The sword and shield you're using, Lady Maevre, allow you to phase out, striking with renewed intensity at the blending shapes constituting the elemental composite. You turn black and shift color alternately, forming a web of darkness that envelops you and Aranea in a cosseting glow. Contumacious feracity strikes and leaves your size making an appearance with the Parthenon towering over you, rocky outcroppings shifting before you and reflecting your
Assassin's Stance. Your goal is to remind the chorus about the literacy of the general population, whose chanting is known world-wide and in fact ghe dark god Izrador had sent you a command to slay the elementals and bring him the chassis of their corpses to develop new spell fructa. The claws of attack that someone had fought in this exact spot before with, end up settling scores with the gods, who wipes their hands in a gesture of good will. The wheat and the chaff set the chimes which you hear in the background level off with the clop of horses winding through their efforts at locomotion in a skene best equipped to level up in the ascent of the city. The etheral plane sits ladled in a cake of generalities, tipping over the glass victuals absorbing magical energy. You can sense that elsewhere in the city, the stained glass warps slightly with magical tension, some of the windows bursting with a
fell call re-arranging the gods' vocal cords in a defiant literality, Cerberus harboring glass dragons in his sodden flesh, the flight of a dragon over the city displaying a fine patina of ashen scales, light armor adorning many of the immediate responders who patrol as part of the garrison.
Litigious endeavors couch the ranged touch attacks of the elementals in religious fervor, fervid and florid beams of accumulated energy faintly pulsing, forbidden technology that hovers in the patterns so beknownst to air. Glass air and jars sitting forbidden upon the miasma select fireballs and beams of light that emerged from a bottle of cure moderate wounds, tricky saliva edifying taste and there is a somnolent plaintive that resounds with critical energy.
Assassin stance creates potion
Pottion merges with elementals
Hit dice doubled
Glass dragons above the city grant a ranged touch attack
You sense the plains outside the city wave with
divine wind
Izrador crunches the glass in his mouth to bloody the fields
The stats for the fire elemental are posted on the d20srd.org.
https://www.d20srd.org/srd/monsters/elemental.htm .
He attempts to slam you, initiating a process by which the acid fangs filled with fire ants resound with glory in your needling presence, and the metamorphosis fills in the gaps in the air with cuts that discus their way into your spell field which travels with you, a scrying torchlight that draws you nearer, inviting you to redouble your efforts in choosing which magical energies will harm the elemental. The sonorous glass that Izrador crunches makes him spit blood in your direction, solidifying toxic waste that blends and cutting, re-seals the power vacuum with a slurping noise almost like the escape of steam from a tired old piston.
Webs appear, chanting "Aranea," and with a fortitude roll that I rolled for you, makes known that the acid bites down upon your skin, causing the webs to rotate with color. You see a small spider web ruffling the wind and it seems to settle upon you with effulgence, the chorus attached as a word cloud to the redactable curoisities, glass swords enveighing upon your mind with the weight of the ages.
The DC is 15 to allow the cold webs to dissolute the center of the webs, causing effects unknown, but the egregious sounds of iron, glass, and timber seem to invoke an idyllic resurgence of light that unmans the masculine presence of the eye. You both succeed, with a 15 for Lady Maevre and a 17 for Aranea, of re-aligning the vestibule in the garments of some of the weathered statues, which land with aplomb.
