At least he knew where the imposter was now.

As Jael nods towards the guards, he'll respond,"I...I don't know, but Ramira found the other gnome. They're on the roof and apparently the gnome is trying to cast a spell. We should hurry. Now."

With this, Jerid moved to the balcony and looked to a way up to the roof. He noticed Yelara was climbing. Maybe it wasn't too hard. Fastening his scythe to his back, he started making his own way up.

Climb: [roll0]

[Moustro]

Dammit!

Things were moving too quickly for Jael to wrap his head around things, so he reverts to his instincts. Assuming a practiced - though rusty - command voice, he barks an order to the assembled guards.

"The target is attempting to flee. You two head to the grounds and make sure he doesn't make it it into the city. Alert the guards on duty down there and enlist their help. No-one leaves. No exceptions. The future of Gate Pass depends on this." He then points to the guard who had moved over to the dead orc. "You're with me. We need to know what that scum on the roof is up to."

Finally, he turns to Badgerface as he begins to move towards the balcony after Jerid. "Our mage is up there but we can use your help. Any idea what we're up against?"


Not sure if a check is needed, but here goes Diplomacy: [roll0]

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal growled in disgust, she had ventured too long and scampered on the whims of a petty mortal to get where she was now, and she was not going to lose it all over a simple spell. Vengeance would be hers, if not the one she ultimately desired then this petty bout of anger would have to do, and it had been so very very long since she last indulged in the bloody sport. She could hardly remember the last time she had shed her mortal coil and walked freely in her natural form, unabashed and powerful, her burning scales warming the chill night air of these heathen ridden lands. Even a master of diguise grows tired of donning the mask forever, but with no certainty of privacy she could hardly set aside any time to indulge her more base desires, and now was the most opportune time to show off her natural born career at the abattoir. No witnesses save the soon to be dead, no noise compared to the screams of the city, and a fitting victim who shall not be mourned. Yes, this was a most opportune time indeed.....

Or it would be if it weren't for that damn Crystal. Reg-Tal had spotted the dream wizard with it earlier, some kind of companion or familiar? She knew little of how he operated or interacted with it, but it was always better to edge on the side of caution. To so brazenly transform infront of the crystal risked endangering her whole mission and her very life, and yet to allow the agent to escape could have untold repercusions. Pinned between a rock and a hard place, Reg-Tal once again donned her mask, her red hair blowing in the wind as she stepped towards the dhapeshifting assassin.

"Feather Fall? How cute, but you're not the only one with spells to alter yourself."

Pulling her hands to her head she felt her hair erupt in flames, skin burning away to reveal scales, eyes widening, fingernails elongating, and bones crunching. Her wings ripped out of her back, too small and feeble now to fly but still presenting the same imposing facade. Her mouth stretched forward, teeth growing and resizing to make fangs, and her tongue lashing about wildly. Her heaving bosom growing bright yellow from the fiery heart beneath, her slender back broadening and preparing itself for the tail that erupted from the base of her spine. Two long horns slide out of her skull, completing her transformation as her red robes became subsumed into her body. Free once again, to roam in her natural and beautiful body, how she wished she could fly away into the night sky and simply relish her now stripped power. But she had more pressing matters then fantasizing, and the grim propsrct of reality bore down on her like an avalanche. Raking a claw against the roof, she took yet another step forward before roaring violently.

"If you run, I will kill you. Stay, and I might just let you live."


Intimidate:[roll0]

If he tries to run I'll roll for initiative and hope to catch him.

[Redshaw]

Yelara and Jerid both findd defeat in the slippery cobbled stone walls of the tower, unable to find enough grip to support their respective weights. Each slip back down to the balcony, their fronts now drenched with a freezing dampness.

Jael's voice pierces the organized chaos of the room and the men all stir, almost naturally assuming attention as if it were a direct superior that spoke with the confidence and authority behind the fallen warrior's words. They glance at one another briefly, before saluting their impromptu captain's sound plan, two quickly descending the staircase, spears in hand. The third, who was slowest to respond to Jael's commands, wipes the dampness building in his eyes and nods competently. He holds his spear dutifully, coming to stand at Jael's side and prepared to follow him out to the balcony, though he clears his throat to speak. "There is a ladder, sir... used for roof repairs." He points to the far end of the room where there is a collection of crates and barrels and general maintenance supplies. It was difficult to see in the dim light, but now that the guard points it out, it's obvious to see the ladder leaning against the wall.Torrent, looking for something useful to do, fetches the indicated ladder and brings it back to Jael. She smiles softly and speaks quietly, "I'll stay and make sure he... doesn't run off...?" Badgerface - the real one - snorts and shakes his head fastidiously in response to Jael's question, "An elvish spy with Arcane talent. Intelligent. Treacherous."

Reg-tal's revealed form melts the snow of the roof around her feet, toe nails creating scratch marks in the roofing and falling snow immediately evaporates as steamy air pours out of her nostrils. Her roar is heard by all within the building and Torrent immediately flinches, "What in the Void was that?!"

The spy pauses and his already pale face turns white as the snow covering the roof, immediately swearing in elvish. He comes to his knees, crossing his ankles and raising his hands. "For the love of Gylfi, please..."

"By all that is holy, Master! The witch, she's... she's a dragon! Or something? I don't know!"

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal chortled, sliding her armored belly across the rooftop, melting snow and scratching tiles with equal intensity. Her body coiled up, like a snake preparing to pounce, but slowly she unwinded it, encircling the Elf and slithering around him. Her razor sharp talons wrapped around his shoulders, the tips barely puncturing his clothing and threatening to rend flesh given the tiniest motion. Her tongue hissed and flickered out of her mouth, inches from his ear. The sheer terror she inspired in him made her ecstatic.

