Harthar's Kingmaker Part One: The Stolen Lands

[shugyosha]

Walters

It was about time, Walters thought as he moved in. His anxiety did not show, however, as he walked to the nearest bandit and swung his large blade.

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Move 30' and attack with Fauchard (10' reach 1d10, 18-20 x2)
(1d20+5)[18] attack
(1d10+6)[12] damage
(1d20+5)[24] crit
(1d10+6)[7] crit damage

[Angstrom]

Quickly wiping the sweat from his brow, Walker leaps into the clearing. Let's see if you're right. Strike true Saint Walker.

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Charge w longspear: (1d20+6)[9], (1d8+4)[12]

[ProudGrognard]

Deran

Deran had his axe out already, as Damon thrashed through the grass. He was already running towards the bandits between him and the tent. He also tries to see if Gennadi is somewhere there.

"Wakey wakey, oh slime of the earth! Throw your weapons or be redeemed with cold steel!"

Well, not the best battle cry, but when you are running...

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Move to any bandit between him and the tent and power attack! If necessary, charge (then add +2 to the roll and subtract 3 from damage)
Atk (1d20+4)[12] Dmg (1d12+9)[19]

Edit: Not the best start...

[PhilMeyer]

Dhovanu takes aim at the same sentry that Visili is shooting at.

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(1d20+7)[27]
(1d8+2)[3]
Probably not close enough for Point Blank Shot, but if so its +1 to both rolls.

[PhilMeyer]

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Critical hit confirm: (1d20+7)[18]
Critical hit damage: (1d8+2)[5]

[PhilMeyer]

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(1d8+2)[6]
Sorry for the confusion!

[Miraqariftsky]

A towering muscleman bursts from the largest tent in the bandit camp, roaring madly, froth flying from his champing jaws and smearing white his great black beard. Completely naked but for bear-like body hair and a massive axe that rivals Deran’s in size, the berserk charges for Damon.

Whirling ‘round and ‘round as he goes, building momentum as he storms towards the young knight, the horse rears high, hooves flailing as it tries to fend off the madman making for its master. But the loyal steed’s valour falls in vain as the bandit’s battle axe ploughs right through its corded neck in a great gout of hot gore and slams against Damon’s mailed midriff, sending him soaring into the air…

…and slamming against the hard, unyielding bole of a spreading oak. Dead leaves drift down as Damon slumps amongst the roots, the only sign that he yet lives is the slightest susurrus of rasping breath against his magnificent mustache.

The knight’s sword falls into the mud, hilt swaying amongst the grasses.

On the other side of the swaying sword, the berserk struggles against the horse’s dead weight, having fallen on him and pinning him down.

The bandit boy who’d been menacing Damon crows as he sees their leader’s consort lay waste to the horseman who’d come barging into their midst. He drops his burning branch back into the campfire, strides boldly over to the wheezing knight, spits on his hands and lifts his mace above his head, ready to finish off his foe. “This is for Benny, you bastard” he snarls and brings the bludgeon down…

…only for it Walters’ fauchard to deflect it with its blunt convex side. The pockmarked bandit staggers, his momentum lost and before he could recover, falls to his knees as Walters’ polearm chops deep into his neck, slicing cleanly through jugular, trachea and carotid.

Beyond, the bandit camp has burst into activity, scruffy humans, disheveled halfelves and brutal orcbloods tumbling out of tents. The air is rife with curses in every foul tongue, the shadows behind fallen logs and root-outgrowths gleaming with weaponry--- at least one pike amongst daggers and maces and axes. Windlasses on crossbows creak and groan as they grunt and load up fat-shafted quarrels.

Meanwhile, the adventurers’ archers arc clothyard shafts up at the bandit sentries in their towers.

Aiming for the target’s center of mass for surety, Vasili lets fly and his arrow pins a bandit sentry’s hand to the post behind him…

…causing him to prematurely loose his own shaft. Its aim knocked askew, the arrow cracks against a bandit’s ill-made shield, sending jagged splinters flaying into his face. He screams and whirls in pain, his ball and chain accidentally clouting his nearby comrade on the nape, felling him instantly. The other bandits fall upon the now-half-blinded and well-maddened man, pummeling him into submission.

Dhovanu takes more care with her shot, taking a bead on her sentry’s head. She lets fly and her sinks her arrow into the man’s eye and out the other side of his skull, slaying him instantly...

