The Black Shingle Fiasco

[Marlowe]

Avita takes a deep breath. "There's very little I can be sure of right now. Except that we are very low on ammunition and that if we fire off what we have left trying to stop them we'll have nothing left for when we really need it.

"It's not a matter of attack or get attacked; I doubt we can stop them from getting into the tower, and with the ladder destroyed they won't have an easy time getting to us. If they try, well that's the time we start killing them.
But under these new circumstances-", waves a hand, indicating the carnage taking place in the square. "-I see no advantage wasting our resources starting a fight we may not need."

She draws an arrow and sights along its length.

"We should, of course, move more people to guard the lower floor. When they get inside. Assuming they make it. We are in no immediate danger yet, and it helps us not at all to prate as though we are. What's going on out there is bizarre and horrific. YES. I feel for those Dwarves. YES.But from our point of view it's still better than having a hundred Hybrids crawl all over us."

She shoulders her bow and puts a hand to her chin. "We are in a siege situation. Not the best. Not a situation I'd like. Yet, there's nothing can easily attack us. I've seen no evidence that the Handymen can climb. Or these lackies of Laeth either. We can defend the stairway landing as long as we're vigilant. Brin did that on his own for a week, and that's before we wrecked the stairs. Adept Sycarus and maybe Blue-Eyes as well can create water. We'll not thirst. They can also purify the rations we took off the dead Hybrids. We won't hunger for days. And much can change in days. I regret that mine own abilities are mainly about hurting people, but that's useful too."

She shrugs. "Weird as this all is, it strikes me that the best thing we can do now is not waste our efforts. And Cottonbud; you're down to your last couple of arrows by now, I'm guessing. And those people are in full plate, and in combat. Sorry,
Cottonbud. I've seen you shoot. You're not a good enough archer to hit them; save your arrows for when they're useful. And you, Sergeant?" She raises her eyebrows at Ygor. "Maybe you are a good enough archer to hit. It still strikes me as a waste of resources."

She makes for the stairs down. "Two people up here at all times to keep watch. Rest of us should probably muster by the middle-level hatch to defend it 'gainst those on the ground. But, you know. I'm not in charge."

[YossarianLives]

Ygor listens to Avita, his face growing grimmer by the second. When she finishes, he takes in a deep breath, scrunches his brow in frustration, his mouth working soundlessly. Exhales. "Fine," he blurts out. "Bloody fine! We'll sit tight and wait. Just wait. I suppose that's what we came out here to do." A hollow laugh forces its way out of him. "Hold The Line," he quotes.

Ygor and another soldier position themselves on the battlements, watching the conflict with pained expressions. The looks of people who know they are powerless to affect the outcome of a great struggle. From what you can see, the mercenaries and demons have settled on a wordless truce. While occasionally a brief melee will erupt, solemn dwarves fight back to back with screeching hybrids and twisted monsters, their differences temporarily put aside in the face of a much greater foe. Near the middle of the defender's mass, someone raises the fallen Wheeler standard, waving it in a brave, but futile, display. Together, they cut down the Zaghifd like grain at the harvest, but it is not enough. For every twenty Children slain, one of the defenders is crushed under the combined might of many grasping head-claws. More Zaghifd pour from seemingly everywhere - houses, alleys, sewers, streets. You even see a few bursting from underneath the cobblestones, writhing briefly in the muted sunlight, before charging the nearest victim.

But, while you were discussing their fate, Laelth's thugs have extricated themselves from the mass of bodies and have nearly reached you, only pausing to cut down a few stray Zaghifd. They have suffered a couple of casualties, the survivors looking like they've been through weeks of hard fighting, their gear scratched, dented and covered in blood. As they reach the foot of your tower, one steps forward while the others fan out to form a protective bubble. The creature who must be the leader removes it helmet, revealing an all-too familiar face. Inhumanly angular features, dark swept over hair, and the golden eyes of an eagle. The Rod-Bearer. With a sneer, it raises a short rod of opaque-glass above its head. The mysterious artifact, indistinguishable from the one you last saw in the College. "Let us up," shouts the Rod-Bearer. "I'll show you what this does!"

