PrP: Eye Spy

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Log Info

  • Title: Eye Spy
  • Emitter: Yokai
  • Characters:
  • Place: Westland Copse, Alexandrian Forest
  • Time: Feb 19, 2017
  • Summary: Word has been sent out by an outlying cusp of Rangers that serve as scouts for the local Grove, seeing to the natural balance and culling the overpopulated thickets that stretch far and deep into the Alexandrian woods. Recently there was a large conflict that has left their forces scattered and many recovering from their wounds. Perhaps it's due to this that they've reached out for the aid of others, reaching our wayward warriors of burghal and boonies alike: Something is killing the young stags and upsetting the order of things in one of the westernmost outposts, and they could use the aid of a few strong-backed-stronger-stomached folk to get it back in check.
  • Signed up: Aodh, Ophelia, Dubtle, Zant, Ilmig, Sasha
  • APL: 3
  • Encounter 1: 5 Worg (CR 2 per)
  • Encounter 2: 1 Cyclops (CR 5)



DM:



It's rare that the oft reclusive naturalists of the deep woods reach out to their civilized brethren for aid, but when it does happen, the Adventurers Guild is quick to respond -- after all, an unspoken symbiosis exists between the wild and tamed that must be observed, even when it's lost to the masses in majority.

With that in mind, those that volunteered upon seeing the notification for willing members of the Guild have been packaged up and sent on their way -- some on horseback, some in a wagon pulled by the same -- with a representative of the Grove's forward scout at the helm. He has introduced himself as Vildraen'ur, of the shadowed path... whatever that means.

"It is centralized," He speaks, his elven accent obvious to all but the most unaware, a careful diction that indicates he may not be the most practiced when speaking the common tongue of the land. "Western copse," He directs, pointing two fingers loosely down a path most certainly less travelled, held by the protective leathers of an archer, opting to lead the group on foot from here as he further instructs them on the situation that most likely awaits.

"Bite marks on bodies. Maybe eaten by beasts." His voice is low, but smooth as he drifts like a ghost through the thick underbrush as though the vines did not impede his approach, and the stinging nettle could not find his skin any better than the humidity-spawned drifts of small biting, stinging insects that seek purchase on any that stand still for more than a moment at a time. "But, beasts should not be."

The limbs are low-hanging, blocking out what light may have been seen in the final dying hours of day, keeping the damp from sweltering as it clings to leather and moistens cloth to facilitate the uncomfortable itching explorers might be accustomed to by now. "Beasts do not hunt here. Too deep," He pushes aside some foliage to lead the group deeper into the shadows, "Too dark," His voice becomes a more ominous thing, though one might assume it is made so only by the oppressive weight of the brake.

"Something brings them, maybe." He muses, aloud, pausing in his step to peer keenly toward an opening, a glade that welcomes the sterling rays of a moon that rose unknown during their slow-going journey. In the distance, yipping howls in a haunting cacophony raise the hairs on the back of necks, chilling the hot blood of risen heartrate, rattling about in the metal-sculpted head in piercing ring alike.

The watchful eyes of their guide narrow at the sound, fingers touching to the ground in an examination of a particularly deep, shifting track. He grunts quietly, "Go now. Strike quick. Strike clean. ... not much time..." His voice drifts, and even those with perceptions high miss him spectral flight into the budding night, not even the leaves offering tribute to his departure.




Aodh takes the cart. The cart is the safest route, even if he now sits with one hand gripping the edge so that he isn't so comically thrown out of it on random bumps and nefarious rocks that would seek to ursurp him from his wooden throne. As the cart rumbles to a timely stop, and the Ranger points them in the general direction of a threat - and that direction is further clarified to the War Golem due in part to the howls of whatever foul beasts that were previously pointed out as A) Eating things they shouldn't, and B) Shouldn't be here in the first place.

"Notification: Threat." He states in his robotic monotone, as he hauls his bulk out of the cart with a heavy 'thump' of his boot-feet landing on the ground. His knees bend to take the impact, and he straightens upright as he turns his form towards the glade that the Ranger had pointed out for them. "Tactic: Engage. Eliminate threat. Return for payment. Continue upgrades. Operation: Glade-Clense. Initiate." Quite like his voice, his apparent ideas for what constitute a 'cool' operation name have a subtle lack of.. subtle to them. He begins thumping towards the glade, as a spiked chain suddenly deploys from the War Golem's right palm.


"... Oooookay," chimes the friendly neighbourhood bundle of furs around Zant. Or maybe that's actually Zant who's voicing that, actually, but either way, the eyes peeking over the red scarf search dubiously through the surroundings for their guard who has inexplicably disappeared.