…but not before he’d lined up and loosed his own shot, the bandit bodkin whizzing dangerously close to the elven ranger’s fair ear, slicing off a hunk of hair and sticking quivering into the tree behind her.

Deran charges out of the forest’s shadows just as the berserk heaves himself out from beneath the warhorse’s carcass. The two great axes clash, the two warriors’ mighty thews bulging and straining, the two axe-bits’ beards locked with each other. Deran with his nose of flesh, smells sweat and sex and filth off the berserk; but with spiritual senses discerns the reek of unashamed joy at battle as well as protectiveness over someone…

The berserk’s fury slowly pushes Deran’s grip back, mud building up behind his dug-in heels as he struggles against the madman who hurls himself at the paladin in a clinch. Both greataxes are now above the two warriors’ heads, their arms rigid right angles twisting this way and that for control when the berserk suddenly launches a remorseless series of elbow strikes, knee-strikes and even bites.

Deran shudders, feeling his flesh slowly grow numb from pain and for the briefest moment wonders if those were bones cracking or simply rocks turning underfoot. Still, he ropes the dope, confident in his armour…

And then Walker lunges in, his pike impaling the berserk from behind. His sure feet stop when he feels his iron spearhead scrape against bone, fearful of going too strong, too far and hurting his friend beyond. He gives the spearshaft a twist and then helps Deran out by jerking the berserk off of him but even then he feels the savage’s almost unnatural strength still resisting, still fighting.

…and when Deran feels the berserk’s assault slacken, he counterattacks, planting his feet firmly in the ground, wrenches the axes far to the side, then pivots sharply as he deals the fatal blow.

The still-spewing head with its last scream frozen upon its dead lips spins through the air and rolls to a stop at the feet of the figure finally stepping out of the bandit encampment’s main tent.

Twinned fighting hatchets clatter to the dirt as the figure falls to its greave-clad knees, cradling the severed head to a heaving, cuirass-clad bosom. The greenskinned, wiry woman lifts tearstained gimlet eyes from the berserk’s dead gaze and bellows a howl that shakes birds out of trees for miles around.

“WAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!!!”

Meanwhile, in all the chaos, no sign is yet seen of Gennadi.

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Damon’s horse bought it. He’s still alive, but friggen barely.
Immediate bandits now dead. Sentries in guard towers dispatched.
Footman bandits under cover.
Kressle out, yelling.

[North_Ranger]

The blood-curdling scream makes Vasili turn his head, only to see the screaming and wailing half-orc woman who stepped out of the tent. Willing to bet that the woman is question is the infamous Kressle, Vasili drops the bow and reaches for his pistol, drawing it in one fluid motion. He steadies the barrel towards Kressle, taking the screaming woman's head on the bead.

"Come on, Old Deadeye, show me you're still smiling", the young man whispers as he pulls the trigger.

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Attack with pistol against Kressle's touch AC, using Up Close and Deadly: (1d20+4)[8]
Damage: (1d8)[1]
Extra Damage, half of which still applies on a miss: (1d6)[4]

[PhilMeyer]

Dhovanu is quite pleased at her shot, but dismayed to realize that her own life was nearly forfeit in the exchange of arrows. I must be faster. She berates herself.

She sees the gunman race to engage the half-orc leader of the bandits. The BANG of his gun prompts her to action. She moves into position to get a good shot at this Kressle.

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If possible, move to just within point blank range (30ft) to get +1 damage and attack bonus (not included in rolls below). If I can't get within range, just have her fire from wherever gives the cleanest shot that she can reach.
(1d20+7)[21]
(1d8+2)[9]

[ProudGrognard]

Deran

Things did not go well at all, no. If it wasn't for Walkers, Deran would have been in dire straits indeed. This will not do. What would Talos say, to be bested by an axeman no less! Th technique was fine, the aim true, but somehow, his footwork was not appropriate.

"This is it, you ugly maggots, no more nice guy for you!
Hey, guys, Damon is down!"

And then, the mad women burst out. Deran smiled as he started moving towards her. Not a nice smile.

" Oh halo Madam. I have been meaning to make your acquaintance. When you find the time, come join me for a little dance."

And with that, he will try to take some of the crossbowmen, to clear the path.

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If there are some clustered somewhere, he will go that way, charging if he need to.

