DreamLyrics™ Play-by-Post Forums Hall of Fame - Latest Top 10 completed games HHE: The Haunted Helm HHE7: Battle of Heilbutt's Hallow

D

The dark elf didn't see the broadsword before it hit him. Yet as before he noted without surprise that it had happened again. Was this the only cruel certainty in his short lives? Was this the lesson? Had he learned how to die, yet? Only time would tell, as blood dripped down the orc's back like one last bit of defiant spittle.

Zoltan

Saving his divine energy for later battles would be pointless if he did not survive this one, so gathering himself he resumes his attacks on the Orc Chieftain

[Continue to use Divine Smite until I run out of uses. I should still have 2 or 3 left. Also note, Zoltan's PD is 13 not 12. He is still hit, but just wanted to let you know.]

Sergeant Almador

Coughing up phlegm, he tried to retain his grip on his partisan. If he dropped it, he was a dead man.

The disbelief at seeing his maimed fingers quickly dissolved into an adrenaline-fuelled excitement. He was shaking head to foot, as the full, staggering realisation that something was trying to kill him finally sank in.

"Bleeding hell!" He gasped, then yelled incomprehensibly and hacked desparately at the goblin grunt.

Heilbutt

He was glad to see the high elf fall back and surprised by the dark elf's gallantry. Heilbutt would never have expected such a thing from a dark elf, let alone from one with as dubious a vocation as D.

As unlikely as his brother-in-arms was, Heilbutt fought alongside him and fought for him, as if he were a clansman.

Sweat and blood beaded on the half-orc's skin, and the pain was like rivulets of acid, crawling over his body. But he was a crude combatant, making up for what he lacked in technique and wits, with sheer vigour.

Heilbutt roared in anger as the orc warriors cut down the rogue. He felt the first pangs of despair; the chieftain's battle curse threatened to bury him beneath its raw hatred and his vision was darkening. But he could not relent to orcs of all things, and he would never relinquish the rogue's body to them.

He interposed himself between the orc warriors and D's unconcious form.

"You will not." He growled at them, his arm thrusting forwards as they came, with haft, jagged spearhead and the promise of death.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

His hair was plastered against his forehead, as he delved once more into the realm of spirits and gods.

Nestaron wrung his staff in both hands, aware that many of his companions needed his healing power, though one more than any other.

He muttered a litany of phrases, trying to remould magic he'd already cast into shape. It could be done, but it would break the heightened awareness he'd invoked. How many attacks from behind had that thwarted? How many mortal blows prevented?

No, it was too risky. There were still orcs about, and he couldn't endanger the rest of the party for one man.

If he was to save D, he'd have to do it by hand, which meant charging into the fray, or....

Nestaron licked his lips and held up his hand to the sky.

"Madan!" He said, calling upon the constellation and the divine being that comprised it, "My power has failed me, O Glory, Mother of Dawn, I beg you find this man and cure his wounds!"

Too much malice, too much murderous intent. The cleric would target whatever foe looked most distracted or weakened with his next shot.

[Cast Cure Wounds on D]

TINDARIEN

Again he moves, avoiding direct conflict in order to provide the best attacks he could for the group as a whole. And he owes many of them for these chances, just now Heilbutt and D.

He spares one glance, a nod, to his friend Nestaron, another that has more than helped his this day. Then he is facing the enemy looking for the biggest threat. And that threat announces himself with a roar!

He stretches out his glowing finger again, this time the red line of flame streaks towards the orc chieftain.

GM

A dark, limpid ocean and an empty sky without colour or light.

The soul drifted on his back, face up and staring sightlessly, the water lapping around his ears.

He did not see, but he heard. Voices. A woman's voice. Chiding him about returning so late. Laughing uproarously as they joked about a rival prince's ridiculously long shoes. Then whispered words as they huddled together, watching the first robin of winter alight outside the window.

He heard children's voices, running a noisy gamut of emotion and event.

The voices were once part of his life, but his life was not his own.

A fog blanketed the surface of the water now, forming into figures and faces in a halo around his head.

He saw himself, standing in a circle, opposite him was the Baronessa in night robes; to his left was a halfling woman in buckskins with a mohawk and shortbow, her face painted black and white. To his right, a dwarf, naked but for a loincloth and his bristling, foot-long moustaches. His left arm is sleeved with a tattoo of a strange creature, the forequarters of a rampant horse and the hindquarters of a fighting cockrel.