"I guess we're just... taking care of whatever isn't *supposed* to be here," murmurs Zant thusly, and he sends a look that is best described as uncertain towards the path ahead. "... Hopefully we'll recognize what that is." No, Zant is not very well acquintanced with wildlife.


Sasha went along in the cart as well, looking at the mass of fur that is Zant. "You have nothing to worry about, Brother Zant. the Sun and the Rose work together, as you already know." She then smiles to him, but looks towards the War Golem. She joins them with a thud of her feet. "I hope it's not quite as simple as that.....what is your name, Golem?"


Ilmig doesn't need a cart nor horse. No need to put one afore the other, neither. He walks along just fine with walkin. "Whatever ain' s'posed ta be, we make sure it follows the rules. Make it safe so no more get ate."


"Oof!" Dubtle is along in the wagon at the moment, of course, being short and stubby. He's more than happy to be here, though, his quarterstaff laid across his lap as he staes at the golem with obvious curiousity. "How ol ar you?" he asks Aodh, curiously.



DM:



The choir of whining howls does not wane in the approach of the adventurers; nae, infact, it seems to grow more frenzied, as though they could smell them on the stagnant air. It is, of course, more likely that they have caught notice of the movement of other creatures through the wood, triggering their baser instinct to hunt the fleeing.

"No, no, no!" A brutish voice, slurred by loose and thick lips, breaks the shrill 'YEAUUUuuuYIPYEEEEE!' chorus that permeates this place, offering threat to the already oppressive environment. Heavy, thudding steps and broken branches herald the approach of something that squelches its way down the muddy descent from hilly inland to shallow valley. In the moonlight, it is merely a silhouette -- and a sizeable one at that.

The haunting howls still, for but a moment.

"Kill and wait! Kill and WAIT!" The shadow insists in commanding boom, a massive blade swung glinting through moonlight to impact the thick trunk of a nearby tree with a crack like too-near thunder upon its wrenched retrieval, splintering up the core, hot breath tumbling in a billow made visible by the sinking chill of nightfall.

... and all is silent, cowed in aftermath...

...

... 'YIP! YIPYAUUUEEAAIIii-AUUHUFF!'

From the stygian brink created by the outlying bosk spring nearly half a dozen canid figures, large with pitch fur only seen in the darkness by virtue of the way the pale moonlight shines white-blue against their coats, snapping and snarling at one another as they drag the mangled remains of one of the forest's great red stags into high grasses.

At Aodh's more obvious approach, the snarling, yipping, snapping mass of doglike predators stand attentive, ears up, great blue-black tongues lolling out of their mouths in a combination of panting and whining. When he becomes visible, stepping into the glade as he has elected to do, their ears lay back in apprehension and the circling begins, spreading out in the loping pace that has them attempting to surround the unwitting golem.

"HA! GOTS YOU!" The voice of before booms, followed by clumsy laughter that may have been menacing were it not for the fact that when the great lumbering shadow begins on its excited trek toward our wayward heroes, it trips on a root and plows through the muck with a furrowing of mud that rivals the waves off the prow of the mightiest ships, ruining this expertly planned ambush before it has a chance to take hold.

"OOF!" It offers upon impact, before a bellowing roar is exhaled in its obvious and building tantrum, "OHHH! Get 'em! GET 'EM GOOD!"

'YIIIAAAUUUUUYIPYAEE!' The response comes like razors on the wind, unnatural and unkind.




Sasha tilts her head as she creeps closer towards the others. "I think we've been spotted." She says to Zant and Ilmig as they're 'pounced upon' by the being...


"...wwell... that... this isn't something I see every day. Or most days. Or any day actually until now," says Dubtle, staring.

"...are those... okay. What ARE those, actually?"

Somebody has noooo idea and that person is the Khazad.


Ilmig looks at the sounds, then the beasties makin the sounds. "Ha! Got us?! We got alla ye!" he counters. "Works both ways, ye know it!"


"Identification: VR-0135. Designation: Aodh. Age: Ten Years Total of Activity. Total Age: Unknown. Last recorded memory before reactivation: War." states the War Golem as it continues stomping towards the Glade. His form continues its lumbering as the oversized Wolves turn to regard him and the rest of the group. As the oversized.. Well. Aodh doesn't exactly know what to classify the oversized thing that fell - only that it's A) Huge. B) Not Friendly. He will classify it, or get someone else to classify/ID it after that point.

"Clarification: It is that simple. Enemy located. Engage."



And after giving the beasts a look-over, Zant starts murmuring, "...I guess that's th--" right before the figure from above ends up falling down from above.