---

* post roll count doesn't match database

[shugyosha]

Walters

Moving to cover the rush towards the leader, Walters takes to the flanks, attacking a group of crossbowmen.

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(1d20+9)[15] trip

[Angstrom]

Oh gods

Walker's face pales as he wrenches his spear out of the naked corpse. What was that? What is this? He fails to take in the chaos that erupted from the what had been a quiet morning moments before.
The knight has fallen, but you must fight on Saint Walker
Letting the voices guide him, Walker rushes to the flank with Walters.

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Try to help Walters with the crossbowmen, set up to make AoOs if they try and 5ft step in the difficult terrain. (1d20+5)[22], (1d8+5)[11] (I forgot Divine Favor last time)
If he can't reach them, he'll charge Kressle with Deran.

[Miraqariftsky]

One of the rearward bandits lofts a tinkling vial towards the frontline, but falls woefully short, shattering upon a rotting log and splashing the immediate area with liquid flame. The initial flare is a blinding flash of light and heat that stops the adventurers and gives the bandits a moment to breathe...

...but then it subsides soon enough into a still-burning, still-popping, still-hissing but now-modest blaze.

Of the crossbowmen under cover, one pulls the trigger, aiming through the flames. Walter's warrior instinct saves him from the bolt, pivoting enough that the shot merely glances off his armour, instead of hitting square on and inflicting severe bruising or bone-breaks even beneath the sturdy mail.

The other crossbowman seems to lose his nerve, drops his weapon and whips out another flask of flame. Reacting with almost preternatural speed, already on the move, he all too calmly bats it away with his trusty fauchard. It shatters, showering him and Deran with searing rain but it passes swiftly...

...just as he comes within reach of a portly, ratty-faced bandit in what seems to have been a stolen and bulging taut suit of scalemail. The polearm whips low, sending the man to the ground. His pudgy finger jerks on his arbalest's lever and sends a thick bolt uselessly into the sky. Reversing his grip, Walters pins the man to the ground, then guts him, leaving him gasping, bleeding out.

Meanwhile, just as Vasili is about to decapitate the bandit pack with one shot, one of the crossbowmen pops up, getting in the way and seemingly aiming to peg him as well. The redheaded rogue pulls the trigger shortly before the bandit releases his bolt as well. Both men had distracted each other. Both men still live.

As Walters cuts into the bandit formation a second time, two of their skulkers pounce at him from two different sides. A growling, gaunt halfelf in a suit of studded leather with a broken shield and a bleeding eye shambles towards him and swings a mace...

...only for the stout spearman to almost effortlessly redirect the blow with a deft sidestep and a haft-strike, right onto the bandit's partner coming in from the other side. The redheaded human girl clad in a tough leather duster with a gleaming haubergeon beneath stumbles back and spits as she takes a moment to help steady the half-blind bandit. She lunges at Walters with her own shield, trying to push his defending haft aside, thrusting high and low with her shortsword but is unable to breach Walters' guard. Using his still-grounded fauchard as an anchor, Walters then kicks out, his heavy boot crashing into the girl's shield, sending both bandits tumbling to the ground.

"Ghk!" gasps one of the jumbled bodies as the two try to extricate themselves and crawl to safety. "Lesh gerroutta 'ere!" replies the other.

Another crossbowman, crouched behind a sprawling tree's wild roots, looses his bolt, hitting his mark...

...however, Deran's timely pivot and raising of his hauberk sleeve deflect much of the force of the bandit bolt.

Drawing and nocking in one smooth motion, Dhovanu lines up her shot. For a breathless moment, the halforc's red-on-black eyes meet the elf's emerald gaze. Sure that it will be a kill, she releases the arrow, counting the heartbeats until it hits.

The arrow hits square on, dead centre in the bandit leader's chest, causing her to stumble back a couple of steps. She sways, then stands straight, grinning maniacally as she rips the arrow out with a tinkle of broken chainmail-links.

Meanwhile, Deran charges in, in support of Walters, his massive axe flashing down like a thunder god's judgment. Right through an iron helm it smashes, the brains and bone within spattering the tree behind the bandit crossbowman. In death, his spasming fingers release the barely loaded bolt. The crossbow twangs... and but for the breath driven out of his gut, Deran is fine.