In the middle sat an empty throne of shifting, flickering darkness.

Then the soul saw light, growing around him and could feel its heat rising from the depths.

With an explosion of sensation he was suddenly alive again, and soaring upwards, carried by a giantess. A woman with the lower half of a serpent, whose body was fire behind glass. Wind was rushing in the soul's ears, rippling his unsolid flesh and bones as he was born aloft, cradled in her mighty hands.

***

D gasped and drew breath, Heilbutt's sandalled foot stamping down near his face as he was fought over.

The half-orc grimaced, using the reach of his spear to parry one of his foes' broadswords. The other orc warrior leapt in with an overhead chop, thinking he was inside the arc of Heilbutt's longer weapon. But Heilbutt slid his off-hand down to the head of the spear and swung it up, piercing the orc through the cheek and out through the back of its head.

Jex had a more arcane weapon in mind, gesturing sharply with his hand and chanting an Unterseeic verse. He blew into his fist and then threw it at the orc's champion.

Lermoriach let out a strangled growl as a cloud of violet-coloured ink burst over his face. His vision swam and his movements were sloppy, drunken, as if he were unsure where his own limbs were.

Even befuddled, he was still dangerous, driven by instinct and reflexes alone, enough that he threw up his forearm and Weston's arrow thunked into it instead of his chest.

Zoltan wasted no time, following the arrow in with a fell sword stroke, that clove through the orc's mail and sprung half his ribs from his breastbone, staggering him. Lermoriach howled, and thrust his boar spear at the paladin, who shrugged it off with his shield in a shower of sparks. The chieftain glared at Zoltan with pure hatred, his throat sac ballooning.

"I will see goblins dance in your skin, demontouched!" He rumbled.

From the corner of his eye, the tiefling could see Tindarien flexing his fingers, that burned like red hot irons, and he lunged sideways as a beam of scorching white heat shot passed, yellow flames writhing around it.

It struck Lermoriach in the guts and he snarled, the scars of his face growing bright red and livid, but suddenly his talismans broke. Squealing like a pig, he staggered back as fire erupted from his mouth, nose, eyes and ears. His throat sac exploded and his head yawned backwards, turning him into a standing volcano....

Seyja ducked under the berserker's maul, and caught it with a glancing blow above its knee, sensing the orc cheiftain's fiery doom behind her. The berserker screamed and juddered in anguish, so frenzied, it tore its own lips off with its fingers and was spitting blood at the barbarian woman as it attacked.

The goblin grunt was not so inclined. Its wicked grin at overpowering the man-at-arms dropped into open-mouthed dismay. Suddenly that goblin shiftiness flooded back into it, and it was more concerned with saving its own hide than finishing off some porky old man.

Sergeant Almador's arms were so tired and numb, he could barely lift his weapon. His strength was spent.

[[
D HP: 8/21; Rec: 8/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9; Staggered
T HP: 10/18; Rec: 5/8; AC 11, PD 12, MD 14; Init +3; Staggered
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 26/33; Rec: 9/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2
S HP: 3/33; Rec: 7/8; AC 15+2, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered (Engaging Or.Be2)
Z HP: 18/30; Rec: 8/8; AC 20, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
J HP: 4/24; Rec: 7/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2; Staggered

Al HP: 5/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3; Staggered (Engaging Gb.Gr2)
He HP: 9/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3; Staggered (Engaging Or.Wa3)

Or.Ch HP: 0/36; AC 18, PD 12, MD: 16; Init +5; Dead
Or.Be2 HP: 20/40; AC 16, PD 15, MD 13; Init +5 (Engaging S)
Or.Wa3 HP: 30/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3 (Engaging He)
Gb.Gr2 HP: 12/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3 (Engaging Al)
]]

D

Whatever the lesson, he clearly had not learned it yet. Aching all over, his body telling him that he should be dead, even though he clearly was not. His hand slipped to his belt and in one very smooth motion drew and threw a deadly flying black blade at the fleeing goblin. None would get away. He had said that and done that too many times to let it not be true. Here now on the threshold, back from the precipice of death, he would make it true again.

He rolled to his side and began to stand up. He would have to be more careful if he was going to hurt less. Clearly it didn't matter if he was to live, as he still existed. He would have to thank whomever was responsible when the time came.

What he knew now was that this group he had fallen in with, were extraordinary. They all had unique skills and abilities far beyond that of mere mortals. He knew why that demon cat had sent him here, at least in part, now.

