Gone Away
Outside the sky is cloudy and gray, the air is still save for a subtle wind that doesn't bother anyone inside the tavern. The tavern itself is a bustle with people. Most of them stick to the edges of the room, and talk is quiet. Muted. There's no music playing to ease the feeling of vague tension here. It feels like there's a fight brewing, but no one is arguing. Not yet in any case.
The tables are decorated by fresh blue roses, and the waitresses are on point tonight. Quickly coming and going through the tables. The bartender is just as astute, quickly pouring out the drinks, but he's not in a talkative mood. If anything the people who work here seem wary of the tension that they surely feel too.
This is not Dolan's normal choice for dinner, but it was on the way, and Andie is likely to be back pretty late, so this will do well enough. The minute he'd stepped through the door, though, the palpable tension in the air led his to change his mind. Instead of drinks and dinner, he'd opted to have the kitchen wrap up his meal for him, and he stands now near the end of the bar, waiting for the parcel to come out. His arms are crossed across his chest as he waits.
Kard is having food. He is trying all of the different foods that Alexandria offers, it's a much broader selection than he is used to. He did select a corner table where he could situate his armor out of the way. He doesn't wear it all the time, but he never lets it out of his sight either.
Kard unbuckles the breastplate he is wearing and ducks, allowing the oversized gauntlets to rest on the ground and the pauldrons to rest atop those. The armor stands by itself after Kard disengages from it, though the interior carapace wetly glistens as if waiting for its next meal.
Carver sulks in the corner with her beer, the mood of the establishment creeping into her own. She wasn't real sure why. Maybe just a bit of her empathetic nature, or maybe it was the series of bad rounds of cards that left her pockets a lot lighter than they had been when she first entered.
Even the beer tasted flat, the young lady smacking her lips with scorn, before pushing it away with a sigh, stretching arms over her head before trying to slip through the crowd toward the bar from a fresh sipper. Then she spots ole' Tough Guy. "Oi, I know you."
Randolf sits at the bar, quietly smoking his pipe as he nurses a mug of beer. Now and again, he'll flex the fingers on his left hand, scowling at the fresh scar just visible beneath the sleeve of his robe. The last few days have not been kind for him. He tosses back his mug, gulping the dregs before setting it on the bar and pushing it over to the tender. "Give us another," he grunts flatly. He glances over his shoulder, puff-puffing quietly as he scans the gathering crowd. The tension in the air is doing nothing to enhance the burly wizard's calm.
Verna has far less need of taverns for sustenance, now that a proper kitchen is available. To say nothing of a most excellent chef. There remains the matter of drink. The merchants she has inquired of seem inclined to press for bulk purchase or 'the most equisite vintage' at an equally exquisite price. Thus she currently waits at the bar, attempting to speak to the 'keep between patrons concerning a bottle. The longer she waits, however, it seems that wine is not the only matter of concern in the establishment.
Telamon sits at the bar, relaxing, a glass of wine in hand as he contemplates. The meeting with the Chalice had run on a bit, and 'Lana was visiting her cousin, so... he lifts the glass to his lips, his brows furrowed slightly. What had everyone on edge so much? His eyes scan the room, looking for familiar faces, someone to talk to. He catches sight of Randolf, and deftly, the half-elf slides over to sit next to the dwarf. "Randolf," he says quietly, before switching to flawless Khazdul, "You look about as tense as I feel."
Side-stepping through a door that's probably just-wide enough for him to enter straight on, Barclaiigh stops through the portal and has a look around. The Khazad-aul senses the mood and frowns, his caterpillar mustache turning down and his bushy eyebrows pushing together. He wears that perplexed expression on his face and debates pointing out that fighting would interrupt everyone's leisure time.
'Bar brawls are barred,' Bar would say... but he's no bard. He speaks for the trees and right now he's stumped.
Sandals go slap, slap, slap at a slower pace than usual as he picks his way through the tables-- careful to keep from bumping folks!-- on the way to the counter. His mane is woven back into one fat, frizzy braid and he sports a new circlet of spiraled wood.
