Unraveling the scroll now in her hand, Bergdis quickly and deftly intones the arcane syllables she'd inked on the old sheet in a clear and concise manner and then without a moment's hesitation, she steps over the edge of the gaping hole and gently floats down, like a feather falling of a table on a still summer day, water rushing loudly all around her. Silently, she intones a prayer to the Hidden One...


[Private to DM Lobo: OOC: Cast feather fall from scroll and step into hole.
Protection from Evil: 3 turns]
This message was last edited by the player at 02:12, Thu 19 Mar 2009.

   "Just great" growled Jostyn with anything but what sounded like a happy voice. He rushes to the edge of the well-shaft and cautiously peers over the edge, clenching his lifeless hands into fists from frustration. With the escape of the necromancer and the loss of his quest artifact, one had to wonder if the Thayan knight would remain an undead forever, or would he crumble to dust while his tormented spirit wanders aimlessly?
   Plus, Eirik jumped in with his magic sword.

   "I hope that's levitation you've cast!" he shouts at the retreating form of the witch.

   "Don't come back empty-handed!" he adds in a slightly pleading tone.

"I could do that too," she mutters sourly, watching Bergdis descend down the mine shaft effortlessly.  "If I wanted to."

Pulling out a length of finely made silk rope and attaching the rope's grappling hook securely to the mouth of the tunnel, she thrusts the rope towards Jostyn.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" she growls.
[Private to GM:
OOC:
16:32, Today: Cecania Cormaeril rolled 14 using 1d20+4. Use Rope check. (Success!)]

Eirik fell, legs apart, arms spread wide like the wings of the eagle, to slow and steady his descent. Yet the air still rushed past him, buffeting him, pushing him around, cold against his face, whipping his hair. He gritted his teeth, flexed his knuckles, intent on his prey. Diving, swooping, falling...

He was still in his frenzy, the blood-lust that came over all warriors in the heights of battle. Reflexes faster, strength greater, senses sharper. So he became aware of every detail around him. The patterns and shapes of the dirt and stone walls of the shaft, a collapsed burrow, roots peeking out alongside earthworms and bugs, all that had survived the starving of the land. From above the spray of sand and flecks of water and small stones against his skin, alternately stinging hard and refreshing cool. The roar of the waterfall as the river spilled into the shaft beside him, seeming to slow to a halt as he approached its speed, matched it, then accelerated past it. The inky darkness below, full of the unknown, and silence...

The hole was much deeper than he'd thought. He'd hit the far distant water as if it was solid stone.

He didn't panic. He wasn't afraid. The experience was strangely calming; this must be how an animal felt when taken by a predator. No choice, no fear; his life became a single line, leading straight down, his path clear, his course set.

He was a Rashemi warrior, and would meet his death with dignity, with honour, with courage. His deeds would be remembered, told by his friends above, the tale of how he gave his life to save his homeland. Warriors would toast his name with jhuild in the lodges, and in his village. His legend would live on, even though he would not.

On the other hand, he was really pissed.

The skalds always said a man's life flashed before his eyes in the moments before death. It didn't seemed to be happening yet, so he tried it now. Childhood in the village, running, laughing, playing, with Vash and the rest of his brothers and sisters. His mother, kind and caring, and her delicious home-made sjorl, fletching arrows in her lap. His father, big, hairy, like the bear, fearsome in battle, gentle and good-natured, blackened from the forge.

He was out playing in the forest with Vash when a blizzard swept up, the worst of the season. They'd gotten lost and seperated by heavy snows, and thought they would surely die. In the driving snow, he'd searched for his brother for ages, calling his name. He found him, unconsious and almost blue. Fearing him dead, he hugged him tight and crouched over him. The snow piled up over the both of them, and they were buried. His parents said they'd found them long after, Vash alive, but he was thought dead, until he'd awoken, preserved by the cold.

Then, growing up, hunting, training, fighting, hearing the tales, the contests of strength and endurance. A swim across an ice-cold lake, a run across the forest, a climb up a rocky cliff, often winning. He only had to keep going, to best himself.

