Favors Owed (Part 2)
A lovely beach, with golden sand, with the gentle lap of the Inmost Sea against its banks. A view far, far southwards of the Golden Coast.
And undead, rotting hands.
And a petrified, twitching Zeke.
Ahead is sand--and further, a series of outcroppings. Likely, caves and passageways--this had been some sort of Rival's hideout, hadn't it?
Overhead, the thund'ous sound of wings. Then...hesitation and an abrupt...fading. Nothing. Nothing except the gentle waft of the sea.
It's otherwise a perfect vacation.
Erendriel rubs her hands together, having gotten a chance to breathe after the fight. "Okay, so, we've made it. Can anyone fly, and see above the island, to get any hints of where this dragon might be? I can climb a tree or something high but I'm not really seeing trees."
Sith-makar expressions are difficult to read, a fact for which Zeke is grateful at the moment. Grateful that there are no other sith-makar around to notice the signs that his body gives as to what he is feeling. Hopes that no one else can tell what the symptoms mean. The rigidity of his body. The way his eyes have not blinked. He says nothing because all words have fled his mind and left him a shell. Even Erendreil's question gets no response from the sith who can not but stand there staring at the discarded bits of body which attacked them.
"It just smells like undeath. Ssalt and sea." Damn, Rifaah, you think? Jack's cousin stands uneasily near Zeke. He looks lean, dark eyed and dark hair. Sharp features. The way he keeps /looking/ at the fallen creatures is at the same level when Sandy spies soap.
DISCOMFORT.
"Maybe the dragon isn't here? It'ss been a thousand years." An Ahl would of course, never call one of their oldest allies crazy. But, that's /close/. To Zeke, "You need ssome drink?"
Bors gives Erendriel a kind of look. As if we could see tea seeds from any sort of height. But he shakes his head about flying, it's not a thing he can do. He does look around, do any of them look like civilization?
"Ech." Ilmig moves away from the smoldering remains, or the lingering stink of them, anyhow. He looks to his fellows. "So, where's this trinket we're s'posed to find? Doubtin there'll be puttin Xs on the ground all convenient like fer us..." Though it doesn't bother him to take a glance about, just in case.
Erendriel sighs, and randomly fires a small beam of fire at a rock on the beach. "Then, if we can't fly. We're just going to have to search. It seems like a pretty flat island. we don't have any way of getting a view from above? First step could be to walk around the beach, and see if we see anything toward inland."
Bors will wander off a bit to check out the boulder closeby. Maybe something's under it, like an entrance to an underground lair? That'd be a dragon thing, right? Past that, we've seen the outcroppings over there. He guesses we'd have to go over there for a better look?
Zeke doesn't respond to Rifaah either, his green eyes finally sliding away from the hands and toward the sands. He looks peaceful in fact, eyes finally nictating slowly. Lazily. He starts walking, it doesn't really matter the direction, just that he's moving. The sand is soft and sweet under-claw. It's warmth radiates upwards and soothes, but does not penetrate. He says nothing to anyone.
Serraphine knows that this means, looking around at the dead bodies, hearing the wings over head. It means that their work probably isn't complete -- not till they get the tea -- but it also means. It's time for a cookie for a job well done. She nods her head and shuffles her hand about in the pouch of (almost) never ending cookies, pulling one out to crunch on one as she looks for some place she can get to higher ground. "Right..." munch-munch, "Probably best not to get into the air yet, but we need to see where we're going." munch-munch-Crunch-munch.
The air seems to hesitate. The boulder blurs, as Bors approaches it. Blurs and there's that sort of air-shifting that one associates with the desert. Heat. Mirage.
And...a set of winged beings landing, appearing from that air-twist. It's enough to make one's head hurt--or at least, cause a person to doubt if it really /is/ a set of winged ...what are they? landing on the nearby outcroppings, and not some damn trick of the desert. That flapping sound from earlier--what was it? One can see, now. A flapping caused by rotted flesh. Flesh that barely hangs from skeletal wings. Large, large in size. Long necks, long tails. Teeth the size of a blade. And wings.