Thus, Zant stares at the fallen one for several long seconds. With an occasional blink. Akwardly. He even starts saying "Uh... are you ok--?" before the call for attack comes.

"--Yes," he chimes out in agreement to Sasha, hand tugging the scarf surrounding his lower face downwards enough to leave it all uncovered again. "I suppose there's no choice now."


Once bitten, twice shy. Or in this case, horrifically enraged. The placid - if rather blunt and war-like Golem's demeanor shifts to the more passionate scale of things. The soft blue hues of light that eminate from within it's chest cavity shift to a blood red, and armor plating suddenly snaps into place around and along it's form - reinforcing the more vital areas. Including where he now sports a rather deep set of teeth marks.

"Initiate Combat Protocols." comes the monotone of the War Golem, who retorts with a sudden sharp swing of the spiked chain that it grips in its hands - scoring a piercing wound in it's flank before he yanks the chain back, swinging it around in a harsh circle. "Observation: Multiple opponents."


Where has Ophelia been this entire time? In the back of the wagon, apparently sleeping, or whatever it is that war golems do that passes for sleeping. How do you wake a sleeping golem, anyway? Apparently, you don't.

"Get back, fiend of evil!" Apparently Ophelia is, now, awake. The highly polished gold and silver visage of the crystal and clockwork paladin leaps from the wagon to land beside Aodh, kicking up a little cloud of dust around her feet. Her sword is drawn dramatically from the scabbard on her back, and then just as dramatically she swings, taking a chunk out of a nearby tree and not scratching the worg at all. That'll learn 'em.


As the worgs strike, Sasha remains calm. "Blue Rose of the heavens, aid these adventurers as they are harried by beasts of darkness. Guide their strikes true!" And a blue 'dome' of energy pulses out to her allies....each of them will feel their strikes guided slightly.....


"...what are those?!" Dubtle repeats. A pause then he rises and stomps the end of his quarterstaff into the ground before tellng Ilmig, "One embiggening coming up, friend!"


"Oi! Flea-bit beastie! Why don'tcha bite som'n hairier'n ye!" Ilmig yells at the things, steps up to help Zant and takes a swing at one li'l pup with his axe.


"--Whoa, whoa, hey!" Zant panic-mumbles when one of the puppers comes RIGHT FOR HIM. With his reaction time behind by just the few requisite seconds, his only option ends up being to bring up his arm to try to protect him.

Unfortunately, this doesn't stop the beast from sinking it's fangs deep into the man. This just means they sink right into and through the flesh of his arm instead with the kind of force that threatens to tear it apart.

"--GAAAUUUH NO OFF!" Cue Zant trying to tear his own arm away from the biting jaws of doom, complementary with his free hand swinging through the air to slam into the side of the beast's head in an effort to discourage it from continuing it's deathgrip.



DM:



It's the great battle they've been trained for!

Crudely, by something that likely doesn't have that much more comprehensive ability than they do, but... still, it's go time, and the black-furred mutts aren't wasting any time. One of them darts forward with startling agility, the high grasses of the glade parting as it speeds through in a zigzagging path that results in it leaping through the air toward the first one to step into its domain: Aodh. With a clang of impact as furry body and wicked teeth meet the bloodrager's chassis, sliding down to bite down on what would have been the calf, were he a living man -- instead, it's a mouthful of metal that dents and warps under the devestating pressure of its massive jaws. It's head wrenches to the side in an attempt to drag him off his balance when he goes to swing that chain, so distracted by its desire to bring him to ground that it has no chance to dodge the blow.

With a yiped yelp, it releases his calf plate, soon replaced by another of its brethren as it takes the first one's place. It, too, tries to drag him down in what is likely an attribute learned in its native hunting grounds where the long-legged deer bound. It, too, is unable to budge his horrible weight.

Fatty.

When Ophelia takes her arching swing with that blade of hers, the worg that'd rushed to aid the now-flanked pup has to leap back to avoid the upswing at the rear, causing that crushing bite of theirs to skirt by the brilliantly 'armoured' war golem with an audible 'pop' of its yawning maw as it closes in fruitless seeking.

It's about this time that one of the other worgs thinks 'oh aye, I'll have me some-a tha'!' upon seeing the tender-fleshed and nubile Zant; the amourous pusuit begins if not with a roar, a moan. A whined, hungry, insatiable thing that speak sweetly of timid wantings, promised firsts and hazy alwayseses.