His first major hunt, tracking a snow tiger, all alone. The others said it was too dangerous, alone and inexperienced. He'd ignored them. He wanted to show his bravery and skill, and snuck away. But the cat was hunting him, pouncing out of a tree, knocking him to the ground, clawing him badly. He fended it off as best
he could, though it bit his hand. In a sudden rage, he shoved his fist down the tiger's throat. As it choked and spluttered, he ran off. Later, he was scolded and also praised. He took the snow tiger as his totem animal.

Now he saw Yuldra, his first love, a stolen kiss at the village feast, after his first drink of jhuild. Her green eyes sparkling, laughing. Her whispers through sweet lips into his ear. The touch of her body, her scent, their love.

Later, his dajemma. Pushed out into the world like hatchling, he didn't want to go. Leaving his parents, Vash, Yuldra. Vowing to return. He'd never see them again, he realised; so close, so far. He saw the wonders of the world, cities, civilization, the ocean, the desert. Drink and gambling and bar-room brawls, adventuring in forgotten tombs, the low point of his life. The first time he'd slain a person, a simple goblin raider, hardly heroic, ashamed.

Until Navarra, the Witch in disguise, tricking and humiliating the drunken warrior. Their duel, sword against spell. He still said it was a draw. Yet she dragged him home anyway, made him her bodyguard, and made him Rashemi again.

Finally their quest: an endless trek across a broken land. The undead, the talking plants and hapless gnolls, the nymphs of the lake, the witches of the Red Tree, great storm, the Thayans and their deceits. Relgar and Vicril and Graros and even Harto too, and Bergdis and Cecania, though he barely knew them. And Navarra. Their jibes and curses, hiding their feelings. Holding her close against the oncoming storm, stealing a kiss as she rode off on her mission. He'd never seen the Witch's face, and never would now.

Then the battle, slaying the earth elementals, pursuing the Scarred One, leaping down the pit into the bowels of the earth...

Oh, right, he'd just done that bit.

Finally Eirik sighted the Scarred One, crashing back to reality, realising it had only been a handful of brief heartbeats since he'd leaped in after him. There he was, a tattered cloud, shaped like a man, dim against the waterfall mist and darkness. No time for clever striking, no solid creature to grab and strangle, just grip the blade tight with both hands, point it down, keep falling.

A cry escaped his lips, lost in the rush and roar. The Scarred One came closer.

And in an instant Eirik was on him, through him, falling away from him. His sword had cut right through the cloudy form, shredding it to wisps. Even now he hoped by all the gods that he could cut the man.

He looked up, aim and balance lost, tumbling, rolling, falling through the air. The Scarred One was made of flesh now, amidst a cloud of blood. The magic of the blade had ruined his spell, and Eirik hoped he had no other.

That sword, enchanted, shape-changing, intelligent he supposed. The bane of stone, Jostyn had said. It had torn through the earth elementals so well. Bane of stone.

Almost before he thought the words, Eirik thrust out, wildly, hopefully. The tip of the great blade jammed into the solid stone wall, skidded out, leapt back in again. For an age Eirik dragged it down the shaft-wall, harder, deeper, the blade hungrily chewing through stone like it was sjorl. Rubble, dirt, sharp stones rained down on him from above, stinging his eyes, cutting his skin, battering his flesh and bones. The wall dragged up beneath his legs, belly and face, grinding though chain, leather, cloth and skin. His whole body alive with cold fire, every joint and part screaming its agony. He was screaming too, barely comprehending it, an animal rage. It was dark, he was probably blind, and still his world grew darker as death approached. He only had to not give up, not give in, roaring in the face of death.

Suddenly, he stopped, his joints almost popping with the impact. His hands gripped the hilt so tight he feared it would shatter, that his hand-bones would break. Perhaps they had. But somehow, he'd held, gasping, coughing, lungs so full of dust he felt like he was breathing mud.

Something flashed past, another jolt. It was hanging by his dangling leg, slipped down, grabbed his boot, clutching tight.