[Marlowe]

Avita looks down on the familiar face, unsurprized. "Every time we meet you, Sir, you seem to have put yourself in yet more difficulty."

She sets a knee forward, leans upon it, lips drawing back from teeth in something that's not a smile. "I'm afraid our last meeting did not inspire us with much regard for your personal integrity. And your proposal is question-begging. What does it do, and why do you have to be up here to show us?"

[Bartmanhomer]

"And so the waiting game begins."

[YossarianLives]

A Zaghifd throws itself at one of the waiting demons, a shield-bearer, and is cut down. The rod-bearer merely smiles indulgently, wiping the blood and grime from its brow. "Quite the opposite, my elf friend. This can all be resolved expeditiously. This artifact, if used properly, can control the Zaghifd. Harness them like the beasts they are. But activating it will take some time, and attract the little creatues to the wielder's location." The rod-bearer pauses, a note of sarcasm entering its voice. "Even with my steadfast guards, I would be torn apart. But I would be safe up there, with you. Let me up and both our forces will be saved. We will not harm your or the gnomes. I swear it."

[Marlowe]

Avita raises an eyebrow. "Sir; assuming you're telling the truth, how is it to our advantage to assist you in gaining control of these little horrors?"

[Kushina43]

"Aye, even with yer word, assuming you can control the lot, there's nothing keepin' you from sickin' them on us right after." Sarim chimes in, bow in hand. "And even if you do keep yer word, what's to say ya don't try slaughterin' us later with them?"

[YossarianLives]

The rod-bearer shrugs. "How long are you prepared to sit in that tower? The Zaghifd will notice you, before long, and then they will not stop until you are all dead." It chuckles humourlessly. "They are rather single-minded." The rod-bearer jabs a finger toward the embattled dwarves. "What if I told you they are all that remains of your invasion force? There is no one coming to rescue you. Besides, what would I gain from killing you? I think you will find me reasonable enough. Help me, and I will ensure you and the other mercenaries can retreat safely."

Beside you, Ygor shifts uncomfortably, massaging his sword hilt with one hand. "Don't listen to a word he says."

[Bartmanhomer]

The rod-bearer shrugs. "How long are you prepared to sit in that tower? The Zaghifd will notice you, before long, and then they will not stop until you are all dead." It chuckles humourlessly. "They are rather single-minded." The rod-bearer jabs a finger toward the embattled dwarves. "What if I told you they are all that remains of your invasion force? There is no one coming to rescue you. Besides, what would I gain from killing you? I think you will find me reasonable enough. Help me, and I will ensure you and the other mercenaries can retreat safely."

Beside you, Ygor shifts uncomfortably, massaging his sword hilt with one hand. "Don't listen to a word he says."

Eric notices something about that rod-bearer. "That rod bearer looks so familiar? Where did I see him before?"

Then he shifted back to Ygor. "We won't."

[Marlowe]

Avita looks down. Coolly. "You are inconsistent, Sir. You already described our position as "up here, safe". We cannot be "safe" and at the same time in danger from these little ones. You can be sure I already have my own thoughts on our position. And none of them are improved by letting you up here with us to perform some ritual of obscure significance."

And then she leans back and murmurs softly into Ygor's ear. "This fellow had any sense, they'd be getting into the ground floor and barricading themselves in. Since he's not...I don't think that rod does anything like what he claims it does."

[YossarianLives]

The rod-bearer nods, conceding the point. "Yes. Safe, for now. But, if necessary, they will build a ladder from their own dead. Time is short." It shorts a look toward the unfolding battle, the waves of Zaghifd throwing themselves against the defenders, the sound almost stifling your words. "I give you one last chance to save those dwarves. Let us up, we will even set aside our weapons." Slowly, exaggerating the gesture, the rod-bearer unbuckles its sword and lays it on the ground.

Trying, and failing, not to move his mouth, Ygor whispers "You're right. The lying fool took his helmet off, I say we nail 'em right in the eye."

[Bartmanhomer]

"I'm down to 10 arrows now. I have no choice to switch to melee and I don't think my shortsword is made of cold iron. But it'll have to do."