Through the grasses they come, bounding one after another in a hunter's set, a flash of saliva-wettened fangs in the moonlight the momentary warning of impending wounding, that cruel bite sinking deep into the corded muscle of his forearm with such ferocity that it is dragged more than rebuffed by the recoiling yank of the monk's attempted escape. It jerks downward, using powerful back legs to yard him forward even as his fist plows into the side of its head, and that blade carves a gash over its ribcage and nearly clean through the foreleg.

"I'M GUNNA GET YOUSE FER CUTTIN' MY DOG!" That massive, mostly forgotten figure is getting to its feet, a giant axe used to assist in his rise to dominance over the moonlit horizon.

That said, the worg does release Zant from his grasps as another comes flying over its back in pouncing assault meant for the hairy man that called them out to battle, narrowly missing his arm in the fly-by attempt, landing with a thump and flailed roll that turns into an 'I-meant-to-do-that' drive by that has it turning back to face him soon enough, drool freely flowing from that hungry mouth as red-hued eyes stare up from its hunched and spring-loaded position.




"Warning: Damage. Eight percent reduction in efficiency." comes the warning from Aodh. A clear dribble of hydraulic fluid slowly comes from the wound that has been bitten into his frame. Another bite. More fluid leakage. "Warning: Damage. Fourty-five percent reduction in efficiency." eminates from the War Golem once more. If Aodh knows he's talking, he doesn't state it, instead, as the third bite impacts into his frame, he promptly swings the spiked chain down and through the Worg, leaving a very harsh wound - but the Worg is still alive.

"Emotion: Anger. Irritation. Statement: Die already."


Sasha sees that Aodh is in trouble, so she prays for the healing embrace of the blue rose. At this point, she calls out healing for everyone BUT the two worgs that are wounded already.....


"Time will unwind your wounds," says Dubtle as he moves up to the damaged Aodh. Indeed, as he touches him, it seems as if time moves bckwards with his wound closing and leaving less surface area damgd in turn.


"Get offa im, ye mangy pup!" Ilmig smacks it again. This time it listens, and shows it's well-trained. It plays dead real good-like.


"NO! BAD DOG!" Zant growls at the houndbeast with his arms flailing while he's STILL GETTING BITTEN. OW. Blood goes everywhere, but-- so does that of the worg for that matter, when Ilmig comes for the save and smacks the bloody thing to kingdom come. "...Thank you!" is thus offered to the dwarf.

But that's hardly the end of it all. Zant's green eyes narrow to the worg coming for Ilmig-- and now's the time to repay the favor, it seems. With his foot stomping onto the ground once, he moves towards the beast in a motion that's almost like a slide, knees bending to lower him for a moment as he takes in a slow, deliberate breath that's exhaled out just as deliberately.

And then he launches himself from that lowered position-- and his arms no longer so much flail as they get launched towards the beast with powerful, focused motions in a barrage of fists that pummel across the hound, punch after punch after punch with a wild battlecry of "ORAORAORAORAORAORAORA!!!!" that ends with one final, cannonbal of a punch slamming into the beast's skull. Cue beast flying over and tumbling across the ground in a mess of broken bones.



DM:



The worgs continue their all-out assault, gnawing and gnashing and pulling and yipping their murderous glee to one another. That is, of course, until one of them is taught a new trick: play dead. Very funny, Fluffy. Now, shake a paw! ... shake... sh-shake a... FLUFFY!?

Alas, he is gone.

With a final yipe cut short by a blade, the first carcass meets the grassy floor of the glade with little in the way of drama or fanfare, skidding a ways with the impact of the fatal blow, bleeding bright on the luna-bathed meadow; unseen in the dark, the blossoms are marred by that dark ichor -- the unnatural gift of the unwelcomed fallen.

It is not long after that another falls to the ground as it is soundly buffetted by a flurry of fists, more damage than its heart could take pummelling into its body, leaving its internals in disarray, and its body littered with its fallen packmate.

Still, the battle rages on; there is no rest for the wicked, and never has this been so clear as now, in the frenzy of desperation, teeth scraping off metal plates, chipping and digging away at whatever they can find, even as the figure that had so comically fallen previous is raised to his feet, and the act... has lost its sense of humour.

With that axe lifted high, he lets out a piercing cry of rage at the sight of his treasured pets falling at the hands of those he had so artfully lured here. It is then that he begins his approach anew, no longer so clumsy of movement, the muck flicked away, and one gleaming eye that focuses with all the immediate threat it can muster.

"Now youse gunna pay... now youse gunna know HURTIN' REAL BAD!"

That can't be good.




