He was too late.
It was a shame, really. Oswyn was beginning to like those chaps a great deal.
The imprint of them was fresh in the stone, painted over centuries of Stoneborn feet, decades of the humans, the hours of demon-reek and on top of that, their own. The grand doors he had shut the last time he strode the halls were open, the key still embedded in the lock, the corrupted son of the great ruler feasting on the remains brought to him by his servants, an errant arm, still fresh. He discarded the thick bone, likely dwarven, and grinned a sick, toothy grin at the Paladin.
"So we meet again, Oswyn Donovan!" Friedrich snarled, relishing his words. "Thou... Seekst to destroy me? An act of... Mercy, is this?"
Donovan was silent as he drew his sidearm, a simple straight sword.
Friedrich laughed, a vile, cackling rattle through necrotic mouth.
"Yes... Naught but a knave, a foolish, deceitful knave! Dost thou truly believe that such a pathetic effort will succeed? Dost thou lie to them still? Dost thou draw them into thy charade for thy own enjoyment?"
Donovan's steps picked up, boots thudding heavily against tattered, ruined runners, once a glorious navy braided with gold, now nothing but faded cloth and useless strings.
Friedrich cackled, drew his rapier and approached, steps even, mocking the other man's haste. He met Donovan's blade, threw it aside and laughed as he thrust the blade straight through a chink in his improvised armour.
Donovan did not flinch. He did not look away from the undead's empty, soulless eyes as he swiped out, blade a solid arc, its sharpness audible.
The head of the ruler of Rötenheim fell from his shoulders, horrid mouth stuck mid-grin. Donovan kicked his body, the rapier sliding easily from his fleshy torso. He made a point of stepping on the body as he came forwards to the head, rose his boot and crushed it in a single stomp.
"You always were a fool, Friedrich," he muttered under his voice. "Your father was a fool and his father was a fool. Perhaps you should have listened when they called for you... But it is not in the Rötenheim blood. May Jir cast your soul aside."
He turned and observed the carnage, but a roar caught his ear from the castle-town. There was something big out there.
He had to be fast.
It was the only thing left-- among the wreckage, the bones, blood and plates, only a glow remained. The beasts may have roamed away from the hall, with nothing left to consume, but they must have smelt him by then. Silently as he could, the man crept down the battle-stained carpet. There was nothing palpable of them, no sign at all.
A quick prayer, murmured out of respect, would ensure no spirit would linger in such a hellish place.
Rir find them, Rir hold them, carry these brave warriors forever in your guiding light.
May the darkness never claim the souls blessed by the love of your chosen.
Rir protect these souls, as your chosen could not.
Forgive this weak, mortal flesh.
Rir, our lord and saviour.
He glanced over his shoulder at a shuffle from outside the great wooden doors; there was little time, he had used enough already.
It hid beneath a breastplate mangled by claws and savaged by flames that tainted the metal until the ends of eternity, glowing dimly as if ashamed or penant. There was nothing else to claim, how truly sad. The bodies were mangled, skulls smashed and teeth extracted by scavengers before he. How the necromancers missed the rare treasure was beyond him-- all the better, truly. Such a thing could not fall into the hands of their foes.
All he had to contain it was a bottle, dug from his pack. Faeglass would need replacing with something hardier, but it took little coaxing. The soul knew the hand of its brethren and accepted carriage.
Rötenheim would have to wait for another day, though the swordbearer could have moved. They would have moved. They were not so foolish as to linger when discovered, especially not by an Artificier. A tactical retreat was the only way to go.
That was all he could take. What a forsaken way to die.
It was most important that they would not rest in such a wretched way.
Broken pews were scattered around the room, so Donovan was quick about it-- he dragged what dry wood he could find, overturned the Rötenheim throne, kicked it to kindling and built a makeshift bonfire over the worst of the stains, the last scraps of flesh. With his flint, he struck fire to the ruined wood and stepped back as dusty, dry husks took flame.
Rir cleanse these souls.
Love them as I did.
It took a full moon cycle to return to Sur Mithren, travelling by sea and far, far, far by horseback through difficult lands. A moon cycle was incredibly good timing, a record if one willed. The merchants were thieves, their faeglass extortionate. To the hells with them! He would just have to move with great haste.
By the time of arrival at his monastery, cloistered away from the Castle Town walls and against the border of danger, the Knight-Lord had already moved along. Donovan cursed his luck-- what would an audience with the man take? His absence was not expected in the slightest, but what the hey, the man needed to observe life on the front lines some time. It must have been awfully breezy so high up on one's horse. While he respected the Knight-Lord plenty, he also respected him enough to be honest about the lesser tree wedged up his backside. He had neither the time or the patience to hunt the man down, but with Faeglass threatening to break, he had to hurry.
