Omm walks down the three steps and approaches the tapestry with sword drawn. Using his sword, he pushes the tapestry aside to determine if anything might lie hidden behind.

"Riddle after blasted riddle..." he mutters to himself, but still loud enough for others to hear.

Sidd has a somewhat besotted expression as he is lead away from the ladies in waiting. In his hand is the key of copper, but in his mind he still imagines the bulges of soft white flesh.
''Congratulations,'' Zar quips disgruntled, ''you just agreed to let your head be smashed in by Omm in some melee type event. Very clever.''
Sidd only sighs, not really listening. ''Soft,'' he whispers.

''On the good side,'' Zar continues, ''The jester's words might imply that death holds no sway here? So you might survive. Perhaps.''

He then takes a good look around the chapel. Seems rather run down. No wonder, if this is really a place to worship Chaos. That sun is kind of unwholesome.
''Hello?'' He asks aloud. ''Anyone here? Hermits in particular?''

It is, all things considered, the third chapel you've visited today, the first devoted to the bottle, the second, the body. And the third? It's good to know the recipient of a chapel's devotion. Standard operating procedure.

With a mind to this, Omm crosses the smallish sanctum and draws the tapestry to discover a sleeping nook with its occupant, unmistakably a hierophant, devoting himself, or more accurately, itself, to prayer. For the figure absorbed in obeisance looks more mantis than man. Hunched over a hymnal, he traces the words with long, spidery fingers that extend from rotting sleeves. His back (thorax?) arches to absurd heights, all of them angular and gaunt. At least, you assume it's a thorax for a black robe covers him from head to its metasoma.

Joint by joint, he rises, climbing, after a fashion, a 12' crosier, the head of which sports barbs and short spikes and blades. His frame clicks and sizzles all the while. The second sound disturbs more than the first; he's not exuding acid, is it? Maybe not, but there's no question about him exuding a malefic, predatory air.

About his sleeping area, you can discern various oddments of worship, its candles and ceremonial bowl.

You are, he informs you, just a trace early for the black mass. You can prepare by tainting yourself and then assuming the group lotus position.

Location: Chapel
Time: Dusk
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:04, Wed 01 Jan 2014.

Omm is repulsed by the creature takes a step backward from the insect-priest, his sword held aloft to keep the creature at bay. "I will take no part in any such rite!" he spits back in defiance.

Once he has regained his composure, he will press the advantage to gain an attack against, should the priest show any hostile intent.

OOC: Sorry, not really sure whether this thing is a threat or not, but reading the text, it sounds like something Omm would attack.

Arnie is incensed and says What do you mean, black mass?  In the name of all gods that would take interest in such matters, I demand to know which is your patron.

Felix creeps closer, hugging the wall.  He is getting the feeling that someone may need to benefit from that contagious halfling luck, and soon.

''I think killing that monster is a waste of time,'' says Zar. ''I am sure it will rise again with the next day. That said, be gone, foul creature. None of us will sink so low as to join in your depravity.''
''However, you seem to be a monster of learning. So tell me, where are your respective masters? And what are they doing? And what is the role we are ought to play? Even if we sure won't do so.''

''Heavens, time sure flies on this plane,'' remarks Sidd as he catches a glimpse at the sun setting outside. ''Say, when is that drunken knight's hunt again?''

The hierophant whips himself to his full ungodly height, his black robe flapping with gale-like intensity.

"Begone, you insolent weevils," he blasts you, the looky-loos, in its chapel.

He slams his crozier into the stone floor, and one shockwave after another rids the chapel of your importunity.

Outside the chapel, you figure you might be able to explore some more before any one of your three prospective social events kicks off. Could you squeeze them all in? Wouldn't the Black Mass start after the Hunt? No, there is no way you could juggle them all? Unless you delegate...

Location: Outside the Chapel
Time: Dusk

''Uhm, yes. That's that then. And the sun is setting.'', Zar says.

Sidd only sighs, his thoughts at a soon reunion with alluring Nyx.
Zar hits the back of Sidd's head, and not too gently. ''Ouch!''

''Anyway, what now? Our token-bearers could revisit the tower, I guess, and bash their respective heads in for their favor. Does anyone feel a particular urge to go hunting? Or whatever that knight calls his nightly killing sprees. No one of us, not even Bill I suppose, wants to join that mockery of a mass at least.''

