Magus Point
SUMMARY: The discovery of a Magus point under the deserted town of Versis by ALexandrian adventurers had lead to flurry of activity by Myrrish forces. Working with the wardens of the locale, they have set their minds to cleansing the corrupted Magus point. Alexandrians will be invited to attend, as will veterans of the Sendor War and the fighting around Versus. This will be an open scene.
-=-=-=-=-=-= At a glance around Staff: Room of DoooOOooooOoom! =-=-=-=-=-=-=
Alba 10s 5'9" 122 Lb Human Female
A black-haired, masked Veyshanti woman.
Aldean 42s 6'2" 232 Lb Human Male
Well-built human male, short blonde hair, dark eyes.
Alik 0s 3'0" 45 Lb Gnome Male
Distracted gnome covered in sparking artifice.
Fazahd 16m 5'10" 180 Lb Human Male
A brawny youth with a hawk nose and grim expression.
Jacob 2m 5'9" 160 Lb Human Male
Surprisingly well-built for a scholar.
Jokul 27m 6'2" 240 Lb Human Male
A muscled, young Aesir warrior with a huge SWORD
Myrana 5m 5'0" 110 Lb Half-Elf Female
Short young woman with coal-black braids.
Pelka 9m 5'8" 140 Lb Eaglefolk Male
Egalrin Artificer. SKREE!
Raethon 24m 4'8" 90 Lb Dawn Elf Male
Llyranesi male with dark hair
Svarshan 21s 6'4" 307 Lb Sith'makar Male
Demons: Another name for spicy BBQ
Tatyannah 14m 6'4" 180 Lb Giantborn Female
Short Giantborn woman, dark hair, bronze skin.
Verna 16m 4'5" 98 Lb Half-Elf Female
Petite humanoid in bulky gray robes and cloak.
Whirlpool 1m Lb Otyugh
I am stinky! -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
Versis. A small town in the Sendoran countryside that now stands empty and abandoned. It has been for years, to be honest, at this point.
It was the first of Asumit's known depredations. A small town in the middle of Sendor that, during the Sendor War, became host to demons. At first, Kinnevack and her Bludgunni solders were blamed but later events revealed it to be none of her affair. It all belonged to one man. One man who would become known as Asumit. He sacrificed the people of the town, consigned many of their souls to the Hells, for his own power. And that power was granted to him. Today, he stands in possession of SKald with an army of demons under his control, plotting Gods knows what.
No one was sure /why/ Versis was chosen until recently. The discovery of a demon-corrupted Magus Point, long hidden, in the grounds beneath it by Alexandrians investigating Asumit finally revealed that truth and it was then that the Myrrish, despite their general paralysis, were able to put together a force to clamp down on it in an effort, they say, to cleanse it. Of course, that this effort was organized by the powerful Church of Ea within the country should come as no surprise to anyone, but it isn't them that is intent on performing the ritual. No, the ritual, in this case, is being lead by the Althean branch. The Myrrish government,still largely rudderless without a propr King, can at least manage to support something like this.
That bring us to why the Alexandrians are here. Many are veterans of the Sendor war itself. Others know it by reputation and perhaps others know it not at all. In any case, you've been drafted by the Alexandrian government to serve as protectors, to help clean away the demon corruption that tainted this place or even to maybe help with the rite itself.
It is believed that it will not go easily.
You stand in front of, alongside dozens of soldiers of Myrddion and its priests, before a battered cathedral to Daeus. Once the most porminent building in the township, it has since seen better days. It's golden dome is pitted with battle damage and its wall scorched by hellfire. The doors hang loosely shut, held only by chains at this time.
Lady-Protector Sifya, a stern and imposing woman in her mid fities with ddark hair and darker eyes, is in charge. She is flanked by her Sentinels and supported by an organized force of the Church of Ea, an umbrella organization consisting of all faiths, operating out of the Myrrish kingdom known as Ecclesia. Angorites stand ready besides Elunan and Daeusite paladins. They are outnumbered by the sheer number of Sendoran soldiers that have secured the site, operating under the comamnd of the Ecclesians. The Myrrish are organized and you're all invited to the party.
Sifya gives a nod and the chains on the door are removed by a soldier. In you go.
Myrana paces in silently, dressed in a tough, split-skirted walking coat of green wool through which the violet font of her bustle protrudes, her hair braided in two plaits down her back, deathly pale looking in the weird light of Versis.
Alik trots in solemnly. When you're a gnome among tallfolk, you learn that it pays to get started early, or else you risk being left behind. His idiosyncratically assembled armor shifts position from time to time as he moves, and he looks around the area carefully.
A frown mars Jacob Tennyson's face as he takes a look around what was surely a once-thriving city. He sighs as he moves, almost able to sense the demonic taint. "What a waste..."
Svarshan sits astride his swift, and today, Srassha is resplendent in her barding, and loving it. Great, reptilian eyes focus hungrily on the procession ahead, and the twitch-twitch along her scale is the outward sign of a predator's excitement. Her rider rests a coal-tipped blade against the pommel. Occasionally, he sniffs the air, and shakes his head accordingly.
The corruption of a magus point has been the matter of idle curiosity for Alba, ever since it had been brought up to her. Of course, smaller and more immediate matters had kept her from giving it a serious looking-into -- probably not helped by the idea that nobody really *wants* someone as off-kilter as the Veyshanti Witch learning how to meddle in magus points -- but when duty calls, one can't often be afford to be picky about who answers.
Since setting foot inside the town proper, Alba has been tense, keyed up and apparently waiting for some unknown danger to swoop in and ruin the day. "It is like sewage and rotting wool upon my skin," she mutters to the viper coiled around her wrist. "Were it not for you, little biter, far away from here I would be... Hnglrg..." Shuddering as the door is opened, she slowly drifts in with the rest, toes scraping against the weed-infested packed dirt outside the temple's facing.