Randolf takes ahold of his pipe, glancing over at Telamon through a billow of sweet vanilla-honey pipe smoke. "It's nae just me, laddie," he grumbles. "The whole damned city feels like a tar barrel just waitin' fer the match tae drop." He looks down at his scarred forearm. "That werewolf was nearly the end o' me," he mutters gloomily. "Still not sure it shouldn't have been. Cannae imagine why the Elunites would spare their blessings fer me. Not after what I did." He picks up his mug and gulps half of it down in one go, sighing heavily.
Over in one corner of the tavern a man tilts out of his seat and hits the ground with a very soft sound. No one seems to notice. No one seems to care. Dolan's food comes out and is offered to him by a waitress with a soft if strained smile. Randolf's mug is refilled by the barkeep.
Kard doesn't have great peripheral vision, nor is he particularly perceptive. Still, he does eventually notice that a person is laying on the ground instead of eating at the table. That's a weird thing. He stares rather than call it out though. He isn't likely to be the first to have noticed.
Telamon raises an eyebrow. "Lycanthropy is not exactly a minor issue, Randolf. And sometimes... we don't have the luxury to think twice. The most you can do is try to make amends." He lays a hand on Randolf's shoulder, kindly, before glancing over at the soft thud. "I think that guy might've had enough for the night..." he remarks, taking another sip of his wine.
Busy accepting his food as he is, Dolan doesn't appear to notice the man falling from his chair either. "Thanks. You have a good night." He takes the food parcel with both hands, and is about to turn away. The conversation near him is not in a language he can follow, but that isn't horribly unusual in a city like this. With nothing more to linger for, he starts for the door, although his eyes linger on the patrons and servers here. Something isn't right.
Carver scratches her head, but takes the departing fellow's place at the bar. Guess she's not as memorable as she had hoped. One glance down the line tells her she's going to be waiting for a good while. The sigh makes its great escape through her nostrils.
"What in tarnation..." Barclaiigh grumbles, coming up short in his walk to the bar as the fella falls over and no one seems to care. "Dangit all-- mister!" The Khazad calls, raising his voice and picking up the pace as he detours. "Mister?" Sausage fingers are reaching into the pouches on his belt beneath the breastplate that looks like a combination of darkwood and the inside of a furnace. Slap, slap-slap-slap, he hops once and cocks his head.
There's a squawking complaint of chairlegs skittering across the wood floors when the druid pushes it roughly out of the way. "Summin' be a pal'n grab me water, please?" He glances about, wondering if anyone else has taken notice at this point.
"There are moments to judge, and those to accept," Verna notes to Randolph and Telamon. She does not expound further as the soft and/or slow collapse shift of tavern-goer from chair to floor is noted. "Perhaps he should be served transport home?" An overindulgent patron toppling over in a tavern is a not-uncommon occurrence. Or so she has read.
GAME: Barclaiigh rolls Heal: (13)+11: 24
As Dolan heads toward the door, another person falls out of their chair, this time directly in front of him. Stalling his progress forward. No one else in the bar reacts to this. The waitresses keep plugging along, the bartender keeps pouring drinks, and the patrons sit staring off into their own plates and cups. The tension is rising though.
Randolf looks over at the man dropping over. He shakes his head with a sigh. "Och. Poor tallfolk," he says, hopping to his feet. He procures a glass of water to bring over to his kinsman. "Always such a tragedy when they cannae hold their drink, eh? Why, just the other da--" He cuts off as another patron drops out of his chair. His eyes narrow as he slooowly looks around. "Oh piss up my -arse-, are we -really- doin' -this- again?!" he growls angrily. He reaches for his wand, hunkering down a bit. "Eyes peeled, Bar. Think there's some manner o' wicked trick-fuckery goin' on."
Kard has met Barclaiigh, so when he gets involved, Kard drains his beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stands, spilling silver on the table. If a fellow Explorer needs backup, Kard will be ready to carry the wounded. He seems oblivious to any tension.