"Warning: Damage. Ninety-eigh percent reduction in eff--" The words die off suddenly, as the radiant healing from Sasha and the reversal of time from Dubtle rapidly begin to heal him back to optimal levels of operation. With a low buzzing noise that could perhaps be a grunt, the War Golem rapidly rises back up onto its feet - having another set of wounds scored into its frame at the same time. As it struggles up and on to its feet, the spiked chain that Aodh swings around itself snaps out towards the Fifth Worg that comes charging on past towards Ilmig, scoring a deep wound in its side.

"Statement: Appreciation. Warning: Large-type Opponent. Exercise caution."


A worg has, it seems, decided to chow down on Ophelia. Why on earth? She isn't made of meat. Biting her can't possibly have been pleasant, what with how she's made of metal and crystal and the like. Still, a portion of her outer shell now has bite marks, a couple crystal tubes snap audibly and their contained fluid leaks out, and she lets out a sigh that might almost sound like pain.

"No," she intones, "You will not hurt those under my protection." She strides forwards, walking into range of the big bad man's weapons; said weapons clang off her shell, just as she walks up to drive her sword straight... into... the thin air beside the man, but no matter. She is hopefully now the target of his ire, and that's all that matters.


Sasha does not move, but continues to channel positive energy into her allies, so that they may continue to fight these evil puppies......and wish they were wolves.


"Hey, ye big stinkin' stack o' rotted snot!" Ilmig heads for the biggun hurtin folks. Too bad a pup gets hold of his leg. "Ey! Leggo!"


"No!"

Dubtle's reactions to Ophelia's grievous, thoiugh magically healing wounds, is topale considerable. Stomping his stubby khazad legs over there, he reached out toher and lays his hand across her back, briefly, causing the same reversal of her wounds that he did to Aodh earlier.


"--Oh crap," Zant yelps out upon the realization of the carnage going on over on the side of hte other half of the group. But no worries! Here he comes to the RESCUE! Even if he has to jump around Ilmig wrestling with a worg -- the guy's made with harder stuff anyone else here and he's HUGE, so he'll probably be fine anyway, right? Right? Ahem.

Either way, the man bundled in thick winter clothes speeds his way through the battlefield, and finally comes up right behind the giant of an axe-wielding man-- and launches a fist into his spine, a center of nerves, with another loud "ORA!"

But... It does hardly the kind of thing he expected to. Surely it bruises, but... the man's still standing. He's not even wobbling. Upon realizing this, with his fist still pressed into his opponent's back, Zant slowly swipes his eyes upwards along the man's length. A droplet of sweat drips along his forehead. "....Oh."



DM:



What's that?

No?

Eyesnack very obviously does not understand the concept of 'no' issued by the paladin that so bravely strides forward in defense of her battling companions, getting between them and the massive axe-wielding 'man' that's become enraged by the destruction of his beloved puppies, their mangled cries of anguish bringing new weight to the weapon he swings. First, when Ophelia comes toward him in that defiance, the thing swings wide -- but, it appears he was only gaining momentum for the true strike that quite nearly cleaves that glorious battle-shone figure with a wrenching shriek of metal on metal.

"YOU NO HURT PUPPIES!" He bellows in foul-breathed retort that washes over her like the foulest of gently lapping waves. Gently lapping rot-fish infested waves... and hot garbage.

That vile aroma continues right along to meet Dubtle in his scurried approach to lend his own aid like the amalgam of strange cuisine and week old baby diaper bins on a hot day, all contained in a mold-eaten cardboard box. In short; it's rank, and it's ushered toward the witch on a stream of slick spittle that clings to what seems like every strand that makes its home in that long, long beard of his. No amount of showering gets that kind of stink out.

Especially not when you're already a dwarf.

When Ilmig runs onward in his attempts to support his comrades, the worg that had been battling with him gives chase, digging deep into the back of his hamstring, dragging him down to the ground with him to engage in the cuddle struggle from hell. That snarling is only its way of saying 'I care'.

The worg that Aodh scores a hit on with that wicked chain wobbles unsteadily, but is soon back and ready to have himself another go; he snaps at the air, its stance sinking lower down in a challenge that cannot be ignored, nor denied. Apparently it's getting ideas. The sort of ideas you find on Tasty.com when you're drunk, it's late, and those really ARE ingredients you have at home!

No. There's that word again.

What does it -mean-?

When Zant comes flying in to deliver a fist to the back of the big man's head, he grunts, his head jerking forward from the force of the impact, head slowly turning toward Zant as that one eye goes large and grows wild, pupil expanding with the rush of adrenaline that comes from excitement.

He gone done it now.




keeping her focus upon healing, Sasha continues her prayers to give healing to her allies.....


