The Cult of Piercing Light
Log Info
- Title: The Cult of Piercing Light
- GM: Telamon
- Characters: Dirk, Garak, Ravenstongue, Skielstregar
- Place: Alexandria / Three Oaks, Alexandria
Alexandria, Adventurer's Guild briefing room, midday
Cults have always been a perennial nuisance in Alexandros, particularly nowadays with fiends continually trying to cause mischief and pain. So the temples tend to get... a bit riled, when the news of a new cult spawning out in the hinterlands comes to their attention.
"It's called 'The Piercing Light', and we're not sure what that refers to." The briefing is being given by Pardoner Gareth, an inquisitor attached to the Althean temple in town. With his round face and normally jolly demeanour, he doesn't seem much like your normal inquisitor type -- but his eyes are sharp and perceptive. "What really has us concerned is the news of miracles of healing. While normally we wouldn't turn our nose up at anyone trying to relieve someone's pain, there have been false prophets before." His eyes flick to Cor'lana. "I believe you encountered one of those, Lady Lúpecyll-Atlon."
Skielstregar, a heavily armed and incredibly shiny silverscaled sith-makari rests against the wall with his arms crossed. A halberd stands next to him, upright on its own, with a jagged crack going through the axehead, looking like a grin.
He scratches his head. "That sssoundsss asss if..." he sibilantly says, "A fellow of light maybe hasss gone asstray? Thisss isssn't the first time thisss one hasss heard of wayward light bringerssss."
Garak nods attentively as he listens. Miracles of healing? That causes a brief eyebrow raise. "We would be happy to investigate," he affirms when it seems appropriate to do so. Then he adds, "The people of Alexandros have been through much and if there's any chance the actions of a harmful cult can be curtailed before they add to their burden, all would be better off."
"I've met one before," Cor'lana replies to the Pardoner, dressed in her customary battle robes, "but I highly doubt he's related to the problem at hand. I assume, judging by the concern here, that there's a possibility of the usual issues regarding cults--people desperate for miracles to the point where there's manipulation from the leaders of the cult. That obviously would reflect poorly on the Temple of the original faith, so..."
Cor'lana nods to Skielstregar and Garak's remarks. "A person of the gods can occasionally rise up with the hubris to make claims that they ought not to, or use the powers given to them to subjugate others." Her hand goes up to scratch Pothy on her shoulder. "It falls on us to investigate if there's an inkling that something is going on that shouldn't be."
She looks to the Pardoner again. "Any concerns about where we're going specifically? And may I see a map so that I may teleport us out when we're ready?"
Dirk leans up against the wall, arms folded over his chest and a concerned frown furrowing his shaggy white brows. "Well... so... what exactly is it yer needin' the Adventurers Guild fer?" he inquires. "Wouldn't this sort o' thing be a church matter?" He glances around at his gathered comrades. "I suppose Skiel counts as a church sort, don't 'e?" He turns his attention back to the Pardoner. "I'm nae much of an expert in religious matters, but... if this healer is some sort o' problem, well. Solvin' problems is summat we can do."
Pardoner Gareth sighs. "The temples are currently trying to resolve the issue of fiends just ambling into Alexandria willy-nilly, even with the ward. There have been... incidents, and the church elders are trying to bring them to an end. And so, yes, we turn to righteous adventurers to be our hands."
"We lucked out though -- someone passed along an anonymous tip as to the Piercing Light's next meeting." Gareth holds up a hand. "I don't want any more bloodshed than necessary. When this sort of thing springs up, it's usually the result of poor shepherding of the flock by the priests. But if there is a fiendish influence, it needs to be expunged."
He carefully lays out a map of the surrounding countryside, before pointing to a small village, labeled 'Three Oaks'. "Here. The cult is having its next meeting, just outside of this hamlet."
Skielstregar looks about the group, him smiling towards those he knows and waving, but he steps towards the hobgoblin. "Ssa, we will investigate. Thisss one isss Ssskielstregar, Warrior Cassste. Peassse on your nesst... Vanguard?" he guesses, looking over the other's attire as he holds out a clawed hand.
Once that business is concluded, he turns to Dirk, his toothy maw growing wider with a grin. "... thisss one is happy you think of them asss one of the church."
He shifts to the Pardonder, rubbing his head. "If there isss asss sssuch, we will act with utmossst disscretion."
Garak's next eyebrow raise comes at the phrase 'church matter'. It's a common belief that the various temples work together as one force. But in Garak's experience that only happens sometimes. Serriel isn't even a church but morr a way...ahem. Garak saves the thought for the actual temple (district) and instead peers at the map. "Very helpful," he notes, trying to commit it to memory. "Anonymous tip - then are we to attend anonymously as well...?" He glancds over the other adventurers, expecting them to agree on an approach rather than ask Gareth. They know their business and what they are capable of best, after all.
Cor'lana nods politely to the Pardoner's explanation. "There has been more than enough issue with those in positions of leadership in... certain groups, being influenced by fiends, yes," she says, having memorized the map with her inspection.
"Consider it done," she replies with a small smile.
"Snacks," Pothy adds on. He gets a handful of peanuts for his input. Very valuable input.
"I can alter my appearance and infiltrate more... vocally, if need be," Cor'lana responds. "I have experience with using my charisma to get people to do what's needed."