To one side, Aldean's swarthy complexion is cast similarly oddly in that light, but the expression it wears is easy and relaxed, and despite the bow over his back and rapier at his hip, despite the pack over his back, he seems to be simply strolling along, although he eyes the room with great interest.
Raethon is here as well. His interest, obviously, is the magus point itself, and it's corruption. he looks at the door and stumps his way in. And by stumping, it's done by his staff. he looks to Alba, and chuckles a little. he doesn't really mind the witch, despite her creepiness.
Purification. Well. Only way to do it, and that's with flames and righteous fury - and, if Fazahd is any indication, Reos is sending His people right up there with torch and pitchfork in hand. The priest is in full artifice-mail, with gleaming shield studded with hinged flaps containing Roa knows what machines, and bristling with pistols and artifice-weapons and all things that are not lamps or civil architecture but rather destroyers thereof. Because why not, right? It's not as though demons listen to anything but a holy knife in the gullet. Following the procession with artifice-rifle at parade position and marching in step, his face is unreadable behind the smoked-crystal visor of his helmet...but one can imagine what expression he bears.
Serious. Priestly. Business.
Pelka follows along with the others. His deathray rests easily across one shoulder. His beaked face turns this way and that as he takes in sights and people. "I don't feel anything corrupt," he whispers to the closest person next to him. "I don't feel any energy either," he admits. "Maybe I'm just thick-feathered..."
Verna returns to Versis, having previously been among those discovering several relevant facts concerning its significance and current state. She is attired as is her norm: a hooded heavy cloak in the drab gray of her faith. It is volumous enough that she is little more than a walking hooded cloak.
Myrana sidles up to Svarshan and the most pretty princess that ever crunched through bone. "As long as we don't go to that damn prison again," she says, keeping pace and her hands thrust into her pockets for warmth.
In you go.
In to the building, in throug the rubble and ruisn, scorch marks and blood, and then down. Down into a chamber that lays beneath it, filling it to the brim. You can sense, feel the power here. A magus point is a place where the ley lines that feed the Sea of Mana ino the world connect, a nexus point of additional power. Their locations are few and far between. Here, you can /feel/ the buzz of it, even if you're not magically inclined, a buzz touched with an unsettling, creeping darkness. Here in this underground chamber, beneath the Cathedral, rests a small Daeusite altar in addition to the one above. THis chamber is easily large enoiugh to fit dozens of people, and so it does.
Sifya looks over hr shoulder. "Can you sense it? This is the heart of it all. This is how Asumit was able to touch the magics. I will begin the rite to cleanse the sea of mana from the abyssal taint he called into it. The demons will likely respond. Be ready."
For his part, Fazahd simply marches. Behind the crystal veil that hides his face, dark eyes watching the throng as they move inexorably toward a point of almost certain conflict.
The subtle shifts of Srassha's heavy frame betray her interest in the goings-on. Her rider is less subtle. He barely glances over, as he says: "...bassement was fun." It takes him a moment to pull back, to process that there is indeed a person there. One can see that moment happening, at his slow intake of breath. He looks full-on at Myrana, and grins. "Thiss will be fun." ...only a paladin is dumb enough to say that. He follows the move with a muttered prayer, that stretches--and settles an unseen dragon's claws on Myrana's shoulders. The Dragonfather's protection against evil's thrust.
For his part, Jacob touches his hourglass pendant. Briefly, once, but he touches it. Not even he is sure of the outcome of this, but he is ready for it.
Alik nods to Sifya. "Always ready," he replies gruffly, selecting a position with a view of the chamber and his back to a wall. He's not sure exactly where the threats will be arriving from, but best to be prepared for anything.
Myrana takes a deep breath, reflexively sucking in a great lungful of the tainted air when they descend into the filled chamber. Her eyes unfocus very slightly and she wavers on her feet like she's had a shot of something strong. But the heavy, ephemeral weight on her shoulders snaps her back. Instantly. She blows out a breath, and tightens her jaw, and does a hard blink. Oh sobriety.
Raethon looks about and lets out a breath of air as he feels the buzz. "This is where it started, is it?" he says as he walks towards Sifya. "Hold...for one moment." He says as he mutters a few words.....and stamps his staff on the ground....setting up an arcane circle where Sifya is. "Protection from evil, ma'am. I hope you do not mind." he then starts his way out of the circle, which is still slowly spinning under Sifya.
Verna's hood dips to Safiya. "We will be ready." The hood pans to Raethon. "Yes. This is a key location in Asumit's origin. Where he both embraced the outsider power in his blood and twisted that power to corrupt this nexus for his own gain."
Aldean's eyes light up at the words spoken, and he whistles a complex tune that ends in a glissando. Instantly, several images appear around him, surrounding him.
GAME: Aldean casts Mirror Image. Caster Level: 16 DC: 19 GAME: Fazahd casts Bless. Caster Level: 5 DC: 14 GAME: Svarshan casts Corruption Resistance. Caster Level: 20 DC: 20 GAME: Svarshan casts Magic Circle Against Evil. Caster Level: 20 DC: 21
Thus arrayed about the altar, Fazahd holds his weapon in one hand whilst the other clutches the seal that hangs around his armored throat. He speaks clearly through his helm the blessings of Reos unto all the world's good sons and daughters, words that though in Khazdul are nonetheless warm and cheering. A spark of righteousness to help fortify all against what may well becoming a trial against the darkness.
With the preparations being fired off all around her, the only thing Alba sees fit to do, at the moment, is float a bit closer to the ceiling. "Hrn..... My magics, I do not trust in this place. I know not how this.... foetor will alter them."
"Perhaps, Mask," the voice of a Certain Aesir, whom has chosen to be quiet for hte most part up until then, stomping along to bring himself just below Alba, where he peers directly up at the Witch. "You should consider not flying so high here, then. Just in case. I prefer you unsplattered." The potion supply will be considerably smaller for Jokul with a splatted witch, see.
