DreamLyrics™ Play-by-Post Forums Fantasy SKT: The Storm King's Thunder 3Y.A1 - Shadowtop Cathedral

Zindra

"The woads want us to not interfere. They say he is not ours, whatever that means".

Pavel

"Hey that arrow hurt this stump when you hit the Woad!" Pavel yells out. "I think they're connected in some way. And the markings I got in the ceremony glowed because of the the stump."

He steps away from the Half elf and lowers his weapons. Then steps toward the stump and places a hand on it.

Jaliera

She is confused. Are they supposed to let the creatures attack the half-elf? She hears Zindra's words and Pavels, which increase her confusion. She does not want to hurt the forest.

She looks at Davroar for guidance.

DM

Pavel’s hand meets the rough surface of the stump.

Nothing happens. No glow, no hum, no tremors. Only cool, dead bark beneath his palm; exactly what an old tree stump should feel like.

But then the half-elf, prone on the ground behind him, decides to act. He could try to tell the story of how he got here, but a picture paints a thousand words. He'll at least try to show Pavel (and the others) a glimpse of what's happening.

He draws a shaky breath, lifts one trembling hand, and manages to whisper a word, casting Produce Flame. A faint ball of fire blossoms in his palm, but bright enough to cast sharp illumination across the stump beside Pavel and his duplicates.

The runes on the stump light up again with green light, as if answering the cantrip’s glow. Lines race down the roots, outward from the stump like veins, tracing through the soil in a wide circle. What was invisible before now sharpens into clear geometry: an old ritual ring, its boundaries etched in the earth by age and magic.

The half-elf mutters in a raspy voice, “Not... what it looks like...”

The runes and root-lines remain glowing while the magical flame burns within their boundary.

Initiative Order

Zindra 11
Wood Woads 9
Davroar 6
Jaliera 6
Pavel 15
Half Elf 13

Zindra
"Then explain yourself! Nobody move." she says in common and then she repeats it in Sylvan.

DM

The wood woad narest Pavel lowers its weapon. At the same time, the arrow wound that Jaliera inflicted seems to rapidly heal itself, the arrow falling out from the wood and bark regrowing, with only a small crack still leaking sap. (OOC: Wood woads regenerate 10hp at the start of their turn.)

Before turning to address Zindra, however, it attempts to restore the sanctity of the circle. Gesturing toward a spot outside of the glowing runes, it mutters a spell. From the glowing runes carved into the stump, one of the thick roots ripples like a whip being cracked, a vine springing from the soil at its end.

The vine lashes out... not toward the half-elf, but toward Pavel.

It does not strike him. It grabs him.

A loop of living vine coils around his arms and torso, firm but not crushing, and with a smooth pull, drags him backward, out of the glowing ritual boundary toward the northeastern edge of the circle.

(OOC: The wood woad has cast Grasping Vine. Pavel, roll a DC14 Dex Save, or you can choose to fail the save and allow yourself to be moved. Since this is not an attack spell, it only targets the "real" Pavel.)

Once Pavel is removed from the ritual space, the woad who cast the spell turns its attention toward Zindra and speaks in slow, heavy, raspy Sylvan:

"His tribe was attacked.
Only he survived.
He came to us.
To become one of us.
His choice."

Davroar

He does not understand the Sylvan language, so he will stand his ground at Zindra's command and waits for her to translate.

{OOC: Pavel doesn't fight it}

Jaliera

She has no idea what is going on but is on her guard as Pavel is grabbed. He doesn't seem to be too worried by it though so she remaind watchful. She is in two minds. The woads do suggest that they are part of the forest. Maybe the half-elf is going through some sort of renewal ceremony. But she is suspicious by nature and thinks it could be something much worse.

Zindra's words help her to stay calm.

OOC: As you've all suspended taking actions, I'm pausing initiative order here in the middle of the woads' turn, assuming we're going to talk this out.

DM

The half-elf lets the small flame cupped in his palm gutter. With a soft hiss, it dies. As the light fades, the runes carved into the stump dim as well, their glow retreating back into the bark like embers settling beneath ash. The glowing lines along the roots withdraw, sinking once more into the soil until the circle is no longer traced in light.

The magical vines holding Pavel release him, snaking back into the ground.

For a moment, the clearing is very quiet, but the druid seems to sense the party is waiting for his own explanation here.

With visible effort, the half-elf rolls onto one elbow, then pushes himself upright. He is pale, blood still drying along his torn leathers, but his eyes are clear now... and steady.

"I did not come here as a prisoner," he says hoarsely, in Common. "Nor was I taken."

He looks from face to face, pausing longer on both Zindra and Davroar as he continues. "I was," he begins, then corrects himself. "I am .. Emerald Enclave. Like you. My circle watched the old woods northwest of here. A burial place, older than the road, older than the names men give these woods."

He looks downward, breaking eye contact as he relates recent events.

"Orcs came first. Too many. Better armed than they should have been. They drove us back. And behind them, Storm Giants. The giants did not strike us themselves, but they commanded the Orcs. They wanted something buried there. Something ancient. Not gold. Not bones. Power that remembers older oaths than ours."

He looks back up at the party, his expression serious, and sad. "We held as long as we could. My tribe ... my family. I am the last. No kin. No circle. Nothing left to guard but memory."

His expression slowly turns to one of hope. Of courage. "The woads offered me a choice. Not death, but a new beginning. New roots. Not an ending. A way to continue to protect these woods. Their circle is druidic, like me..." he looks at Davroar "... like you. They maintain an ancient rite that not all wood woads keep. A rite older than even the Enclave."

He lifts his hand and speaks a single word... "Family...", this time in Druidic, gesturing toward one of the wood woads.

The woad answers, its voice low and resonant, spoken in Sylvan: "He will be our child."

Then slowly, deliberately, it speaks a short phrase. First in Sylvan, then again in Druidic, and finally in Elvish, each repetition carrying the same weight:

"Our seed.
His heart."

The half-elf concludes the repetition, in Common. "Their seed. My heart."

There's a long pause as the heaviness of the moment settles. The half-elf dares to crack the slightest of smiles, tinged with complex emotions. "I'm told taking my heart hurts less if they knock me out first."

Jaliera

She finds she has a lump in her throat at the half-elf's story. She knows what it is like to watch your family die, to feel that alone. A single tear rolls down her face.

But she too has found a new family, a way not to be alone, a way to give her life meaning, a way to go on day to day.

"To family."

Almost a whisper, she shows him she understands.