[Marlowe]

Avita leans forwards, over the battlements. "Sir, even if all you say is true; it should occur to you that such as we are sworn and committed to risking, and if need be, giving our lives to stop you. Not to grasp at life enabling you." She waves a gauntleted hand out toward the struggling Dwarves. "And so are they."

She stands up straight and look down past her nose at the Wheeler elites. "So. Since it seems according to you we're all about to die, why don't you tell us what's really going on?"

[YossarianLives]

Cursing under its breath, the rod-bearer picks up its sword and motions the guards to follow. "Have it your way. Something tells me you won't be so clever when your skin's adorning a drum." Together, the group of warriors begins to jog away from the tower and the battle, heading in the vague direction of the seaside. The rod-bearer has not donned its helmet. You realize Ygor has seized one of the fallen gnome's crossbows, loaded it, and taken aim at the retreating demons. He meets your eye, and raises one eyebrow questioningly.

[Bartmanhomer]

Eric put his shortbow away in his backpack and draws his shortsword.

"I'm ready than you are."

[Marlowe]

Avita grins and nods, raising her bow. "Correct, Sergeant", she says quietly. And to those around her. "Well, you heard the man; lift what shafts your have and see if we can't fit him for a bongo."

She notices Eric drawing his sword and gives an inner groan, then turns back to the carnage, sights on the rod-bearer, and lets fly.

Spoiler: *CLACK*

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To-hit (1d20+3)[23]
Damage (1d8)[5]

Spoiler: Critty stuff

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Conform (1d20+3)[6]
Extra Damage (2d8)[13]

[Bartmanhomer]

Eric start attack the demon with his shortsword.

Attack: (1d20+4)[12]
Damage: (1d6)[5]

Critical:

Attack: (1d20+4)[10]
Damage: (3d6)[6]

[YossarianLives]

Avita's arrow flies true, hitting the rod-bearer's armoured gorget, and penetrating the metal. It gasps, stumbles as Ygor's bolt bounces off its thigh, and clamps a hand to the wound, looking in shock at the blood spurting from its neck. The guards react quickly, moving in to surround their master, creating a wall of shields and mostly blocking your view. Awkwardly jogging backwards, they continue retreating backwards. The rod-bearer, voice quavering, shouts once last threat in your direction, "Your Captain had better judgment," before running hard for the nearest building.

Spoiler: OOC

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You can still shoot, but the rod-bearer now has +4 AC from its guard's protection. Next round they will reach the building and be totally concealed.

[Bartmanhomer]

"Ah screw this. I might as well going to use my arrows for this one.

Eric put his shortsword away and grab his shortbow. Now Eric attack the demon with his shortbow.

Attack: (1d20+4)[18]
Damage: (1d6)[2]

Critical:

Attack: (1d20+4)[7]
Damage: (3d6)[10]

[Marlowe]

"He really shouldn't say these things out loud..." mutters Avita as she takes another shot at the Wheeler captain.

Spoiler: *CLACK*

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To hit (1d20+3)[5]
Damage (1d8)[1]

Spoiler: Critty stuff

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(1d20+3)[19]
Extra Damage (2d8)[9]

"Well, Good-bye Pretty-Boy one way or another." She steps back from the battlement, and one finger strokes a cheekbone. "Sergeant, and everyone. I think we'd be well advised to write and sign a little report on what we've just seen and heard. Especially that bit about the Captain. Just on the off-chance that we don't get out of this and someone on our team find what's left of us we'll be passing something along."

She looks out at the battle in the square. "Where are those famed Senra War-Golems when you need them? Oh well." She picks up a couple of the Hybrid wooden shields, and heads for the ladder.

"I'm going to see what I can do about blocking up the hatchway to the ground floor. Put some furniture over it. Something. Can't have your pikemen on alert the whole time."

[YossarianLives]

The last two arrows deflect off their shields as the Abyssal guards, and their master the rod-bearer, vanish into the shelter of a partially-collapsed house, slamming the door behind them. Ygor lets out a pent-up breath, stamping his foot in frustration. He shoots a glance towards the ongoing battle, a hint of regret on his face. "I suppose that would be wise." He looks slightly sheepish. "Can't say I brought any paper, though."