Pothy stares at Cor'lana with blue eyes of judgment.
Dirk nods his head. "Well, let's hope there's nae infernal influence goin' on here," he says. "But if there is... well, I can put a bullet straight up the hell-fu--" He snaps his mouth shut before the profanity can escape it. His eyes get wide and his cheeks turn beet red under his snowy white beard. "Err... I mean... I can... deal wi' the issue. A-heh." He reaches up to tug his collar, looking sheepishly up and around at his comrades. And wouldn't you know it, there's Skiel to the rescue. "Well, how many times have you called the fury o' the gods down tae help us, laddie?" He rumbles a deep laugh, letting the tension break. "Unless that was all just you back then. Wouldnae surprise me in the slightest. A bunch o' right bad-arses like us?" Pause. Eyes get wide, and he claps a hand to his mouth. His eyes flick to the Pardoner. "Heek! Beg pardon, yer reverence. Forgive me uncouth language. Please dinnae have the gods strike me down, I dinnae mean aught by it."
"I would recommend you go... incognito, or at least somewhat disguised. If they are of malign intent, the last thing you want to do is spook them into hiding." Once Lana has memorized the location, the Pardoner offers a smile. "Righteous work often involves getting your hands a little dirty. Such is life -- just make sure to keep to that path so that it's only dirt on your hands, not blood."
The Pardoner does, in fact, have a plan. He supplies you with nondescript peasant robes, even one large enough for Skielstregar, that can be worn over your garments and gear. "There was a... heh... clerical error in ordering acolyte's garments. But I think this is a good a use as any."
Skielstregar offers a laugh to Dirk and his antics. "That isss mossstly thisss one, but the Dragonfather certainly helped guide thisss one for a long time," he rumbles warmly. "And pleassse, if Warrior Andelena can give foul language yet be looked upon favorably by the Dragonfather, then there isss no harm for your wordsss, Hunter Dirk."
He nods to the Pardoner at the plan, but he looks at the robe with a bit of... confusion. Disguise. That is... very hard to do when one is a walking mirror. He tries his best, removing most of this extra effects on his armor and shoving it into a bag before tossing it on. The hood settles down to where just his fanged snout pokes out. "... thisss one thinksss it fits," he concludes, as everything from his shin downwards sticks out, and it bunches up on his large tail. "Thisss one thinksss Ssshaman Ravensss will be besst for talking. Her wordsss are very good!"
Garak looks at the Pardoner in a new light - with professional respect perhaps? He pulls the scabbarded sword from his belt and leaves it leaning in a corner of the room. As distinctively decorated as it is with symbols of Serriel he must feel it safe to leave unattended, at least here in the Guild. Then Garak pulls the peasant robes over himself. "If anyone would like I can cast another spell to travel - one that allows you to change yourself into mist and summon winds to fly." He inclines his head almost apologetically to Cor'lana. "That looks to be some distance away, and it's always good to have a backup plan."
Cor'lana puts on her cleric's robes as well, although she takes care to leave room for access to the curuchuil mark on her chest if she needs to. This means... the cleric's robes are worn a little looser than normal. Just a tad.
Pothy's still staring.
"Yes, I'll certainly try my hardest," Cor'lana responds with a smile to Skielstregar. "Let us depart and I'll get us there."
To Garak, she smiles. "I know of the greater spell for teleporting, so distance is of no object to me," she states. "Do hold onto your magic--we could well use it for fleeing if we must."
She murmurs a protective invocation on herself before departing.
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Mage Armor. Caster Level: 15 DC: 18
Dirk eyes the robe as it's given over to him. Well, insofar as punishments for vulgarity go, this one is relatively mild, all things being equal. He doffs his tricorne and sets it aside, before tossing the robe up over his head and shoulders. There's a good bit of wiggling and grunting as he gets the voluminous fabric settled over himself. When all's said and done, he looks down at himself with a frown. "Och, I look like laundry," he grumbles. At least his is cut khazad sized, so he doesn't have to worry about tripping over the hem or the sleeves flopping over his hands.
He gives Garak a hairy eyeball as the man sets his blade aside. Shaking his head, he picks up his thunderbelcher from the table. With a brisk twist of his hands, he unlocks the barrel from the stock, unscrews a few rods, and soon has the weapon stripped down to a neat bundle that his robe will easily hide. That said, he pulls the cowl up over his head, so only his large dwarven nose and majestic white beard can be seen. He folds his hands into the sleeves and bows his head. "Right. How do I look?"
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Greater Teleport. Caster Level: 15 DC: 24
Three Oaks village, early evening
Teleporting out to the village was easy -- just march out of Alexandria, to a grassy meadow Cor'lana is apparently familiar with. And from there, a flicker to the hamlet.
Then, the waiting begins. But as evening draws on, you see people in peasant garb walking to a pavilion erected not too far from the village. Following them is easy -- just falling in behind the softly chatting villagers, as they step inside the clapboard construction.
Inside, a double dozen of villagers are organizing themselves to sit on hewn benches before a simple altar. Curiously, there are no obvious signs suggesting darker influences; no blood stains the altar, no ritual knives or implements, no banners marked with blasphemous symbols.