"Statement: Destroy the large one." offers Aodh from the back. If only because he's currently attempting to deal with two Worgs that have decided to keep nipping at him. Fluid and oil leaks from various deep bite impressions that have been left upon his frame - and he keeps whorling and swinging the large spiked chain that he grasps in both hands - or one hand, considering the chain is coming out of one hand itself.

The spike comes stabbing out towards one Worg, who is just a mite too fast for him to hit. It impacts into the earth with an ominous 'thump' - and he promptly yanks it back to continue letting it swing. "Alert: Large-type enemy is exceptionally dangerous. Caution."


The clockwork paladin is standing right in the path of the raging man and his gigantic axe, and while she might not possess a sense of smell and therefore be immune to the effects of his odour, she is certainly not similarly protected from the might of his axe. The sturdy construction of her outer shell proves inadequate against hte ferrocity of his assault; her armored carapaced sunders under the blow, gears and dislodged, and her crystal innards crack and shatter. She drops down to her knees under the savage attempt to destroy her there and then. Across her vision warnings flash; under a bright red WARNING and a CRITICAL DAMAGE a list scrolls past detailing damaged and destroyed components. CRITICAL FAILURE IMMINENT is the final conclusion.

Sasha's channelling, and Dubtle's restorative magic clear off much of the list, as her bits and pieces find their way back to the condition they ought to be in. The warnings recede, and the paladin looks up at the behemoth before her. The flesh and blood heroes around her are still under threat; there would be no change in strategy.

"Surrender!" she declares, rising once more to her feet; she changes her grip on her sword before whirling it in a wide, upwards arc, cutting a slash across the man's chest. "End this bloodshed and we will show mercy!"


Ilmig smacks the one that bit 'im with his axe. "Git down pup!" Then he challenges the biggum. "Come fight some'n yer own size, ye pansy!"


"Hey! You!"

Eyesnack is Dubtle's next target. He spins towards him and raises his hand, fist covere din glwoing green energy that seems to lance out and stike him square in the side.

It has no discernible effect.


"Uh... H-...hi...?" Zant mumbles out sheepishly while the giant man turns to face him. Sweatdrops the size of bullets flow along his face. "I don't suppose you'd like to just tal--" The suggestion is not even given time to be finished before the giant axe comes his way, and with a yelp, he just BARELY manages to lean his body to the side and out of the way of PAIN AND DEATH. "Whoa. WHOA. Just--" He starts to say, but then the axe is suddenly right on him again from the rebound of the motion, and cutting right across his midsection. "--Kh!" Blood spurts out profusely from the gash created through the heavy winter coat, and the darker-skinned man starts falling backwards. He's fast--!

He's not just about to let himself fall, though. With his eyes snapping wide open again, his balance turns over again completely, and his feet stomp onto the ground to return him to standing upright-- and moving towards the giant again, even though the motion causes another large spatter of blood to burst from the wound just created on him. Fists curl tight. No choice here-- he might go down before he manages to do what he intends, but with the threat the giant poses alongside the pack of worgs, he has to at least *try* to jolt him into a momentary distraction, even if his intent on disturbing the nerves doesn't work as intended.

"--Ora." A twist of the Truth-Sayer's bleeding body, and a fist slams *hard* into the giant's solar plexus. Trying his damnest to strike the air out of the man. But he doesn't wait to see if that does so. His other foot shuffles forward to carry him even closer, and as the fist draws back again, both his arms turn into a rapid blur of motion again of throwing punches into the giant's torso. "Ora!" One fist against a kidney. "ORA!" Another into the midsection again. "ORAORAORA!" The effort is nearly enough to bruise his *own* fists-- and at the end of it all, even though he's jostled the giant, he's *still* in a worse condition, and nearly falls over forward after the rapid effort of motion, blood spurting both from his own stomach and mouth.



DM:



Those that remain of the pack continue trying to eat a war golem of unusual size bit by bit, in what seems a winning battle -- if a bit time consuming. Hah. Get it? Cause clockwork... golems...

Ahem.

... Aaaanyway...

The battle rages on, and with Eyesnack's attention now shifted to the monk, it's time for some avid ass-beating to commence. That axe is lifted in a whirling swing that just skirts by the winter-clothed man, scuffing through his fabrics without harm, until it comes arcing back up for a second surprisingly skilled blow that cuts deep through the meaty bits of him, spraying the paladin on the other side with a hot smattering of fresh paint. Er, blood. Really, it's quite a stunning accentuation to her natural colourisation, but it's likely not the look she was going for.