A demon dismounts from one of them. A demon--with its long muzzle. Its...jackal-like form. Yet, it must be a demon, for its eyes promise the Hells themselves, and smoke trails from its muzzle like an artificer's Eliday ablutions.
"BROL'GAMATH BE PRAISSED!" this one says. It lands easily enough, nearby the...winged...dragon? Is that a dragon? There are three of them, these dragon...things. "Oh. You're deliciouss. I mean. How ARE you?"
He frowns, at Bors. "Spoiled my little treat. But no matter! Aren't you delighted, anyway?"
GAME: Erendriel rolls knowledge/the planes: (8)+6: 14 GAME: Erendriel rolls knowledge/religion: (13)+3: 16 GAME: Serraphine rolls Knowledge/Religion: (10)+13: 23 GAME: Zeke rolls knowledge/religion: (5)+9: 14 GAME: Erendriel rolls knowledge/religion: (11)+3: 14
Erendriel takes a breath, tugs on her backpacks, and steps forward, approaching the demon and Bors. "Demon of Brol'gamath," she starts, putting some oompht to her voice, as she tries to walk with confidence. "We are mercenaries sent to retrieve the stolen treasure of a mighty dragon. We are not your treats. Did you destroy the dragon that lived here?"
GAME: Erendriel rolls diplomacy: (20)+16: 36
Ilmig's nose wrinkles at their surprise guests, making his beard waggle. "Oi! "N here I thought the others stank..."
Zeke is... headed right toward the demon, and the creatures that are with it. His eyes never flicker once as they land. Their putrid scent fills his nose, but even this does not evoke a response. There's no sense of anything in him. Just a weird sort of patient waiting as he moves toward the foul group as though they do not even exist. He passes right by Erendreil as she begins to talk to them, her words eloquent and carefully spoken.
GAME: Serraphine rolls diplomacy: (14)+10: 24 GAME: Serraphine rolls Knowledge/Religion: (16)+13: 29 GAME: Zeke rolls will: (12)+6: 18
She starts for-nope! She stops and blinks, Her mouth pulling off to the side as she sees, well, she sees these landed beings and then this /demon/. "Durr." She scratches at her chin before taking another bite of the cookie and pondering between the situation. The Wyvern things... they don't look right. And then the demon... Well, the Temple said things about them. Lots of things and generally not good things, "Err.."
Hmm, what to -- Oh that's a fun idea. "Well, she might be, but we weren't supposed to say it." Serraphine nods toward Eren, "But you'd have to check the manifest and that would mean lots of boring paperwork and someone like you wouldn't want to do paperwork, amiright? Best left to people wearing... glasses and robes. But we are totally here to pick up tea."
The demon's joints clink more than they should, and flesh tears a bit, but. It lands, and looks at you all with fire'd eyes. "Tea? Tea," he says, and the jaw cracks in an odd way. Bones moving like they shouldn't.
"Well...with one of Alumivoritax's get among you. Two of you, Children of the Lash," it says. It looks to Zeke, and Serraphine, then. "Well. What can one slave offer another?"
"Perhaps you'd like your arm healed, dear boy. Or--but you prefer your signs of slavery? I wear my own collar with pride," the being all but ...chortles. An Abyssal sort of glee as Zeke approaches.
"So, I will offer you this: I did not kill the dragon. I didn't expect you to ask so openly. How gauche! How unVeyshanti!" it says, and laughs again. Smoke burbles from the jagged muzzle. It relaxes where it stands, though the undead creatures eye you hungrily. All of you. They /look/ like dragons, wyverns do. Yet, Thul's hunger burns beneath their rotted flesh.
"But...tea..." the demon muses. "Oh, a higher price, that. I might tell you about that, for something lovely, Lash Children." What would a demon consider lovely?
Best not to ask, right?
Left behind, Rifaah stares as Zeke walks towards the demon, and the monsters surrounding it. "I asked if you wanted a drink. I...didn't think you'd already had one?" he says. He's trying to joke. Trying. But he looks worried as hell, and does a double-take at the demon, as it speaks. Then stares, apparently mesmerized. The demon stares at him a moment, and licks its chops. Then, looks past.