Pelka hitches his shoulder slightly. The motion makes it easier to swing his deathray off and let the barrel fall in front of him, into his other hand. He tries to get a good vantage point where he has a clear line of sight and thus can send Kulthian energy flinging off in any direction needed. It's the best - and some might argue only - way to respond if strange things start to happen. Not that anything strange is going to happen today. Surely.
An air of solemnity falls over the gathered Myrrish.
"Today, we honor the fallen families of this place. Though they may be gone we will never forget the evil that was done here, nor will we allow it to continue. With this act, we take our first step towards reparations for our failure to end what happened here in time to save more of them."
She holds her hand out and one of her assistants hands her a bundled item, which appears to be a staff of some kind once it's unveiled.
She presses one of its simple, iron-shod ends into the ground stone and it seems to melt into it, becoming fixed in place. She adorns the staff's other end with a large transparent crystal. "Sunblade, if you would."
One of the Sunblades near her raises his blade, calling forth a prayer. A beam of sunlight seems to strike the crystal, eminating from the sword, and focues forward on the point in the air before you that... actually looks like regular air, despite KNOWING what's there.
A sort of blackness begins to spread from where it strikes, like ink spilling into water and being pushed away by the light. Immediately, the ground begins to shake.
Screams, great screams, erupt all around you as do doorways of darkness all along the walls of the room.
"HERE THEY COME," yells the sunblade.
Myrana's hands light with twin auras of electricity at either side of her skirts.
GAME: Svarshan casts Archon's Aura. Caster Level: 20 DC: 21
Alik removes a small disc from his armor and presses a large purple button in the center of it. It glows, sparks, and begins to hover in place, projecting a circular field that moves with him, defending him from attack. GAME: Alik casts Shield. Caster Level: 4 DC: 14 GAME: Fazahd casts Shield. Caster Level: 5 DC: 14 GAME: Alba casts Countless Eyes. Caster Level: 8 DC: 17
Jacob grimaced and clapped is hands together. Once, hard, but enough. A shockwave of positive energy shoots outward in the form of a spell. "Let's make this work!"
The moment the screaming begins, and the portals open along the walls, Alba answers in kind. Forming the thumb and forefinger of both hands into a square before her eyes, she mutters a series of harsh, painfully guttural words.... and a ghostly eye opens at the forehead of her mask, at the center of the rectangle. This is followed in short order by a forest of *real* eyes, of varying size, color, and shape, opening all over her exposed skin. Thus, looking in countless directions at once, she waits for the trouble to begin.
Svarshan mouths each words the priests recite. Tasting, it, rolling the prayerful words over his tongue as though he'd lend to it. And then something terrible happens.
Something WONDERFUL.
"Ssomething the basstards never. Learn," Then: "...LIGHT. NEVER. SSTANDS ALONE!!!" he roars, and draws Sorrow. The deadly blade springs to life, striking at the heart of demons in the area. At the same time, a quickened prayer draws from Light around them, surrounding the immediate area with a deadly roar. An open dragon's jaws. Waiting and hungry.
Alik extends several cables from a small device on his belt and plugs them into jacks in his armor, which begins to spark purple. GAME: Alik activates his Titan Armor, gaining: +4 Dex
GAME: Jacob casts Bless. Caster Level: 5 DC: 14
Drawing a little stick from his belt, Rae watches as the demons charge in, but he stamps his staff on the ground again. A barrier dome erupts around him to protect everyone near him....
Pelka powers up his deathray. Yes! Looks like he can point it at any one of...ah...so many doorways into darkness. Wait. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
There is nothing that Fazahd can do but lift his weapon and prepare for the worst - but as he does so, he brushes a dial on his right gauntlet. Thin rods project from the surface of his pauldrons, and they project a softly glowing disc of amber force that springs to life in front of him.
Electricity ripples across Aldean's bow as the doors of darkness begin to open up all around them. Letting out a breath, he begins a rousing call to arms, perhaps difficult to hear at first until it really takes form and echoes across the relatively small chamber. Some have heard this Alexandrian anthem tune before -- it's one he uses a lot to inspire courage in those with whom he fights.
Verna scowls (was she not before?) beneath her cowl. She then draws her Mistress' unblinking eye towards those seeking to restore balance. "Do not waver, for Her focus is upon our works. All shall be judged." GAME: Verna casts Blessing of Fervor. Caster Level: 13 DC: 19
...and here they come.
THe portals /burst/ into flames, one by one, as demons large and small begin pouring out of them into this reality. Hundreds of them lining up to piush their way inside against some of Ea's greatest heroes and the combined might of a task force from the Church of Ea itself. Immediately, they are slowed down by the sheer number of protective wards against demons. These horrific beasts, ranging from tiny imps to greater demons the likes of which few of you are familiar with, like the six-armed half-snake Mariliths, are soon present, carving inwards.
...but this is what heroes were made to do.
"Oy, if yer gonna crash a party, ye might at least not be ugly," Aldean mutters under his breath between phrases, but the bow comes quickly into play, snapping arrow after arrow crackling with blue electricity into the crowd of demons.
Pelka unleashes a bolt of lightning. He blinks. The demon seems to absorb the attack without much effect. Pelka shakes his deathray and then fires again, at the monster next to the first. He begins backing up, looking to stand next to one of the Paladins or others who seem more eager and experienced at fighting these demons. And thus, reality is shredded.
It is the horror that he knew existed, there beyond the veil of reality, but had never seen himself. All these creatures, monstrous natives of the vastness beyond the earthly realm - Fazahd had read about them, knew to fear them, to destroy them, but never did he expect to witness them en masse in such a place as this, in such a moment as this, when he was still so young and unskilled before their might.
And yet, faith fills him.
The destroying fire of the Father of the Mountain floods into Fazahd's heart as the monstrosities fill the room, and this son of Ironhold takes action. Raising the artifice-laden rifle in his arms to the nearest portal, Fazahd begins to flood it with the greasy, smoking, neon-green rays of light that he previously used to melt monsters of the immediate realm. And yet it appears that - Father be praised! - the corrosive rays work also on the monsters of the Inferno. As he fires, wounds open in the bodies of the horrors on all sides of him; imps fall as wings and limbs are dissolved into bubbling tar, crawling away without parts of their bodies as Fazahd keeps pace with them.
