Post by tombowings on May 26, 2011 10:26:45 GMT -6
At this point, the power of Alexandro'sventriloquism spell has waned and the sorcerer is reduced, one against, to a mere mortal as the eldritch energy is released back into the depths of the Old Ones. [1d20=19] Luckily, none of Alexandro's soul has departed as well.
Post by tombowings on May 26, 2011 10:46:17 GMT -6
Remember, Alexandro, being a sorcerer allows you power over undead creatures. Being lawfully aligned, you have the power to force them to flee or be turned to dust as a cleric of equal level. This ability could be useful if facing the ghouls again.
Last Edit: May 26, 2011 10:47:04 GMT -6 by tombowings
Actæa flits back into the storage room. "All quiet in the sewers at present," she says; "and, while I'm as keen to move on to the palace as anyone, simple commonsense dictates we should not risk our escape being blocked by a horde of vipers. Literally."
She turns a greedy eye to the piled crates and boxes. "Mayhap our friend's equipment lies within one of these. And other spoils besides. If someone else would care to take the rear guard for a moment..?"
And she proceeds to rifle carefully through the boxes, alert for traps or any other unpleasant surprises.
Post by tombowings on May 26, 2011 13:09:55 GMT -6
Having already searched one of the boxes for traps, Actæa is reasonablely sure there are none to be found. She is nonetheless on her guard, however. Removing a cold dagger from the leather scabbard on his belt, Actæa incertes the mind metal tip into the fine opening between lid and body of the nearest decrepit crate. With a brisk, downward thrust, the lip comes ajar, releasing a strong scent of eastern perfume. Within the create is a heap of dried incense.
Systematically going through each of the crate, this is what she finds:
3 crates of incense
A crate of vials and glass jars filled with fleshy masses persevered in a yellow-tinted liquid
7 black robes and hoods
A clay mortar and pedal
2 crates of provisions--semi-fresh vegetables and stale bread
A open-lidded crate filled with a leather backpack, lantern, a few daggers on a leather harness, set of tarnished plate mail, and cloth coin purse.
Post by tombowings on May 26, 2011 13:17:42 GMT -6
The soft echo rattling chains can once again be heard from within the depths of the cultist's lair. [2d6=4] And they're getting louder with every passing moment. An inhuman roar sounds sounds, followed by the crack of a leather whip.
"Come, my pretties," screeches a high pitched yell, "the flesh of crafty scavengers awaits to fill you fanged mouths with the muscled flesh of warriors. Come! Come! We will not be humiliated; may the servants of Terminal Succor prevail."
Last Edit: May 26, 2011 13:18:39 GMT -6 by tombowings
Post by steelcaress on May 27, 2011 6:51:30 GMT -6
Alexandro eyes the crates, then his eyes go wide as his glance settles on the open-lidded crate. "Aye!" he says, as he settles next to the crate containing the daggers.
[OOC: If he has time to put the plate mail on, he does so. If not, he simply straps the bandoliers of throwing daggers across his chest.]
He grabs his things and begins arranging them strategically on his person.
"Since our foe mentioned ghouls, I may as well mention I have power that could force them to fly our presence."
He checks the heft of his coin purse to make sure none of it was taken, then when he is certain most of what he has is in order, he stands, stretches, and strokes his chin. "It sounds like you are attempting to enter the Palace. I owe you my life, and I would be remiss if I did not attempt to repay that debt. I would be honored if you would let me travel with you and assist you as I am able."
Adrastos unsheathes his blade, ready to spring to action. He will move to the right of Yngvar, staying close to to the eastern wall where the sounds are emanating from (though he will not be directly in front of the door as he wishes to surprise whatever comes out of there).
He will engage any enemy that he sees, preferably attacking it from behind or from its side.
Post by spectresghost on May 27, 2011 8:12:33 GMT -6
Boro moves back up the stairs, keeping an eye on the room below. "If we can block the door to the stairs somehow, we could continue to the palace. Otherwise I hope your power is enough to hold the ghouls at bay."
Magne replies, "If we all go through that door (pointing to the door in the upper part of the map) and hide when ghouls go past, then we avoid them completely. Of course... we don't know what behind other door."