Ygor sets the crossbow aside and follows Avita, hands clasped behind his back. "A good plan, it never hurt to be too cautious." A pause. "That demon,
or whatever he was. You have met before? Dealt with him?" The sergeant's eyes narrow in suspicion, examining all of you for some sign of betrayal.

[Bartmanhomer]

The last two arrows deflect off their shields as the Abyssal guards, and their master the rod-bearer, vanish into the shelter of a partially-collapsed house, slamming the door behind them. Ygor lets out a pent-up breath, stamping his foot in frustration. He shoots a glance towards the ongoing battle, a hint of regret on his face. "I suppose that would be wise." He looks slightly sheepish. "Can't say I brought any paper, though."

Ygor sets the crossbow aside and follows Avita, hands clasped behind his back. "A good plan, it never hurt to be too cautious." A pause. "That demon,
or whatever he was. You have met before? Dealt with him?" The sergeant's eyes narrow in suspicion, examining all of you for some sign of betrayal.

Eric replied to Ygor. "Now I remember. Unfortunately we actually met a while ago. We sort of assisting them killing a group of Zaghifd. I really want those demons dead but the Zaghifd were a bigger threat. I never thought that we're going to bump with these demons again."

[Marlowe]

"I have paper", says Avita, in the flat tones of one who's thinking paper doesn't have a weight. Why doesn't everyone have it?. But she seems more interested in looking around the loft for any bits of furniture that can be used to block the hatch.

Search (1d20+1)[6]

"Few days ago. Mission to the library to collect some magic items. Ran into Pretty Boy and his mates. And a whole lot of Handymen. Made a temporary alliance." She turned to face Ygor. "Maybe not the most laudable of decisions, but given our mission was "fetch things and get back with them" rather than "die trying to kill everything you meet", it was the one that worked. He didn't strike me as terribly trustworthy though."

[YossarianLives]

Ygor shakes his head, chuckling humourlessly. "I see," he says sinking into a chair, watching Avita go about her work. While she isn't able to find much furniture that would block the hatch - only a small table, which she overturns - between it and the hybrid's shields, she manages to achieve a decent covering. At the very least, it will block projectiles.

Ygor pipes up again. "So what? We sit here while the rest of the army is slaughtered?" He does not look happy.

[Marlowe]

Avita stands straight. Eyes still looking around the loft for any heavy objects she can use to weight the table down. She doesn't look at Ygor. "Before they were "Disdainful Sneer Mercenaries". Now they are "The Rest of the Army". There are maybe half a dozen of us able-boded, with no magic left. We could run out there, get ourselves killed, abandon the wounded, and die. We could try sneaking down the wall with my rope and skulk of through the alleys, abandoning the wounded, and probably still die. I'm not frelling down with abandoning the wounded."

She turns to face the Sergeant and takes a step closer. "We have no options right now. If we can hold out until tomorrow, the wounded might be fit to move. We might be rested and have some powers restored. We might have options. Until then, we keep our heads down and don't talk like someone's ordered us to eat ten raw pigs for breakfast under pain of death."

She heads back to the ladder. "And I'd better get to writing that report".

Hauling herself into the sunlight, she pulls over a Wheeler shield to use as a desk, and scribbles a short summation of the events of the day; with particular emphasis on the Wheeler captain meeting the description of Parker's secret councilor, and his last words to the party.

"Guys, I'll be needing signatures. Sarim, just make a mark. Divine Sycarus or the Sergeant can note it as yours."

[YossarianLives]

Ygor subsides, staring sullenly at the floor, picking at his fingernails. He does not speak again for several hours, only rousing himself to sign Avita's report, alongside Sycarus. The other soldiers are not much better - though seemingly grateful at being spared a suicidal charge, they stay mostly quiet, taking turns keeping watch on the battlements and squatting on the floor below.