And when the death-ray machine runs dry of energy, he fires his pistols, and when they run dry he does not hesitate to load them again but drops them and comes up with shield and hammer. His attacks affect those monstrosities around him with varying degrees of effectiveness, and he finds himself slashed and torn at by talons made of matter never meant to see this world - and yet he pushes on, screaming horrific challenges and denunciations at them all in a language they cannot pretend to misunderstand: their own. For it is in the Infernal tongue that Fazahd calls condemnation upon the enemies of Creation, dooming them all in his own mind to the judgment of the Father and all the righteous gods of Ea.
He is but a little spark compared to the great heroic fires that burn all around him, but his heat and light is great indeed.
Myrana steps forward as the gates open up and demons and devils of every description pour out. At first she closes her eyes, but when they open up again the whites are momentarily subsumed by terrible energy that pulses out from her and lights the bones of her hands and arms like living neon through flesh and cloth. The gesture widens to include a swath of horrors and words tumble from her lips that sizzle and suck the moisture from the air with a terrible keening as fingers of black lightning reach hungrily out to a group of the demons right before her.
Tatyannah goes home.
Demons are struck down. The smaller ones by spell and sword, the larger ones by sheer power of lightning -- at least by the ones who aren't immune to it. Some are, of course.
The portals are now flaming swirls into the Iron Hells and the Abyss, and you can hear screaming from within. Horrible, horrible screams of comdemned souls. Souls that the deons very much want you to join. You can see a glimpse, just out of the corner of yor eyes, of men and women in chains, being burnt alive again and again for the amusement of the demons until their souls break, split apart.
Alik 's eyes widen behind his goggles as the flaming portals begin spewing out demons, and he is reminded -- not for the first time -- that Kulthos was NOT the only source of tainted magic in Ea, just one with a bad reputation. These atrocities are arcane and not artifice, but abominable just the same.
Abominable arcane atrocities, that's what they are.
He unlimbers a strange-looking device comprising three long metal rods bound by copper wire to a ceramic tube. He flips some switches and turns some knobs, and multi-colored sparks work their way up and down the length of the rods, making a creepy theramin-like sound. He plugs a wire into a socket and a violet actinic arc sparks from the device, targetting the nearest portal-spawned creature.
He will continue to hold his position and fire electrical rays at the demons as the fight continues, trusting to his own defensive contraptions and the magics of his allies to protect him, and concentrating his fire on already-wounded creatures.
After a dozen bolts of purple lightning or so, he switches to his trusty Thunderbelcher and begins firing slugs. Attentive observers might notice that he doesn't actually reload between firings... rather, bullets disappear from his bandolier and appear in his weapon's barrels, as though by magic.
But really, who's paying attention to a gadget-laden gnome methodically laying down fire, in a battle like this one? Once the battle is joined, there is no time for banter. There is only the flit and dart of a Witch seeking to evade injury, the flash of adamant razors seeking to *cause* injury, and the blood spilled when the dodge fails and the razor does not. While Alba is very much not a *skilled* front-line fighter, she is very much a *vicious* one, and even her hair flails and lashes against the smaller fiends as though it were its own creature. Anything to avoid becoming one of that tortured multitude.
Meanness in combat, however, is simply not enough, and the cuts and burns begin to pile up. Still in midair, the Witch rears back splaying her limbs in every direction as she shrieks her hatred to the rafters. Then she is gone, and to the floor of the chapel drops a tremendous scorpion, with Alba's mask picked out in bone white across the yellow-brown carapace, humanlike eyes still festooning its chitin. Thus armed and armored, Alba rejoins the fight with claw and sting.
"You are NOT welcome here," words spill from Verna's hood. They are not especially loud, but they are certainly firm. "Be gone!" This is addressed to one, accompanied by a pointed, gloved finger. The admonished one ceases to exist. On this plane, at the least, but that should suffice at the moment.
Another is not given such a polite send-off. Instead, a dark ray of negative energy lashes out to remove the life from its flesh, soul or otherwise.
it does indeed suffice. The creature's blade was raised up over Verna's head as it worekd to bring it down onto her and then, with a look of surprise, he finds himself somewhere else.
Alba's exchanging blows. Demon are nothing if not vicious themselves and the witch is no doubt soon enough bleeding from numerous wounds herself.
Death rays have their effect on each creature, certainly, in turn. Being within the circle, so to speak, at least means other people are taking the brunt of the demonic onslaught just now. Battle is battle and this one is intense enough as it is.
"I had a dream like thiss," Svarshan admits roughly, to whomever's nearby. Or maybe, being a paladin--it requires being honest with yourself. The Dragonfather knew this when He tapped into a sith-makar, that the race's hunting nature would aim them tooth-and-claw at His enemy. Not for them the gentle healing, or turned-aside cheek. The brightscale looks towards the darkness with anticipation--an eagerness that bleeds into his mount, one of Am'shere's fanged denizens, as himself.
Then the demons are upon them, a darkly moving wave. "Ring," he whispers, and presses his hand against a certain place at Srassha's shoulders. A signal between lifetime partners, the swift stills, and shifts her entire focus to the battle ahead. Then, does something strange: she takes a half-step back, and begins shaking her head with gusto. The brilliant, golden bells on her hackamore spring to life. They ring, and ring--a sound striking at the heart of the horde. Defences lower, making the horde weaker against Light's army.
Svarshan listens to it sound for a blessed moment, its ringing as mana from heaven. One could write bloodied poetry from its depths. The music of avenging angels. Yet, the portals spiral into existence--and with them, the screaming hordes. Then he do what paladin do. A different signal is given to Srassha, and she lunges forward, with her greater speed. Their forms blur. Sometimes, paladins are stupid. But, they were screaming.