That gets Telamon's attention a bit more distinctly. One person nodding off, well, that happens. But usually there's someone to drag the drunks off into the corner so they're not in the way. Carefully, he sets the wine down. "Randolf," he says, switching to tradespeak, "you have such a way with words. Unfortunately, I think you're right." He turns, looking around, staring intently at the patrons and the bartender.
This time, Dolan stops, and drops to one knee in front of the newly downed patron. He hadn't heard Carver, so great was his preoccupation, but now his senses fully snap into line, and all at once, he's on the job. He's no healer, but he sets his food down next to him, and two fingers rest against his neck, searching for a pulse. "Hey, you okay?"
He'll have to find Carver later.
"What--" Barclaiigh repeats, choking on his words as he turns the fallen man and has a look at his face. The features are streaked with black slime leaking from every possible crease, crevice, and hole. Then another man falls! "Deader'n a goat done falled offa mountain!"
His small eyes bounce around, looking for someone helpful and settling on Verna. "Can't tell what. Maybe poison? Ain't gon' be pretty but folk might wanna shove a finger down'n upchuck any food they ett here..."
GAME: Dolan rolls heal: (9)+3: 12
Dipping under the yoke of his armor, Kard straightens, lifting the armor off the ground and settling it about his shoulders. With a meaty chunk, the armor animates folding around his upper torso like a breastplate. The fingers in the oversized gauntlets flex, one by one as if to confirm that they are all working.
Kard steps over to Barclaiig and offers. "I can carry him to the healer." He announces in an artificially deep baritone.
GAME: Telamon casts Detect Poison. Caster Level: 7 DC: 16
Verna frowns. Despite being Vardaman and popular to some accounts, letting the bodies hit the floor is not a pastime. At best, a second patron falling over causes her to reconsider her efforts to acquire a bottle here. At worst... well, Randolf colorfully shares potentially valid concerns. Barclaiigh's comments then promptly remove all doubt for either of those.
She steps away from the bar, though looks between the keep and the waitresses. "What, exactly, are you serving your clientele?!" Pre-empting a response, one gloved hand makes a brief gesture before she expands her panning gaze from servers to the service and those served.
GAME: Verna casts Arcane Sight. Caster Level: 19 DC: 20 GAME: Verna rolls spellcraft+4: (3)+35+4: 42
"Bright and holy morning." Dolan's hand abruptly jerks back, and he backpedals, jumping to his feet to reveal that the downed man blocking his path has black gunk oozing from ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. "Whatever this is, it ain't good. This one's dead too." He fairly whirls on the bar, staring daggers at those who staff it. The food parcel gets absently kicked under a table, clearly dismissing it. "Exactly what in all the green garden hells is going on here?" He catches sight of Carver this time, a familiar face, and jerks his chin at her in acknowledgement. That doesn't last long, and he returns that stern stare to the barkeep and serving help.
GAME: Telamon rolls perception: (17)+12: 29 GAME: Randolf rolls Perception: (11)+9: 20 GAME: Carver rolls perception: (7)+8: 15 GAME: Verna rolls perception: (13)+28: 41 GAME: Dolan rolls perception: (10)+8: 18 GAME: Kard rolls perception: (14)+6: 20 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls Perception: (1)+13: 14 (EPIC FAIL)
Verna's eyes take on a cerulean hue as she scans the room. A hue that becomes more prevalent as her eyes grow and widen while the rest of her countenance frowns. More. "The entire contents of the establishment, and all of us present, are affected by magic. I cannot discern precisely what manner..." This last only deepens her consternation.
More people hit the ground, and the waitress, the barkeep look at you blankly. "The storm is coming." Says the waitress closest to Dolan. As though this is inevitable. Then the waitress falls to the ground.
Now people start to react. Running for the exit and piling up there as if they can't get through the doorway. Dolan will find himself inundated by people. Knocked around and pushed as a few final people fall to the floor. The tension has reached a fever pitch. Something terrible is _immenent_.