Mortals were so terribly easy to intimidate, given a little puff of the chest, a roar and the beating of wings even a wyrmling could scare a king. Shaking away the mental image of her being reduced to a wyrmling, or this pathetic cretin of an elf being a king, she thrusted her head farther so that it was side to side with the Elf, and assumed a standing position behind him. Her words were softer now, not like burning steel against the blacksmiths hammer, but like sizzling coals on the fireplace and cracking tinder wood.

"Good. You're a smart little elf aren't you? Far smarter then your verminous compatriots. Tell me, little one, where have your friends run off to? I wonder if they know you're caught here, in the clutches of a Wizard turned Dragon, and in the midst of this Armageddon do they even care? What's one more body in the foundation? Tell me where the package is, it is your one salvation...."

She snorted, her one fiery eye staring into him sideways, her razor sharp teeth brimming from her mouth.

[Navian]

Yelara was utterly lost and frustrated, and by the sound of it Ramira must've had things well in hand, but felt there was no use requesting new orders. Though she longed to abandon this vague, jumbled-up quest to find someplace warm, she hadn't been taught to quit just on a whim--or for rational reasons, even. Instead, she left her sword inside the door and began climbing again, taking care to dig in with her fingers and toes, this time.

The sleet stung her forehead and she kept her eyes nearly shut against falling ice, but the cold was a long way from chilling through to her bones. So long as she continued to avoid taking in just how far she was above the cobblestones, it would probably stay that way. Regardless of everything else, Yelara's top concern at the moment, aside from the climb, was that she'd never been taught how to fight a spell caster barehanded. All things considered, there wasn't much time to think it through on the way up.

[roll0]

[Moustro]

Jael lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. It was eerie how trained soldiers - even those he'd hardly met - responded to his commands. It looks like his years of drinking had not yet drowned the old soldier in him. Taking the ladder from Torrent, he rushes towards the balcony riding a wave of newfound confidence.

The drakn! he thought as he neared the balcony. Could they control it well enough to aid the impostor's escape? He found the notion unlikely, but could find no other explanation for the thunderous roar that filled the room.

Spotting Jerid still on the balcony, wet and contemplating the roofline, he calls out to him.

"What the heck was that, Jerid? Is the drakn atop us? Is the spy still up there? Move!" He motions the psion back from the wall and works to secure the ladder in place.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid's attention is taken away from the roof and moved to Jael as the former soldier addressed him. Seeing the ladder in Jael's hands only served to remind Jerid why he should've examined the room first before trying to climb the wall.

"That drakn is...well it's Ramira. If what my crystal told me is true, she cast her own spell and turned herself into it. She has captured the imposter." As he watched Jael secure the ladder, he could only marvel at what else the mage could do. Half thinking out loud he added, "I didn't even know she could do that."

If Jael starts climbing the ladder to the roof, Jerid will follow after him.

[Redshaw]

Yelara, Jael, Jerid and the guard all make it to the roof top to find a drama unfolding in front of them. With the backdrop of a burning city, silhouettes of lindwyrms dotting the smoke-stained sky, a green-haired alfar kneels with ankles crossed and hands behind his head in the face of what appears to be drakn-kin. He is, like all elves, tall and his features are fair, with blue-ink tattoos marking his grim face. He stares at the woman-turned-reptile in some define, falling snow melting on his face as soon as it lands.

A voice calls up from below, belonging to Torrent, "Jael? What is happening?!"

An explosion rips across the terrace below, creating a gust of heat and a deafening boom, causing the spy to instinctively duck his head in fright. The guard at Jael's side, too, flinches nervously, "...we should kill him and be done with it!"

[Navian]

Remaining at the edge of the roof on her hands and knees, wary of more surprises, Yelara begins to make her observation. "Dah-kum-m--" She faltered and stopped herself mid-mispronunciation, remembering weeks of being told not to speak. "--I mean, he has a thing to tell."

She continues in her own language, making a vague attempt to sound dangerous, despite the precarious position. "Location of stolen paper-box is thy sole reason to live longer." She'd also like to add it was the sole reason she wasn't somewhere safe and out of the wind, but decides not to push her luck.

[Moustro]

Eyeing the viscious figure towering above the alfar assassin, Jael hesitates a moment. He knew Gabal's students were partial to burning things, but had never heard of them turning into full-up wyrms before. Can that really be Ramira? Powerful magic indeed! He raises his arm to shield himself from the blast of hot air from the explosion below.

He nods at the half-elf's remark and waves her towards the captive. "Yelara, help Ramira bring that Grimnir-loving scum inside. Stuff his mouth with cloth so he can't cast his spells or talk his way out of this. He'll be talking soon enough. I know a gnome who's looking forward to putting the screws to him."

He then addresses Jerid and the guard. "Keep a close eye on him. We need that package he stole, but take him down if he makes a wrong move. We can't afford to lose him again." Finally he calls back down to Torrent.

"I think we've got him. Gonna bring him down for questioning."

[Tychris1]

Well, this was going better then expected. Unease was certainly an effect she expected to inflict upon her first transformation, but it seems as if her act was bought hook line and sinker. These mortals were more gullible then she expected, but that didn't mean all of them would view it the same way. That Gnome especially would be capable of sifting through her ruse, if he were a half decent mage versed in the arts of enchantments. Scolding herself mentally, Reg-Tal flexed her wings for a second before holding her two claws up to the sky and speaking once more in Infernal. Mimicking the same phrasing of gibberish she used earlier, the fires of her scales were extinguished rapidly as her body contorted and shrunk once more. Scales gave way to skin, horns to hair, and muscled limbs were replaced with sinuous tendons. Her wings shriveled and disappeared into smoke as the last bits of her true form vanished from sight, and from the cloud of smoke and ash stood the familiar form of Ramira, flashing a bright smile as she looked down at the alfar.