''Or we leave it all behind and search out that spire?''

Arnie opens his mouth to start blathering, but Felix cuts him off before he has a chance.  I'm for checking the spire, the halfling says.  We might as well get the lay of the land as much as possible before things start going even crazier.

Omm gazes at the spire in the distance while chewing his lower lip. "I don't suppose traveling there will make anything clearer. No," he says while kicking at a loose bit of flagstone, "it'll only muddy the waters more is my guess."

The warrior exhales through the gap in his front teeth before adding, "The hell with it though. I am ready to hunt when called and I don't suspect that opportunity will disappear once we visit the spire. No, we will likely just be give some other choice once there."

Omm has no strong feelings about any of the group's choices. All seemed to carry about as much weight as the next. He was no complex thinker and was not relishing the opportunity to mull over the hidden symbolism or portents that each new riddle presented.

He draws his sword again and gives a few practice swipes before shouting, "Damn the Master of this Realm and these blasted riddles!"

Zar raises a stern index finger and points it at his compatriots. ''You all. Wait here. Just. A moment.''

Then he quickly shuffles up the stairs to the tower and opens the door a small crack.
''Tell, when and where did you say is this High Fete of yours?''
It's not that Zar does not trust his allies. But... well, he has seen Sidd, and Zar does not want to expose him to those women any more than strictly neccessary.

Timing, you've deduced, is anything except exact here. Zar returns to the tower of the three ladies and discovers a sign hanging from the door:

*****A High Fete!*****
In your Dreams
After Moonrise
Tea on Request,
Crumpets by Demand

Anxiously, you await the cresting of the moon. If one or more of you sneaks off to the captain's larder for some "liquid courage," you couldn't be blamed. When the ice-blue crescent nestles in the crook of the sky, the tower door swings wide and you behold a ballroom bedecked in rapturous shades of red -- as are the three ladies. You consign yourselves (or launch yourselves into) a night of civilized debauchery: courtly dances, rich red wines, and clandestine scheming for a moment's private canoodling.

At the height of the night, the revelers howl for a triple minor dance. And by revelers, I mean the jester and several overly drippy redswordsmen. The three champions and their three partners caper and whirl in the center of the room until, by feat of feet, the three ladies form the corners of the triangle and the three champions, its center.

Signe, her bounteous bosom still reverberating with kinetic majesty, reveals that she and the other two omitted one "teensy, tiny" detail.

There can only be one champion.

"Defend my honor," they beseech as one. The orchestra falls silent for the first time and only the buzzing of flies can be heard.

If there's one thing Arnie loves more than being in the presence of a lovely woman, it's having all of his body parts where they belong.  He bows to Morai and quietly says Milady.  He then turns to Sidd and Omm and says Gentlemen, the law of chivalry states that a woman must have a champion to defend her.  It can further be inferred that the champion must be the best available.  However, it says nothing of how many women may be represented by a single champion.  I submit to you that I am not the best champion available here, and so I relinquish my title to whichever of you is best suited for it.  This is the only just thing for me to do, and I am certain that the fine Lady Morai will benefit by it.  He follows up his little speech by fumbling to pull the gold key from his pocket, hastily putting it in the closest hand to his own, and then backing out of the triangle and off of the dance floor, bowing at everyone as he goes.

Omm had been enjoying the revelry and was somewhat startled by the abrupt way in which it ended. He glances about the room dumbly, throws up his hands in a placating gesture and asks, "What has happened?" Looking around wildly now, "Has any trespass been said to warrant indignity?"


Omm has heard nothing of the sort and will be hard-pressed to come to blows with any of his companions just to satisfy the whims of a huffy, impetuous Lady. Her bosom was nice, but not that nice.

Should some actual offense be enumerated, Omm will suggest a wrestling match to determine a champion. He is open to other options, provides they are non-lethal, but his first choice will be one which he holds a measurable advantage.

''Haha, a wrestling match! Why not a game of chess instead? But, truth to tell, I think you are not up for a tourney anyway. You seem to be half asleep already...''
Shameless, Sidd attempts to take Omm out of the contest before it even begins and weaves a charm of sleep against his friend.


OOC: Yay, Sidd's first spell is a success! Now Omm has to roll a save. With what bonus or against which difficulty I cannot tell yet, alas.
13:53, Today: Sidd and Zar rolled 15 using 1d20+1. Sidd casts Sleep on Omm.