Bors looks at his own party uncomprehendingly. He's missed a memo here, perhaps. Serraphine gets the majority of the puzzled look, but the rest of it goes all around. His kukri, ready to lash out, hang down now, his attack preparations no longer preparatory. Maybe we're going to have tea with these demons? He'll look back to the ship, he could just wander off?
Erendriel glances at Serraphine as that comment about her comes out, snickering, before she rests her hands on her hips, and looks back to the demon once again. She'll let Zeke speak for himself, of course, but for her part she smiles "What would you want in exchange for that information? Or better, for the tea itself? Of course we can't promise anything in advance of knowing, but I would like to hear." It's hard. She shares a lack of concern for rules with the demon, but knows the demon might be after things that repulse her. Never know until you ask though?
"Tea," Ilmig snorts, "ain' nothin but weed water. Nothin akin to a good stout ale." Speaking of such, now seems a good a time as any to fill his mug from his skein. All this sand can parch the throat.
Rifaah... He is right to be worried.
After all, some things get a rise even out of the dead. Which, even with his calm and placid demeanor Zeke is not. For all his distance he is still alive and breathing. But the name of one beloved on the lips of a hated enemy, the reminder of a time so close now to memory, the promise of that which can never be done. Should never be done. Yes, even the dead would answer to such a call. Zeke is the calm of the ocean, so seemingly peaceful. Crystal glimmers in the sun as his left arm rises, as it draws close to the demon. It is so beautiful; and yet Zeke usually hides this beauty away from sight.
Then like lightning that hand lashes out; to try and grasp the demon. So fast like a lightning strike. There is still nothing in his eyes though. Nothing.
The demon considers Erendriel a while. "Why, blood. Blood from my own kin," it says, and gestures towards Rifaah, "Would do me no good. It would never add to anything, and imagine explaining it to Lord Brol'gamath? No, I'd rather a gift of it from the tiny git of Alumivoritax. Or a token from the Child of Lash," a smile to Serraphine. "My Lord is generous, and I shall try to follow in his stead, especially given the words of so eloquent a speaker." A look to Erendriel.
"We're not your kin!" Rifaah, damn you. NOW he speaks up.
The demon's smile slips. It looks to the Ahl. "Are we not? Are we not all servants of His Lord?"
"...no. NO. Not that pus-filled, overbloated..." Rifaah's teeth are clenched, now. He takes a lurching step forward. "...bastard!!"
Jack sent his cousin along to HELP!
"..." the demon stares at him. Then, stands, and reaches for the pommel of the saddle. "My name is Xazgonaar, and you have insulted my Lord and Savior, Brol'gamath. Prepare to die," it says, and looks to Zeke down there--who reaches towards him. The claws. Claws no doubt burning with holy light. The demon's eyes burn.
"I'll get that 'gift.' One way or the other!"
GAME: Erendriel casts Fireball. Caster Level: 6 DC: 18 GAME: Erendriel rolls 7d6: (23): 23 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+7: (20)+7: 27 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+7: (1)+7: 8 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+7: (17)+7: 24 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+3: (3)+3: 6
Erendriel watches Zeke do his thing, and hears Rifaah, and sighs. Then up to the demon, she takes a breath. "You want his blood? I swear it will be done." She then backs up, shouts something arcane, and sends a FIREY BLAST at his wyverns.
GAME: Bors rolls 1d20+17: (3)+17: 20 GAME: Bors rolls 1d20+12: (14)+12: 26 GAME: Bors rolls 1d8+10: (5)+10: 15 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+4: (17)+4: 21
Bors was really confused about things, but as it starts to turn into a fight, things become clearer. He's no way going to get up and attack the wyverns, when they can just fly down, so he hurls one kukri to flush the target, so to speak, then when he sees the direction the target flinches in, the second thrown kukri is hurled with bloody precision. That looks like it hurt.
GAME: Bors rolls fortitude: (2)+8: 10 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d6+2: (4)+2: 6
Bors' knife strikes true--and hits. Not only hits, but the demon's form wavers. Shivers, in the way of a mirage and suddenly, the demon looks more skeletal. More gaunt. He hisses, baring fangs--fangs made longer by missing, rotted flesh--and swings into the saddle. The wyvern flies, taking off on command and into the skies overhead. There, the demon reaches outwards, towards Bors--and rays of Thulian energy shoot outwards.