Soon enough, a weedy-looking little robed man steps out from behind a curtained area. "Grace to all of you!" he says with a happy smile. "The piercing light welcomes us. Soon, our most holy will join us, for I know there are those in need." Indeed, there are a man and a young girl at the front, the man's chest heavily bandaged and the girl with a splinted leg, sniffling quietly. "Let us begin with a prayer to our most holy prophet."
Well... So far so good. At least in terms of Lana not being immediately recognized for one of many (mis)deeds. She smiles brightly back at the man. "Yes, of course, let us begin with a prayer!" she says, adopting the voice of a wide-eyed innocent.
Pothy, who is still riding her shoulder, is looking around. Just in case there's blessed snacks. You never know.
GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Bluff: (1)+25: 26 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Bluff: (15)+25: 40
Skielstregar chuckles at Dirk's manner of attire. "Sssa, jussst like one of the Great Dragonsss' own."
And then they're off. This was perhaps... the first time Skielstregar has teleported before. He staggers as they hit the outdoors in a different place in Ea, but his halberd dips over to catch him. "Thanksss..." he rumbles to it. He offers some silly stories in Am'shere he's had of late to pass the time, but soon he's quiet as villagers congregate. And he follows after with them. Only after putting Malefic in a dimensional bag. There's no way he can hide that thing. He'll get an earful later.
Opting to stand in the back, nodding once and putting his hands together. Murmuring silent prayers to himself. To Daeus. He's not a blasphemer.
Garak falls into line easily with the 'other' villagers. He does his best to choose a seat that leaves him within murmuring distance of the other adventurers. He seems used to such proceedings and is able to blend in somewhat well. It's only when the robed man mentions their 'most holy' coming to join them that Garak frowns slightly. Is this how it is with Cults? He wouldn't know, this is Garak's first time infiltrating one.
Dirk lumbers along with his friends, his glance looking over the shoddy workmanship of the chapel. He has to resist the urge to tsk--he built his own cabin, and dwarves are ever sticklers for craftsmanship. But he pulls it in and squashes it down. Instead, he lifts a fist to his mouth to cover a cough, hooting a soft whistle subtly through his fingers as he goes. From a nearby eave, Lulu gives an answering hoot. She's close at hand, ever ready to help her master.
Into the chapel he files with the rest. The bench gets a hairy look. He plants his palm flat on the seat and gives it a couple test presses. At least it seems it'll hold his hefty weight. Gingerly, he sets himself down, clasping his hands in his sleeves once more. He leans over to the person he managed to sit next to. "Och, I surely do hope our great prophet can do summat about me arthritis. Workin' me forge has been a nightmare!" he says in a low, wheezy tone. He doesn't ham it up too much, but he's trying to make himself seem more elderly and decrepit than he really is.
The priest's eyes light up at Lana's voice, and several other villagers nod before starting to pray. The prayer is... strange. It speaks of 'his thorns of wrath, which drive away the dark' and 'his holy light that he gifts to us from his father'. It's almost a mishmash of weird religious syncretism, and it feels oddly amateurish. Once the prayer is done, though, the priest retreats. "Bring our brother and sister forth, so that the most holy may bestow his beneficience on him." He steps behind a small curtained place, and walks back bearing something in his hands.
What is in his hands is... a potted plant. A small cactus, to be precise. And despite being in entirely the wrong climate, it looks to be in perfect health. Carefully, he sets the cactus on the altar, and bows before it, as he says, "Most holy prophet, we give you water, so that you might heal our neighbors." Picking up a small watering can, he carefully dribbles water into the pot -- not too much. Meanwhile, the bandaged man and the girl with the broken leg are brought before the altar, and set down gently.
GAME: Skielstregar rolls knowledge/nature: (15)+2: 17 GAME: Ravenstongue casts True Seeing. Caster Level: 15 DC: 22 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Bluff: (15)+25: 40
Garak stares. Then he casts quick glances - as surreptitiously as he can manage - at the other party members. Of all the things he had been mentally prepared for...a potted plant? was not one of them. Then Garak returns his attention to the altar. His gaze begins to alternate between the plant and the afflicted villagers waiting for healing. Without concious thought his hand drifts to his chest, one fingertip touching a spot and that smallest of pressure making visible through his disguise the faint outline of a necklace.
Skielstregar tilts his head to the side as the prayers go on. This didn't sound like any god he knew. Maybe Gilead? But wasn't he about the hunt? Or- Wait, what is that?
"Spiked pain plant," Skiel rumbles at himself as he sees the cactus. But it's... just a plant? No way that can work here, Am'shere, or anywhere that wasn't incredibly hot and dry. In fact, why are they watering it? <Draconic>
GAME: Dirk rolls Bluff: (15)+1: 16
Cor'lana... looks immensely weirded out. She murmurs an incantation stealthily, her eyes briefly glowing--well, more than they usually do--as she looks around the room.
"It really is just a potted plant," she says softly in amazement. "That's... Hum."
Pothy makes a dramatic sighing motion. He could have told them that. No magic sight required.
Dirk is right there with Garak. Whatever it was he was expecting, it certainly wasn't a cactus. Although the fact that it's flourshing so far from an arid climate does seem a little odd. But then again, the old ranger knows little and less about desert biomes. The prickliest plant one might find in his familiar forest is perhaps a holly bush. He leans forward a bit, eyes wide. "Is... is that the prophet?" he asks, headtilting curiously. "Hunh. I thought he'd be... I dunno. Taller."