Thus bent over, it is only from the corner of his eye that Deran sees the charging Kressle. He throws himself back and to the side but still her right-hand hatchet butchers into the meat of his right thigh at just the point where the hauberk's chainmail skirt ends. The pain is an inferno, his nerves flaring, his blood gushing...

...and then it doesn't feel so bad anymore. He feels light. Too light.

He falls to his knees and the sudden agony of impact floods his senses enough to keep him going. He barely sees nor feels his arms moving almost mechanically, on pure warrior's reflexes, a series of desperate blocks, his shoulders and back and knees and holy of holies his knees, jarring from the brutal impacts with Kressle's weapons. He barely hears her yelling Youuuh KEELT maaaaaah paaaaaaaaaarrrddnnnuuuuuuuurrrr...

Walker, seeing another friend fall, dashes in, his heart filled with fury, his eyes burning with unreleased wrath, his hands afire with rage. He kicks aside a crockpot that was in his way, sloshing through spilled stew as he thrusts his pike right down Kressle's centreline, finding a chink in her armour, feeling iron on flesh and seeing hot blood spurt...

...only for her to dash his weapon away, panting furiously, eyes darting hither and yon at her slayers, stepping backwards warily, growling like a wolf at bay.

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Strategically speaking, Kressle should have spent her fury on Mr Juggernaut Walters over there. Then again, presently, she ain't all that sensible.

Deran down to -5 from fire and blade.

[shugyosha]

Walters

For all that he was, Walters was a soldier. That meant he knew how to follow orders and a plan. He was to clear a path and give cover to the others who were to take down Kressle. They seemed to have a personal interest in that, which in his opinion made them the least qualified to do the job. War was impersonal, making it personal made one sloppy and too aggressive. Now the team was paying for that. One of their men were down. Walters wanted to engage her but he had two others that needed to be taken care of.

Taking a step to the side into the the half-elf's bind side; repositioned himself for his own attack and giving himself some cover. His reverse curved blade swing to his leg again.

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(1d20+10)[25] trip
(1d20+10)[11] attack
(1d10+6)[9] damage

[North_Ranger]

Vasili grit his teeth when his shot went so much astray, not even glancing anyone. What's worse, he saw both Deran and Damon go down in the heat of battle. This started to resemble more and more of those idiotic campaigns of his childhood... back when he was still with his birth father...

"Dhovanu! I need cover fire!" the young man called out to their elven companion and made a run for it. He tried to avoid the thick of the battle, so taking a small detour he made sure he stayed away from the swinging mace and the man reloading his crossbow. Please, somebody, take out that madwoman before she notices me, he prayed within his mind as he made his way to the prone form of Deran. Taking a knee beside him, Vasili pulled out one of the bottles they had confiscated from Happs's troops, and poured the slightly glistening contents down Deran's throat.

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Cure light wounds for Deran... so that'll be d8+1, right? (1d8+1)[7]

[PhilMeyer]

Dhovanu sees the gunslinger make a run for it, and tries her best to support his efforts. "Make it quick, we're going to need that infernal gun of yours!"

She takes aim at one of the bandits nearest Deran and Vasili and lets loose.

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Obviously move her to get a good shot if you can. If she can get close enough to do a Point Blank Shot, please add +1 to both rolls.
(1d20+7)[14]
(1d8+2)[9]

[PhilMeyer]

She sees she's probably missed with her arrow, and while nocking her next arrow, she calls for her hawk to swoop in and join the attack.

"Ouray, megállu i' edan!"

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This is targeting some enemy near Deran.
Handle Animal: (1d20+7)[10] Success on a 10 or higher.
Claw Attack: (1d20+5)[23]
Claw Damage: (1d4+2)[4]

[ProudGrognard]

Deran

There was pain, oh yes there was. There had been the shearing sensation of steel parting flesh. Now reality seemed a bit distant, like looking through a glass. Deran could feel the ground in his face, the familiar weight of his armor, the smell of the alchemic fire, the screams. But they were distant, and only his body and his pain were truly there. Thoughts of dying, of battle, of need crossed his mind, but they could not take root in his intellect. The world had become very small, defined by his rugged, shallow breathing.

And then, steps, hands and something watery and smooth down his throat. Swallowing by reflex. And the strange sensation of his flesh unhurting, mending, reality rushing back in within his skull. Deran opens sharply focusing eyes to see Vassili 's tense, worried face.

"I am up, I am up, friend. Just a nap."