The draining force strikes the man in the chest.
GAME: Ilmig RAGES!, gaining +2 to melee attack/damage/Will saves and 16 temporary HP GAME: Ilmig rolls ranged+2-8: (20)+10+2+-8: 24 (THREAT) GAME: Ilmig rolls ranged+2-8: (14)+10+2+-8: 18 GAME: Ilmig rolls 1d6+strength+2: (3)+3+2: 8 GAME: Zeke casts Magic Circle Against Evil. Caster Level: 5 DC: 15
"Damned flitty critters..." Ilmig grumbles. No polite Xs for treasure. No polite sittin still for hittin with axes. He frees an axe to hurl at the winged mount with a shout. Best way to keep 'em from flying away, chop 'em up. The blade strikes true despite the distance, and embeds briefly in cursed un-flesh of the Mostly Dead creature before falling free.
GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (18)+12: 30 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (10)+12: 22 GAME: Bors rolls fortitude: (20)+8: 28 (CRITICAL SUCCESS) GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d6+7: (6)+7: 13 GAME: Ilmig rolls fortitude+2: (13)+11+2: 26
The enemy, that foul undead demon is out of reach now. Too far gone for Zeke to reach with his magics. The sith-makar speaks the words of a prayer, seeking protection from the evil he knows rests in the hearts of the things they face. This magic he knows will protect not only himself, but those closest to him so he moves back toward the group. Claws quick on the warm sand. The creatures they face have been mostly dead all day. Well, probably longer. "Rifaah! What do you know of these things?" Green eyes fall on the were-jackal.
Wyverns. Vicious. Fast. The two launch themselves from the outcropping, jaws gaping. One snaps, snaps! at the weakened Bors, while the second goes for what it thinks is easier prey.
Khazad are short, right??
The first misses, and flies upwards, up!
The second, however: Luck, viciousness however, carry the day. Giant teeth sink into Ilmig's shoulder, and the wyvern takes off again, to the sky. ...Ilmig now in its skeletal gullet.
In-con-CIEVABLE! Serraphine gives a frown, the idea of blood -- ACK! Zeke jumped the gun! She starts in toward the rock outcropping while drawing her sword. "SERRIEL BE PRAISED!" She shoots her hands up into the air, summoning a pulse of -- And the wyverns take off with the demon in tow. WHELP! Serraphine sighs and stops before continuing that. She eyes that demon though, ohhh yes. Can't he perhaps get lower? She frowns and starts trying to scale the rock in an effort to get close enough. A glance back to Eren and she growls out, "Make me fly, woman!" A squint, and her voice dips lower into a growl, "Please."
GAME: Erendriel rolls ranged: (2)+8: 10 GAME: Erendriel rolls ranged: (17)+8: 25 GAME: Erendriel rolls 4d6: (12): 12
Erendriel blinks and looks to Serraphine. "Sorry. I don't know how to make myself, or anyone else, fly. Except by kicking it..." She then does some scurrying, getting under the demon to shoot two STRONG fiery rays at his wyvern, but only hitting one, before starting to back off as fast as she can…
GAME: Bors rolls bluff: (8)+13: 21
Erendriel tries to back off, which is a good thing, because the wyvern's head SNAPS toward her, glaring at her with fire in its eyes.
Bors doubles over as the teeth skitter across his tattered clothes, which seem much less torn than they ought to be. The bite probably should have hit, and hurt him, rather than skittering off like he was in full plate. But he will go with that, bending over as if grievously injured, and he groans loudly, clutching at his middle. But he keeps a wary eye on the sky.
GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+4: (2)+4: 6 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (12)+12: 24 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d6+7: (3)+7: 10 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d4: (2): 2
"...inssult him? Insult him!" the demon--the undead demon? by now burning and whatever it is undead have that passes for blood, opens his hand. A fiery ray of acid shoots towards Erendriel, but the demon looks so discombobulated that he misses.