Rae is watching the carnage all around him with a rather blessed calm. he doesn't offer advice, at least not readily. He does, however, do the next best thing. Spells were his forte, and he takes a deep breath.
STOOM....
The butt of the staff hits the ground again, and another arcane circle appears underneath of them. A good many people find that time seems to have slowed for them. In fact...they are moving faster, and attacking harder.
GAME: Svarshan casts Death Ward. Caster Level: 20 DC: 22
The battle is joined, and thus far no demons make it through. Those on the front lines however are injured by the first strike, and thus he removes his pendant and slams his right fist into the ground. A wave of positive energies fires out on all sides, and the restoration is immediate. "Don't give up!"
Then his eyes widen as Svarshan makes the leap through one of the portals. "Good hunting then."
Several of the demons look a little surrpised when Svawrsahn actually goes through the protals. That was not anticipated. Sure, he's a powerful paladin but y'know... the HElls Are that-a-way.
In any case, more of them are coming. A lot more. Pouring thorugh the portal even as the ground beneath your feet is beginning to tremble... no, not exactly tremble. It's more like...vibrate. Hum with the power of the efforts of the cleansing going on here. The darkness of the taint on the Magus point here poisoning the Sea of Mana for miles around is now moe visible, like a blackened web of veins spreading out in all directions from a cluster of absolute, pitch blackness in its center that's being dissipated, bit by bit, by the focused light of Daeus through the crystal being generated by the Sunblade's...sunblade, actually.
It's appropriate. People are starting to fall to the claws and teeth of demons. Disemboweled, wounded, maimed. The moment they fall, the predations of the demons cause them to fall upon them and begin ripping and tearing to pieces, but casualties were expected. Pulsing channels from the clerics accompanying you certainly help stave it off, as well as directed healing, but there's simply not enough of them to get everyone. The circle holds, but for how long? Can it be long enoiugh?
Pelka is having trouble now keeping track of all the forms moving about and fighting. He sets a small circlet around his head, just thick enough to make out the signs of artifice on it. He shrinks to the height of a Lucht and then launches into the air, wings flapping. He's small enough that he's able to dodge between larger flying figrues and he fires off a deathray that doesn't seem to be affected all that much by the size change, other than a slightly higher-pitched crackling noise. And this will not do. It will. Not. Do.
Fazahd is not just a killer of monsters, but he is a healer - and as he goes, laying about all around him with hammer and shield, spewing death from the machines that make up his armor, even spraying thin torrents of acid from his very fingers, he punctuates these lethal strikes with pulses of golden light that emerge from him like holy explosions. He is so junior within his order that these bursts of healing power do little more than stabilize some or, in some grisly cases, merely prolong death a moment more - but Fazahd keeps up his desperate battle, even though among the titans all around him he is but a small part in the war that has erupted on all quarters.
He must stay fit. He must stay alive. All those who fall and yet survive will need him, long after the battle is over. Thus does Fazahd son of Bhurhad continue his foray into death.
Bleeding from multiple claw and teeth marks, even as his bow sings anew, Aldean's visage is a terrible sight indeed. But ... he raises his voice anew - they're not done yet! -- and continues on. With but a glance at demons predating the fallen amid the carnage, though... he pauses. The bow is lowered, and a quick spell cast with one hand ... and his song changes.
A weird melody indeed, woven among the calls to arms, something that rouses allies, yes ... but calls to the baser instincts of his foes, warning them that their neighbor is no friend, but foe....
GAME: Aldean casts Song of Discord. Caster Level: 16 DC: 22
About to turn one of the Marileths menacing her to dust, Myrana sees Svarshan suddenly charging in on Srassha. Into the-- "Wh-SVAR! Damn you to hell!" She just barely jumps back in time to avoid the demon's claws, and letting her spell splatter into harmless crackling motes around her, chases after him at a full pelt, abandoning the line. The heels of her delicate boots throw brilliant purple sparks and the woolen fibres of her walking coat ignite on the surface in snaps and fizzles and the hair is blown back from her face by the torching, awful blast of the portal, and she has to throw up her arm to shield her eyes, but she ducks her head down and races after him with her skirts kicking about her legs and new lightning snarling to life around her hands and trailing in her wake as she casts a quickening spell on her own person, the better to catch up to him with.
"What in the hells are they doing?!"
"I have no idea, just keep it up!" The portal through which Myrana and Svarshan disappeared has much less demons pouring through at the moment, though they themselves are now in the hells, fighting a LOT more demons than they were mere moments ago. There, surrounded, they are able to make their way towards where some of these souls, these lost and consigned to the hells souls, have been captured and held for the tormenting joy of the demons, reconstituted again and again to suffer at their hands, never quite allowed to die, but never allowed the joy of life.
Meanwhile, outside, the portals waver slightly as the irutal continues, but the demons are taking more than their fare share of a pound of flesh in their creeping, crawling, burning mass. Fires intermittenlty start about you only to be extinguished swiftly with magic. Choking fog fill the room, only to be dispersed. It i a constant battle.
/Some/ demons fall prey to the Song of Discord, turning on each other. This is probably not surprising. Demons kill demons ALL THE TIME. It certainly takes pressure off the lines.
The toughest demons were the last to fall, and they did as much damage as they took...perhaps more. Still, the channeling of positive energy has healed much of it, and as for the rest... well, Alik is no wilting flower. It takes more than a few demon-blades... and a scorpion-like tail... and an acid-spitting obscenity... and _whatever_ that thing with the tentacles was... to stop the gnomish artificer.
Though perhaps not _much_ more. Alik's armor is no longer sparking, merely glowing dully, and the gnome himself is clearly pushed to his limits, stumbling with fatigue. Still... they have pushed the oncoming horde back... good.
Behind the horde, through the portals, Alik can see visions of hell. Not so good.