Telamon snatches up his wineglass, passing his hand over it and murmuring a word... then he sets it down again. "Not poisoned... well, the wine wasn't. Probably for the best, that vintage was kind of mediocre to start with." He stares around, before his eyes fall on the roses at one poor sap's table, which have turned black. Then his head jerks up at the waitress. "/What/ did she just say--" then the waitress hits the ground. "Oh, f--"
GAME: Carver rolls Will: (17)+3: 20 GAME: Randolf rolls Knowledge/Religion: (1)+6: 7 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Dolan rolls will: (7)+6: 13 GAME: Telamon rolls will: (4)+8: 12 GAME: Verna rolls will: (16)+24: 40 GAME: Kard rolls will: (13)+1: 14 GAME: Randolf rolls Will+2: (1)+7+2: 10 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Barclaiigh rolls Will: (13)+9: 22
Kard has seen some dangerous creatures, seen death, faced starvation even was hunted by a pack of wolves once. ACtually, that's a comprehensive list, so he to say he is the most afraid he has ever been in his life is not saying much. It also means that he doesn't have a lot of experience with handling fear. He dons a gauntlet and sweeps the black flowers off the table, as if splashing the vase and flowers all over the wall will somehow make him feel safer. He backs away, putting himself in a corner, like an animal faced with noise and flame, things it cannot comprehend.
Dolan knows that feeling that is flooding him as the sense of the words sink in - _the storm is coming_. Stark terror. He's no stranger to it. But ... he can't run. He promised Andie he wouldn't ever run again. He can't run. He, too, staggers back a step, until he accidentally runs into the corner of a table.
He can't run. He promised he wouldn't.
Instead, his hand goes towards the buckle of the harness that holds the greatsword over his back, his heart pounding in his chest.
Carver get smacked into the back, letting out a strangled cough at the unexpected impact. She turns to try to voice her complaint only to be buffeted by another, and then a pair, carried along in the wake of human panic like a floundering child who slipped into the river. Her squawks of surprise and outrage mean little in the grand scheme of things because she's forced either way. One particular half-oruch's elbow sends her falling, land face to face with one of the gooe'd, their horrible visage of leaky black eyexcrement center-frame and hyperfocused. "EW! Ew-ew-ew-ew!" The young girl scrambles to get away with her first brush with the Problem of the Night.
(relatively) Safe in the corner where the first man fell, Barclaiigh is left to stare, flummoxed as the stampede begins. He watches the arcanists and holy persons take action, attempting to suss through the confusion and pin down specifics... only for it all to beneath the crashing tide of panicked pedestrians. He frowns again, forcing his slack jaw closed, and stands and moves away from the body doing his best to help the fallen or battered.
A bit later than would be ideal-- but before things get especially bad-- a great bushy beard in auburn comes into Carver's sightline as she scrabbles. "Danged'f I don't know you!" He greets, shoulders braced against the buffeting press. A calloused hand extends to help her up. "Take care, miss..."
Not A storm, but THE storm. Of course.
Is it too much to happen upon someone who smiles and announces that sunshine and rainbows are in the forecast?
Verna's consternation prevents such a thought to be more than fleeting as her mind instead turns to focus. They are presumably all affected. Some sort of time-delay curse? Triggered necromancy? She knows well of magics that make one simply fall over dead.
"Stand fast! You may only succeed in crushing yourselves more quickly than any magic could kill you!" The welcome comfort of logic is voiced as she moves to one of those fallen to further examine them; if nothing else, they are lying still and squirming less.
GAME: Verna rolls HEAL: (20)+21: 41
Randolf shakes his head as the enchantment takes hold. He strains against it. He claps his hands to the side of his head, staggering back until his back thumps into the wall. "No... stop it! STOP IT!" he bellows, trembling with terror. All he ever wanted was to -know- things. To learn to use his gift, to make his clan proud. But damned if he's not starting to yearn for his boring boyhood days, when all he had to be afraid of was another dull day in the clanhold.