He flinches only momentarily as Dubtle's magics settle in, mostly shaken off by the time all is said and done, and doing little to distract the massive creature's dreadful focus on Zant -- most especially when he starts going at him like a fist of the north star reject on PCP. A chorus of grunts and growls end in a howl of anguish, drawn into a roar of mindless rage.

With this act, Ilmig's words are little more than muffled trumpetting, and his challenge is utterly ignored.

Ophelia so bravely continues her fight, and that stalwart stance is something that should be admired by more than a few men of great faith and lacking action. But, even so, even with her blade scoring a strike through his thick hide, even with her clear words and honourable conduct, her demands for surrender, her offer of mercy, they are nothing but swallowed up by the dense thicket that surrounds them, kept in the dark like some shameful secret.

Though quite clearly nearly counted out with that last vicious round, it still seems ready for a fight, and Zant is the only opponent it sees with that great glassy eye, hemmoraged as it is, spidered through with burst vessels and bloodied advance, bright with strain at the outer edge. Even through this all, despite the pain and clear and present danger, that axe is lifted once more, as fierce at the last as he was at the first.




"Statement: Able combatants detected." states Aodh, towards his own party. Some sort of backhanded compliment of their fighting ability, considering they're fighting a giant creature with one eye and an axe as big as his torso. With a twist of his form in a more agile movement than normally permitted from the War Golem's frame, he brings the Spiked Chain up and about in a great loop, before catching it under his elbow and sending it spearing through the torso of Worg 2, impailing it to the ground momentarily before he yanks the spiked and weighted tip of his chain back out.

He revolves his form to pay more attention to Worg 3, now that he is in a more one-on-one situation. He swings the spiked chain in a harsh circle, sending a spray of blood around the War Golem. "Emotion: Happiness. Statement: One down. One to go." He states in that harsh, uncaring tone. "Implication: You will die here." Of course, the War Golem doesn't know if the Worg understands him or not, but he doesn't seem to care much.


Ophelia's brief stint of being the focus of the enemy, thereby taking his ire off those she was built to protect, and actually hitting him while she's at it, seems to be over. She swings her sword in a wide arc and cuts through nothing but air; inside the confines of her own mind she makes a note that she really must make adjustments to all of her servos, since everything seems to be entirely off.

"Leave him be," she declares, sensing that the one-eyed man's attention is shifting to Zant. "Harm him not, I am your foe!" Well, likely to no avail, but worth a try.


"Sit. Stay. Play-" Ilmig smacks the pup again with his axe. "Dead. There ye go! Good pup!"


"You! YOu stop that! Right now! Stop moving so we don't have to kill you any further!" Duble points a finger at Eyesnack.

Absolutely nothing happens.


Sasha is still channeling healing energy to keep everyone upright. Sadly, her latest one is sort of weak and Zant goes thud.


It's rather unfortunate, that when Zant does straighten himself up from the post-assault slump-- he does it only in time to see the axe coming for him again.

This time he can't find the strength in his body to move out of the way. THe blade of the axe slices across his front again to create another profusely-bleeding gash to his body-- and then comes along all over again. And sinks damn near deep enough into him to reach his spine and cut him in half.

"...Ah."

A hand rises up, slowly, while the axe is getting drawn away again from him, trying to grab at... something, anything, for balance.

But he doesn't manage it. Instead, while blood sprays from his most recent, obscenely grievous wound, air leaves his lungs and his vision fades completely.

In the very next instant, the man's slumping down onto his side on the ground, limbs gone completely limp, and the snowy ground around him painted crimson with the wide splatter of blood.



DM:



C-C-C-COMBO BREAKER!

It is with no small measure of ferocity that Zant is subsequently repaid for his artful ministrations; that axe comes whistling through the night air in horrendous cleave, spackling the ground with a gouting spray of blood as the monk's abdomen is opened by its cruelly biting edge, acrid breath wheezing in fetid flow as it billows from his monstrous maw in visible whorls that dance as frost in starlight -- one simple beautiful moment within the grotesque reality of what comes next. With a great, and wretched heave of his blade, that curved and bevelled impliment draws with it the internal spooling that, when properly coiled, keeps the human condition in the black, dragging him to blood-muddied earth with calamatous strike.

Bleeding from his nose and mouth, that glassy eye turns toward the gathered heroes with a sort of sadistic glee that gives way to the broken and crooked smile from which comes a gurgled, strangled laughing that shakes the fat of its belly in a sluggish, slick rolling. A filthy hand lifts to wipe a combination of blood and drool from the corner of his mouth, smearing it over his skin in some sick semblance of warpaint as his attentions once more find the war golem paladin and her silver-spun words, mockery in every long-drawn gasp, every twitch of his lips, each choked spewing of nefarious mirth.