"Yes I think our intruding guest will be more eager to speak once he's safe inside."

She rasped out, her voice adjusting up to it's usual pitch. As if the Infernal Lords watched over her implicit threat, an explosion went off below in the city, and it made her smile softly inside. Grabbing the Elf by his shoulder, Reg-Tal proceeded to drag him forward and escort him to the ladder for processing. Looking down at it, she thumped her forehead with the palm of her right hand and groaned.

"Sigarda's shield! A ladder! From which divine host did you drag this thing out of? Nearly broke my arse crawling up here."

It was the little details that made the mask.

[Navian]

Yelara frowns, carefully raises her stance from a crawl to a crouch, and uncomfortably watches for signs of trouble. Though prepared to restrain the elf and transport him herself if need be, she does not move to gag him pre-emptively, nor is transporting a prisoner by ladder a logistical challenge she endeavors to solve. For now, she waits tensely, and eyes the disguise artist with as much of a pointed look as the half-blood can manage. In the meantime, she tries not to think about what she just witnessed.

Yelara's way of doing things, here, would be to heft up the prisoner over her shoulders, and then jump straight down from the edge of the roof to the balcony, bypassing the wall, the ladder, and everyone else, and absorbing the full impact herself--1d6 nonlethal damage, I'm guessing. (Possibly with an additional 1d6 lethal, but even a -3 armour check penalty from the burden, that's a +7 check mod for a DC 15 Jump check.) She's disinclined to make things hard on him while he's cooperating.

[PersonofJid]

Jerid flinched as well as the explosion went off. Their situation was becoming that much more dire, but at least they were making progress. The imposter was captured, and no doubt the information would be in their hands before long.

Even though Jael told Jerid to watch the elf, he couldn't help but glance at Ramira. He had never seen anything like what she just did. Gabal trained his students well, and this disturbed him. Were they all like this, or was she the only one? Probably so, as they would've certainly seen more like her fighting the Ragesian army and their lyndwyrms if that were the case. But if she was the only one, why wasn't she doing just that? This information was important, yes, but was it so important that the Resistance saw fit to assign a mage of this ability to find it and deliver it? If so, just what were they supposed to expect when they left the city? Perhaps they didn't know she could do this, but why would she keep it a secret?

So many more questions raced through Jerid's mind, interrupted only when he felt the weight of his psicrystal as it crawled up his body and back onto its place on his necklace.

"Your thoughts are distracting you again, Master. Do not forget why we're here. We need that information. Don't let the elf leave your sight."

He turned his gaze back to the elf and kept watch should it try anything.

Jerid moves up next to the elf and readies an action to attack the him should he try to escape, either by spellcasting or making a run for it.

[Redshaw]

The elf spares no spite in the glare he casts around at his captors but eventually, the wind and the danger of falling fire-bombs entice him into the safety of the depository. He descends the ladder without incident and re-enters the stone tower to be met by a hobbled gnome that seems entirely too pleased with himself. "Larion Prevarieth," he mutters smugly, identifying the spy, "...your summoning was clumsy and your archon was of a talkative nature. I already know where the package is."

The elf does his best to look uninterested, not bothering to look downward at his interrogator, though it's hard to hide his balk at being named, "Then why do you need me?" Rivereye smiles at this, but with his foul face it appears as more of a sinister leer. "Can't have you warning your master, can we?" He shrugs, looking from Jael to Torrent. "He serves at the pleasure of another elvish spy. I don't know their name, but they're holed up at Gabal's School. With the package."

You know that Gabal's School is a mile and a half east, 2 gates further into the city.

Torrent's lips twitch downwards and she addresses the green-haired villain, "Your from Shahalesti, no? Why steal from the Resistance? Your as much an enemy of Ragesia as the people of Gate Pass I thought." Larion spits and tilts his pointed chin up; he is much taller than any human in the room. The cleric shakes her head in consternation before turning to look at her companions, "Obviously we need to go fetch the package... but I might actually recommend we wait until morning. The thieves won't likely make it past the Eastern gate until the siege has calmed down and Sigarda's temple isn't far. Their high priest is a friend. We can find shelter and food and rest... if only for a few hours. Gather ourselves, make a plan."

[Navian]

Yelara descends savagely from the rooftop as soon as the elf is inside. She avoids looking anyone in the eye as she walks through, under the pretense of watching the stairs. She turned her back to Torrent, as if it might help prevent her mind from being read. Yelara certainly wanted food, rest, and shelter, but at the moment, she wanted them outside the city walls. In any case, she wasn't used to being a part of the decision-making, except on occasion when used as a foil for Yannick's self-proclaimed genius.

[Tychris1]

"Urgh, this feels..... Wrong. Sitting here, twiddling our thumbs as all hell breaks loose outside. With a mission this important, even a brief break for respite feels like a waste of time. We should be kicking open these doors and gunning for those theives before some Drakken nabs a thief and flies him away while we sleep...."

Reg-Tal threw her hands up, grumbling to herself as she paced back and forth a few seconds. In truth she was a little weary from the trials today, and a brief respite would be a welcome addition to her plans, but she needed to maintain her facade of passion and zealotry. And so the mask endures. Stopping in place, Reg-Tal turned to Torrent, massaging the ridge of her nose, and uttered.

"How close is the Temple to where we're going, and how quickly can we get there?"

[Moustro]

Jael echoes Ramira's desire for action. He wouldn't mind a rest, ideally a long rest some where safe, with a bottle or two to share with this surprisingly capable crew. His nerves were still on edge after the fight at the inn, the sudden chaos of the attack and the press through the panicked crowd towards the depository. Not to mention their sudden chase up and down the tower. And the spy had turned out to be a Shahalesti native. The implications of this last revelation were unclear but worrisome. Yes, a drink would suit him fine. But he knew there was no safe place left in the city, there were varying only degrees of danger now. The quicker they left town the better.