Audible over the soft murmurs of the crowd is a voice, coming from the pot. "Ahhh... I like water." The voice is odd, singsong, stilted. "I like helping." A strange glow begins to build up from the cactus, and then it says, "I AM POKEY." Suddenly there is a flash of incandescence, like a brief sunrise, that glows outward from the cactus. Washing over the two injured people at the altar, before receding. The man reacts first, touching the bandages on his chest -- stained with blood -- and then suddenly pulls them off to reveal unmarred, unwounded flesh! A woman comes over to cut the splinting off the little girl's leg, and like a newborn colt she wobbles to her feet -- both clearly and cleanly healed!
"All hail Pokey!" the priest says, and the congregation repeats in a happy chant. "All hail Pokey, prophet of the gods of light!"
GAME: Skielstregar rolls knowledge/religion: (7)+1: 8 GAME: Dirk rolls Knowledge/Religion: (9)+3: 12
Skielstregar's eyes widen at the glowing cactus. It was talking?! Was there- did? Were all cactus sentient? "Thisss iss... a unique miracle..." he murmurs to whoever his nearest companion was, blinking owlishly at the two people that were healed.
His thoughts shift to a darker outlook. If they liked water... they really hoped nothing happen if pricked with blood.
The thought makes him shift closer, walking around the side of the congregation and kneeling beside one of the pews, as if he was still part of the crowd.
Garak doesn't have to act to let his eyes widen. Which is a good thing because his acting is mediocre at best. He watches the healed villagers and then shoots one more look at the others. Then he fixes his gaze on the cactus again. "Healed," he murmurs. He takes a breath and then adds in a still-lowered voice, "They were healed by...positive energy. As Clerics would, when they channel their patron's power."
Dirk sucks a slow, deep breath. His eyes, too, as wide as teacups. "Beards o' me fathers," he breathes softly. "How... how's that even work?" He leans forward, squinting from beneath the hem of his cowl. Trying to spot some sort of trick. Somoe sort of legederdemain. Anything that might let on that this was anything other than a miracle of the gods. He flicks a glance over to Lana. "Lassie, did ye see that?" he asks in a low undertone. Fortunately, he's flabbergasted enough that he doesn't need to feign his complete and total befuddlement.
"Healed by positive energy? Like a cleric of a god?" Cor'lana asks quietly, looking at Garak with narrowing eyes. Then she answers Dirk's question. "Yes. I did see that."
Then Pothy nudges her hair, and he whistles something into her ear. Cor'lana... blinks. "Are you sure?" she asks quietly. "You really want me to?"
Pothy nods.
"Well, okay, then," Cor'lana mutters.
And then she makes her way up to... Pokey the Prophet. She starts up the waterworks. Sniffling. In agony. Utter and complete agony, like her world's been rent. "Oh, please, Pokey! Pokey the prophet, Pokey our salvation! You must heal my poor raven, he's so sick! So very sick indeed!"
"I'm dying," Pothy wheezes in the voice of an old man.
The priest looks at Lana, clearly caught by her striking looks, and he actually stutters a bit. The cultists do make way for her, though there are some puzzled looks at her asking for healing for her... raven?
And then there's a popping sound behind you. Uh oh.
"Oh for the love of Master Maugrim," the wet, sickening voice rolls out. "Where's my heresy? Hel-LO! You can't do heresy like this!" Having entered from behind is a hulking, corpulent thing, sprawled in an iron throne that floats above the ground. It blows its nose on its own hand before wiping it off. "Disgusting," he gurgles. "And here I thought we'd be getting some good old fashioned heterodoxy at least, but no!"
"Well, I'm not leaving without murdering a whole bunch of you little mortal shits. Might as well grease my arse with your innards. Why don't we just skip to the part where I kill every one of you?" The parishioners recoil in horror and fear, clearly terrified and huddling around the altar and the cactus, as a trio of gaunt, bony looking creatures with scorpion tails appear around the horrible enthroned monster.
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (17)+14: 31 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d6+5: (5)+5: 10 GAME: Dirk rolls Will+2: (19)+8+2: 29
One of the bony fiends bounds forward, clearly filled with glee at the prospect of innocent slaughter. A clawed hand lashes out, cutting into Dirk, but when the stout dwarf fails to flee, the creature's ugly countenance twists in confusion...
Dirk's eyes get wide once again when that terrible thing booms out. It's absolutely right--it is disgusting. It is hateful, and wicked, and everything he stands against. With a furious snarl, he leaps to his feet. One hand gives a practiced flick, releasing the bundle of his thunderbelcher down into his fist. The other reaches up to grip the shoulder of his robe with a meaty fist and sweeping it off over his head. It's time for this badass grandpa too start kicking some ass and taking some names.
With swift, practiced movements, he reassembles his thunderbelcher. But right as he slaps the breech into place and racks the slide, one of those bone devil things is skittering at him. "HYAAGH!" He staggers back as the creature's pincer slams into him, skidding him back a couple feet. But the old snowbeard isn't fazed. He stomps a foot forward and firms up his stance, swinging up his thunderbelcher into firing position. "Want some heresy do ye?! HAVE SOME O' THIS!!" he roars. "GILEAD AN' DANA, GUIDE MY HAND!!"