He took the circular stair case three steps at a time as he sprinted down into the Catacombs, bottle held tightly to hold it together. At the base, he was stopped by a stony-browed Monk and wasted twenty minutes searching for his authorisation papers from the Abbot until a familiar face rescued him from the heavy hand of beurocrats.
It was a good offering, indeed.
A messenger was to be sent to the Temple-City archives. Posthumously, Sir Stendar was once again a Knight.
Donovan leant against a bone pillar, folded his arms and made an outlandish request of the Abbot.
"We have the resources, don't we? If I must travel to the altars myself, I shall, Aldhelm. If I must light the forges myself, I shall."
The Abbot bowed his head.
"You are not the Knight-Lord's favourite man at the moment, Oswyn," the Abbot warned, as Donovan scoffed, a playful smirk coming to his face. "It is upon his mercy to grant you such favours--"
"Then the Knight-Lord would do well to remember what he requested of me," Donovan laughed, words dripping with a honeyed poison. "When will his next lapdog arrive? Another long arm of the law to keep me in check?"
The Abbot's brow furrowed deeper.
"She awaits you above us, in Contemplation."
"Oh? No stuffy Cleric this time?"
The Abbot couldn't help but smile.
"No. She is from Liskenfaar."
"The Rirsonne surrender one of their own?"
"Yes. Treat her well, Oswyn."
Donovan nodded, his smile refusing to fade.
"One more favour, Aldhelm? Because you love me?"
The Abbot paused for a moment, before taking a breath of consideration.
"I shall send for Crüxis."
---
It has been several months since the news of Rötenheim's fall reached the relatively untouched midlands. The wars raging in the north are not the concern of the busy midlanders. It is not the most prosperous of times, yet it is neither a time of strife. You move easily through relatively worry-free lands to the notorious port city of Auhnfall, known as a place to find work, among other dubious things. In need of contracts and willing to travel, you drifted to the city for reasons known only to you. With no prior relations in the area, you are truly alone.
From various adventurer's boards, you have all found the same notice.
WANTED: COMBAT VETERANS
LONG-TERM EXCAVATION MISSION, PAY NEGOTIABLE-- BEGINNING AT 100PP, SUBJECT TO RISE. SEE SIR CASTLES, CHARTER HALL.
Upon arrival at the Charter Hall, you see a swarm of people loitering by the Cathedral-commissioned statue of a Paladin in full plate, head tilted aloft in prayer. Upon entering, an exasperated-looking scribe regards you with a tired eye.
"After Sir Castles? He left an hour ago-- rallying the troops, I hear. He's called everyone outside, that's the rabble."
You leave the hall and join the crowd, a motley bunch for sure-- scarred warriors, fresh adventurers trying their luck, you can see them all. Some have come from the fields, others straight from a forgotten war. The promise of money and adventure has attracted them all. As you wait, the crowd only grows.
"Attention!" calls a wide-shouldered Rirsonne woman, who climbs the Paladin's Memorial statue, hangs from it and waves to the crowd to keep their eyes on her. "Sir Castles only requires eight individuals! We've got to sort you bunch of damn miscreants out!"
Somewhere in the crowd, a youth whoops.
"We shall fight, like knights! Honourable combat, blade to blade!"
The youth's jeers were joined by another.
"This isn't a walk in the All-King's gardens, ladies," she shouted, hanging from the bronze arm of a hero. In a flash, her hand dipped into a pouch in her pocket, withdrew a fan of needle knives and threw them into the crowd-- a choked, bloodied gurgle and there was silence. "This is not an easy job. If you are serious, regroup here at sundown. That is all!"
There were groans from the crowd as they were asked of more. Many dispersed, yet some remained, shouting questions up to the woman. She ignored them, climbed higher and perched, vigilant, on the shoulders of the gracious dead.
[Open floor-- you hear a commotion...]
By the time twilight has broken, the crowd at the base of the Paladin's Memorial has thinned considerably-- it seems a fair fight is not what the less stellar gentlemen were interested in.
After hours of remaining still, meditating, the woman opens her eye and drops down from the statue. Her tan skin is bathed dark by the orange sunset, her build heavy in the shoulders and muscular to the point of vascularity, veins pressed tight to skin on her bare, threatening arms. She paces.
