DreamLyrics™ Play-by-Post Forums Hall of Fame - Latest Top 10 completed games HHE: The Haunted Helm HHE13: The Ice Chamber

Tindarian

Even if Nestaron has to die, the dragon's life must end. Too long has it preyed on humankind and Tindarian knows that Nestaron would not have it otherwise. But he has to try. He tries to feel the power of the breath weapon again but it is not to be.

"Confident enough to turn your back on us are you?"

He calls out to the wyrm, trying to put a seed of doubt in his mind, trying to change the focus towards them.

And he casts a chaos bolt to enforce his words.

Seyja


Seeing the transformed great wyrm turn to threaten Nestaron, Seyja screamed pejoratives and death threats at the dragon and, pulling the improvised fire bomb from her belt with her good right hand, she ran full speed toward the hated enemy.

Striking the fire bomb's attached matches against the haft of her greataxe as she grew nearer her target, she launched the lit and sputtering fire bomb toward the dragon.

Jex
Even with the lingering acid eating away at the bars, he maintained his song. It was not yet time to pull out his sword. Magic was the most powerful weapon he had and he would be damned it he died trying to save it. He utilized the Symbol of Gathered Power to recall his Soundburst spell and moved forward until he was in range to cast it at the Master Of Winter. While that spell had thinned the ranks of the dragonspawn, he knew it would only chip away wt the ancient monstrosity. Still, it was the most potent attack he had and was intent on using it.

D

Seeing the obvious threat the pale dark elf sprinted towards his foe. He wished to get into range to toss one of his deadly daggers.

Bearkiller

He'd observed the party from hiding the day before, watching, listening, he'd gained an insight into their motivations. It wasn't until they bravely stood up to the ancient white wyrm that Bearkiller knew he had to help them.

Only now was he realising the extent of the abilities, however. Had he known how dangerous they were, he might have been more reluctant in joining them. The destructive magic cast by the bard and sorcerer shocked the halfling, but he had to trust He Who Sicks Balls' instincts. His dire wolf never led him astray, and his dire wolf had a good feeling about the party.

So as the heroes ran out across the cracking ice, in pursuit of the shapeshifted dragon, Bearkiller's trust was rewarded. These were men and woman with mighty hearts! He did not hesitate for a second, following them onto the ice, knife clasped in white knuckles and hollering a war cry.

His aim was to keep himself between the spellcasters and any foes, intercepting any who tried to assail them. The dragon would have a paladin, barbarian and rogue snapping at its heels, and Bearkiller doubted they'd need his help.

[Have we lost MikeD??]

Sergeant Almador

Throbbing pain overwhelmed any fatigue that was setting in, spiking him with a shot of violent energy and emotion.

The Sergeant could feel the blood gushing from his cheek. In the back of his mind, he told himself that naturally it would bleed like billy-o, and look far worse than it was. At the front of his mind, he was scared and outraged at the same time, and more than ever wanted to bludgeon the dragonspawn into a bloody pulp.

But the creature seemed too gnarly, too leathery for his mace to hurt it, and he was now regretting losing his partisan during the night.

The dark elf was on hand to assist him though, and not for the first time. Almador remembered last night, the log bridge, accutely.

After Tindarien blew away the last of the dragonspawn with his own dragon breath, and the man-at-arms had stopped gawping at the destruction, he nodded to D.

"I owe you once again, sir, and fear I might be reaching my credit limit!" He said in thanks.

Seeing the party launching an attack across the cracking ice, Sergeant Almador shrugged fatalistically.

"For Rosencliff!!" He shouted, running after them.

[[ Nope still around ... but apparently a post I thought I made got lost <sigh> lemme try again ... ]]

<Weston>

With the dragon threatening Nestaron, it seems that desperate measures were needed. Placing his hand upon a rock he called to their foe. "Hey, Snowflake, say goodbye to your prescious", he yelled as he brought his sword up over his head, ready to bring it down, pommel first, onto the ring on his finger.

GM

Nestaron saw the Master of Winter coming, his leathery cloak, spread like wings, and white scale armour betraying the ancient lord's true heritage.

The half-elf wheezed from a dry, frozen throat, struggling to keep his chin up. He felt sluggish, gelid at his core, a cold, dark place where his inner fire had winked out.

But the Jester of Drakkenhall's song was like a splash of pure grain spirit, daring and brash, and Nestaron somehow discovered a slither of warmth left in his body and stoked it with his ire. His surviving arm twisted and with a crunch, he wrenched it away from the ice, leaving most of the skin of his hand behind.

The ancient lord turned at Weston's words, a spear of ice growing in his fist as he snarled.

"You cannot threaten the Aurenaur, worthless, witless wretch, you can only insult it!"