"I'm for moving on too. We can check in with your friend and see what news he may have, but we don't have time to waste. I'll feel better when the package is in safe hands."

He then motions towards the assassin, distaste clearly showing on his face. "What do we do with the rat? Turn him in to the watch? Or just slit his throat and be done with it? Pretty sure the military has their hands full but they might want to squeeze some more info out of him. Quite literally, I hope."

[PersonofJid]

"As much as I hate to admit it, we need to rest. I want to find this information as much as anybody, but I don't have much left in me for today."

It was true. He doubted he could do anything else with his power. He expended a great deal already. He may have one last manifestation left in him, but then that was it. He would fight boldy with his own hands, but he was not much of a warrior. He'd be more of a liability than an asset.

"However, if we do rest, that does give us time to deal with him." He nodded at the imprisoned elf, "We can interrogate him ourselves, leave him with the watch, or find other members of the Resistance to deal with him. Either way, what information he has could help the city and us. If Shahalesti will be after us as well, I want to know why."

[Redshaw]

Torrent bobs her head eagerly, "I agree with Jerid. The temple is not far; just a few blocks East of here, in the same direction as the school. At the very least we can stop by."

Grumpy Badgerface strokes his chin, looking the captured elf up and down, "Mmm. Yes. He may still prove useful yet." The hostage keeps his face downward, though his pointed ears prick upward at the ominous tone held in the gnome's voice. "You fools. He'll be long gone by now," he moans in what all can interpret as false courage. Badgerface chuckles and pats the elf's head in a patronizing fashion, "If that is so, then you will be hanged as a spy and a war criminal. Long live the Rebellion."

The gnome hobbles toward the stairs, "I believe the consensus is that we make for the Temple for now and decide how to proceed from there, yes? Good." He answers the question without waiting for a response before limping down the stairs, apparently assuming the group will follow with hostage in tow.

The guards offer their gratitude as you all leave the Depository, one stopping you momentarily so that he may spit in the face of the spy. You depart from the depository gates to find the Emelk Way devoid of foot traffic; not even the marching of soldiers. This section of the city has become a ghost town, barren of life and light, as the torch lighters did not bother to come and ignite the staggered oil lamps that typically cast the street in a dull, orange haze. The ringing of battle echoes from the Western districts.

As you move East, there is a screeching sound in the skies above and looking up reveals two flying shapes - one with broad, feathered wings and the other held aloft by scaly leather flaps. The dive and intersect, come around and dive again. In a final conflict, their intersection is sounded by a sickening crack that reverberates against the stone walls of the city. The bat-winged creature spirals down out of the smoke-infected clouds and crashes onto the roof of a stone building further down the street. A great beast moans in the direction of the crash in what can only be interpreted as a death rattle before silence.

As the group move further down the street towards the crash, you see the top half of a viper-like lyndwyrm hanging off the roof of the building, its wide maw open, revealing three rows of teeth as long as a man's forearm and a great, bifurcated tongue lolling out of its mouth. A lance is broken off in its neck and blood flows from the wound steadily, staining the wall of the building a deep purple. An out-of-place rope is also hanging from the roof of the building, attached at the top and nearly reaching to the street. Someone climbed down.

Despite the chaos that crowds left in the snow, you notice a set of foot prints leading away from the base of the rope to a corner and down an alleyway off the main road. A staggered blood trail follows the foot prints. The owner of these tracks is obviously wounded and losing blood.

Up ahead, the temple of Sigarda is visible, its high, wooden walls and glowing braziers appearing as a welcoming sanctuary in what has become a City of Death.

[Moustro]

Jael let out a satisfied grunt as he watched the lyndwyrm fall to the griffin rider's lance. He was glad the guard had kept up its combat drills, as their skill was certainly needed this night. He grinned at the alfar spy and fingered his blade menacingly as they neared the fallen beast's building.

"Your friends have underestimated us if they thought Gate Pass would be quick to fall or surrender. I'd reconsider my alliances if I were in your place."

He spots the rope as they get closer and approaches to get a better look. He frowns and looks back at the temple entrance, so near now. He could ignore this and relax within the temple's warm confines...but his sense of duty eventually gets the better of him. He motions over to Jerid, the boy's trinket had proven surprisingly useful so far.

"Looks like someone survived the fall - we should find him and finish the job. Can you send your thing to scout around? He couldn't have gotten far."

[Navian]

Yelara quietly starts following the tracks, even as Jerid is inspecting the rope. When she notices the others aren't following her, she adds, "...Went this way. We maybe should hurry to catch him alive." She trailed her sword point along a line of blood, even now only half-frozen into the snow.

Yelara eyed Torrent uncertainly, it seemed she felt the cleric was the one calling the shots right now.

[PersonofJid]

Walking back out into the chaos did not sit well with Jerid. The streets were deserted, but the sense of fear, desperation, and death still threatened to overwhelm him. At least this time he knew what to expect, but he wasn't sure how long he could hold out. For now, he would focus on the task at hand like Ankou always told him to do, and right now that meant getting to the temple and nothing else.

Jerid almost didn't see Jael's beckoning. In fact, he only barely noticed the lyndwrym at all, and didn't even see the rope until Jael pointed it out to him. Yelara's pointing to the blood trail made it clear that whoever rode the wyrm was nearby.

With a trembling hand, Jerid removed Ankou from his necklace and mentally gave him the order.

"You know what you need to do. Find whoever is making that trail and lead us to him. Please be quick, but be careful. He could still be dangerous."

[Redshaw]

Ankou's lilting accent carves across Jerid's mind like a knife, But Master! These distractions won't do! One little soldier won't change the fate of the war. We must press on! Despite his complaints, however, the crystal obeys. He scampers down the path, too light too sink into the snow.