Feeling for his axe and using the trusty oaken handle for support, Deran rises.

"Is there any more of that? I am two inches away from slipping back"

Regardless of the answer, Deran will then look towards the bandits and his face splits in a bloody, almost hideous smile.

"The first shot was for free. The next you will have to pay, in blood and guts. Let 's do the dance again, now"

If no healing is forthcoming, and the path to Kressle is clear (no AoO), Deran will power attack and smite, charging if need be to get there. If not, he will go after any accessible bandit.

[Angstrom]

Deran goes down, not three paces from his position so the expression on the face of the madwoman is vividly clear. Terror grips him as some of her spittle sprays into his face; alone against this beast.
You are not alone Saint Walker
Seeing Vasili running towards them he desperately tries to fend Kressle off. Using his spear to keep distance between them, he scrambles to skewer Kressle.

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(1d20+6)[12]
(1d8+4)[9]

[Miraqariftsky]

As the blood-mad bandit leader frenzies, her mace-toting cohort has been creeping up in a long flanking maneuver. The adventurers' two spearmen brace as the leather-jacked man gives a hoarse yell and charges through the grass, whirling the mace aloft...

...and his foot catches on a rock at the last moment, sending him off-balance, arms windmilling as he tries to regain his footing, but in so doing, clouts Kressle a glancing blow across the shoulder as she is backing away from Walker.

Skidding to a stop, the goatee-chinned bandit breathes a sigh of relief, raises his mace again and spits, "That's payback, bitch! Come get yer interest!"

Kressle, right arm now hanging heavily, stumbles backward, growling, “JAX, YEH TREACHEROUS TOAD!”

On the other side of the now corpse-carpeted camp, the two severely rattled bandit crossbowmen stare in horror as one of their buddies turns coat and batters at their leader while the avenging axeman has seemingly returned from the dead and his buddies are about to crush the snarling she-wolf. Barely holding their nerves, they release their bolts. One spangs off of Jax’ wide-brimmed iron helmet and the other clatters against Walters’ armour in a glancing shot that only manages to make him grunt with a bit of bruising that will undoubtedly show once he doffs his padded undertunic.

Meanwhile, the one-eyed ragged halfelf and his redheaded reaver companion mutter a stream of curses and try to limp away from the battlefield. Seeing some of their prey escaping, Walters breaks off from the hatchet-swinging madwoman, and tries to intercept the runners. Coming in from the halfelf bandit’s blind left, the fauchard lashes low, laying the mace-wielder flat. The follow-up strike comes slashing in towards his heart. The halfelf bandit blocks desperately, losing a hand, but keeping his life, for the moment. The severed hand with its crude spiked iron ball drops limply to the ground, the grass around spattered with hot blood. The redheaded bandit girl looks deliberately at her disarmed comrades, her dead crewmates, their severely depleted numbers, the traitor and the snarling she-wolf…

…and takes another look at Vasili and Dhovanu, the two skirmishers who’d already proven their deadly art, and she frowns deeply, then sighs. Sword and shield hit the ground, her hands laced behind her head as she surrenders, kneeling in submission. “Yield!” she cries to her mates. “Put ‘em down, dogs! Better to live, eh? Y’all want to be home, come harvest, aye? Put ‘em down, you dogs.”

The two remaining bandit archers exchange looks of fear, then drop their crossbows, yet-to-be-loaded quarrels clattering into the dirt harmlessly. They then unbuckle their weapon belts--- with laden quivers, hatchets, daggers--- and toss them down, then kneel as well.

Vasili dashes in, skirting the surrendering bandits, just in case they might still try some trick, and comes to the rescue of his comrade Deran. He launches himself into the air, the mad halforc’s hatchets already lashing out at him as he comes in. Barely managing to shove the pewter flask’s contents into Deran’s limp mouth, the skirmisher staggers. The agony of smashed ribs shooting up his nerves, the sheer shock of an axehead ripping through leather cuirass, muscle, innards and bone prove too much for him and he shudders to the ground…

…just as the barely revivified Deran stands up once more, his leg feeling raw, still bleeding, but now manageable, at least.

Turning swiftly, forest green cloak swirling, Dhovanu sends her vengeance hurtling at the mad orcblooded bandit leader.

