The Hells – The Cleaver’s Domain

Tae

MORE MUSIC, YEAH!!!!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VMOhsvhF4Jw

You and Catbox are summoned without incident, and enjoy some of the beer while waiting for the other two to be summoned with the death of mortals. To your surprise upon being summoned, however, Malarky did not slurp up the cat. He did, however, certainly lunge for it while screaming.

“MY CAT!”

The foul-smelling devil snatches the old tom cat up, and for a moment the two of them stare down into each other eyes (or eye, in the tom cat’s case). Then, the cat meows emphatically, and purrs as Malarky sets it onto his shoulder. You had heard stories of humans walking around with parrots on their shoulder, and could only imagine it looked as ridiculous as the devil with the cat perched on his shoulder, whispering quietly but audibly to it.

“Yes . . . yes my fine feline friend. Now you’re going to go and catch me some fine sewer ratsies for us to feast on, aren’t you? WHAT!?”

Malarky suddenly roars, turning to glare at Catbox, who is simply staring at him and the cat, jaw wipe open.

“Um . . . nothing!”

Malarky gives the cat one last gentle pat on the head, and then sets it down onto the floor and gives it a little push.

“Go on, find our feast!”

And the cat runs back out of the room at high speed, either glad to get out of there alive, or bewitched into going and finding some “ratsies” for his new friend. It was at this point that Mouse got summoned, and the little oblivious bastard, bless his cold dead heart, just cheerfully started lapping the blood up off the altar and asking what he missed.

“Oh, nothing . . . just Malakry’s new fine feline friend.”

Catbox said, snickering. Malarky raises a claw in anger, but then thought better of it as he looked around at the assembled humans.

“We doing this assignment or are you two just going to get drunk and earn us a permanent spot on the Cleaver’s hooks?”

Malarky growled, and Catbox’s grin lessened – but only a little. While you start on your second mug of beer, the cultist leader comes back over to you. He looks over the motley assortment of fiends he has just summoned and smiles uneasily.

“Masters. The materials that you will need are in a nearby alchemist’s shop. The man was killed several months ago, and his family has not moved in to claim the establishment yet. I’ve managed to procure the key, but the streets are filled with guards. You see, the city is under attack right now, and we were wondering if maybe you could help –“

“No.”

Malarky growls, and then looks around at the assembled group of cultists, who suddenly seem a lot less hospitable.

“Yes?”

He says a moment later, without enthusiasm, and the humans relax.

“We are surrounded by elves, and are afraid that if they break into this city they will kill us all. If that happens, your own masters will no longer have our aid to rely on.”

“No more trips to the mortal realm!?”

Mouse chipped up from his spot on the altar, still picking over the corpse that summoned him. The imp tore out one of the dead mortals eyes and then greedily shoved it into his tiny fang-filled mouth, chewing vicious for several long seconds.

“Can you help us?”

The cultist leader pressed again.

The Mortal Realm

A Stretch of Forest in the Barony of Gast

TechnOkami/daelrog

As Rosenburg charged the traitorous Garret, twin arrows streaked even faster to their target. The first hit Garret in his non-weapon arm, the former druid deliberately interposing his arm with blinding speed to take the arrow rather than let it hit his stomach. This left the other, more dangerous arrow, however, to pass through his guard unimpeded and strike him directly in the throat. Held in place by the roots, Garret didn’t stagger back from the impact, nor did he go down. Instead, he actually grinned, revealing blood-flecked teeth as he gurgled a challenge.

“What would be fortune-ending for your meat is merely an inconvenience for me!!!”

A few moments later, Rosenburg reaches his opponent, ducking under the fallen druid’s next whip crack and then swinging his scythe up and across. Impeded by the remaining roots still charring into ash around his body, Garret is unable to dodge and takes the scythe directly across the chest. The well-honed blade rips through cloth and flesh, but even this is unable to bring him down. Roses sprout out from the hole left by the scythe’s path, and immediately flash burn into a plume of ash. Through the tear in Garret’s dark cloak, more bare burned flesh is visible . . . and despite the patchwork nature of the burns, brands can also be clearly seen, scarred into the skin. The brands are spaced periodically up and down Garret’s entire body, at least as far as Rosenburg can see, and now that he’s close he can also see the same brands adorning his hands and face beneath the bandages.

“You’re lurking beneath this inelegant form as well, aren’t you wolf?”

Garret whispers to Rosenburg as the druid brings his scythe back around. This time, Garret catches the scythe’s blade as it descends, the blade biting into Garret’s hand before becoming stuck. Veins of ice begin to run down the length of the blade as Garret’s hand closes around the blade, holding it immobile as beads of frozen blood roll down off his palm. Garret brings his other hand up and wraps it around Rosenburg’s throat, using his grip to shove his head back instead of choking. The back of Rosenburg’s head begins to grow hot as he becomes aware that the pillar of fire Garret’s last whip crack created is directly behind him.

“They say this world will end in either fire or ice, wolf. Tell me – which one would suffice for you?”

Meanwhile across the battlefield, the others struggle to survive the onslaught from the pint-sized fire elementals. Jarod dispatches his previously summoned earth elementals out to meet Garret’s servants head-on, but it is merely twelve against dozens. Some fire elementals get through, while the rest swarm around the earth elementals, gradually heating up their bodies until they glow red hot and the rocks begin to shatter and the charred dirt loses its cohesion. It is a slow process, but an inevitable one when the earth elementals are so badly outnumbered. Jarod jabs his staff into one of the leading elementals that reaches the group, and instantly the elemental bursts into a burst of sparks, dismissed back to its home plane. Four more close in around him, cutting him off from the others.