The tracks lead into an open door, Master... I hear noises inside.... crying, master. Some child is whimpering. And... screams! A woman in screaming! Oh my!

You hear a muted scream pour out from the alley. A woman, nearby, is in distress.

Badgerface's expression souers and he shakes his head. "If we intend to save every peasant in this city, we'll never escape, let alone find that package. We must press on!" Torrent shakes her head unpleasantly at the gnome, "Have you no compassion?" She looks toward the group for support.

[Navian]

Yelara, already looking to Torrent for confirmation, is confused when Torrent looks to the others for confirmation. She takes Torrent's suggestion to act and the gnome's insistence to move on together, and follows the trail as fast as she can, not allowing the scream to shake her from pursuit of the wyrm rider. Her intent was to dispatch him as swiftly as possible.

Yelara elven heritage made it easy to find her way in the dark, and her strength allowed her to make swift, if not graceful strides, despite the weight of her sword, shield, and mail jack. She prepared to charge, when she felt she was closing in.

[Redshaw]

Yelara bounds the alleyway, rounds a corner to find an open door into a city house. There is a large blood splatter staining the entry way to the door and the screaming woman has been silenced. A feminine hand is outstretched on the snow, the arm its attached to disappearing behind the doorframe. Although it would normally be too dark for a human to see past the darkness of the unlit entry way, Yelara's elfish senses allow her to pierce the veil and see within.

A child curled on the bed, clutching a small bundle in its arms, sobbing quietly, and a large man moving back and forth within, armed with a great sword. She cannot tell what he's doing, but he's working feverishly.

[Navian]

Despite her rush, Yelara ceased her reckless charge, to proceed with caution. She wasn't feeling well after the rough day she'd had already, and the man seemed far more dangerous than she'd expected a wounded lyndwyrm jockey to be. She hid herself in the shadows behind the door, while attempting to discern any more that she could just by ear, sword held ready to ambush the man should he brazenly rush back outside once he had whatever he'd came for. Meanwhile, she waited and hoped for more help would arrive, soon.

[Moustro]

"If we intend to save every peasant in this city, we'll never escape, let alone find that package. We must press on!"

Jael shot a disapproving look at the ugly gnome, still wrapped ungratefully in the old army man's blanket. He waved towards the temple entrance and replied as he started after the big half-elf.

"Look, the rider's wounded, and shouldn't be hard to find. He could be trouble if he's allowed to roam unchecked...I know any of ours would be if stuck behind enemy lines. We haven't even decided our next move, right? So go warm up in the temple and think on that if you like, we won't be long."

With that, he ran after Yelara, barely keeping up with her mad dash. The girl seemed to know where she was going, at least, and the glimpses of blood he caught as they ran confirmed that she was on the right track. It wasn't long before she slowed just outside an open door, peering carefully inside. There was a good amount of blood on the entryway, but no body. Either the rider was in bad shape, or they'd been right to chase after him - though apparently too late. Yelara's apprehension confirmed Jael's suspicion that the latter was the more likely scenario.

He loosened his bow and notched an arrow as he maneuvered to the other side of the doorway, then squinted within.

[roll0]

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal follows the procession of Resistance Members with ease, finally happy to have escaped from that tower of infuriating happenstance. It was about time that fate restored itself back to the natural order of things going her way after such a long series of injustices. Gazing up at the fire bleached sky she thought it somewhat reminiscent of her home, a shallow parody of it at best, and watched with some level of amusement towards the aerial duel unfolding before them.

Reg-Tal, held no true sympathy for her lesser draconic kin, especially those who would demean themselves so much as to become a mount for a trifling mortal. Whatever fate belied them was of their own doing, and she wouldn't bother herself at night thinking of such wretches. Even so, she rather reflexively rubbed her throat as the aerial duel ended with the sickening crack of a lance stabbing through the dragon's neck. A grim reminder of what these barbarians would do to her if they learned the whole truth.

Watching the disheveled man grow bold in his statements towards the repugnant gnome, Reg-Tal was vaguely interested in whatever happened to the wounded rider, and in truth she had always wanted to see such an arrogant mortal up close. To think they could ride a superior race like some mundane horse or dog.

"With that kind of logic Badgerface maybe we should have just left you tied up in that crumbling tower after we got the spy."

She said in a cold and yet playful tone before following after Jael and Yelara. Her preternatural speed made keeping pace with him easy. Her eyes had yet to recover fully from her enervation, and so she strained herself to follow his sight.


Perception:[roll0]

1 more level and I'd have dark vision. *grumbles*

[Redshaw]

A large shape stalks within and as Jael closes on the door. It takes a moment to adapt to the light, but eventually the scene unfolds as his, Reg-tal's and Yelara's eyes compensate. A huge man with grey skin, covered in outlandish tattoos and shoulders as broad as a doorway, grimaces from within. A massive gut wound is slowly oozing blood and, oddly enough, he wears a simple tunic. Pieces of his metal-and-leather armor are strewn about the room, though he still clutches a vicious double-headed axe, beautifully crafted into the shape of a wing-spread drakn. His armor discarded, he's pulling on civilian clothing, ill-suited for him, but perhaps convincing enough to fool distracted city guardsmen.

Jael would pause as he hears the wet, choking sounds of a beautiful, blonde-haired woman laying on the wooden floor, her arm outstretched helplessly and blood spilling from a slit throat. Her wide blue eyes stare at him, pleading for help for a few moments before life leaves them entirely. A child sits next to her, sobbing and pulling helplessly on her dress.

The intruder growls as he recognizes the presence at the doorway, pausing to stare outward before reaching out a massive hand to grip the child and haul the toddler to his feet. The blade of the axe comes to rest against the screaming boy's neck as its owner bellows out the doorway, first in Orcish and then in the common tongue, "I've no time for heroics. Be gone and you might yet survive the night!"