"You..." Cough, tainted spittle bathing her frame. "Next."

Even still, the worgs that he had fought to keep continue their onslaught, nipping and biting and ... dying. Until there is only one left, the battlefield littered with a sacrifice to the balance of this place, and those that keep it so tightly in slowly loosening grip.

Yet, no matter how dire, the keen of sight will notice that despite the damage to his frame, Zant still breathes ever so shallowly. Though life slips, no matter how slippery the mortal coils may be, the will of a warrior is as tempered steel clutching a heart of flame impetuous.

This flame is Zant's guttering legacy, and one last breeze should do the trick.





There's something entirely awful about getting tripped by a Worg. Is it the bite? Is it the yank? Is it the fact that he's rapidly descending towards earth with all the beautiful speed that only gravity can provide? That's probably a big one. With the thunk of his frame hitting the ground, Aodh has a momentary reboot of his systems. "Warning: Ninety-eight percent damage to efficiency." Comes the monotone, as while he's attempting to pick himself back up, the Worg once again gores him with its awful fangs of awful.

Sparks fly from the rent wounds in his chassis, as he swings the spiked chain in a sharp gesture - but a twitch in his motions causes the chain to fly off into the air - until he then forcefully yanks the chain back and proceeds to continue swinging it. "Statement: Bugger."


"Just a little more." Sasha says as her prayers continue....getting Aodh and Zant to stand, at least......


An innocent man lays on the ground, bleeding out his apparent last! Ophelia stands motionless for a moment, and if she were a being of flesh and blood, her jaw might be aslack; and then the one-eyed monster is speaking of who will be next. Ophelia barely hears the details. Situation Critical flashes across her vision. This must end.

"YOU SHALL NOT HARM ANYONE ELSE!" She declares, her voice ringing out powerfully as she steps forwards, grasping her sword firmly and standing implacable, no matter the damage inflicted upon her that still lingers. "By the power and authority vested in me by almight Daeus, YOU SHALL NOT HARM ANOTHER!"

Ophelia's weapon takes on a bright glow; she winds up, setting a feint, and then whirls her blade in a wide arc. This time, her servos function properly. This time, she strikes as though she means it; and this time, the one eye'd man's head comes free from his shoulders, tumbling to the ground at the clockwork paladin's feet.


Splat!

A bag full of a thick and quickly hardening glue splashes into the remaining worg. Dubtle looks proud of himself. "I DID IT," he says, perhaps more shocked than anyone else present.


Ilmig never got to the biggun, but at least iSnot ain't hurtin no one no more. He goes for the stuck pup and smacks it hard with his axe. "Down boy!"



Zant's bleeding profusely. Very much so. And for a moment, he remains down on the ground-- but then the healing energy starts flowing through him.

"...uuuugggghhh."

With his hand curling into a fist first, he hasn't even fully gathered up all of his consciousness before he starts pushing himself up from the snowy, bloodstained ground, in a mess of torn clothing and his own blood. And barely even standing up fully before he's moving on to try to stumble his way along. Try to help still. STubborn as he is.


"Warning: ERROR percent damage to efficiency. ERROR. Repairs applied. Eighty-Five percent damage to efficiency." comes the warning and blurting tone from Aodh. Briefly saved from an immediate BSOD, the War Golem responds with a heafty swing of its Spiked Chain. The force of the motion is assisted with a twiching jerk of servos that send the spiked chain's tip into the Worg.

When it is yanked out, it takes something vital with it. Aodh doesn't really know what it is - but it goes *squrt* when he slams his heafty boot down on it. The Worg goes down. "Statement: Victory. Observation: All Units survived encounter. Operation: Glade-Clense is complete. Mission Accomplished. Observation: Extensive repair required. Unit will initiate shutdown in ten minutes."



DM:



And the world is saved, once again.

Sightless, lifeless, Eyesnack's head rolls the few feet it takes to rest it with a soft bump against the paladin's shin before it rocks to an unsettling stop, staring out at the world with more venomous spite now than it ever could have had whilst living. With the worg and the cyclops all felled by blade and by fist, the meadow becomes a place of peace once more. The moon bares down on this place as silent witness, shining more brightly with lumbering shadow and harrowing howls no longer tainting this simple grove.

When the party has recovered well enough to head back out the way it came, there is transportation waiting, and a note that reads simply: Dancing shadows guide you home.

This is, apparently, the only notification that the Ranger scout that had brought you here has witnessed your deeds and is satisfied with the outcome. How trecherous a path we walk, the adventuring breed -- how fragile the balance that so oft goes unnoticed, tended by people that go the same.




~ Fin