At a signal, the mount dives, dives--and snatches the mage into its gullet, before taking off again. Ilimg and Erendriel are now cell mates, kind of. Just inside different wyverns.
This thing formerly-known-as-a-wyvern's bit off more than it can chew. Something it's eating is definitely disagreeing with it. "Khazad!" Hack. "Ain'" Chop. "Food!"
GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (19)+12: 31 GAME: Ilmig rolls fortitude+2: (11)+11+2: 24 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d6+7: (6)+7: 13 GAME: Bors rolls 1d20+15: (15)+15: 30 GAME: Bors rolls 1d20+15: (7)+15: 22 GAME: Bors rolls 1d8+7: (3)+7: 10
Who says life is fair, where is that written? Only in fairy tails far away from places like this where his allies are being eaten by undead creations which should by all rights have never been. Zeke speaks a quiet benediction, blessing the members of his group; all of them. The warmth of the spell reminds him of the demon above him and he lifts his staff toward it. "Xazgonaar! Coward! Will you not face thissss one? Thissss one broken one?" He lifts his crystal claw in challenge.
GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (18)+12: 30 GAME: Bors rolls fortitude: (20)+8: 28 (CRITICAL SUCCESS) GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d6+7: (2)+7: 9
Seeing Bors strike its friend, the other wyvern lands. It swikes, swiftly, snatching the warrior into its gullet. Then...
Then both wyverns stand there. Their heads sway somewhat. They look somewhat...drugged. One might recognize the look from a dog, after it's snuck into the kitchen and eaten the sausage, the cake, and the Yuletide turkey. They look fattened, almost blissful.
Importantly, they don't /move/. They just look...blissed. So happy. So full!
Erendriel does let out a screech when she's bitten and picked up. Finding herself taken, she forces a smile, and tries to stand. "You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! THe most famous is never get in a land war in Sendor, but only slightly less famous is never get closer to a pyromancer when FIRE is on the line." She then shouts, throws another fireball as far away from herself as she can into the beast, and begins to stop, drop, and roll instantly.
GAME: Erendriel rolls reflex: (20)+9: 29 (CRITICAL SUCCESS) GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d6: (2): 2 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 4d6: (17): 17 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+3: (3)+3: 6 GAME: Murder rolls weapon9: (20)+12: 32 (THREAT) GAME: Murder rolls weapon9: (15)+12: 27 GAME: Murder rolls 1d10+2: (4)+2: 6 GAME: Murder rolls weapon9: (9)+12: 21 GAME: Bors rolls 1d20+17: (15)+17: 32
The Gobbo springs into action, after a few moments of trying to figure out what to attack the undead with. She almost decides upon the wand of produce flame, after watching the demon and its mount fall to the ground. Crushing Erendriel and setting the area around the undead snuggle pile aflame. Sword it is! She lets out a fierce battle cry as she moves to attack the griffon that swallowed Bors. "RAAAAAAHhh!"
GAME: Bors rolls 1d20+17: (9)+17: 26 GAME: Bors rolls 1d20+12: (17)+12: 29 GAME: Bors rolls 1d20+12: (11)+12: 23 GAME: Bors rolls 2d8+14: (6)+14: 20 GAME: Bors rolls 1d8+7: (5)+7: 12 GAME: Bors rolls 2d8+14: (8)+14: 22
Bors dashes over to where the wyvern is trying to gnaw on Ilmig in it's own belly. He'll try and help out, slashing at the thing, when the second comes down and chomps him down, swallowing the scruffy man whole. This is not going to work out well. Unlike Ilmig, who couldn't use his huge axe inside the wyvern's belly, Bors has a pair of fishknives in his hands, and he's not afraid to use them. Vorpal swords are occasionally said to go 'snicker snick'. Bors's kukri knives make a similar noise as he cuts through flesh and bone with equal ease, snagging briefly, then parting further with each progressively deeper slash of his knives.