"Sir Castles is not interested in any who cannot pull their own weight in battle. You. [ROLL]. Come here."
She plants her feet and raises her hands into fighting stance.
"Demonblood. Northerman. Come at me!"
[BATTLE - Rich and NPC]
She kicks the bells out of the Northerman, foot stopping mere centimetres away from the exposed back of his neck-- any further and he would be dead.
More people slip away.
"... Only three? Your hand is far too heavy, Aelin!"
A cheerful voice brings her to attention.
"Sir!"
"Ahh, at ease. Who do we have here? Greetings, friends!" A blonde man, clad in Cathedral plate strides over to you, followed by a colossal construct. "I do hope that Aelin hasn't scared you too badly!"
Who are you? "Your employer! Clifton Castles, at your service!"
What the hell is this? "Ah! I'm glad you asked! It is a mission of great importance. But... Shall we discuss this over dinner? Omega, kindly take our associates to the Drunken Dwarf Inn, I have some things to finish at the hall. Aelin, please assure all is taken care of. I shall see you later!"
The woman looks to you and sighs.
"Come, then. I... Am Aelindir, Sir Castles' assistant. This is Omega. We shall speak properly at the inn."
When you arrive at the inn, it is surprisingly quiet despite its namesake and a stout dwarven woman greets you at the door.
"Ah! Been waitin' fer ya! C'mon o'oer ere and sit'cherselves down! Sir Castles has been so very generous tae all av us, let's ged you some food!"
You are seated and presently, Aelindir joins you.
"So... Who are you all?" she asks, as she produces papers from a pack on her lap. "We must keep records. It's... Cathedral policy, I am afraid."
Your food arrives and you begin to eat.
As you speak, Aelin writes in a neat, curving script. She is evidently well-educated.
BOOM, the side of the inn is torn apart and a being of crystal strides through the rubble and wreckage, making a beeline for YOU. Roll!
SHARDMIND BREAKER
Str 10 +0 Con 11 +0
Dex 11 +1 Int 19 +4
Wis 15 +2 Cha 15 +2
52 hp 26 bl
Ini d20+8
AC 17 Fort 15
Ref 17 Will 17
AT WILL
Kinetic Trawl
Intelligence vs Reflex
1d10+4 Force Damage
Pull target 2 squares
Memory Hole
int vs will
1d6+4 Psychic Damage
Invisible to target until end of next turn
Force Hammer
int vs fortitude
1d6+4 Force Damage
Target is slowed until next turn
Force Grasp
Int vs Fort
1d8+4
Target is slowed
ENCOUNTER
Hand of Caution
Int vs Reflex
2d6+4 Force Damage
Push target 1 square when within 5
Telekinetic Lift
Slide target 3, they are immobile
Telekinetic Maul
Int vs AC
3d12+4 Force Damage
Push target wis mod sq
Telekinetic Screen
Immediate interrupt
If crit, -10+2
The SHARDMIND falls... Only for another two to drop in. Aelin snarls.
"Curse them! We must move! NOW!"
The battle spills into the street, where there is a filthy stench of death permeating the heavy air. The heat has served to only make it worse. Aelin's face sets solid, her brow curving down.
"The Shardmind are deathly efficient creatures. But... they are not masterless. Somebody is using them to get to us."
Who? -- Aelin doesn't know. The Cathedral has many enemies.
"We just have to trust Sir Castles. We owe him so much already."
> A smell of smoke blows in from the square-- you look up, to see barricades on fire, supplemented by bonfires. The charred, sickly stench of burning flesh follows it.
"By the light of Rir... What are they doing!? We must find Sir Castles, quickly!"
You push forwards to the square, where the fountain hosts fire, remains and death. A veil of smoke hangs over the area. There are exits, but they are barricaded, burning and surrounded by magic.
A soul-piercing, sharp roar comes from the other side of the square and a Shardmind, considerably larger than the Breakers comes into view. It is top-heavy, but no less quick, brandishing a violent axe. In a swirl of crystal and powder, two Breakers materialise beside it.
[BATTLE]
[Find the Barricade leading South]
As you. Look over the barricade, you see a figure looking back at you. They flee.
[After them!]
You break the barricade, and lunge after the form. You see it looking back at you from the next corner. With a gesture, crystalline beasts form in the clearing.
[BATTLE]
In the tight spaces of the alleyway, it is claustrophobic and dark. You push on regardless.
Aelin offers to scout ahead. Let her go?
If YES, she leaves the party.
If NO, she is uneasy.