[OOC: Flying Blade d20+5 (before escalation die), damage d4+4, miss 1, crit -4 daze]

TINDARIEN

Several of his companions had the same idea and the orc chieftain came under attack from several directions. And it took that concerted effort to bring him down. He is pleased he played a part in it and can sense that the tide has turned in their favour.

But some of his companions are still beset. Seyja is fighting hard but probably is in most need of help. He turns his glowing finger in the direction of the orc berserker.

<Weston>

He took a moment to survey the field, a battle could shift quickly. He was looking to see who most needed a helping arrow or two. It would quicker than running all over the field.

Sergeant Almador

He was done, he knew it. His arms were jelly, the small of his back felt like a ball of hot wax, and he had maybe one last swing in him, if he was lucky.

So Almador couldn't understand why the goblin was inching away, trying to disengage. His awareness of the battlefield was appalling. He hadn't even realised the orcs' chieftain had joined the fray, let alone been defeated.

It was time for that one last swing....

[Attack Gb.Gr2]

Heilbutt

He tugged his spear out of the orc's face as he dodged away from the other.

They'd slain the chieftain, these companions of his!! Seeing the dark elf roll to his feet, Heilbutt knew that his master's magic had to be involved and he felt humbled. The battle curses of the Orc Lord had failed and the day would be won, not by hatred, but by comradeship and selflessness.

The half-orc was only now beginning to understand the significance of these two things in nature's design. And perhaps there was more?

He spared a glance at Seyja, where again and again she'd clashed with the berserkers that towered over her.

Clansmen of the grim, rain-lashed Wake Island were not aspirational folk, but something akin to it was kindled in Heilbutt's heart. He counterattacked his foe, as ferocious as ever.

Seyja


Now there was only one of the despised berserker orcs in front of her, although by now, fatigue nearly crushing her, her eyesight red-tinged and dimming slightly, she sensed the brute as much as saw him.

Only her over-riding hatred for the orcs and their master (and Nestaron's help although she was still not aware of that) along with her rage kept her erect and fighting. She swung her greataxe again, determined her foe would fall even if the attempt killed her, too.

[OOC - Got on-line for a few minutes, so...]

Zoltan

He grins grimly as the Orc Chieftan goes down. That's both chieftan and shaman down, and he feels satisfied he had a role in killing both.

Turning to once again peruse the battlefield to see where he can be of the most help, he can see both Sergeant Almador and Seyja are fading. But he can also sense the Goblin fighting Almador is about to flee, so he charges the Orc on Seyja, striking it for behind.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

Even in the heat of combat and the afternoon sun, Nestaron shivered, like the onset of illness. But it was just exertion of his inner strength and he knew it well enough to know it would pass soon enough.

In the meantime, he focused on seating another stone into his sling. The Sergeant was on his last legs and Nestaron didn't think the goblin could resist an easy kill.

Jex
The number of foes was dwindling. If they could pare down the number even more, they might all survive. There were three alive and he targeted the one on Seyja. If he could free her up, she could help someone else. So he held forth his hand once again and he conjured a bolt of bedlam which he hurled at the orc berserker that was trying to kill Seyja.

GM

Having learned things from dusty tomes and shrivelled parchments in Drakenhall's legendary troves, things that would make a person's hair turn white, fall out, or even transform into snakes, the bard knew more than any bard safely should about magic. Because of course, bards to a lesser or greater extent, liked to show off.

Jex made a series of quick gestures with his off-hand, mouthing words and flicking his fingers at the orc berserker. A bolt of crackling energy shot from his palm and hit the berserker in the chest.

It exploded leaving a gory, fist-sized crater, but even after Weston's arrow thudded between its shoulders, the orc staggered forward, some how still alive, gripping its maul and driven by one, foaming impulse; wreck the barbarian woman. Wreck her.

Seyja came at it flying, greataxe raised high in an overhead chop as she leapt. The orc berserker roared but the her axe cleft skull, neck, right down to the brisket. Gore splattered Seyja's face, hairy lumps catching in her teeth.

That wasn't how the goblin foresaw his end. instead, the grunt feinted an attack at Almador and the men-at-arms was wrong-footed. Opening created, the goblin jumped backwards, straight into the path of a throwing dagger.

It screeched, a hilt jutting from its thigh. It couldn't flee? Trapped!? Better to take one of these adventurers to hell with it? It glanced at Almador, then with a crack, Nestaron's stone struck the gblin in the forehead and put out its lights.