A Sith-makar paladin charges through the portal. Because of course he does. Alik shakes his head and spits to one side. "Paladins," he mutters, carrying a wealth of cynical meaning. He is a gnome of few words, but he makes those words count. Then a mage follows. He sighs and plants himself where he is, like a sensible gnome.
And then? More demons. Of course. Well. Choices are limited. "We make for ourselves enough troubles!" he shouts to the demons as he continues firing. BLAM! "Not needed, your help!" BLAM! "To the hells that spawned you, return!!!" BLAM! That last shot takes down a wounded creature akin to a giant leather-skinned squirrel just before it reaches him... but not its giant companion, who gores him with its antlers.
Alba lays about her, severing the limbs of the lesser imps and impaling those somewhat more dangerous. If a scorpion could scream, it's very likely that this one would be, unceasing. Suddenly, the scorpion freezes in place, turning the color of yellow sand... and Alba *erupts* from the carapace in a spray of ectoplasmic gobbets, throwing caution to the wind and summoning a pounding, driving sleet to batter at one of the walls covered in portals. No fire to be had there, and no easy footing for those demons that can't fly of their own power.
"There are more demons than us. We must curtail their reinforcements," Verna notes after her initial strikes on the breachers. She turns her attention on the portals, themselves, uttering incantations to call upon her own knowledge and training rather than that of her Mistress, in attempt to close one or more.
Not that the demons would make this easy, and she most assuredly, cannot engage them in close combat. Not with any endurance. Her cloak sways as she incants while staying as mobile as possible. Cloth does little to stop claws.
Well then, a new spell just came to mind. One that he hadn't had before, much less. And yet it was there. So Jacob used it. "Raven defend and admoninsh. Begone!" He stretched his hand out, and just like that, some of the hell spawn faltered, just enough for the defenders to lay further waste to them. He blinked for a moment. "Well, that was new." The Hells crackle against Svarshan's scale--a familiar hunting-ground. Sometimes, he's only alive here. Only living, here. The younglings draw him back, but--sometimes, the choking-off of a demon's snarl is what the Dragonfather demands. The cessation of suffering. Sometimes. The cages, and screaming families demand a solution. The Dragonfather's wont for justice sharpens within, and the sith-makar roars.
He doesn't see Myrana. Or rather, he notices her, but it's a soldier noting forces, check and mate, on the board. The enemy is in front of them, and the enemy must die.
A dragon's wings rush outward, slamming into Light. Strength, it whispers, running hot. JUSTICE. Then, divine strength slams into the tortured souls of those around them, offering at long last--a chance to fight back. Even if they're going to die.
JUSTICE!
He switches from blade to gleaming axe, and swings it at the cages. Who knows if it will succeed, but the Dragonfather says: TRY.
The lines are hardening now, they are.
With the mass confusion of the demons, and their lack of organization, and your prepreations you're suriviving for the moment. But the forces of the hells are rather limitless and it's only a matter of time before you begin to fall one by one, despite your best efforts. For now, though... For now, you hold.
The portals waver and wobble a bit. That's on account of the sheer amount of magical energy being expunged from the area by the power of the light of Daeus shining on them.
The Althean Inquistor is calling downthe Goddess of the family.
"..for those stolen from before their time, for the broken families, for the lives ruined, we speak for them! WE CALL TO THEM. Grant them swift justice!"
FLames erupt from each portal for a moment and they grow wobbblier still.
Pelka flaps his wings a few times and then darts over to a different part of the chamber. He continues to let off Egalrin-made lightning bolts until the glow fades from his deathray. Putting it away, he switches to a thunderbelcher. He quickly checks that a sight is firmly attached to the barrel then raises the weapon and aims at the nearest demon.
There are so many things that Fazahd has witnessed in the brief time since the battle has begun. The hells. The shacked souls that quake and suffer in their flames and frozen winds. The monstrosities that dwell there, legends made flesh and come to do battle. He knows the hardness of demonic flesh, and horrible pain of their claws and blades made when they manage to bite through his armor. He knows the colors of their blood, the twisted appearance of their viscera. He must destroy them. He cannot stop. He /must/ not stop.
And then he has seen a warrior of the Light ride into the Hells, and he is inspired. For Fazahd, nothing is more righteous than this instant, when he sees Sarshan ride his mount into the blazing horrors beyond this realm, and he feels more keenly than ever in his life the smallness of his battles - the smallness of himself.
But he will be greater. Oh, yes. He will be greater still.
Alik is practically out on his feet by now, his death-ray and armor drained, his spells expended, and his rifle-shots missing more often than they hit, while the demons are hitting more often than they miss. In retrospect, using his armor wasn't a clever decision... the recovery takes a lot out of him, and he ought to have expected the fight to be a long-lasting one. But, well, too late now. And the wounds start to add up, despite the healing... it's unclear how long he will remain upright.
But he keeps firing, because what else is he going to do? He has to do his part and every shot counts. And he understands perfectly well that their job is not to kill all the demons in hell, merely to hold them off until the Sunblade does what he does. In the end, if he has to protect the ritual with his dying breath, then that's what he'll do, if it comes to that.
<<Come on then, hellspawn,>> he mutters in Kulthian, wavering on his feet but keeping a nearby one-horned creature in his sights, <<die today, perhaps we both may...but first, you.>>
Pelka and FAzahd are now coveed in blood. some of it is demon. Some of it is their own! The demons are still coming, though. Coming and coming and... well. There's just SO DAMN MANY Of them. Claws rend and tear, people screaming and dying and falling all around you.
Myrana leaps down into that aurate glow of holy energy pouring off of Svarshan like an avenging sun. It throws her shadow on the hells like a black knife, towering and razor edged. Bouyed by it, she steps up onto the air in a swirl of coat and skirts, lifting her aarms out to either side.
The demons that come after the paladin and his mount from behind are incinerated by stages as they approach the growing aura of destruction whirling around the sorceress. Some are struck down by lightning that branches out of her like sooty tendrils, bleedingly dark against all that brightness. Others crumble as the moisture is pulled out of them, and all the while, the fingers that crook and claw in arcane gestures glow brighter and brighter as the blood coursing through her veins burns and her bones show through from the elbows down. The perfume of singed roses is almost overpowering, combatting that charnel stench.