“EHHHRGH!” comes Kressle’s yell of rage as she sees subordinates’ surrender from the corner of her eye… and stumbles back as Dhovanu’s arrow clangs off her left hip’s chainmail, then reels as the hawk flies in, clawing at her eyes. Flecks of blood streak through the air as the raptor wheels about, screeching with bloodlust, preparing for another pass at her mistress’ prey.

Kressle is now half-blind, breathing heavily, limping, one arm almost useless. Her chainmail and furs bear heavy bloodstains, from where the elf’s earlier arrow had hit and where Walker’s spear had pierced the once-sturdy hauburgeon.

Deran, though in little better shape, takes advantage, beats aside both hatchets with one great sweep, then on the follow-up strike, repays her for Damon’s doom. The paladin’s greataxe crunches into her midriff. Broken chain-links, strips of fur and leather, bits of broken bone and rended entrails burst at the impact and her upper half thuds wetly upon the berserk’s corpse.

Walker hears her still groaning, left hand groping about, hatchet forgotten, latching onto the berserk’s axe haft--- and a single sob? Devils know--- and then impales both bandit leaders with his pike, to put her out of her misery. And just to make sure.

All is deathly still. All but for Walker, grunting as he struggles to heave his weapon free of the vanquished.

Does Damon yet live?

Suddenly, there comes a crashing at the flank of the bandits’ encampment. The shrubberies shake and shudder and smoke and shriek and curse.

Two women in torn and bloodstained robes stagger through, dragging what seems to be a gagged, bound and battered beggar… or bandit. Once the two women get close enough, it seems evident that they are the missing Eleanore and Winter.

Leaning heavily on her smoking scimitar, the former drops herself onto a log, breathing heavily, but waves to the men and flashes a half-hearted smile. “The Dawnflower smiles on us, brothers. Sorry we couldn’t help earlier here, but--- hff-hff--- caught this one sneaking around to your rear. Spellcaster. Officer, of sorts. Still alive.”

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Bandit Charon JAX turns traitor, charges Kressle, hits shoulder.
Bandit crossbowmen loose. One misses, the other hits Walters for 2 damage.
Walters trips Mace Man, cuts off his weapon-hand. Bugger’s still alive, but now out of the fight. Gladius Girl and Crossbow Crew throw down their arms and surrender.
Vasili runs in to Deran’s rescue, shoves a CLW potion into the paladin’s mouth, but eats an AoO in the process.
Dhovanu exacts some immediate retribution. Arrow “misses”. Hawk hits.
>AoO meatspace-rolled. 5+10 = 15, 6+7=13. Vasili takes 13 damage, now down to -2 HP.
Deran lays down the beatdown.
>meatspace-rolled. 12+ 4 Str +2 Flank +2 Charge -1 Power Attack. 10+9 =19 damage.
Walker, um… kills her. Again.
Eleanore and Winter return.

And if y'all are wondering, go ahead and trace the Initiative order via the latest "scratch post" in the OOC. All is in order.

[shugyosha]

Walters

"On your knees, hands behind your head!" he yells at those surrendering. His weapon drops fresh blood as he paces and watches them.

"You!" he says pointing his polearm at the woman, "Wrap that one's stump before he dies of blood loss." He tosses his strip of cloth he carries as an emergency tourniquet to her. He smiles, thinking that it is a good day that he didn't have to use it on himself or his allies.

[Angstrom]

Walker nearly falls over backwards when he pulls his spear free. He steadies himself on his spear then looks over his shoulder at Deran and Vasili. Mistake. Walker's stomach leaps into his throat as the smell of the battle hits him all at once. Heaving, he spills his breakfast on the lower half of Kressle's corpse.
They were evil Saint Walker. Be grateful for the lives you saved today.
The voices were right, killing the leaders kept the now-surrendered bandits from throwing their lives away. Regaining his footing, he stumbles towards the tent that Kressle had erupted from moments ago. Pulling open the canvas, he looks inside.

[ProudGrognard]

Deran

In the sudden quiet of the battlefield, Deran lowers his axe, slightly panting from his wounds. He turns immediately to Vassili, his savior.

"Eleanore, Vassili and Damon are hurt bad. Can you do anything for them? I will take care of your prisoner. Please, I believe that they need immediate attention"

He then turns to Vassili

"By all the gods above, Vassili, don't make me come after you There. Come on, breathe"

The fact that the oath is a genuine one shows how upset Deran is. He turns anxious eyes to Eleanore and goes near to secure her prisoner.