Eirik looked down, despite the pain, squinting through ruined eyes. Illuminated in the far distant light, was a red ruin of a man. The Scarred One. His face, his whole body, a mass of scars, old and fresh, frightfully hideous. But, underneath it all, this vile necromancer, this destroyer of Rashemen, was a pathetic little man. He too clutched tight to life, just as Eirik did. He respected that. But too bad. He was pulling him down, his fingers were slipping from the hilt.

The Scarred One had the magic stone, he remembered. How much would it weigh? Yet with both hands desperately clinging to the sword-hilt, there was no way he could reach the mage to retrieve it, not without falling to his own doom. Either way, the Stone was lost, but more important, he had to make sure the Scarred One was in no position to use it.

Eirik kicked the stone wall, hard as he could, breaking a toe through his thick boots, smashing the mage's hand into the hard surface. Again, and again. Eirik grunted with every impact, heard the mage cry out. His hand was mashed, a meaty claw Yet the man held tight, clutching to life with all of a necromancer's knowledge of its boundaries with death. Perhaps he was already dead, his desperation extending into undeath.

He kicked, he shook his foot, trying to lose the dead weight. The mage held tight. Finally, struggling against his failing grip, his aching bones, he raised his leg as high as he was able. It was like lifting his father's anvil. He spat dirt, blood and a broken tooth from his mouth, and forced out the words "Stitch this!" then swung his leg in a great arc.

The mage lost his grip at last, was flung off, hurtling through the air, bouncing off the walls of the shaft, falling down, down, in the darkness, towards the rushing river that would be as hard as stone.

Eirik found himself hanging there, alone, in the darkness, beaten and bloodied beyond all recognition, and somehow, surprisingly, not dead, though probably dying. He could barely see the top of the shaft. He supposed all he had to do now was choose when to fall down. Then the warrior-maidens of Tempus would raise him up to Warrior's Rest, and the Lord Of Battles would honour his bravery and courage. See you soon.

He remembered he had a healing potion at his belt, but he'd never be able to reach it, not without letting go of his sword. He found himself laughing. Salvation was in his pocket, yet he could not get at it. If it wasn't already shattered into a million pieces. So close, so far.

He laughed again, a mouth full of gravel. He remembered the Prophecy of Tarin Two-Bears: Blood follows blood unto stone, and from stone new blood emerges. All blood which enters Rashemen unwelcomed is enemy, but not all blood shed on the soil of Rashemen shall be enemy. Look to the bloody blades, not robes, for aid. He guessed it had come true; he had followed the Scarred One into the stone.


OOC: Attack (the wall) 26, Damage 28, assuming elemental bane
Reflex 25
This message was last edited by the player at 05:00, Fri 20 Mar 2009.

   Jostyn leans over the precipice once more, looking down into the long well before him. Had he been a man of flesh and blood still, he might have been tempted to spit within the shaft, hoping perhaps to hit either the witch or the barbarian with it on the way down. As it was, he settled for giving the nearer lady mage a dose of reality.
   "You must me daft, wench, to think I'd believe myself safe with your hand on the other end of that rope. As one who was most recently retrieved from the Gemstone Wand's soul cages - an artifact possessed by one of my own underlings - I can scarcely imagine anything but seething hatred and contempt for one such as me running through your veins." He made a feral smile then, his eyes narrowing as a thought came to him.
   "Yet your delivery of that suggestion was nearly flawless. A lesser man might have accepted your invitation out of hand. You could have quite a future as a chief concubine to one of the zulkirs, if you ever decide to cast your lot with my homeland..." His sinister chuckle reminds her that their period of brief alliance is nearing its conclusion quite rapidly.


ooc: ah the fun playing a LE NPC. :)

Relgar is closing up to the surface with his climbing, seeing Jostyn and Cecania he shouts; "Hey! Pity the animal a little and help it drag me up! I am not a mage but know summoned beasts do not often last long!"

"Sure thing!" shouts Cecania, hauling on the halfling's rope along with the hippogriff.

"See anything down there?" she called out as she pulled on the rope.

He was still hanging there, and he still wasn't dead. He hadn't planned for this. "Uh..."