GAME: Dirk rolls 1d100: (40): 40 GAME: Garak rolls weapon2: (8)+16: 24
Garak leaps up from his bench. He casts one last glance at Pokey - seems to be NOT transforming into some horrendous plant monster. Garak judges himself roughly between the villagers and the demons - although he knows such tactical positioning is tenous when it comes to fiends. So rather than move he stays where he is. He holds up one hand, and seemingly out of his glove springs a lance. He spins this once on each side, not unlike a quarterstaff, then stabs it forward at the creature neares to Dirk. It never connects, yet the priest smoothly resumes the spinning pattern.
GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Knowledge/The Planes+2: (15)+8+2: 25 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Haste/Quicken. Caster Level: 15 DC: 24 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Hold Monster/Persistent. Caster Level: 15 DC: 24 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 1d20+15+4: (11)+15+4: 30 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+7: (14)+7: 21
And then things go to hell. No, really. Cor'lana recognizes these things for what they are as her violet eyes quickly assess the battlefield.
"Bone devils!" she cries out to her allies. "The one on the throne's a heresy devil; it can mess up divine magic and has some potent magical abilities."
The sorceress then gets to work. An incantation of quickening magic falls rapidly from her lips, speeding along her movements and the movements of her allies. She then turns to the bone devil who swiped at Dirk. "HOLD," she commands in Sylvan, a word that sparks with magic.
The bone devil obeys the feytouched sorceress. It's locked down by her spell.
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (15)+14: 29 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d6+5: (2)+5: 7
Another of the bony fiends comes loping forward, gurgling horrible laughter... that pauses when it sees its teammate freeze up. It arrests its charge, opting to strike at a distance at Skielstregar, dealing a minor wound -- and then it hisses something, and fades from sight..
GAME: Skielstregar casts See Invisibility. Caster Level: 10 DC: 15 GAME: Skielstregar RAGES!, gaining +2 to melee attack/damage/Will saves and 20 temporary HP
Skielstregar is all but struck in the back as the devils make their appearance. Pokey was a farce! Seeing as everyone was congregating around the Succulent Savior, the silverscale whirls around, reaching into his bag and pulling out a long hafted halberd, the crack on it widening to a split. "You dare... in thiss congregation...!" he snarls, running a hand over his eyes. "You cannot hide!" he snarls.
The halberd twirls into a defensive position, and starts to leak a black ichor from it's maw. It snaps at the fiends, "Dragonfather smite you! LET'S COUNT THE BITES! UNTIL NOTHING MORE-"
"Than a stain!" Skielstregar yells in a battle cry, his features growing more sickly with crimson eyes, longer fangs, and dripping black miasma from betwixt his scales.
GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Will: (19)+16: 35
Another bone devil steps through a wrinkle in space, flickering away and reappearing next to the raven-haired sorceress and the congregation. It leers down at her, then stares in confusion as she fails to recoil in terror.
GAME: Skielstregar rolls will: (13)+9: 22 GAME: Dirk rolls Will+2: (17)+8+2: 27 GAME: Garak rolls will+2: (3)+14+2: 19 GAME: Telamon rolls 5d8: (20): 20
The heresy devil burps, a nasty sound, and sighs. "Oh, you lot... oh, you're adventurers! Marvelous! Your skulls will look quite fetching on my throne!" It rubs its piggy little paws together, eyes squinting. "Now, hold still!" A gout of disgusting, stinking miasma detonates among the heroes in front, clawing at them with unholy energy before subsiding.
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+7: (4)+7: 11
The bone devil menacing Garak and Dirk... stops moving. Its eyes are wide in shock and confusion. There's a tiny twitch, but it can't move a single infernal muscle.
GAME: Garak casts Divine Favor/Quicken. Caster Level: 14 DC: 20 GAME: Garak rolls weapon2+3-3: (9)+16+3+-3: 25 GAME: Garak rolls weapon2+3-3+1: (18)+16+3+-3+1: 35 GAME: Garak rolls weapon2+3-3+1-5: (7)+16+3+-3+1+-5: 19 GAME: Garak rolls 1d8+8+9+2d6: (7)+8+9+(4): 28 GAME: Garak rolls 1d8+8+9+2d6: (6)+8+9+(3): 26 GAME: Garak rolls 1d8+8+9+2d6: (2)+8+9+(10): 29
Garak has barely shaken off the after-effects of darkness. HE feels some lingering weakness, but hopefully it won't hinder him. Then he tenses as he catches what he thinks is the Bony fiend nearest to Dirk cast a beleful look in the priest's direction. And yet...it still doesn't move, trapped as it is in the grip of Cor'lana's magic. He casts a worried glance at her and then decides to concentrate on one enemy at a time. His lance jabs forward repeatedly, each strike poking a hole in the monster's flesh, that glows momentarily with divine, searing light. "Watch out for the big one!" he urges.