Though the battle below continues for almost an hour, at times the Zaghifd horde being thinned almost enough to let the bold defenders escape, the final result is inevitable. Eventually, it is down to the hybrid's banner, planted in a pile of bodies, surrounded by its bearer and three or four dwarves. They fight valiantly, slaying dozens of the Children, but they are soon overcome, buried in a seething pile of claws.

For a time, the Zaghifd mill about the blood-soaked cobblestones, beating their drums and playing with the corpses of the fallen - both their own and the defenders. But their patience is limited, and they soon disperse, some remaining while others wander aimlessly into the streets. One group of around thirty gathers at your tower's base, but their interest seems focused on dancing, drumming, fighting, and looting scraps of metal from the dead, which they use to decorate themselves. It is certainly a strange display, one which the gnomes try their best to avoid watching.

Hours pass, and soon the sun is sinking beneath the clouds. With the arrival of twilight, you can clearly see the lights of Senra - the warm glow of lanterns, mixed with fire and smoke. The sounds of battle in the distance are still just audible. The Zaghifd below do not budge, still playing amongst themselves. As you watch, it becomes clear that their dancing and fighting are not separate, but rather a combined activity. They circle not-so-gracefully around each other in the darkness, one moment prancing with their limbs in the air, the next slicing at each other with claws. They don't seem to even notice the lack of light - probably due to them not having eyes - and casualties are soon replaced with new arrivals.

Then, something taps lightly on the table covering the destroyed stairway. The Zaghifd don't seem to have noticed anything. Another tap.

[Marlowe]

Avita is making herself a sleeping-nook on the table itself, on the thought that her weight might keep the hatch more secure and using the leathers stripped from the Hybrids as padding, when the tapping starts. Her first reaction is a grinding of teeth and a thought of; this day needs to END. But as she hears the sound twice she calls over whoever's able-bodied, awake, and can be spared from the watch on the roof to stand by at the hatchway, then sets up her lantern next to it.

With her gauntlet, she responds to the singleton taps with a quick, light, double-tap, and listens for a response.

[YossarianLives]

Brin and a couple of the guardsmen sit up, looking startled, and edge over to the hatch. The sergeant seems to have fallen asleep, huddled in a corner, but Sycarus is as attentive as always, listening with a raised eyebrow. Almost a minute passes after Avita's tap, making you question whether it was merely the Zaghifd's shenanigans, when the owner of a deep, husky voice whispers something through the floorboards. "I'm a friend! Open up before these things turn me to mincemeat, I've been out 'ere for hours."

Spoiler: Saaaaarrrrrrim.

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The voice sounds suspiciously similar to that of your half-brother, Duhlmil Blackaxe. But last you heard he was on the other side of the continent, making his way as a sellsword.

[Marlowe]

Rather relieved that she doesn't have to go through a complicated back and forth of exchanging raps and interpreting patterns to determine whether the person below is sentient, Avita braces herself to pull the table back as quietly and carefully as she can manage.

"Brin, get behind me, just so you're not the first person he sees. Guys?" she gives the guards and the Cleric a brisk nod. "Get psyched, just in case this isn't a Dwarf".

That said, she puts her back into pulling back the table as quietly as she can, then steps around the hatchway to help the newcomer up. Or else hit him. Whichever seems most appropriate.

[YossarianLives]

Summoning their last reserves of strength, the gnomes prepare themselves for combat one more time, lowering pikes toward the hatch. Brin steps backward, happy to let them do their work. There is a rather awkward moment as they all stand there, weapons at the ready, watching Avita gently pull the table aside.

When her job is done, they all peer downwards, looking for the survivor, and greeted by a hoarse whisper. "Let me up ya' buggers!" A young dwarven man, crouches in the darkened main floor, leaning on a battleaxe for support, wiping sweat and blood from his brow with the other hand. A dented, silvery breastplate, decorated with blue and gold runes, identifies him as one of the mercenaries. A vicious smile starts to split his face, before being quashed, replaced with a look of pleading. The dwarf clearly tries to hide it, but his gaze keeps darting back to Sarim.

One of the gnomes starts to fish a rope out of her pack, clearly intending to lower it for the dwarf to climb, but Sycarus holds up a hand, looking at you questioningly.