"..." The curse trails off as the fear reaches up, right through the floorboards, and grabs Telamon in a vise. The imperative is clear: he has to get out. Flee. Warn Cor'lana. A small part of him is yelling, stamping it's feet, but it's drowned out by the terror. Wasn't there someone he knew? That he could call out to? It's too much. His fingers shake slightly, only stilled by the practiced motions, as he chants, "Pes gur irhandi." Then he starts to flicker, back and forth, like he's not quite tuned into reality itself as he tries to use his now variable existence to push through the crowds towards the door.
GAME: Telamon casts Blink. Caster Level: 7 DC: 19
Kard makes no attempt to run. He plants his back in a corner, raises his fists in his gauntlets like a boxer and casts a wild gaze around the room. There's a good chance he lashes out at anyone who tries to take his corner away from him.
There's a storm billowing just outside the doors to the bar. Its battering winds push back anyone trying to escape and shoves them back into the room. Terrified the people keep trying. But it's to no avail. Half the roses on the tables have gone black and the bodies on the floor start to move... To _writhe_. The terror reaches its crescendo, and there room is suddenly silent. No more screams only the sound of bones popping and twisting. Bodies moving in parody of life. Everyone turns toward the bodies in the same movement. Terror holds its beat.
The bodies are becoming twisted monstrous things. Not werewolves however expected that might be, but animalistic yes. With sharp teeth and beaks. Feathers and raven-dark fur. Claws and fangs and moon-gold eyes.
The screaming begins again.
GAME: Dolan rolls will: (15)+6: 21 GAME: Telamon rolls will: (18)+8: 26 GAME: Randolf rolls Will+2: (15)+7+2: 24 GAME: Kard rolls WILL: (12)+1: 13 GAME: Dolan casts Magic Weapon. Caster Level: 2 DC: 14
"Be ware! Something is soon to unf-" Verna's warning is possibly pre-empted by the sudden silencing of screams, followed by the sounds of bones and sinew cracking. All from the bodies, of course.
The clock strikes twelve and moondrops burst out at you from their hiding place -
Something about watching those figures, those bodies _writhe_ snaps Dolan out of his fear, all at once. She may not be here, but the Knight never leaves, and has his back! With that, he'll be all right. The unscarred side of his features twist into a horrified grimace at the black gunk-laden corpses. but even that is not enough to turn him aside now.
The leather of the greatsword's harness drops soundlessly to the wooden floor of the tavern at his feet, and he holds the weapon cross-down in both hands. "Holy Knight, strengthen my blade that I may dispatch the forces of evil!" A sunlit glow begins to surround the blade, and in a moment, he is set. Determined. Ready.
Carver nearly goes crosseyed as Barclaiigh's large mit dips into view, but a blink resettles her and she clasps his one in both of her's. "'s always when I'm runnin'." A grumbled bit of levity that strangles in its infancy, as she feels the building shake in the unnatural winds that seal the exit. "Oi, flighty gits!" Yes, the entire crowd who is now pinned inside with them. "Maybe the cellar is safe! Follow me!" She waves with as great a wingspan as she can manage with her spindly arms, giving a quick thank to her savior. "Don't take no wallop to the head again, Bearhunter!"
GAME: Carver rolls diplomacy: (7)+0: 7
Bar offers and awkward grin and digs his fetish necklace out from under his armor, the boar's tusks joined by a carved disc idol of Yggdrasil. "If'n anyone needs magicked bit'a pokery..." out comes the green-glowing spear off of his back and he stabs it into the ground.
"...'n don't worry. This bit's normal," warns the dwarf as his forearms sprout longer, draping auburn hairs. Hair that becomes fur. His beard and hairline creep towards one another and his face reshapes. The Khazadi druid drops down onto all fours as his body morphs into that of an oversized wolverine. The fur retains the auburn color and the leather necklace dangles with its adornments beneath the stubby, fanged snout.