Thus the spear was hurled at Weston and the swarthy man had to dodge aside, taking the named ring with him.

Nestaron's eyelids fluttered. Even in this frozen pit of despair, there had to be spirits or gods that would heed his prayer. He had to help his friends... and his friends had the same idea about him.

The cavern was mostly lit via the pot-hole in the roof, a glorious shaft of summer sunlight beaming down from above. Around it was gloomy and misted with cold.

Through the mist, heroic figures darted. Out across the frozen lake as it ruptured and cracked, throwing up plumes of frost. Left and right, massive slabs of ice dropped into the abyss beneath. Weston and D appeared to be carried off to certain death, Jex had to curtail his song whilst leaping over yawning cracks. Seyja and Zoltan both rushed at the shape-shifted dragon, Zoltan leading with his sword and scarred shield ready, Seyja beside him with the prow-shaped head of her axe glinting wetly.

Arriving on the same rocky island that the dragon had occupied, the sorcerer, Tindarien, hurtled into a magical attack. A writhing bolt of black, shadowy energy screamed across the cavern, sinking into the ancient lord. It coursed through the empty eye socket and between bloodied lips, but the lord's one eye gleamed hot and yellow like blown glass.

"Have you ever wondered where your dragon's breath and talent for death magic come from, Son of Trahice!?" He said to Tindarien.

"Perhaps your accomplices should worry more about you? The dragonblooded who can wrest the power from the ring becomes the White. That is why your forebears created it!!"

More of the solid ice coving broke free, crashing into the ground and filling the cavern with cacophony.

Amidst the chaos, the rogue, D, had found a new use for his obsidian daggers, clawing his way back over the ragged icy edge. Nearby, Weston was hanging, losing his fingertip hold on freezing cold rock, when suddenly his cuff was seized by... a shimmering mirage, wolf-like in shape but twice the size. The fighter was hauled upwards onto solid ground, and blinking away dirt and frost was confronted by Bearkiller, the halfling encouraging him to stand. Weston and the dark elf were needed, there was a dragon to slay.

There was another deafening blast as Jex targeted the Master of Winter with another of his most destructive spells. But this was a dread foe indeed and fought on, even with thick orange blood dribbling from his ears and nose.

Zoltan ducked the Master of Winter's sweeping sword stroke, pitted steel striking sparks off of the tielfing's pauldron. Billowing his cloak, the ancient lord somehow took off and dropkicked Zoltan's shield, throwing the paladin to the ground. Seyja was lighting the storm matches on the fire bomb as the shape-shifted dragon snapped around to face her, eye aglow.

Then, shouting almost unintelligibly, Sergeant Almador lunged from the gloom with his heavy, flanged mace, bringing it smashing down on the ancient's skull, bursting it like a melon. The Master of Winter fell in a pile with a splat, physical form quickly bubbling and dissolving amongst the dragon filth that the heroes stood ankle-deep in.

[
D HP: 12/28; Rec: 4/8; AC 15, PD 16, MD 12; Init +10; Staggered
J HP: 18/32; Rec: 1/8; AC 15, PD 13, MD 12; Init +5*2 (Behind)
S HP: 18/43; Rec: 0/8; AC 16, PD 16, MD 12; Init +4*2; Staggered
T HP: 15/24; Rec: 3/8; AC 12, PD 13, MD 15; Init +4; (Behind)
W HP: 24/44; Rec: 4/9; AC 17, PD 15, MD 12; Init +4*2 (Behind)
Z HP: 37/40; Rec: 3/8; AC 22, PD 14, MD 15; Init +3
Al HP: 17/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3
Be HP: 32/32; AC 18, PD 14, MD 14; Init +6
Ne HP: 1/27; AC 13, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2; Staggered, Helpless

Terrain Notes: The rock bridge is wide enough for two combatants abreast. Enemies are arranged in the order shown below. Moving across the frozen lake instead of the rock bridge requires a stunt, DC 20.

MW HP: 0/28; AC 16, PD 12, MD 15; Init +6; Dead
]

<Weston>

He dodged the ice javelin, then smiled. It seemed like he had gotten his attention. "Maybe, but =I= have the ring ... 'Snowflake' ... not you", he taunted, getting back to his feet ... ready to dodge again. If he could get the dragon mad enough to close, that would solve two problems.

But that hope was short lived as the world seemed to fall in on him. He was hanging on to a bit of rock, that in a different situation, would not have been such a challenge. But it was freezing cold, it was slippery with ice and he was having trouble feeling his hands. He was starting to wonder if he was going to make it when the had reached down and pulled him up. He got to his feet and nodded his thanks the Bearkiller. But more would have to wait. There was a dragon to slay!