[PhilMeyer]

Dhovanu is quite pleased at having played a part in taking down the bandit queen. So much chaos in the battle, she's still trying to process it all.

She moves to help tend the gunslinger, if his wounds are not fatal. Despite her distaste for his loud and brutal weapon, she was just starting to like the boy.

"Is there anything I can do to assist?" She asks.

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Heal check to aid another (whoever is trying to stabilize him): (1d20+2)[9]

[North_Ranger]

Vasili was completely out cold; likely the sheer shock of having Kressle's axe cut into his guts had made him lose consciousness. The wound that cut across his midriff was still bleeding profusely, and the young frontiersman spasmed as he vomited blood.

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Just givin' a little description for his condition...

[Miraqariftsky]

The Sarenite minister hurries over and kneels beside Vasili, stabbing her scimitar into the loam beside him. She grimaces at the wound, snatches out a wad of gauze from her healer's satchel and presses it into the hands of the elfmaid, telling Dhovanu, "Here, hold this. Keep the pressure on, don't let him bleed ou---"

"Damn it!" comes her curse as the added pressure drives a spike of agony through the stricken Vasili, sending him convulsing. Eleanor grabs Deran and despite their vast gulf in size and strength, drags him down to the ground. "Hold him still! Don't let him struggle. I won't have another bugger die on my watch!"

Eleanor rips off her scabbard and gently places it in between Vasili's champing jaws as he thrashes, so as to prevent him from biting his tongue and choking. She then rubs her hands together, takes a deep breath and lays one hand over the ghastly wound, the other warm and steady on one of Deran's as he struggles to hold his friend down.

The Sarenite's hands begin to glow like a candle, then as a flame, then white burning hot. Speaking in tongues of angels and tongues of men, she chants,

Maiden of fire, mother of the dawn
We sinners pray to you, now and at the hour of death
Maiden of fire, mother of the dawn
Hear our prayer, heed our humbling
Maiden of fire, mother of the dawn
Our comrade heal, of evil’s wounding
Maiden of fire, mother of the dawn
Restore the spark, restore the breath
Maiden of fire, mother of the dawn
By thy hallowed name,
Amen

Bits of dirt and rust and wood and grass fly out of the wound. The two broken ribs’ fragments slowly drift together, the riven liver rights itself, cords of muscle reknitting themselves, blood vessels weaving once more their bloody tapestry, fat and skin struggling to close…

…but the ritual’s power peters out, the glow and the otherworldly aroma fades, still leaving a large, raw, weeping wound that at least is no longer as deep as before. Breast heaving, breathing hard, sweat dripping down her forehead, her face set in a deep frown, Eleanore grits out, “Dhov. Good, hhhk, work. You. Too. Der.”

Eleanore then pats Vasili’s cheek as he slowly comes to. “Hhhkk, ‘elcome back t’th’ land o’th’ livin’.” She then pats the scabbard in his mouth, wags a finger to warn him not to thrash too much, then signs to Dhovanu to help her with stripping his shirt off. That done, the Sarenite takes a swig from a whisky flask, then tips a tot of the heavy stuff into a wad of gauze… then slaps it on the wound, scrubs it clean, changes it, then fixes it into place with a series of cross-torso bandage-wraps. She pokes him in the side and says, “There. Yer welcome. Y’ve still got two ribs broke and a liver frakked up there, so don’t get into a fistfight with ogres and don’t try to outrdrink a dwarf, you got me?”

Meanwhile, under the watchful eyes and spears of Walters and Walker, the rest of the surviving bandits have been rounded up. Near the centre of the camp is a small pile of surrendered weapons and armour consisting of leather cuirasses, various suits of mail, a handful of crossbows, a couple of crossbows, a couple of pikes, more than a few maces, axes and daggers.

Of the surviving bandits, the archer and the crossbowman have already been attended to by their comrades, hasty bandages now covering their horrible hand wounds. The other crossbowman is a surly-looking bearded fellow with his corded arms crossed over his barrel chest. The bandit girl sits hunched on a rock, her head clutched in her hands.