"Why he .. Why he .. ," sputters Signe, wheeling about with her finger extending obscenely. "He mauled me with his eyes like I was some spitted suckling pig, my juices hissing and spitting on the coals."

Her finger has finally settled on Arnie. She beams with ecstasy.

"And he ... he ..."

She swivels her finger till it implicates Sidd.

"He's having impure thoughts. Can't you tell by his licentious leer?"

So that's how it is.

As if validating her claim, Sidd weaves mysterious magics and Omm starts to sway to from more than the wine (DC 15 will save check for Omm to stay awake). Leaning over his shoulder, Nyx whispers something breathily in his ear.

Meanwhile, the ambient buzzing rises ever so imperceptibly in intensity.

Init: Arnie, Omm, Sidd.

Omm begins to yawn, but fights off the sudden wave of drowsiness at the last moment.

"I am quite alright!" he counters, now crossing the floor toward Sidd. "Check?" he says while arching an eyebrow, his body now crouched low and arms held in a wrestling pose.

18:16, Today: Omm rolled 17 using 1d20+1. initiative.

18:16, Today: Omm rolled 18 using 1d20+1. will save.

''If with 'Check?' you mean 'Ready?', I say, bring it on!'' Sidd replies, going into what he thinks might be a combat stance.

08:28, Today: Sidd and Zar rolled 12 using 1d20. Sidd initiative.

Arnie waits to see what the other two do.  As they prepare for combat, he is hit with a flash of inspiration.  He approaches Morai, and as if his previous actions had never occurred, he says to her You see how they fight like brutes?  By this action alone, they show themselves to be unworthy of the phrase "defending one's honor."  A true champion is perfectly capable of settling such manners in a civilized manner.  As I am the only one of us three willing to do so, then perhaps I might be considered the only honorable one here.  He raises his eyebrow to try to emphasize his point.

Felix meanwhile, mutters Sod all that nonsense and grabs some snacks from the tray of the nearest servant while he settles in to watch the imminent wrestling match.

Josh rolled 18 using 1d20+1. initiative.

If one thing is clear by now, the ladies' spurious application of the concept of honor is just a means to an end, your end, two of yours anyhow. Your posturing only sharpens their appetite.

OOC Init Order: Arnie, Omm, Sidd. Go ahead and post Round 1 actions. If you intend to withdraw from the High Fete, make that clear, so we don't overstay this scene.

Arnie looks at Morai and the other ladies, then at Omm and Sidd, then back at the ladies.  He leans in to Morai again and asks Just out of curiosity, what happens to the champions who fail?  Depending on the answer, he likely gulps nervously and then asks about what happens to the winner.

Omm turns to face the three ladies in waiting, draws his sword and proclaims, "I pronounce myself the undisputed," he casts his companions a reproachful gaze, "champion of the High Fete!"

Brandishing his sword aloft, "There is no need for the farce of competition. Behold your champion, now!"

Omm silently hopes none of his companions contest his claim. Not because he is fearful of battling any of them: he is not. He would just as soon put this all behind them and has no desire to beat down his companions.

Sidd looks flabbergasted at his flailing friends. Arnie losing himself in meaningleass talk, and Omm posturing like a circus strongman without even an attempt at doing something for his claim.
''You two are such... windbags! And Arnie, you already handed over your token, you ninny-hammer!''

Glorying in his newfound arcane powers, he tries to put both Omm and Arnie out of their misery and into deep sleep to finish this his way. He's sure he ought to win this just because he's the only contestant with a spine, apparently.


OOC: You two, up for two Will saves against DC16?
11:40, Today: Sidd and Zar rolled 16 using 1d20+1. Sidd, Sleep again.

Arnie turns to Sidd with just enough time to put on a look of indignation.  Then his eyes flutter, his mouth droops, and he collapses to the floor.

Will save = 8

Catcalls greet Omm's strongman display...the loudest of which issue from the jester?

The collective breasts of the ladies verily heave with anticipation when Arnie succumbs to Sidd's sorcery, slumping to the floor after bumping his chin on the cheese table. A solitary hunk of Gouda follows him to the ground and has its fall cushioned by his recumbent corpulence. The breasts seem to ask as one, "How might he finish the fallen champion?"

OOC Omm, your save?
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:44, Tue 14 Jan 2014.