A few of those tendrils smash against the chains holding nearby souls and shatter them. This might be intentional, or it might simply be a matter of radius.
After the sleet, Alba sets one hell to battle another. On the opposite side of the wall, a puddle of blackness spreads underneath the portals. All is still for a moment.... then thick, rubbery black tentacles spring forth from nothing, reaching and grasping and squeezing and crushing whatever they can secure a grip upon. Turning in place, the Veyshanti witch looses a low, rasping laugh... then lunges forward, a beam of eye-scorcing white fire lancing out to incinerate a smaller demon where it hovers in place.
Bleeding from countless little wounds, several of her new eyes smashed and ruined, she lunges forward. Her blades gleam a dull scarlet, scant seconds before they plunge into another hapless target. Demonig vigor is sapped from the creature, some of the worst of the witch's wounds closing, as she shrieks in its face. "CALL YOURSELF A TERROR?! FOOD FOR GOD-BOTHERERS, YOU ARE, AND *DRINK* FOR ME!"
Within the hells, though, there are people, bound souls and... those who are as of yet flesh and blood. Some of them may even be from Versis. The sense, though, is distinct. THey dohn't belong here. The ycry out to them, begging for help, rising up against their captors and pushing to join Svarshan and Myana, their chains shattering as if some heavenly hand had reached down and destroyed them. There re those who may yet be saved, and those who can't be will be allowed their rightful place if they can make it back to the portal.
In the meantime, beyond those walls of hell, the demons are crashing towards the center where the sunblade and the Inquisotor await. She screams, forcing them back with ther sheer power of her voice, then whispering secrets that even demons can't muster. Sifya growls, "We're almost there! HOLD. FAST."
The circle is srinking around her, now. Throwing your body in front of the Inqusiitor for the moment may be the last thing you do, but it will purge this place of its foulness if she succeeds.
Jacob had expected something like this, honestly. Just not this massive.
Still, they did use something familiar and easy to counter. Attrition tactics, meant to grind them down until they secured a foothold in this plane. For the attackers, attrition meant that if the defenders were stalwart enough, had enough walls or enough manpower, the waves would break.
That said, the Hells were seemingly limitless.
Jacob growled, a snarl marring his features as he unleashed another shockwave of positive energy, a final attempt to bolster the defenders. Hold fast indeed. He had the resources left, sure. But if they got through, it wouldn't matter...
Karelin strides through the gate, a hulking shadow amidst the holy light. There was a war. Someone mentioned a war. His runeblade glitters with an eager light of its own. The fact of unlimited demons is more like a feature than a bug for him; it also holds little fear, not when his blood is up. He moves like he was born to battle -- there is nothing else he would rather be doing, nowhere else he would rather be.
He seeks out the champions of the Hells, looking for a challenge. In his wake: carnage.
TRY, justice demands. Its voice sounds of the screaming parent, calling out to a child. It sounds of the screaming man, reaching out to his wife. Amidst their need, the strength of the Dragonfather reaches outwards and shields them in its wings. Where they had suffered, they're given power to strike back!
"Sssee them, Dragonfather!" Svarshan snarls. The force of belief leaves him, draining and draining, blood and blood and flowing into those around him--yet somehow the Dragonfather replaces it with hope, and the rightness of the act. Of JUSTICE.
"Ssee what they have endured! VERSSIS! LIGHT NEVER SSTANDS ALONE!" he roars, and draws the axe downwards. Srassha lends her teeth and fangs, her eyes bright with the hunt, and her muzzle covered in blood. Her tail sweeps them away from Myrana.
Yet, blood. It splashes, burning as it hits the Hell's scorched plains. though the Dragonfather's might works to seal it, the horde has its numbers.
Within the hells, their chains are shattered. They begin to fight, those lost souls, and fight they do. Buoeyed by the power of holiness, by the songs of the bards and the light of distant home, they surge forwrd towards Svarshan, towards Myrana, towards Karelin even, but now would be a good time to beat a hasty retreat as the Lords of the Pit are beginning to arrive. A lot of them. Easily. And that's not counting the VAST HORDE of demons descending on them. Myrna's electricity begins tohave no effect here. Immune! And Svarshan's holiness and Karelin's skill will only take them so far.
More than that, though, the portals are wobblin and wavering now. The blackness, this oily and inky blackness, has begun to dissipate.
"BY THE POWER OF THE MOTHER, BE PURGED," yells Sifya.
And then, suddenly, Fazahd stops. He stands in the middle of the battlefield, monsters dying and roaring all around him, and yet it is as if he were in the center of a summer field. Swords made from smelted bone whistle past him; it is but the breeze, and the war-cries of hideous snake-women and insectoid horrors are but distant thunder. He looks as if he has been struck.
But then, he moves. He moves, he screams, and the words of denouncement which he uses are Khazdul once more - but they seem to bear physical /force/ behind them, as if his voice could drain away the life and morale of anything it faced. Blood streams from many wounds made in the gray undersuit of his armor, and yet they seem to bother him even less than a moment before. In this instant, he is judgement. He is Reos's Hand. And even such a minor creature as he is upon the earth, for the devils in the room he is in this moment a creature of radiant death and fear.
Over the roar of battle, the din of claw and blade and spell and virtue and corruption all clashing within the modest Temple halls, Alba shrieks to be heard beyond the portal. "BACK, FOOL WARRIORS!" she screams, her hair stabbing out in small bunches, digging under hellspawn skin and delivering a bitter chill to corrupted bones. "BACK FROM THE HELLS LEST YOU REMAIN FOR ALL TIME!!"
Svarshan stays behind so long as he dares. The Dragonfather demands no less. Am'shere's glittering axeblade sings, honor to the Empress. Honor to the Dragonfather.