GAME: Ilmig rolls weapon7-2: (15)+15+-2: 28 GAME: Ilmig rolls weapon7-2-5: (15)+15+-2+-5: 23 GAME: Ilmig rolls damage7: aliased to 1D10+7: (2)+7: 9 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (14)+12: 26 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (1)+12: 13 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d6+7: (2)+7: 9
Ilmig's insides aren't worried about any poison. He's got enough ale in them to kill most anything not him. What does annoy him are his insides being in anothers insides! There his own, damnit! He continues to chop away, cursing the beast. "Didn' yer mother teach ye not ta put eveythin in yer mouth. It'll hurt ya!" One blow hits and another glances off a still sturdy rib.
GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (10)+12: 22 GAME: Ilmig rolls fortitude+2: (19)+11+2: 32 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (19)+12: 31 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 2d6+7: (9)+7: 16 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d6+4: (6)+4: 10 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (14)+12: 26 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d20+12: (6)+12: 18 GAME: Taco-Chaser rolls 1d6+4: (6)+4: 10
Backed into a corner, the wyvern launches into a frenzy of death and claws. It rends at its own stomach, clawing at the khazad there. Then, whips around--striking at those nearby.
Not smart, someone had said. Well, the teeth are certainly pointy!
Watching Erendriel's creature fall from the sky Zeke rushes forward before he can begin to think. The fire does not stop him, not even when it warms his scales and turns them black with smoke and soot. When it burns. He presses inwards, drawing the knife along the edge of his good hip and cuts into the creature. Life is pain, anyone that says otherwise is obviously selling something. So he doesn't flinch from his duty and his efforts when the heat grows. There within the beast is Erendriel; thankfully unconscious. Thankfully for so many reasons, but not the least of which is that unconscious bodies? That he knows what to do with.
With care but quickness he draws Erendriel's body from the flames, kneeling at her side and already checking her body for the wounds he knows he will find. Even with the fighting going on so close by he knows what he needs to do. This requires his total focus. Draconic begins to flow forth from his lips as he feels the warmth of the Dragonfather soothe him. The presence that is always there with him.
GAME: Serraphine rolls 4d6+20: (24)+20: 44
Serraphine had gotten mostly to the top, grumbling the whole while about how Erendriel was not the same magic wielding person that she thought it was. She would have to pay more attention to half elf-type people. They clearly were all starting to look the same to her.
WHELP!
The demon was down and so there was clearly only one thing to do, "FOR SERRIEL!" Serraphine launched herself off of the cliff toward the last undead wyvern, her arms spread wide in an attempt to land on it in a very uncomfortable manner.
It turns out all those Arvek training to dismount airships by leaping from them had something going for them. Not that Serraphine ever had that training. BUT JUST SAYING! IT SEEMS TO BE EFFECTIVE!
Because Serraphine lands on the Wyvern and with a might rumbling from inside of it, a cracking and a sickening pop or two, the wyvern is far more flat in a way that says it will not fly anymore. Not without a lot more reanimation than the magic currently powering it. With a groan she says to Ilmig, "I do not think that means, what you think it means. It's undead, I doubt chewing metal will bother it."
Ilmig winds up on his butt on the sand (maybe with a rotting wyvern tongue somewhere between) as his nomme de guerre is flattened. "Ha! Mountain's Might ye got a good swing, lass!" He stands up, plucking unwanted bits from beard, armor and axe. "Blasted demons. Think that'll be the last of em? Still got that box ta find."
Bors comes to the point of cutting through the last bone and wriggles his way out of the undead wyvern. At some point it had stopped struggling, but he missed that. He looks around, but it looks like all the wyverns are dead, so he will go back to looking for tea as if nothing had happened.
Zeke does his best for Erendriel, managing to help her regain consciousness at least before backing away. His work had covered the sith-makar in gore. Surprisingly or not he does not seem to mind, instead he puts away his knife and bows his head to Erendriel. This is what he can do for now. "Thissss one can not offer much more. Thisss one issss ssssorry." He flashes her his teeth. "It ssseemssss though that Death could not stop thesssse thingss. Only delay them a little while; until we could find them."
The blue-scaled sith nods in satisfaction and backs away from Erendriel, motioning toward the others. "Can you walk unaided, or sssshould thisss one call for help?"