Telamon keeps blinking in and out, and then, for him, on one blink...
It just stops. He's in the gray otherworld of the ethereal. Except someone's got him by the front of his shirt. A short, stubby man, dressed in an outlandish tunic embroidered with flowers, breeches, and a small white hat like a mushroom cap. A pair of outsized spectacles on his nose.
Roughly, the man shakes Telamon, and growls, "Snap out of it, dipshit," cuffing him alongside his head.
Blink. He's back again, but the fear drains away, his mind clearing. Seeing the corpses starting to twist and warp, he yells, "We got company!" He starts casting another defensive spell, as he struggles to make his way over to where Dolan is, still popping in and out of reality.
Kard doesn't have a moment of hesitation. He does give a high-pitched yelp, not a scream of fear, though he is afraid he strangles it just enough to sound like he is only startled. But would a startled individually immediately start shooting? Probably. Fortunately he has enough presence of mind to just start shooting goo all over the place instead of death rays. Suspicious leather tubing connecting arm to armor starts to jerk and pump as he produces a spray of viscous and musky tanglefoot gunk. "Stay back!" He squeaks, before repeating in a deeper but no more authoritative: "I said stay back!"
GAME: Telamon casts Mage Armor. Caster Level: 7 DC: 17
Randolf grits his teeth and forces the fear down. What would his clan say if they saw him cowering so? 'Aye, just as we thought, poor wee Dandy Randy's got the collywobbles. That's what wizardin' gets ye!' He grips his wand, knuckles turning white as he forces himself to stand tall. Or, at least, as tall as he -can-. He whips his wand in an arc to limber up. "I've been through worse hell than -this-," he growls, beard bristling angrily as he sets his gaze on the raven lycans. "An' just because I'm chums wi' Pothy, don't think I'll be easin' up on -you- feathery lot!" He brings his wand up, barking a spell of protection. "RE EX RE SU SCUTUS!" His protective diagram whirls around him as he strides forward, squaring off with the enemy as he pulls his axe. "RIGHT! THE DWARVES ARE ON YE!" he roars.
Verna really does NOT appreciate corpses becoming... more animate corpses. Undead or otherwise, corpses are to remain dead. With the exception of the return to life, of course. A quick defensive spell is cast. Concerning the egress to the cellar, she offers, "We cannot leave the others here alone!"
The people do NOT listen to Carver. Unfortunately. It's even more of a bad thing when the one-time corpses rise and start attacking. There are enough of them to attack everyone. To attack you, the people crowded near the door; EVERYONE. The people near the door fall in droves. They don't even think to defend themselves. But nobody's safe from attack.
The Barverine is past talking (not that he could in such a shape!) and jumps in between one of the reanimated monstrosities and the press of the crowd. The wooden Yggdrasil medallion glows softly, matching the pulse around the animal claws and teeth the druid sports in this form. If only he had his armor! The fight will be bloody.
Telamon keeps blinking in and out, which makes it difficult to even follow him, let alone attack him. "Dammit, this--" Blink. "--really a lot of trouble to manage--" Blink. "--How does anyone cast spells like this?" He flickers -through- a table to stop next to Randolf, pulling his sash free from around his waist. "Sagaru gadala," he chants, and a frisson of magical energy races through the scarf. "What's the plan? Do we even have one?"
Verna is not about to get involved in fisticuffs... if she can help it. A bar brawl is not on her bucket list; not when stone cold sober and most certainly not with... whatever these are. Hmm. What these are is, in part, magic. That is her presumption, anyhow. Thus removing or weakening said magic may be more effective than weakening their blows with her face. She seeks to avoid the assault as able for both reasons, using her own magic in attempt to unravel whatever this might be.
Only after her incantation does she offer wisdom to Telamon. "Endeavor to not die."