Then it's time to go. He throws one last, hungry look behind him. Justice itches, claws beneath his scales--but the small ones cry out. The tribes say, come back. Cihuaa says, come back. He turns Srassha around, and reaches for Myrana's hand. "We go!" he roars. Then, "We will be back," he says, lower-voice. "You musst have ingredients for more. Beer!" Fool paladins. They jest even as they bleed.
Karelin fights his way to Svarshan and looks over as he cuts. "You planning on dying here?" He sets up to cover the retreat, gesturing. "These'll sorely test even us." Then, he backs towards the gate, making the demons pay for every step towards them all.
Jacob sighs as he glances toward the portals. They did well, but it was a leap. A tactical error, though a forward push all the same. If they didn't come back, it would be useless. "Come on, hurry up..."
Myrana gets more or less jerked out of hell by way of expediency, which is good because she was really starting to get into that and it wasn't leading anywhere good.
Several balls of light emerge from the portals. Souls that dissipate away, immediately ascending to their rewards and no doubt guided by the Gods of their respective choices.
Theeafter, several bedraggled, bloody and naked individuals stumble through. And then? Well, then Svarshan, Karelin and Myana, no doiubt, all bloody as well.
In the meantime, the protals then SNAP shut. Dissipating in bursts of light that spread out like shattered glass.
The demons begin to vanish, their tethers to this world ending. Just in time, too, as they were just getting close to the center and everyone was on their last legs. The room is DRENCHED in gore, both human and demon, and there's a flash of light eminating from the center that spreads outwards. All of you, even those non magically attuned, can feel the energy coursing through them briefly. It's a brief respite from the severe pain you're all in at this point.
Sifya collapses.
"It is done. The point is clean."
Alik looks up from the ground where he'd fallen, dazed, some moments earlier. "Over, then? Good." He falls facefirst into the gore again.
Myrana is way less naked, it should be noted. But she looks like she just was birthed from the universe's most metal vagina.
Jacob nearly collapses, were it not for the blast of recovery. So then, they were done. But...
He made to straighten from his slumped postion. "Another victory such as this, shall surely do us in." Pyrrhic indeed, this one. Sometimes he hated being smart.
In the air above the blood-slick floor, Alba hangs. Blood and ichor spatter her, ruined eyestuff leaks from her arms and legs. Her chest heaves as she struggles for breath, but at Jacob's remark, all traces of exhaustion leave for a moment. In a few flickers of movement, she has the Navosian's robe bunched in one hand, her mask clattering to the floor to reveal two maddened, exhausted eyes, and perhaps five more rolling on her cheeks and chin. "Then thank your god that we *need* no other such victory," she snarls, "for should you chance to look about you, god-botherer, you would *see* that they are dead, and we are not. The magic is ours again, and their putrescence is scourged clean. If no joy in this victory you find, *never* seek another battle again." With a huff, she pushes away, drifting toward the door. "...Bath, sleep, tea with Friend Spider... yes..."
The elders knew what they were doing. The wisdom of shamans, and tribal elders. Caste giving form and shape to a sith-makar's instincts. But a paladin's... "Until ass many are through ass we can," Svarshan returns through his teeth. He slows his retreat, until--the Light says, no more. Until the body says: GO!
Srassha's long claws dig into the scorched plains. Am'sheri life, given rein.
...and leaving bloodied footprints behind.
As they land on the other side, they land in blood. But for Svarshan, his heart sings. For once, it is light, and bloodied and cut, he prays to the light. Healing light slams outwards, as can be mustered.
Facedown on the super, just super gross floor, Myrana groans: "Tteeeaaa."
Karelin sinks to his haunches for a moment. He vomits, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well. That was a fucking fight." He sounds... pleased. The sicko.
Jacob grimaced. "Not even half of theirs... most of ours..." He shook his head. "But yes, I should be grateful. I *should*." Jacob straightened his robes. "Definitely need a bath though. And someone said tea." He smiled. "Yes that is a good idea."
Myrana says, "Teeaaaaghhh"
Myrana says, "Oh god it got in my mouthhh"
Among the combatants, however, Fazahd does not collapse out of exhaustion - no, though his armor is rent in a thousand places, his helmet shattered, his pauldrons broken open like metal pumpkins and his flesh rent in more places thant even he could probably count, the priest stands among the sodden masses of dead monsters like a statue, shield and hammer held out in a gesture that could be celebration of victory...or some moment of religious ecstacy. He looks at the ceiling, blackened and spattered with the gore of heroes and monsters alike, and roars something in Khazdul that carries with it again the almost physical force of emotion welling up within him. The word is lost in echoes and the groaning of the wounded, but one note rings strongly in its utterance: fulfillment.
And then he limps toward the nearest wounded, to try and save what lives he can.
"Spit, Myrana. Always spit, never swallow." Karelin shares his most sage advice.
"That doesn't applyyy to meeee
Myrana doesn't even move. This is where she lives now.
"...your wife iss going to be. Pissed," Svarshan says. The senses slowly come to life. Then, "Come. We will ssee to the. Wounded with the priesstss. They need food and drink ass much as they need our. Prayerss."
And then he reaches down, and removes her fatigue. Because paladins are bastards like that.
Myrana groans, but she gets up obediently and staggers after Svarshan, cursedly reinvigorated.
Karelin vomits again. It may be that he wasn't able to follow his own advice. He does, however, aim away from Myrana. Is he not merciful? Is he not merciful?! From the technicolour ichor he's spewing, something got him good in there. He closes his eyes. "I'm going to find some fire protections, then have the hottest bath. The Hottest."
Svarshan is bleeding from forty places, but he is having the best day ever. Demons smited, and hooray! Myrana is doing good works!
This is wonderful!
Maybe she and Sandy will have kids, now.
Filled with these happy, and not-at-all insane thoughts, he crouches near Fazahd, and listens to the priest on who is hurt the most, and who is not. The Dragonfather's life to them all.