Erendriel blinks, and is recovered. Face scrunching in pain, she slowly starts trying to push herself up. Gathering herself, and where she is, she grunts "As you wish..." managing to get to her feet. Mostly.
So, there you are. On an otherwise a perfect vacation spot. Sandy beaches. Iconic, rocky outcroppings.
The remains of the undead wyverns below, on the beach.
Alongside the corpse of the demon.
Alongside the corpses of the hands. Slightly bloating.
And the gentle, windy breeze from the Golden Coast.
A perfect vacation.
A search of the demon's belongings reveals...ash and fire. A closer look throws its clothing to be so far out of style that no one's sure what era they'd have come from. At least, not without further research. ...but who wants to research smelly, stinky and rotting demon clothes?
Eventually though, you make your way to the outcroppings again. Near where Serraphine had climbed--there is a fissure. A fissure, that once you look into it, is not unlike a wrongly-shaped keyhole.
It's...quite dark, inside that fissure. Very dark. But, one can hear one's voice, echoing.
Bors can't help with searching such a small area, so he'll wander across the beach and the area back from the beach to see if there's anything else interesting.
Murder leans in, her gobber eyes bright, and sharp. With that, with the help of her companions, the inside of the fissure expands. Becomes a cavern.
Inside? ...the flash of metal. Crates--past the fissure. A cavern deep enough that two, three of the wyverns might fit inside of it. The crates bear solid gold clasps.
A deep, expensive wood. Teak, perhaps.
And, runes, deeply scarred, onto the wall. They're in ...Murder's seen that language. It's draconic, though she can't speak it.
But, Zeke can translate them:
LET IT BE KNOWN THIS HORDE BELONGS TO ONDAYN, THE JEALOUS ONE! LET THE HAND OF HE WHO TOUCHES IT BE SCARRED AND MAIMED! LET THEIR SOUL BE CAST TO THE ABYSS, THEIR WILL ROT ETERNAL!
The cavern smells...not just musty, but dry. Like dry, brittle flesh.
"That uh.. is some hole there. So who wants to be first?", the Gobbo wonders, turning to peer at the others. "Uhm. Well, perhaps we can wait until, one of you drops a few pounds, yes?" Murder sighs and turns back to the hole. She sticks her face part way in, and inhales deeply. "Ugh. Old socks and feet.", she mutters, as she begins to crawl through the hole. "Maybe there's another way in?"
Erendriel frowns and folds her arms gingerly. "I can send some light in... if there's nothing in there, we'll see that it's okay. If there's something in there, maybe we'll flush it out. Either way, I'm not going in there."
Bors can't fit in, so he'll continue to scout the area, glowering at the ground.
"...something wrong?" Rifaah is just...he stands there behind Erendriel. Sort of near Zeke. "You're paused? What's wrong?" he asks of Murder. The Ahl bounces on the balls of his feet. Eager to--not stay here, apparently.
The Gobbo returns a few moments later, scrabbling quickly. "Nope! Not a good way in. The runes are all angry!" She seems much relieved to get out.
Serraphine will totally -try- to fit in there but she's probably a bit too big. On the upside, she also has darkvision. On the downside, she almost gets herself wedged in there right before Murder comes back.
Its... The place makes Zeke draw still again. The still of waiting. Only his tail moves, erratically twitching. He looks into the hole as though his eyes can pierce the veil. "Murder, sssee if there issss another way in. If there issss, thisss one will bring out the tea..." A moment later she comes running back out and he looks at her curiously. "Thisss one isss concerned that the horde may be... curssssed. Isss there no other way in?"
"I...I see. Well, if it's cursed, that explains a lot, actually. This should be enough to cancel the debt. ...dragon can come get his tea his damn self," Rifaah says. He doesn't spit. He doesn't.
So unVeyshanti to do that. He'd very much like to LEAVE though, thank you.
"Well, whatever is in there can wait a little more. I mean... given his clothing, he is a demon out of time. Either stuck in the hells, or here, for time immemorial, yes? It'll wait a little bit longer while we see if there's another way in.", Murder says, peering into the fissure once more. "I really don't like those runes. Reminds me a little of a tower in another time and place."
-End