It was =almost= a disappointment when Almador scored the killing blow. But the disappointment was =very= short lived. The cheer escaped his lips, "Way to go =Almador=!" He turned to Bearkiller, "We need to see how our friend Nestaron is ...", he said as he started making his way to the cleric.

Seyja


The barbarian woman roared, part in exaltation as the Master of Winter crumpled to the ice floor, but almost as much in frustration as she had not yet been able to use the fire bomb they'd worked so hard to construct.

"I'll not waste it," she growled as she struck the matches and hurled the bomb onto what was left of the transformed great wyrm.

Tindarien

He had heard the words of the dragon, knew he would investigate them in the future but right now he has other priorities.

And they change.

As the dragon falls, he heads off towards Nestaron knowing he has healing potions and they could not go to a better cause. Nestaron's healing had got them to this point through their previous battles. This is glorious payback.

Zoltan

More than a bit of disappointment mixes with satisfaction as he sees the dragon collapse. He had hoped to strike a more telling blow himself, but the dragon is dead and Nestaron seems to have been saved so he can't complain.

Still, he does not relax his guard and he watches carefully, guarding those in the area from any new threats.

Jex

"This thing looks dead. Let's make sure!"

With that, the jester moves over to the head of the dragon and plunges his sword deep into it's cranium and twists the blade. He repeats the action twice and then starts hacking at it's neck, trying to sever the head from the body. He didn't know if it was the type of creature that regenerates or not, but he wasn't about to take any chances.

Bearkiller

After his dire wolf had hauled Weston up from the edge of the abyss, Bearkiller gave a curt whistle to He Who Sicks Balls, telling his pet to sniff around.

"But not get too close." He warned gruffly, very aware of the slick of orange blood and bodily waste that had accumulated in the sump of the dragon's lair, the surface broken by bones and rusted weapons, armour and other junk.

The halfling's knuckles were white as he gripped his antler-handled knife, eyes darting left and right. He didn't believe such an ancient evil could be vanquished by someone as dim, slow and old as the man-at-arms.

At the first sign of trouble, at any sign, Bearkiller would howl and attack.

D

He was happy to see the creature fall. But he knew better than to trust it. "Death is not so easily obtained for something as ancient and evil as that thing," he cautioned. His eyes watched looking for the threat he was sure was coming.

Sergeant Almador

Wheezing from exertion and the fine frost he'd breathed into his lungs, the Sergeant had hoped for a sudden end to the battle.

Seyja's fire bomb certainly fixed the white lord's attention, and the withered, bald head that was turned away from Almador looked as robust as an eggshell.

His heavy mace had only scuffed the leathery scuted hide of the dragonspawn, so Almador was eager to prove himself worthy of his friends' confidence (especially with the brusque halfling around).

So the man-at-arms' blow had his considerable weight and frustration behind it. He still hadn't expected it to fell the monster.

In the immediate aftermath he stood there blinking until Weston's praise caused him to redden and wave it off. His companions were still in a combat posture, but the old guard couldn't resist looking from the head of his mace to the dead, shapeshifted dragon. Wasn't it skulduggery it had accused them of?

"Yeah, skull-dig that, you swine!" He muttered.

GM

With Weston's help, Tindarien had distracted the ancient white lord from slaying Nestaron. Now the high elf rushed across the crumbling frozen lake to join his companions in freeing his friend.

Bearkiller glanced over his shoulder at the sorcerer. A strange look, for the name 'Trahice' was familiar to the mohawked halfing and one of foreboding.

He said nothing. There was foreboding aplenty in the cavern.

The storm matches smouldered and flared as Seyja struck them, but as Jex sloshed into the pool of scum, hacking at the fallen dragon, they both noticed how its corpse had become mush, already drifting apart.

Smoke caught in the barbarian's throat. She coughed, looking down at herself, then unbuckled and shrugged out of her leather jerkin, finally throwing the smoking ruin away. Seyja was adept at handling liquid fire, from the fire dancing rituals she had learned in her past. The fire bomb gave her no trouble and the storm matches burned slowly. She was ready to throw; there was no urgency yet.

D and Weston caught their breath as they approached. D perhaps lending Zoltan a hand in getting to his feet, if the paladin wanted it. Once standing, both demontouched and dark elf were on high alert. Weston meanwhile was first to reach the Nestaron, and it was a grisly sight.

The walls around the half-elf were encrusted with blood-ice. His face was patched with frost, his lips were blue, and although he bore many light wounds, his left arm had been completely torn off, the gaping wound frozen shut.

Sergeant Almador meanwhile, dared to enjoy a moment of triumph.

Then the pool exploded around him and the blizzard dragon rose underneath him, jaws wide, transformed back into the huge Beast of Titan's Elbow.