“Rosenburg! Garret is likely possessed! There must be something holding the spirit into his body! Destroy it!”

Jarod calls, desperately swinging his staff around him in wide arcs, dismissing two more elementals and keeping the other two as bay.

“SILENCE!” Garret roars, renewing his efforts to shove Rosenburg back into the pillar of fire. Another half dozen elementals meanwhile, menace Alons and his charges.

Willow shies back by Mags, who watches the approaching elementals and periodically looks at his appropriated sword uncertainly. Greg watches the elementals’ advance with considerable less calm, and grunts as he breaks the top off of the bottle of Donovale wine.

“To Hells with it!”

He says, tipping his head back and pours some of the contents messily down into his mouth through the shattered top of the bottle. Willow watches this, and her eyes suddenly light up with an idea. The barmaid runs over and snatches the bottle out of Greg’s hands, and then pulls back and hurls it at the elemental.

“Please work, please work!”

The barmaid chants, and then gives a squeal of delight as the bottle passes directly through one of the fire elementals. The sudden heat causes the already compromised bottle to burst, spraying the surrounding area with wine. Wine which doesn’t have a high-enough alcohol content to ignite from its brief contact with the fire elemental. Instead, the sudden burst of liquid within it causes the elemental to expire into a wet pile of ashes.

“The ale probably isn’t strong enough either! We can use it to put them out!”

Willow shouts, and Mags drops his sword in favor of one of the casks abandoned by the earth elementals. He cracks it open across his knee, and then sprinkles the contents over the nearest two fire elementals, the ale likewise not having enough alcohol to ignite.

“Praise the gods for cheap-ass swill!”

Greg shouts as he runs towards a cask of his own, only to be cut off by one of the remaining fire elementals. The remaining two close in on Alons from opposite directions.

“Alons! Look out!”

Willow shouts.

The Besieged City of Amaranth

GuyFawkes

At your claims of perhaps knowing more than she let on, the elf’s eyes twitched – ever so slightly . . . surprise. At your reassurance, however, she relaxes again, although she is clearly confused as to why you are not going to the fortress.

“I do not know. I can be fairly convinced when I need to be.”

Aurewlynn says with a pout, although she sighs and nods a moment later.

“Although the words of a deserter mean nothing to my people. And you are right, they likely would try to investigate if they knew what was lurking below.”

The she elf agreed, her tone sullen. After you explain the plan to her, Aurewlynn takes the paper and pen, and quickly sketches out a note. It looks like a standard message to you, although you do note that it has an interesting feature – a forged signature.

“That’s the signature of Tur Villid, the leader of one of our armies. As far as I know, he’s still leading the efforts against this city, and so would be the natural choice to send a message back to the fortress. I’ve seen his signature a few times, having served briefly as a message courier myself. I . . . assume your illusion will be able to improve my forgery?”

At the doorway before going inside to rest, Aurewylnn pauses and looks back. She seems about to say something, mulls it over in her mind, and then forces a smile.

“You have been more than kind to me, Noctis. I owe you my life, and I will not forget that. Thank you.”

Then she goes inside to rest, and you prepare the remainder of the necessary magics. She opens the door again at the first knock, and watches you finish your preparations with interest. She barely even winces when you prick her finger to take the necessary blood for the scroll’s magic. After listening to your instructions, she nods. Again she hesitates for a moment, and then leans in and kisses you on the cheek.

“Thank you again Noctis. I will return as soon as I can . . . be careful.”

Then she is gone, and you are left reeling from the chaos trying to climb up out of your mind. You had to find a way to deal with this hideous temptation, because when the time came you doubted a bunch of elves, skilled as they are, would be enough to hold the fortress against the full might of the Hells. How to accomplish that, however, was something beyond your kin, and you spent most of the night’s remainder mulling over it, watching the city waiting for the sunrise. This stand-off between the humans and elves would not last much longer – sooner rather than later the elves would likely make their move. But what form would it take?

Thinking about trying to find more allies to your main problem, you decide that the paladins would be the ones most likely to agree to help willingly, even if it meant abandoning Amaranth to burn. Azguloth could *not* be set free. Unfortunately, you weren’t aware of where the paladin base camp within the city was – you were aware that there was a small detachment of them present though. It was all the paladins could afford to send with them scattered all over the kingdom trying to save everyone, or at least as many as they could.

Hoping the citizens of Amaranth would know, you approach a relatively friendly merchant, doing his best to take advantage of the grim times by peddling his wares directly in the streets. Before he can answer, however, you feel a heavy hand fall onto your shoulder.

“Who wants to know?”

A voice growls behind you, and you turn to find yourself standing in front of a mountain of muscled flesh. A mountain of flesh that wreaked of alcohol and back alleys, however, threatening to bring tears even to your eyes from the stench. Two bloodshot eyes peered out at you from a chiseled, hair-covered face. Across this . . . person’s back was slung an equally massive warhammer, adorned with what appeared to be holy symbols. Beneath the man’s cloak, you could see an array of weapons and vials hanging from his vest, but no sigils marking him as a member of the Church of Light himself. An ally, or hanger-on, perhaps? The city was filling up with would-be heroes, and this man certainly smelled like one of them.