GAME: Telamon casts Silk to Steel. Caster Level: 7 DC: 18 GAME: Verna casts Dispel Magic. Caster Level: 19 DC: 20 GAME: Verna rolls 1d20+19: (3)+19: 22
Carver grimaces as her calls fall on deaf, and soon dead, ears. She looks around quickly, taking in exits and options. None of which are great, as again, her favored weapon is poorly suited for the location she's found herself in. Instead, she rushes back to grab Beardbear's spear and prepares to thrust it in the first creature whose eyes are leaking more than just tears.
GAME: Dolan rolls weapon1+1: (16)+6+1: 23 GAME: Dolan rolls 2d6+4+1: (11)+4+1: 16
With the Knight at his back, and bystanders to protect, Dolan's focus settles into place, and his holy sword lent strength, he lays into one of the bird-creatures, the sword instantly coated in blood and black gunk as it sinks deeply into the thing.
More people fall to the press of the unnatural creatures wrecking havoc on the populace of the tavern. It's a slaughter really. Everyone that falls turns in time into one of the creatures. Every one of the creatures that falls is replaced. It's an endless tide of black fur and gnashing teeth. You are - all of you - backed into a corner eventually. Together. Trying to weave your spells and hold the line against an endless army. You need some way to break their line. Some way to _end_ this... nightmare.
Kard is too afraid to contribute meaningfully to destroying anything. His tanglefoot ammunition runs out of goo and he keeps trying to use it, resulting only in futile clicks. He started in the corner, and backed there he looms over the rest lately gathered there. Eventually, Dolan, too, is backed into the corner with the others, and a claw slips through his guard, leaving a shallow but bleeding mark to join the several others that he has collected in the process of fighting back. None are serious, but they're not fun, and they're not clean. He casts a hurried glance towards the kitchen, then back towards his foes, greatsword held at the ready in a defensive pose. "Through the kitchens! Run for it! Out the back door!"
Telamon flickers in and out, frustrating attempts to grab onto him and batting away any grasping claws with his scarf deftly. "Agreed! We can burn the place down when we get outside!" Okay, that might not be a -great- plan, but it does beat dying here. He follows, flickering -through- the door instead of pushing it open.
Randolf unleashes the full fury of his arcane might upon the lycans. Lightning booming and magicked darts flying as he hews his way through their number. But they just keep coming. He lets loose an agonized howl as a clawed hand gashes across his face, sending dwarven blood spraying onto the wall. "There's too many!" he roars, paying the claw-slash back with a mighty hew of his battleaxe. "We've got tae get out o' here!" He points his wand at Telamon. "Yer a bloody -genius-, laddie! Everyone out the back! I'll take care o' the burnin'!"
Kard will shove the door open with all the strength his armor can muster. Running away sounds like the perfect plan, he is out of goo anyway.
Limping and bloodied, the Barverine hacks out a gobbet of abomination flesh before whipping his head around. Stumpy ears pivot and twitch before he moves to join the others. The auburn is darker in large patches and he leaves a trail in his wake, twisting and padding low in an almost serpentine fashion. He cuts beneath a table and pushes chairs aside, trying to break away from his dance partners and make it through to the kitchens…
"Always runnin'..." Carver puffs, a weak stabbing thrust more to shove one of the horrible raven zombie men back than hurt it before she runs along the wall to get free of the pressing wave of flesh, wailing when scratching claws rake across the back of her neck. Panicked enough that she slips on Kard's goo and belly slides through the door. She holds onto her borrowed spear with a whiteknuckled grip though, what a champion.
Verna determines that somatic gestures in the midst of a brawl is not so much different than flailing in a brawl. It is an ineffective in intended purpose as it is in unintended, leaving Verna more accosted than casting. As they are pushed back, withdrawal becomes an aided non-decision. "Fall back!" On the off chance that someone was not already of that mindset nor already being forced that direction.
As everyone pushes through the back door, the dream - shreds - and reality comes back. You were asleep. This whole thing was a dream. A terrible nightmare or... Was it? The scratches, the bites, the little marks of combat linger. So does the scent of fur and roses. You made it out of the nightmare alive, but it haunts you like a memory more than a dream.
Something, is terribly wrong.
-End