You catch up to the figure! It is a Shardmind wrapped up in fine, patterned cloth with a Greatsword slung over its back. It turns around and with a crackle of psychic energy, locks eyes with the leader of the party.
You see a swirling abyss, lit only by the energy that strings your eyes and picks your body apart. You fall. You fall and fall, as emotions burn your mind one after another-- the rage of a mother torn from her children, their blood painted over her body by creatures you cannot understand. The emptiness of a wanderer, who walks so lightly they barely exist. The sorrow of a father and traitor, who can never redeem himself. These tear your chest apart and re-seal it.
[The duty of a constructed soul, a name cleansed by death. You choke on the shame of transgressions, an inability to protect.]
[The duty of an ancient, a soul that can barely remember itself. The land calls to you, lives pray to you and yet, you can do nothing.]
[The duty of a warlord, a soul bathed in blood. Past triumphs dissolve and reform, the congratulations of your kin warping into their last words, disappointed and condemning.]
[The duty of a wiseman, a soul lost to the stars. The universe pushes down on you, calls your name and whispers the joy of the void.]
You come to. Roll will check.
IF success, you regain yourself. The weight of your weapon is too much to bear, the people around you strangers and sinners. You cannot bear his face any longer! [Attack closest.]
IF failure, your soul is heavy with the burden of your emotion. Your weapon is too much and you swing at your ally!
After your frenzied attack, your consciousness and clarity return.
[Roleplay]
The figure has retreated-- there is no choice but to push onwards.
The only way forwards is into a small house.
[[TRAP-- Spear Gauntlet
PERCEPTION 20-- Character notices plates
PERCEPTION 25-- Notices panel to control
+7 vs AC, 1d8+3 dmg]]
IF AELIN LEFT -- You see Aelin slumped in a corner, a figure hovering over her.
The Shardmind regards you from within the room, finally standing firm. An aura of readiness reverberates from its luminescent form, its colour shifting and changing as it senses everything around it. It opens it's mouth as if to speak-- its face is considerably more human than its predecessors.
It snaps its fingers with a crackle and up through the floorboards, thousands of tiny shards rise and form another brutish brawler.
[BATTLEMIND -- Ardent lingers back, as if reluctant to attack]
When the brute is broken, the Shardmind sweeps its arm in front of it.
"Reconsider, mortals!" It... Asks? It does not seem sure of its words.
It snaps its fingers and the powder reforms, into two shardbeasts.
[ARDENT joins the fray. At 10 HP, it surrenders.]
"Cease! I beg of you!"
>Who are you?
"We are... The will of the Knight-Lord. This one is... the consciousness... Of Ardent. But... The stories the humans tell, they... Confuse us."
>Why is this?
"The swordbearers... Are the heroes, aren't they?"
>What do you mean?
"The heroes... They slay the dark ones, the evil ones, do they not?"
It seems confused.
"You... Are enraged. Please, let me.."
It reaches out to [CLOSEST]. It's touch is cold, soothing.
"Please... Do not feel such rage. It... is so violent."
"We... are all made of the same... The dust of Ancients, the wisdom of those long gone... He told us to stay back, to return to our master, but... the Human, Donovan, a Paladin... of Rir. Yes. He... let us..."
A great thud above your heads draws its attention, head jerking back surprisingly suddenly. The heavy steps culminate in a great clamour, as a trap door above snaps open, a ladder extending from it. The boots that follow are familiar. A battered, blonde head appears, bending down as soon as his doubled body can allow it. It is Castles, a bloodied lip and smut-smeared face speaking of battle.
"Oh, thank Rir! I thought I'd lost you all!"
He jogs down the creaky steps-- they complain under his weight. Whereas before, he was smartly-dressed, tabarded with mail only for show, he is now armoured, evidently hastily thrown on. It bears scars of combat, a Halberd almost cradled in the crook of his arm.
"You've lasted this far, and for that, I must congratulate you. There were people in that crowd that had little more than a lust for gold and fame-- this is not why we travel."
Aelin pulls herself up from her corner of the room, wincing.
[HEAL CHECK?]
He looks down at the Shardmind.
"What are you going to do with this one?"
[[KEEP or KILL]]
KEEP: The Shardmind bows its head, folding its claw-like shards of fingers in a praying-like motion. An aura of gratitude permeates it.
KILL: The Shardmind bows its head, accepting of its fate.
Donovan nods, lays hands on Aelin [if not done beforehand] and looks up to the trapdoor.
"We need to get out of here. We'll take the rooftops."
[[ROOFTOPS]]
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