GAME: Dirk rolls Shoot+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+2: (20)+15+1+-3+2: 35 (THREAT) GAME: Dirk rolls Shoot+3: aliased to Ranged+1-3+3: (3)+15+1+-3+3: 19 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg: aliased to 1d12+1+6: (2)+1+6: 9 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg: aliased to 1d12+1+6: (1)+1+6: 8 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg: aliased to 1d12+1+6: (7)+1+6: 14 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg: aliased to 1d12+1+6: (5)+1+6: 12 GAME: Dirk rolls 2d12: (12): 12 GAME: Dirk rolls 2d6: (11): 11
Dirk takes a smooth step away from the paralyzed devil. He's a ranged fighter, being up close and personal always makes the old snowbeard a mite bit skittish. He snaps a furious glare at the enthroned demon, leveling a finger at the creature. "You. You cannae hide from me," he snarls, his voice brimming with all the righteous rage of one of Ea's champions. Wheeling around, he snaps up his thunderbelcher, tucking the stock in to his broad shoulder. He sights down the barrel and pulls back on the hammer. As it clicks, the golden filigreed pattern of ivies worked into the stock begins to glow with bright, wholesome light, and a line of dwarven runes lights up down the barrel. He pulls the trigger. CHK-BOOM! The muzzle strobes like sunlight. The bone devil meanacing Cor'lana staggers to the side as a lance of that blessed light fires clean through its torso. "SKREEEEEEEAHHH!" Dirk racks the slide, ejecting smoking shells still hissing and glowing with fading radiance. "EVERY LAST ONE O' YOU FILTHY SHITBIRDS IS GOIN' STRAIGHT BACK TAE HELL!!" he roars.
GAME: Ravenstongue casts True Strike/Quicken. Caster Level: 15 DC: 22 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Disintegrate. Caster Level: 15 DC: 23 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 1d20+15+7: (15)+15+7: 37 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 1d20+15+4: (6)+15+4: 25 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Ranged+20: (17)+9+20: 46 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+12: (6)+12: 18 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 30d6: (95): 95
Cor'lana stares down the enemy next to her, the one who had dared to make her afraid of it. She looks at it and she smiles widely as she hops backwards. It's actually more than a smile.
Because it's accompanied by a laugh.
"Devils worse than you have tried," she informs the bone devil, before her eyes glow bright with magic with the quick incantation that augments her next spell. Her hands go up and a beam of magic shoots out, her hair waving wildly with the force that leaves her fingers.
It makes contact with the devil, passing through it--and then the horrid thing shatters, falling apart to the ground like it was naught but ash all along.
Cor'lana turns to the devil atop his throne, her eyes still glowing brightly. "I'll take you down next," she promises.
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (18)+14: 32 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (16)+14: 30 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (1)+14: 15 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (1)+14: 15 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Telamon rolls 1d8+5: (5)+5: 10 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d6+5: (4)+5: 9
As one devil is blasted into ashes, another appears, lunging at Skielstregar. A snapping bite and a catching claw rip at the Forgotten, but the other claw hisses past his snout and the tail sting slams into the earth next to Skielstregar's foot. The creature snarls in frustration, trying to make headway with the makari warrior facing it.
GAME: Skielstregar rolls will: (1)+9: 10 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Skielstregar rolls will: (5)+9: 14 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d6: (3): 3 GAME: Skielstregar casts Shield. Caster Level: 10 DC: 14 GAME: Skielstregar rolls bloodrager+charisma-2: (6)+10+3+-2: 17
The Forgotten Skielstregar snarls as he keeps an eye on his prey, though nearly whirls around at seeing Lana being flanked- only for a crack shot from Dirk and Lana's confident Talent turning the fiend into entropy. The one on him snarls and snaps, tearing into him, but he shoves it off. "It isss now thisss one'sss-!"
He steps in, raising Malefic high. And it stops. "... t-turn...?" The normally stalwart warrior falters. Has he ever fought something this terrible before? Monsters, yes, shapeshifters, yes. But actual fiends from the pits of Hell?
He wavers, starting to scrabble back. "P-Protect thisss one!" he gasps, black miasmic energies forming wings around him before going away with a pop!
"LET ME AT THEM!" it's weapon snarls, snapping as it's prey gets further and further away.
GAME: Ravenstongue rolls Will: (20)+16: 36 (CRITICAL SUCCESS) GAME: Skielstregar rolls will-2: (5)+9+-2: 12 GAME: Garak rolls will+2: (13)+14+2: 29 GAME: Dirk rolls will+2: (5)+8+2: 15 GAME: Telamon rolls 2d6: (11): 11 GAME: Telamon rolls 2d4: (3): 3 GAME: Dirk rolls will+2: (14)+8+2: 24
The heresy devil belches. "Oh, I am, am I?" The throne glides forward, closer, the sluglike creature grinning. "Let me see if I can persuade you otherwise." And then he speaks a word. A terrible, WRONG word, that doesn't want to fit in your ears but does anyways and it HURTS. Skielstregar and Dirk take the worst of it, as it dazes Skiel and weakens them both, while Cor'lana and Garak weather the unholy voice. As the sound rolls towards the congregation, the cactus yelps, "NO!" and there's a flash of shimmerlight that deflects the profane utterance, protecting the cultists.
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+7: (5)+7: 12 GAME: Garak casts Remove Fear. Caster Level: 14 DC: 16
Garak winces at the word. He knows he's fortunate to have avoided the worst of it. On the other hand, the cactus known as Pokey seems to be nothing if not a benevolent prophet to his followers. Very well. If the villagers are so well protected, Garak can try to help his fellow adventurers. He can feel and see the fiendish magic afflicting his friend and emplores Serriel to grant them courage, restore the resolve of those afflicted by Fiendish magic. He eyes the approaching Heresy but holds his ground, judging himself as well suited to any here to stand against it.