[Navian]

Yelara spins out from her hiding place behind the door, and lunges into the doorway, bring her sword slashing down to eviscerate the orc even further. There was little she she could do without hesitation, and to strike from ambush was not an example. Still, she had seen and heard enough. The boy's mother was dying; the orc had already destroyed his one chance to take hostages.

Initiative: [roll0] Yelara moves to strike, and makes a two-handed power attack with her longsword, in her usual ponderous way. [roll1] If it hits, the damage is [roll2].

[Tychris1]

Well, so much for diplomacy and reason. The Dragon Sorceress looked at her compatriots, each with obvious intent to kill. Reg-Tal had sustained enough of injury and risk today, let the elf and man suffer for their own idiocy. Though considering her size and the state of the rider, Reg-Tal didn't doubt her chances in the fight, especially with Jael around to help. Her void-spawned sorcery did not extend a healing touch, and so she sprinted ahead to the blonde women's body with caring hands, falling upon her knees. The women by all accounts looked dead, but humans were surprisingly resilient, and if she was tended to and retrieved fast enough to the church she just might survive. It was inconsequential to Reg-Tal, but it would be a mighty tool to solidify her disguise and help position herself as a "Saintly" figure. Oh the irony was delicious. And if she failed, well, a sob story was always good. Muttering random prayers Reg-Tal hastily went to work to cover the wound and restore life to those hazey eyes.

Going to make a heal check on the blonde women to perform first aid (even if my guess is wrong and she is past -10):[roll0]

[Moustro]

Jael was about to reply to the big figure within when Yelara suddenly charged in. The old army man knew they could not let this scum live, hostage or no, but the half-elf's lack of hesitation surprised him. Was she wise enough to realize they had no alternative? Or just daft enough to ignore the consequences?

Moira watch over you, child, he thought at the kid, knowing full well that little short of divine intervention could help him now.

"Get that axe away from him!" he shouted at his companions. He then drew back on his bow and let loose into the crowded room, trusting his years of close-range combat practice would help his avoid harming any friendlies within.


Jael uses his Direct Orders feat (WOTBS 20), giving all allies within 30 ft a +1 bonus to Disarm attempts until his next turn.
[roll0]
[roll1]
[roll2]

[PersonofJid]

Ankou's objections were silenced the instant Jerid heard the screaming.

"Do not tell me not to protect my home!"

He moved forward following Ramira until he saw the scene inside, and what he saw was more than enough to push him to action. Ignoring all caution, he followed Yelara and charged forward bringing his scythe to bear down on the murderer.

Jerid charges and expends his psionic focus to use his Psychic Weapon Feat.

Initiative: [roll0]
Attack: [roll1]
Damage: [roll2]
Extra Damage: [roll3]

[Redshaw]

Even without his protective armor and the gut wound, this invader proves a crafty foe. As his first opponent steps forth, he hurls the captive child forward.

Jerid's blade finds no flesh to cut, though he nearly slices the child in two. The toddler thumps against his chest, just missing the curve of his blade by inches.

(Be glad that wasn't a one. This post would have ended considerably differently. :smalleek: Consider this a bullrush. I'm assuming you don't make an attack of opportunity against the child. Make an STR check and add a +4 for being one size category larger. Beat a DC of 12 to resist the bullrush. If you fail, you trip over Reg-tal and fall prone.

The entry way grows cluttered with bodies and the tattooed man roars his challenge, parrying away Yelara's blade and jerking his bald head to avoid Jael's arrow, which sticks into the wood wall with a dull thump. Yelara's attack is returned his double-sided axe carving down with enough strength to sever her arm at the shoulder. It splinters the wooden floor that it lands on and she remains fully in tact.

Even as the battle rages above her, Reg-tal applies her healer's craft. Tragically, there is no life left to save within the young mother. She can easily determine though that there is no mystery in the woman's death; hypovolemic shock induced by a 4 inch laceration across the throat. The woman's blood stains the dragon's delicate, pink hands and her dress a deep crimson.

A new round has begun

[PersonofJid]

Jerid feels the body of the child strike his chest, the sudden force throwing off his attack, and knocking him into Ramira. In an instant, he was on the floor and fuming. Whoever this rider was, he was certainly desperate. However, it wasn't enough to deter Jerid from his goal. This rider was going to die. Mercy was not an option.

Standing, Jerid focuses his power and again his eyes burn as he manifests another firey ray towards the man.

Bull Rush/Trip Reaction: [roll0]
Move Action: Stand up from prone
Standard Action: Manifest Energy Ray(fire), Ranged Touch Attack: [roll1], Damage: [roll2] fire damage.

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal grunted as Jerid slammed into her and tripped over onto the ground.

"Idiotic simpering backwater bumbling naive childish wretch..."

She silently fumed at the indignity of her discomfort but did not allow it to crack through her near perfect porcelain mask, not while it was so close to fruition. The mother was dead, her own investigation proving it without a shadow of a doubt, and no amount of magical aid save the divine (Or the darkest secrets of the void) could change that. And with it Reg-Tal smiled softly on the inside, for with the child out of the riders grasp a new opportunity presented itself. Reaching forward she grabbed ahold of the child and carried him away from the fight back outside.

"Cover me, I'll get him to safety!"

She shouted back as she ran past her dubious allies.

This is assuming that the child is next to Reg-Tal as Jerid fell over her as a result of being hit with the child. I'm not sure what "Action" picking up a child is but Reg-Tal is fairly strong with a 14 strength and 58 pounds of light weight, so I imagine he shouldn't be too hard to pick up.