Post by tombowings on May 27, 2011 10:52:48 GMT -6
All of Alexandro's possessions seem to be in order--apparently the cultists aren't the more organized of villains. With the assistance of Turin and Faryd, Alexandro is able to dawn his iron breastplate and grieves in a relatively short amount of time.
Actæa takes up a couple of jars of the preserved remains. "If no-one objects..?" she asks, and (assuming no-one does), she empties them onto the floor in front of the door from which the sounds are emanating. She then darts back to the door leading to the storeroom, positioning herself storeroom-side of the doorframe, crossbow at the ready...
Post by tombowings on May 27, 2011 13:09:52 GMT -6
The noises suddenly come to a stop. Without the clattering of chains and roars of mangled flesh, only silence permeates within the chambers. A moment passes. Two moments. At the third, the silent is broken by a loud, twisted shout, "NOW!"
The sound of two doors bursting open resonates and reverberates throughout the alcove--the first from within the hall, the second from the alter room.
Those within the hall--Magne, Yngvar, Boro, Brennus, Adastros, and Actæa--see three gnarled and rotting men burst into the room, filling it with a nauseating stench. Behind them stands a large, metal clad and hooded figure holding a whip in one hand and a mace in the other.
Meanwhile, Turin, and Faryd have just finished donning Alexandro's platemail. They see the previously previously unopened door across the alter room fly off its hinges. Two hooded figures with bows stand in either side of a monstrous abomination. Clad in torn chains, the creature appears to be a plethora of human body parts smashed and sown together into a hideous glob of flesh.
Hearing the door behind her splinter, Actæa winces behind her mask. "Oh, bugger," she murmurs softly before turning her gaze and her crossbow on the threat to the rear. "Trouble behind! A couple of good swords would be welcome!" she shouts over her shoulder, (more in hope than expectation...)
Quick as she can, Actæa moves back into the storeroom and snatches up one of the set of black robes found earlier. "Perhaps our nasty playmates are trained against attacking those dressed as their masters," she mutters as she pulls the robes over her own...
Post by tombowings on May 31, 2011 15:27:30 GMT -6
Magne, Yngvar, Boro, Adastros, and Actæa
In the Lower Chamber...
Magne howls and takes a swing at the nearest ghoul, [1d20=14; 1d6+1=6] plunging his halberd into its foul breast as it crumples slowly to the ground. Battle axe in his, Yngvar engages the second ghoul, [1d20=13; 1d6+1=4] and with a massive swing rips away its decrepit arm. Boro is next to enter the fray, [1d20=11] but his curse does not help his blade hit its mark. The ghoul then strikes out against Yngvar, but is pushed away by the fighting-man's trusty shield.
With the ghouls already preoccupied, Adrastos makes his way to the armored priest. [1d20=19; 1d6+1=2] While his sword cuts flesh, the slice is but a surface wound. Retaliating, the armored foe brandishes his mace [1d20=2], but his blow is parried by the quick sword-arm of Adrastos.
Alexandro descends the stairs, and begins mutter the word of darkness unknown to world of the Hyborians. [2d6=2] They do not however, see to have the indented--if any--effect.
Last Edit: May 31, 2011 15:34:20 GMT -6 by tombowings
Post by tombowings on May 31, 2011 15:44:19 GMT -6
In the Alter Room...
Actæa finds and dons the black robes of the a cultist. We shall soon find out what tricks our cunning rogue has up her sleeve.
Meanwhile, Brennus lets an arrow fly, ducking behind one of the wooden crates. [1d20=17; 1d6+1=2] The arrow soars and impales itself [1d6=4] into the gibbering mass of flesh.
Turin and Faryd look to one another and draw their daggers [2d6=9] to test their bravery and brawn. A pelt of arrows descends upon them [2d20=3, 20; 1d6=3]. Turin is missed, the arrow instead impacting a wooden crate, but Faryd falls to the ground, having taken the missile squarely in the gut. It is uncertain whether his life remains his own.
The fleshy mass begins walking slowly into the storage room towards Turin, who strikes out with his puny dagger [2d6=5], only to be overcome by a fit of fight. Turning to run, the fleshy mass reaches out to grab the panic stricken man [1d20=17; 5d6=18], and crushes him into the ground, snapping Turin's brittle neck.