At the edge of the encampment, the lady Winter has sagged to rest upon a log as well, her unconscious prisoner slumped over a nearby willow root. She wipes her forehead and flashes a grin and a wave at Eleanore’s successful surgery…

…then suddenly the man in ragged robes stirs awake, seizing a flashing wavy-bladed obsidian dagger from deep within his folds, lunges at the lady Winter. He hauls her up and lurches backwards, one arm in a chokehold, the other holding the knife to her throat. His manic eyes, flaring nostrils and wild beard dart hither and yon in hesitation and he begins a rapid, unearthly chant that seems like a windstorm keening over a field of bones, whose tones send thrills of chill up the spines of all who hear them.

Winter thrashes, struggling against his grip, obviously pained in body and in mind. She stamps on his foot and he reflexively loosens his grip. She tries to flee…

…just as the chant ends, ending with the knife slicing through her throat as she struggles free. Blood flashes through the air. The lady gurgles, stumbles, falls. With a rush of wind and reek of brimstone, the bandit mage disappears, leaving only a crater of scorched grass and glass-scorched soil.

The surviving bandits are now all crouching, shuddering, rocking to and fro.

Spoiler

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Will saves vs Shakenness, all ‘round please. Thank you.
Winters still bleeding, still alive, barely.
Damon, condition, unknown.

[ProudGrognard]

Deran

Deran watched the quasimagical surgery with awe and concern. Such direct divine manifestation, such power appearing through faith... He always felt a better man after seeing it. Holding his friend as he thrashed, he watched as Vassili seemed much better, though not good, not good at all.

"By Tallos' speckled giraffes, Vassili, you scared me. I mean, I also died but I had the decency not to thrash, I think. Next time I am approaching Pharasma 's Spire, I will at least try to be nearer to you"

... but his attempts at humor are cut short as a terrible series of events unfold too fast for him to react. The 'prisoner', the brimstone, Winters' blood in the air. Somehow, he was moving without knowing it as he run towards Winters.

Spoiler

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Deran will run to see if Winters is alive. He will also try to make sense of what happened.
Religion (1d20+4)[24]
Perception (1d20)[12]
General roll (1d20)[2]

[Angstrom]

"Son of a witch!"
Stay calm Saint Walker
Seeing Deran running to aid the strange witch, Walker turns to make sure no other prisoners try to escape. "Get down. Don't try anything. Now talk, who was that and where did he go?"

[North_Ranger]

Gods did it hurt to come back to his senses. It felt like someone had split his stomach in two... oh wait, somebody did that. Vasili could barely register the warning of Elanor, followed by Deran's worry-filled welcome back to the land of the living. With a curse and a gritting of teeth, the shirtless young man sat up. He coughed and hocked, cursing as each spasm of his diaphragm sent a wave of pain from his abdomen. Spitting out a dark lump of partly-congealed blood, Vasili wiped his lips clean and nodded to his comrades.

"I'll try to do better next time", he whispered to Deran, a smile splitting his bloodied lips as he unsteadily got up on his feet. "At least... I know now... to steer clear of crazy women with axes", he added with a pained chuckle.

The young man's eyes dropped to his destroyed suit of boiled leather, and his smile died instantly. Sighing deeply he picked up the cuirass, his fingers tracing the bronze clasps that had closed the armor's front. "Well, this is ruined", he said joylessly as he stowed the ruined armor under his arm. "Maybe there's some I can confis---"

His words were cut short by the scream and the eldritch blast that left Winter bleeding and coughing, and the man running into the night. Maybe it was the pain in his gut, or simply the fact that he was still unused to such flashy magic, but Vasili froze for a few seconds - long enough that by the time he reached for his gun, the man had already disappeared into the night. "Father's horns!" the young man cursed, only then noticing Winter bleeding.

Cursing, Vasili hobbled closer to the bleeding witch, pain shooting up his spine with every step. "Elanor! Over here!" he called out, already bundling up his shirt to try and stop the bleeding.

Spoiler

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Here goes nothing... Heal check to stabilize (1d20+3)[11]

[PhilMeyer]

With great determination, the elf ranger shakes off the effects of whatever foul spell the bandit mage had cast. After all this slaughter, she wasn't about to let some fool arcanist effect her state of mind.

When he disappears, Dhovanu curses in elven. She does her best to find any tracks he may have left, in case the spell was to vanish or turn invisible. She knows well that half the dramatic effects of wizard spells are for intimidation and distraction.

Spoiler

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Survival to find tracks that lead away from where the mage disappeared.
(1d20+8)[16]