[Redshaw]

The distraught child clings to Jerid, sobbing in the shock of the nightmare that is his reality. He is heavier than he looks and makes for a cumbersome weight while the man comes back to his feet. Reg-tal alleviates the burden, but the delay was enough to give their foe opportunity and the Ragesian's axe lashes like a scorpion's tail, slashing across the farm boy's chest, creating a gush of blood that splatters on the toddler, still crying as he wraps his arms around Reg-tal.

Attack of opportunity against your stand action. You are dealt 7 points of slashing damage, taking you to -4 hp.

Torrent has finally drawn up the rear, panting as she huffs down the alleyway. Unable to see the chaos occuring within the building, she eagerly greets Reg-tal and the child who have successfully extricated from the bloodbath. "What's happened?", she asks, breathless, as she does a quick assessment of the still-sobbing toddler, seeking obvious wounds.

[Tychris1]

Reg-Tal looked down at the sniveling simpering human hatchling wailing near her, feeling a small level of disdain towards the child and his deceased mother for turning her into a glorified nurse. When she conquered Gate Pass she'd be sure to burn his house down thoroughly and torment his mothers soul upon returning to the Void proper. Looking to Torrent, her face melted into that of frantic bewilderment and doe eyed intentions, a facial structure she had learned to mimic from seeing the real Ramira do it so often when being tortured.

"The others are fighting the rider, he ran into this childs home, killed his mother, and now he's fighting like a cornered rat! It's wild and bloody in there! You need to help, I'll care for the child!"

Her voice bled with the caring inflection of a mother worried for her children, moist eyes covering a spark of faked zealotry.

[Navian]

Thoroughly entangled amidst the fray, and fearing such a powerful opponent, Yelara drops her sword as she steps onto the enormous man's blade--hopefully, before he can retract it--and swings her great shield out around on its neck strap, to slam down between the two-headed ax, her legs, and the man. As she does so, she goes for his throat with her sword hand, seeking to withhold him from further engagement with the arm she so recently had proven fortunate enough to retain. Yelara did not expect to hold him for long, but if her hand could stay his for a moment, perhaps her allies could end the chaos before the whole house was slick with the blood of the Resistance.

Yelara readies her tower shield, raising her AC to 19, for at least the brief moment it takes for her to start the grapple. For all she knows, this guy might have the reflexes to make a second Attack of Opportunity immediately after wounding Jerid with one! Assuming she doesn't get suddenly floored, this is a melee touch attack grab attempt: [roll0]
If this misses, she only has her AC to fall back on. If it hits, this is her opposed Grapple Check: [roll1]
If she wins, or ties and has a better check modifier, her foe takes [roll2] nonlethal damage, including the bonus from Blade of the Resistance, and the man is now Grappled. Yelara moves into his space, and the man's movement and offensive options are severely curtailed.
If she loses, she's forced to back off, he takes no damage, and it's the same as above.

[Moustro]

Jael cursed as his first shot lodged itself into the wall, then quickly drew another arrow and nocked it. He saw Jerid fall as he did so, but the sight of Ramira rushing out holding the baby eased the blow somewhat.

"For Jerid! For Gate Pass!" he shouted. He fired again at the big intruder, hoping to make this shot count.


Jael uses his Direct Orders feat (WOTBS 20), giving all allies within 30 ft a +1 bonus to Grapple attempts until his next turn.
[roll0]
[roll1] (+4 if not considered shooting into a melee)
[roll2]

[Redshaw]

His axe still recovering from the blow which downed Jeri, the murderer cannot resist his elfish assailant. Although Jael's arrow flies wide of it target, Yelara's shield entraps the massive weapon against the floor boards.

A string of gutteral curses in orcish stream from his chapped lips as her callused fingers close about his throat. And soon the combatants are entangled with one another, muscle testing muscle, sweat mixing with their mutual hatred. As their distance closes, she brings an armored knee up to smash against his still-bleeding flank. She hears bones crunch under the weight of her attack and he gasps as the wind is forced out of him. The wound was even worse than it looked and a heavy groan escapes him as he slumps against her. She's force to spread her legs and adjust her balance just to bare the weight of him as consciousness drifts out of his mind; stepping away would have him drop to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Satisfied with the child's health, Torrent approaches the doorway. Unable to engage directly, she cries her support for Yelara, before stopping short as she realizes Jerid is bleeding on the floor. "Oh no!" She sprints forward, nearly knocking Jael over as she passes to kneel in front of the farm boy.

She peels off a glove to reveal her dark-skinned hand and lays it atop Jerid's riven chest. She speaks in a language not of this world and a warm light slowly begins to appear in her hands... and then fades. She lets out a pained groan and focuses her energy to once again attempt casting a spell... to no avail. Sweat has begun gathering on her forehead as the panic sets in, "Moira... please... let me save him." But she has no blessings left to offer.

Her hands quickly stain with blood as she tries to control the bleeding herself, but to no avail. She packs the wound with cloth and snow, but the gash is too deep, the wounds too great to be so easily staunched. "Don't die, don't die, don't die..."

Roll a heal check to stabilize. And then consider combat complete, so if that doesn't succeed a DC of 15,make 6 rolls of a percentage. If you fail all six, you're not necessarily dead... yet, depending on how quickly aid might or might not reach you.

[Tychris1]

Alone at last.

Badgerface had scuttled off with his guards to the church, Torrent rushed to the aid of her foolhardy puppets, and the others were busy dying or fighting the rider. For the first time this night, Reg-Tal was completely alone save for who she wanted to be with. The child, still sniveling and doe eyed, tugged against her dress as he clung to the enchanted Dragon, and she happily complied with the motion. Hugging always felt like such a strange human action, if she were this close to another member of her species it was either because she was grappling them and about to rip their throat out, or for more lewd purposes. Then again these humans didn't have a heart of hellfire to keep them warm against the brutalizing cold, and perhaps this was their shallow attempt to combine hearts and produce a pathetic spark to match her inferno. Speaking of which she began to peel back her disguise slightly, her chest glowing and warming up as he pressed the child close against her and fell to her knees.