GAME: Dirk rolls Shoot+1+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+1+2: (3)+15+1+-3+1+2: 19 GAME: Dirk rolls Shoot+1+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+1+2: (11)+15+1+-3+1+2: 27 GAME: Dirk rolls Shoot+1+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+1+2: (8)+15+1+-3+1+2: 24 GAME: Dirk rolls Shoot+1+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+1+2: (10)+15+1+-3+1+2: 26 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (3)+1+6+(6): 16 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (8)+1+6+(11): 26 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (5)+1+6+(5): 17 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (11)+1+6+(4): 22
Dirk's eyes widen and his face turns white as his beard as that devil utters that terrible word. That word that gouges into Ea's surface and makes the world bleed. He staggers as his gear suddenly seems to weigh him down, robbing him of his strength. "Hrrgggkh!" Wheeling around, he snaps up his thunderbelcher. "We're in the presence o' Holy Pokey!" He racks the slide and fires. CHK-CHAK! BOOM! "WATCH!" BOOM! "YER!" BOOM! "FUCKIN'!" BOOM! "MOUTH!" BOOM! He racks again, shell casings raining down around him like tinkling golden rain as he stomps his foot to firm up his stance. "Ye clean-shaven shit! BEGONE WI' YE!!"
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Feeblemind/Persistent. Caster Level: 15 DC: 24 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 1d20+15+4: (8)+15+4: 27 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+13: (5)+13: 18 GAME: Ravenstongue casts Lightning Bolt/Quicken. Caster Level: 15 DC: 24 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 1d20+15+4: (18)+15+4: 37 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+12: (12)+12: 24 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 10d6: (43): 43
Cor'lana's glowing eyes are still locked on the heresy devil atop its throne as it utters its foul words. She looks unimpressed and mildly annoyed, especially when she notices the effect it had on Skielstregar.
"You won't be keeping that up, because you're hurting my friend." The sorceress raises her hand and utters a phrase of power at the heresy devil:
"Be without sense!"
The magic takes hold. No longer will the heresy devil be able to cast its work on her friends and allies.
She then turns her attention to the bone devil threatening Skielstregar, and she flicks her other hand out as she takes a few steps off to the side, aiming precisely with the lightning bolt that shoots out from her hand at the bone devil. It's not a perfect shot, however, as the thing reels partially out of the way at the last moment.
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (18)+14: 32 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (11)+14: 25 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (20)+14: 34 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (14)+14: 28 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (5)+14: 19 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d8+5: (6)+5: 11 GAME: Telamon rolls 2d6+10: (7)+10: 17
The fight is going poorly, but the devils fight on. As spells and weapons flash back and forth, the bone devil shudders as lightning arcs across its hide. Still, it continues to joust with Skielstregar, dealing him a particularly brutal strike with its pincer before biting at the Forgotten's shoulder again. It hisses, mockingly, and beckons with the claw. "Ssss. Can taste the taint on you. You'll be ours soon, Forgotten..."
That Unholy Word slams into Skielstregar, searing something fierce in his mind. It roils that undeathly side of him, making rivers of corrupted mana spew from him in an uncontrolled manner as it splashes against the ground. He flags, falling to his knees. Why was it so hard to stand in the face of such evil-
And yet, there it was. In Pokey. In Serriel. Washing away the panic and fear. Right, they could do this. Weakened as he may be from burning up within, Skiel slowly starts to get back to his feet, trying to shake it off. "... there will... be no... skulls... for your skull throne...!" he snarls.
Even when he's being stabbed, pincered and sapped, he continues to get up. Furious.
GAME: Garak rolls reflex+2: (2)+7+2: 11 GAME: Telamon rolls 4d6: (16): 16 GAME: Dirk rolls Reflex: (7)+13: 20
The wicked wisdom and wise cruelty drains out of the heresy devil's piggish eyes, leaving them dull and stupid. Still, it seems to retain some sense of who is friend or foe, and a few more tricks -- it takes a deep breath, and then spews a stream of liquid bile and corruption over Garak and Dirk, acid burning into them and the stinking fluid lingering on their garments, like a curse in itself.
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+7: (16)+7: 23 GAME: Garak refreshes special ability pools. GAME: Garak spends ONE use of CHANNEL ENERGY. GAME: Garak rolls 7d6: (18): 18
Garak steps back into line with Dirk. He raises his holy symbol - it's made of a dull metal, and yet he holds it up as one might hold up a hand mirror, adjusting the angle to reveal just the right image. And while the metal is too dull to be reflective, the shape of Serriel's Shield, Swords and Spear is unmistakeable. The symbol glows with power, and rays of light not unlike that of the sun stream out. The energy briefly washing over Garak himself, then passes through him to illuminate Dirk, and finally Skielstregar.