Relgar climbs quickly up with Cecania helping him and said; "Just to say this hole is damn freaking deep! Also I could not reach accursed necromancer before rope stopped me but Eirik seem have got good chance hit him. But they both disappeared quickly out of sight."

   Bergdis floats down to the barbarian's side, deftly avoiding the waterfall that rushes past them both, and as she approaches, realizes something very quickly about what Jostyn said above: this *isn't* a leveitate spell. The earth elementals did an excellent job in their task of tunnelling, leaving no shelf or ledge upon which she can alight, no exposed root or rocky outcropping on which she can hang.
   Thinking fast - and in no small amount of desperation - she grabs the one thing available to her empty hands as she passes Eirik - his clothing. A grunt of discomfort bordering pain escapes his lips, and both see his fingers, already aching from the strain of keeping his own muscular frame aloft for so long, slowly creep toward losing their tenuous grip on the magical blade's pommel.

[Private to Eirik: Just mention something about the potion of healing, have her give it to you in your own post, and then let the healing begin! :)]

Eirik grunted, cursed, as another dead weight clutched to him, straining his arms, dragging him down. Had the Scarred One returned? "You again?" he spat. "Time to... end this!" He nearly threw himself bodily off the sword, hoping to wrestle the Scarred One all the down into oblivion and the pits of hell, when he craned his neck over his shoulder to get a glimpse of his foe.

"Witch?"  he said, weakly, realizing. Was he about to doom the Witch too? He tried to pull himself back into a better grip on the sword-hilt, taking all their combined weight on the muscles of his fingers. If was not Rashemi, he would have fallen already.

"Healing potion!" he gasped, words slurred and broken. "On... belt! Then climb up... hold the sword." The whole mass of the pair of them slipped a finger-bone's length downwards. "Now!"

   Bergdis, noting the obvious danger of the situation should she delay even a moment to rebuff the barbarian for his curt tone [as she likely would have done had they been on solid ground, above], quickly and dutifully does as she's told.
   Scant seconds later the warm glow of healing magic is coursing through Eirik's veins, returning his strength to him, as his witch pours his healing potion over his open lips and down his throat.
   Renewed, he can't help but grin at his precarious position now, and the way fate often seems to toy with him.

Bergdis saw a face was that bloody with cuts and bruises, eyes blackened and swollen, a torn lip, a missing tooth. Yet somehow, he smiled weakly as she splashed the healing potion down his mouth.

Myriad cuts and bruises healed over, and other injuries like broken bones and internal bleeding were repaired. Eirik's body burnt with coldness as it happened, and he felt itchy all over.

Stronger now, Eirik clutched tighter to the sword-hilt, heaving himself and Bergdis up into a better position. He could hang on for a few minutes more, at least.

"The Scarred One is dead." he declared, knowing that this was what the witch had come to check. But he'd not seen the body, broken and lifeless, not taken the head from the shoulders to make sure. "If not, then he's in no state to threaten Rashemen again."

He grunted, sighed, the battle-frenzy beginning to fade, the tiredness setting in. "Now what?"

OOC: Potion of Cure Moderate Wounds 2d8+3: 19 hitpoints healed
That leaves just below the threshold for the Berserker Strength feature. It has no end condition, so technically Eirik is still in the equivalent of Rage. I might still need it, but I understand if you want me to shut it down now the battle's over.
[Private to Bergdis: Sorry, I didn't realise that Bergdis was being NPCed.]]

   Relgar steps off the rope with the help of his friends - and Jostyn, finally - allowing the beleagured hippogriff a chance to alight wearily on the ground opposite them. Vicril has just enough time to stroke the beast's feathery mane once and thank it for its help before the summoning magic is spent, and the creature dematerializes before their very eyes.

   Within the well, Bergdis turns her masked face to look down the shaft and into the darkness below them. Though the visage she displays never really changes, her pride at their success, mixed with the disappointment of the loss of the powerful elemental artifact, can be felt by the barbarian in close proximity. Her body seems to take on dead weight for a fraction of a second, and she sighs, once, then regains her composure and grip and looks upwards.
   "I suspect you've had your fill of resting. Let us make haste to rejoin the others above; there is little for us to do here, now." Clearly, though, she had no intention of climbing out herself, and shifts her hold on his shoulders to encircle his neck with her slim arms, waiting for him to begin his climb.