Many of its teeth were missing, empty sockets weeping orange blood, and its head was grotesquely misshapen as if partially crushed. The rest of its maimed, draconic body rose from below, wings unfurling.

Almador was carried aloft in its mouth, mawled, chomped, spat out. With primitive savagery, Bearkiller leapt at it, knife in hand, but was batted away. The Master of Winter snaked its head around, glared at the rest of you with a furious eye and roared.

[
D HP: 24/28; Rec: 3/8; AC 15, PD 16, MD 12; Init +10
J HP: 18/32; Rec: 1/8; AC 15, PD 13, MD 12; Init +5*2
S HP: 12/43; Rec: 0/8; AC 16, PD 16, MD 12; Init +4*2; Staggered
T HP: 15/24; Rec: 3/8; AC 12, PD 13, MD 15; Init +4
W HP: 41/44; Rec: 3/9; AC 17, PD 15, MD 12; Init +4*2
Z HP: 37/40; Rec: 3/8; AC 22, PD 14, MD 15; Init +3
Al HP: 6/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3; Staggered (Engaging MW)
Be HP: 32/32; AC 18, PD 14, MD 14; Init +6 (Engaging MW)
Ne HP: 1/27; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2; Staggered, Helpless

MW HP: 90/90; AC 19, PD 16, MD 15; Init +8 (Engaging Al)
]

Seyja


She'd almost released the fire bomb when she realized there was nothing left at which to throw it... just mush...

Was that just a doppelganger? An illusion?

Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted by a sear of pain in her chest and she awkwardly ripped her the leathers from her upper body before they could burn her even further.

Then the ice floor broke, surged upward around the reappearance of the Master of Winter.

Seyja reacted immediately, hurled the still smoldering fire bomb at the great white wyrm and drew her greataxe from her back in preparation for rushing the beast.

D

He knew in hus heart that there was something worse coming, though he hated to be right. The black shards that were his stock in trade appeared so that he could attack. He kept moving to dodge the massive creature and to avoid being in line with its massive breath.

[OOC Best attack he can do, ranged or close and activate his racial power if the opportunity presents itself.]

Zoltan

He'd been waiting. It had been too easy. He thanks D for the hand up and settles his sword and shield, watching and waiting.

When the ice erupts, he moves with no delay and places himself before the Dragon, striking as hard a blow as he can.

(OOC - Neil - using everything he has left here. He hasn't used his Racial Power this battle (btw, if the dragon rolls a 1-5 on ANY of it's 3d20, does he get to use it, or would it have to roll 1-5 on all 3 dice?), nor has he used Bastion, as you pointed out. He still has a Lay on Hands left and he also still has a few Smite Evils left.)

<Weston>

He is appalled at Nestaron's state. Before he can decide what to do things go pear shaped again and the thrice damned beast is back. He howls with frustration and rage as he sees Almador swept up in the dragon's maw. He grabs his swords and attacks with all his rage and frustration behind the blows!!

Tindarien

As he reaches Nestaron, his eyes full of compassion for his friend, an uproar sounds behind him. He can guess from his companions reactions what that means. But he is here right now. Farvi has rolled one of the potions to within easily reach. The high elf reaches back, graps the vial and pours it into Nestaron's mouth. It won't be enough but it might buy him a little time. He knows from the cleric's state that he has suffered much on their behalf, it is the least he can do.

He doesn't wait to see any reaction but whirls around ready to engage with a spell. He has done his best for Nestaron, now he has to do his best for the others.

Jex
Hacking at the seemingly dead dragon's head was a futile action but the bard didn't pause to sulk about it. There was work to be done! He was rid of his spells so now it was time to pull out Fusillade the Angry! He unsheathed the foul weapon from it's sheath and lowered it on the Master or Winter, and as he does he lets out a battle cry to Seyja to Pull it Together!

[ooc: Seyja is the most hurt but I'm not sure if that Rec: 0/8 next to her entry means she has none left. If that's the case, next most harmed that's not encased in ice is Tindarien. So it would be for him.]

Sergeant Almador

What happened? Had he blacked out?

Almador was totally aware of his surroundings, senses sharpened by the intensity of battle in a way they hadn't been for decades, if ever. Yet he still couldn't recall the past thirty seconds, or why he was sitting amongst his companions while they milled about.

Dragging himself to his feet, he felt nothing at all, a clumsy numbness.

Then he saw the silhouette of the dragon against the shaft of sunlight behind it. It looked even bigger in the cavern than it did outside.

"Aw bugger." He muttered.

He still had his mace, lanyard tied around his wrist, so the good Sergeant employed it for its intended purpose.

Bearkiller

Shaking his head, the mohawked halfling gritted his teeth and snarled, charging the Beast again with his knife. All his thoughts were red and his vision was rounded with it.