GAME: Dirk rolls Shoot+1+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+1+2: (18)+15+1+-3+1+2: 34 GAME: Dirk rolls Shoot+1+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+1+2: (18)+15+1+-3+1+2: 34 GAME: Dirk rolls Shoot+1+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+1+2: (2)+15+1+-3+1+2: 18 GAME: Dirk rolls Shoot+1+2: aliased to Ranged+1-3+1+2: (7)+15+1+-3+1+2: 23 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (9)+1+6+(10): 26 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (1)+1+6+(3): 11 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (12)+1+6+(8): 27 GAME: Dirk rolls dmg+2d6: aliased to 1d12+1+6+2d6: (12)+1+6+(5): 24
Dirk readies another volley towards the heresy demon, when he hears that horrific rumbling and gurgling. Worse than any upset stomach he's ever had, and what follows is even worse. "HEEK!" He tries to duck out of the way as that foul torrent of hellish green-yellow glop comes arcing his direction. But it splatters all over him. His cloak starts to hiss, and the leather straps on his gear bubble and blacken. But worst of all, his beard. His poor beard starts to wreathe with foul-stinking smokoe. "HYAAAAGH! GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFFO'ME!" he shrieks, scrabbling at himself to scrape the hideous glop off.
He stares down at the patchy holes burned into his beard. Eyes get wide and glass over, and he trembles from head to foot. But then, there's Garak with the save! Blessed light washes over Dirk, soothing his injuries and helping his beard fill in. It's still going to need a thorough washing (and he just washed it this morning!), though. His face goes from milk-white to beet-red. "HrrrAAAAAAGH!" Up comes his thunderbelcher, firing another barrage of blessed shot into the hellish entity. "YE BURNT MY BEARD! YOU FILTHY SHIT-STAIN! I'M GOIN' TAE KILL YE!" he howls. It's a wonder he doesn't follow the berserker ways some barbarians do--his rage is a tangible thing indeed. But even more effective than his blazing fury are the blessed shots that lance through the devil. Putrid ichor oozes from the sizzling, glowing entry wounds. It's still up, but surely not for much longer!
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Lightning Bolt/Persistent. Caster Level: 15 DC: 22 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 1d20+15+4: (15)+15+4: 34 GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+3: (10)+3: 13 GAME: Ravenstongue rolls 10d6: (44): 44
And it really isn't around for much longer. Cor'lana follows up on Dirk's assault with a lightning bolt that charges through the heresy devil, finishing off the fiend.
"We're almost done!" Cor'lana shouts. "Rout the enemy!"
GAME: Skielstregar rolls weapon25-6+1+2: (1)+18+-6+1+2: 16 (EPIC FAIL)
The last free and alive bone devil looks around, realizes his commander is gone... and steps back to disappear. Hopefully to not come back.
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+7: (10)+7: 17
Forgotten Skielstregar snarls as the last remaining bone devil decides to flee. "Craven," he spits, turning to see where the rest of the battle may lay as he weakly leans against Malefic, the sickly miasma still pouring from him and sapping him. Between Dirk and Cor'lana, the terrible commander is done. "Good riddance," he spits before turning to the last one.
Finally! He trods forward, slowly picking up pace before he gets a decent speed, inky trails following behind him. "For the Dragon-- father?" He stands dumbly in front of bone devil, arms wobbling and straining as he's- he's trying to lift his halberd up, but cannot support the weight!
"... Skielstregar, try and get it up. And by it, I mean me. What would your mate say?" Malefic deadpans.
"This DOESN'T USUALLY HAPPEN!"
Dirk looks around as the only mobile target in his sights ups and vanishes. Hopefully back to its own dark dimension. But more than likely, to some other part of Ea, where it might spread its corruption once more. He chuffs a breath through his nose, his gaze settling upon the last of the devils. He stomps forward, racking his thunderbelcher as he goes. He swings up his foot to lash out with a vicious kick. The devil, paralyzed and helpless, topples over onto its side.
Dirk slams his foot down on the entity's chest and levels his thunderbelcher, planting the barrel firmly against the center of its skull-face. "When ye get back tae hell, tell 'em Dirk Stormgrip sent ye!" he snarls viciously. CHK-BOOM! A blast of blessed light explodes from the barrel, taking the devil's head with it. Stepping back, Dirk swings the firearm up onto his shoulder and plants his hand on his hip. "This house is clear!" he states firmly, with a nod of his head.
Once the fiends are routed and slain, the cultists slowly uncurl from where they were gathered around Pokey. The priest trembles. "Those... those were devils, weren't they? You don't suppose..." He looks at Pokey, but the cactus isn't saying anything right now. Then again, how much thought and wisdom can a cactus have?
Soon, more educated priests arrive in the wake of your investigation. Pokey's priest is a man by the name of Gwylln o'the Mire -- he's well known in Alexandria as a petty thief and con artist. He'd hopped a ship to Veyshan one step ahead of the Watch, but while in that far country, he'd found something: the cactus. Hidden away in a desert crypt, but still strangely alive and hearty, the cactus kept him alive on the way back. And Gwylln had... well, a religious awakening. Of course, a sneak thief and liar isn't likely to grasp the finer points of theology, and so he'd cobbled together something that sounded good in his head. In his defense, he'd never taken anything more for his services than bare living expenses. It wasn't even a con or a ruse; Pokey really was healing the people.
It takes some convincing, but eventually Pokey is given a proper guard of bemused acolytes and knight-trainees to escort it to the smaller villages. After all, they may need healing too. And Gwylln? Well, his change of heart was genuine -- and he wound up taking initiate vows at the Church of Althea. The Queen of Heaven does love a man who turns over a better leaf, after all.