[Private to Eirik: I havent' decided yet how you'll be able to hold the semi-smooth walls and climb, with or without the sword. I suppose it would be dramatic for you to cut/grind small hand-holds in the wall with the sword, then do a quick-change by yanking out the blade and gripping the slot it was in, then jamming the blade above you to make another, then repeating. Once you have both a hand- and a foot-hold it should be much easier, but the first two slots will be precarious perches at best, especially with *her* dangling from your back. :)]

The barbarian coughed suddenly, choking and spluttering and spitting out gravel. Fortunately for him, this was a good cover for what was going through his mind. Resting? She thought he was resting? Now she suggested haste, up a sheer rock-face? With her hanging from his, ack, neck? He considered sending the Witch down to check up on the Scarred One personally. But at least now he had some target to sustain his anger at.

Once he'd recovered, Eirik glanced up, and up, through the shaft and the distant circle of light. "Uh..."

He sighed, and braced his boots against the stone, and began to work the greatsword against the rock, up and down, up and down, painfully slowly grinding out a ledge he could grip with a free hand.

Finally, once the gap was just large enough, he released one hand from the hilt with a sudden jerking drop, then squeezed his gloved fingers into the ledge. When his grip seemed firm enough, he tugged out the sword, and tried to thrust it back into the stone a short distance up.

This was going to take a long, long, long time.

"Well, we might as well wait here for a while, just in case Eirik and Bergdis or the necromancer survived that fall," says Cecania in response to Relgar.

Pulling out her spellbook, she sat down on a nearby rock to try and catch up on her spells while keeping an eye out for any movement from within the well.

By all the gods he felt tired. His muscles ached, nay, screamed at him under the pressure, begging to relax, just for an instant. But that would mean death, for him and for the witch clinging to his back. He could not, would not, fail.

So he girded himself, gritted his teeth, and dragged himself upwards one more handhold.

He chiseled out another handhold with stone-devouring sword. Jostyn had said something about how it could be made to serve another purpose - but Eirik figured that if he screwed around trying to get it to change, he'd probably fall anyway.

He hauled himself up another damned foot.

"Are you sure... you don't have a spell... that would get us... out of this?" he huffed at the witch.


OOC: Climb 24.
[Private to DM Lobo: I'll spend my Xmas 2006 free 20 for this, there's too much risk via Take 20, I reckon. And I'll never remember to use it for anything else anyway. :) I'll just climb the hard way up.]

   "The body will always fail if the mind lets it" came the dry witticism of the witch as Eirik labored under two weights to climb out of the shaft. Technically, it was only a tad under a weight and a half, if his was the standard, but his mind was not fettered with technicalities at the moment...only the white-hot determined drive of a man bent on survival.

   Gasping, gritting his teeth, the barbarian finally reached the lip of the vertical tunnel just as the last of his strength - real *and* imagined - fled from his body. Relgar and Vicril dashed forward, grabbing the warrior by the arms and hauling the both of them free from their would-be grave. Bergdis stepped lightly upon the ground and moved away from the remaining trio while it was all Eirik could do to allow himself to flop over onto his back and take in a few lungfuls of cool, crisp air.

   "The stone, fool" came the edgy voice of Jostyn, who leaned over Eirik's prone form. "Every moment I spend in this body makes me...uncomfortable. Give me the stone and let me rest!"

Eirik lay spread-eagled upon the ground, bloody, broken and streaked with dirt, wracked with and gasping for breath, but wonderfully, gloriously, alive.

He gazed up at Jostyn silhouetted against the sky, and couldn't help but smile weakly. He felt nearly as dead as the Thayan. Did he look the same way?

"The stone's lost... Nothing I could do." he explained, for all of them. "You'll have to... climb down... and get it... yourself." Sure, he felt some pity for the undead warrior, but he hadn't been the one to dive down a hole to near-certain death. The Thayan had longed for death, after all.