She began to slowly pat his head, craning her neck around his so that her long red hair would fall over his face. Tutting lightly, she cooed to him affectionately and rocked him slowly back and forth. "Don't worry child, I'm going to make everything alright, do you want to know how?"

"How?"

A devilish grin grew on the front of Reg-Tal's mind, her voice inflecting itself to reflect her true purpose of spreading temptation and heresy, and so she whispered to him.

"You are young and weak, a lost child, and your mother has been taken from you by a cold and harsh world. If you went to the church they would tell you to accept that your mother is dead, they will tell you to give and give and never take. But I see the potential for greatness in you, the chance to take what you deserve, and save your mother. I can make you strong, stronger then anyone in Gatepass or Ragesia. And when you are strong, you will be able to force the world to give your mother back. And all you have to do is give me a very very small thing in return. Listen to me boy, take what is rightfully yours, save your mother."


Diplomacy:[roll0]

[Redshaw]

Confusion mixes with the horror in the child's eyes. What did she mean? What did she intend? He tries to digest the words and manages to focus, despite the imminent death he faced moments before. Her voice is honey and warmth in a world that has suddenly, irrationally become cold and empty.

"Save your mother" is what finally resolves his little heart. He nods his head, eagerly, desperate for anything that would return the life he had only but hours before. He submits to her counsel with silent acquiescence. "Please..." he begs.

[Navian]

Yelara held the lindwyrm rider steady for some moment, until things grew quiet. She could do nothing unique to help Jerid, and she could not hear relief from the others. Though only in her mid-twenties, Yelara had lost siblings and comrades before. The loss of another drew her attention less than its perpetrator. She heaved the Ragesian down onto his back, slung her shield behind her, and picked up the double-ax that had bitten more than its fair share of the locals, holding one of the blades to the man's neck, in a way he'd have found very familiar by now, if he remained conscious. Yelara then asked, "Do we give quarter?"

It was a perfunctory question, not a moral one. The man was only still breathing because Yelara didn't trust herself to judge his value as a prisoner. She personally wished to destroy him, just as she wished to destroy any other destroyer, and remained blissfully unaware of any irony in this. Still, the blade she held drew no blood while she waited for orders, or confirmation.

[Tychris1]

Looking around, Reg-Tal made sure that neither Badgerface's group or the "resistance heroes" were nearby to witness what was to come. Such a ritual would take some measure of time, even for such a soul as small as this one, and it would leave her in quite a compromising position were she to be caught. Holding his wrist she tugged him down a different alleyway away from anymore prying eyes amidst the cities armageddon. Fully secluded at last, she bent down to her knees and began to whisper words of power to him in Infernal.

She pressed her forehead against the child's, still droning on in her otherworldly tongue, her hands slipping down to wrap around his arms as the fire of her chest began to fully unleash itself. Her heart transformed into a luminescent lantern, radiating the eldritch Void-borne power she was about to bestow upon him. The hellfire within began to course through the rest of her body, causing her veins to shimmer in the dark night, and her eyes to shift vagrantly between pitch black and bright red. Bones began to contort and shift in her face as her inner draconic nature spilled forth, fangs ripping through gums, scales sliding out of her pores, and her horns extending out from her hair. Staring down into the boy's very core, she appeared to be disgustingly beautiful, a brutal hybrid of women and dragon. If the child had any plans to back off now they were too late as her talons slide out from her fingers and embedded themselves in his arm flesh, anchoring him in place.

She chortled sadistically, her forked tongue flicking between rows of razor sharp fangs, and as she opemed her maw wide enough to gorge on the childs face she breathed in deeply. Staring down her mouth, the flickering shadows of hellfire could be spotted at the back of her throat, the smell of sulfur and brimstome rank in her mouth, and causing the child to seize up and cough. His eyes, stinging from the overpowering stench were clenched tight and were hard pressed to see the blue energy slide sluggishly out of his mouth. As if a will-o-wisp was trapped inside of his chest and was now being reeled out it seemingly fought to stay within the boy but was rapidly losing ground. With each sharp intake of breathe Reg-Tal took the orb of energy grew dangerously closer to her mouth, and with the last few strands of it ripped free from his lips she sucked it into her mouth and down her throat. Her once pure white hot chest shone a vague blue tint, the outlines of his soul caged within her Infernal frame. After a few seconds the tint ceased, her body energy focussing within her chest once more as she continued the gibberish chant she had started earlier. Wispy tendrils of her own blazing spirit lashed out from within her and began to bore into the childs chest and flesh, pumping her dark gifts into him. His heart began to glow brighter and brighter as she channeled more into him, his veins glowing bright red as she caused his blood to boil with each passing moment, and as she reached the climax of the ritual his eyes for the briefest of moments flashed red in synchronization with Reg-Tal's. Retracting her energy from him, her heart began to simmer as the child's glow slowly waned into non-existence, Reg-Tal's face contorting back into its beautiful and kindly shape as her talons turned to soft fingers. Where once his flesh was punctured, the energy held within her pact sealed them off.

Panting, Reg-Tal fell over onto her hind legs, exasperated by a ritual she had not done in such a long time (And wasn't even sure if she still had the energy for). Still, the process left her feeling slightly invigorated, bolstered by her newfound catch, even if the fish was relatively small. Picking herself up, she looked down at the now soulless child and said "It is done."

[PersonofJid]

Stabilization: [roll0]
In case I fail. [roll1] Okay, I just realized I did the d% wrong, but I made the Heal check so those rolls don't matter anyways.