Relgar nods and replies; "I see, well good riddance to it then. Jostyn, I am not sure what would happen if you jump down, and eventually crash on something. With bad luck your body breaks completely but your still animated. But if you can crawl even with your hand touch the stone then your released I guess."

   Vicril and Bergdis both shook their heads at the barbarian's suggestion.

   "Remain where you stand, Thayan" came the icy voice of the witch, moving to intercept from one side while the druid came from the other. Both stood between the zombified knight and the hole in the ground, the icy waters rushing into the wellshaft behind them with a muted rumble.
   "I'll not take the chance that you *do* manage to retreive it and find some way to delay the release you so badly claim to crave. In your hands it would remain a potent weapon against the people of this land. In ours it would at least be used to reverse the damages already wrought by your countryman."
   "Then go get it yourself, witch!" bellowed the undead man with a mean laugh. "I'll not stop you, in fact I'd be more than willing to give you a push myself."
   "Unfortunately, it will take more powers than I have at my disposal to scry its new location and gather it from said place. No, despite our efforts here this day, I'm afraid we will have to retreat to the haven of my sisters, the ghost-witches of the valley, and plan our next move." Vicril shook his head sadly, looking again at the vile breach of the earth that drained away the lifegiving waters of the flowing river. What madness this one necromancer had wrought!
   It was therefore with no small amount of surprise that, when Harto wandered over to where the rest of the party was gathered and looked down into the long, dark tunnel and scratched his head, they remembered his presence.
   "Sure does look like a long fall. Good thing we don't have to go in there for anything, huh?" He took in the myriad looks thrown his way by his companions: smugness, sadness, disappointment, disapproval, and of course, exhaustion. With an arched eyebrow he shrugged, removing his hand from the folds of his tunic and placing the object he drew forth into the hand of the druid beside him.
   Stunned, Vicril could only stare at the faintly glowing warmth of the power emanating from the Stone of Erudion.

Eirik lifted his head off the earth to see what was going on, eyes widening as he saw Harto's surprise. He began to laugh, panting gasps, somewhere between relief and joy and sheer annoyance that he'd risked his life for no good reason. But at least the Scarred One was dead, unable to return to retrieve his precious Stone. "Harto, you little rat!" he cheered the halfling.

Cecania jumped in surprise at the sight of the tiny halfling - she's completely forgotten about him until just then!  Still, she was relieved to see his surprise.  Getting involved in a battle between the undead warrior and the witch was not something she ever wanted to deal with.

"All right, so we've got the stone.  Now what do we do?" she says.  Her own knowledge of magical devices certainly didn't extend to Thayan artifacts, and she was reluctant to simply hand the stone over to Jostyn.

OOC:
19:13, Today: Cecania Cormaeril rolled 12 using 1d20+10. Know. (Arc) on the Stone.

   For his part, Harto used the magic of his disguise-making hat to subtly transform his facial features to a more ratlike slant, at the comment of the barbarian. His nose elongated slightly, his moustache hair lengthened, and his hair grayed slightly...save for that one patch which seemed to always remain white.
   "It was, well, just seemed like the thing to do. The spell I had planned to grab it with doesn't work on objects in the posession of others, but when this strange wolf appeared and snapped at the necromancer, it grabbed his pouch. And then he leaped off the edge into the air and that gave me just enough time to snag it with my magehand." The halfling shrugs sheepishly.

   "What we do now" replied Bergdis to the question posed by her spellcasting counterpart, "Is reverse the damages brought upon our fair lands by that vile, twisted parody of a man." Bergdis reached for the Stone, though it was quickly drawn away from her grasp by Vicril, who continued to look at it with awe and respect. Something in his eyes almost made those watching think that it was...*speaking* to him.
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:26, Sat 02 May 2009.

Eirik dragged himself up into a sitting position, then jerked a thumb in Jostyn's direction. "Wait. Let him touch it first, and fulfill his geas. I'm getting tired of the stink." he added in jest. He also figured the Stone could well destroy itself after they were done with it, and didn't trust the Thayan not to try to interfere.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:47, Fri 08 May 2009.