Up the rocky slope, close to the forest's edge, Heilbutt was locked in mortal combat with the orc warrior. D had made his escape, but his half-orc saviour was wounded, tiring versus a dominant foe. The orc wielded its broadsword with brutal efficiency, hack, slash, hack, slash, the haft of Heilbutt's spear was notched and splintering. Heilbutt saw Zoltan pounding uphill towards them, sword and shield in hand.

Knowing he didn't have the reserves left to outstep his foe, Heilbutt lunged, thrusting his spear into the orc's foot and pinning it. Suddenly the tip of Zoltan's blade slammed into the creature's armpit. It staggered sideways, gasping, clutching at the paladin with one arm, its eyes-rolling in pain.

It stared Zoltan in the face, glancing at where the hated half-orc was stretched, regaining his footing from the lunge.

"For the Orc Lord!!" It hissed at Zoltan. Twisting on his blade, it screamed and with a terrible blow, struck off Heilbutt's head.

Tindarien and Jex were there, lightning and nega energy burning into the orc warrior as Zoltan held it in place. Its screams didn't abate as the flesh melted from its bones.

When its last, pitiful scream came, it was swept away by the din of the cascades.

The rocks were splashed with blood, some of it pooling beneath the corpses and trickling into the river.

Including your own, nineteen lay dead.

[[
D HP: 8/21; Rec: 8/8; AC 14, PD 15, MD 11; Init +9; Staggered
T HP: 10/18; Rec: 5/8; AC 11, PD 12, MD 14; Init +3; Staggered
N HP: 27/27; Rec: 8/8; AC 17, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
W HP: 26/33; Rec: 9/9; AC 16, PD 14, MD 11; Init +3*2
S HP: 3/33; Rec: 7/8; AC 15, PD 15, MD 11; Init +3*2; Staggered
Z HP: 18/30; Rec: 8/8; AC 20, PD 13, MD 13; Init +2
J HP: 4/24; Rec: 7/8; AC 14, PD 12, MD 11; Init +4*2; Staggered

Al HP: 5/27; AC 17, PD 14, MD 12; Init +3; Staggered
He HP: 0/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3; Dead

Or.Be2 HP: 0/40; AC 16, PD 15, MD 13; Init +5; Dead
Or.Wa3 HP: 0/30; AC 16, PD 14, MD 10; Init +3; Dead
Gb.Gr2 HP: 0/22; AC 16, PD 13, MD 12; Init +3; Dead
]]

<Weston>

He grinned as his arrow helped take down Seyja's for. But his satisfaction was short lived.

"Damn" he said quietly as he saw Heilbutt go down. **too slow** he told himself. If he could have gotten just one more arrow away ...

And then it was quiet except for the water. But there was blood, there were bodies ... everywhere! But he couldn't just sit around. For one thing there might be more of them and they needed to pull themselves together.

He moved over to Almador and clapped the man on the back. "Not bad", he said with a somewhat forced smile on his face. The guardsman clearly needed a bit of a boost.

Seyja


Suddenly it seemed to be over and Seyja bent forward, her hands on her knees, breathing in deep gasps as her mouth filled with the coppery aftertaste of her rage. She coughed and spit out bits of nasty tasting orc.

After a moment or so, she managed to bring herself back erect and look around at her companions. They all seemed to be alright, but...

No... Heilbutt lay there, headless. Seyja shook her head slowly.

"He was a noble adventurer."

<Weston>

"He will be missed", he said agreeing with Seyja. "He deserves a decent burial ... if that was his way", he said looking to Nestaron.

D

He looked around for more foes. That he was now alive again crossed his mind yet they had lost one. The barbarian woman's words were true. What adventure awaited him in his next incarnation?

For a moment he only swayed on hus feet. His body trembled with the jitters of combat. He stepped lightly and recovered his blades. They hadn't even made their objective and they had nearly failed. This was a worthy challenge.

Tindarien

It takes a moment to realise that the fighting has stopped, so intense had the battle been. He takes a breath, thankful he had survived, something he owes to his companions.

That thought in his mind he does a head count, also checking that none of their foes are still moving. His eyes light on Heilbutt and his heart sinks. Certainly Heilbutt's earlier intervention had been a large contribution to Tindarien's survival. He had intended to thank him personally.

He heads up the slope to where his body lays and honours him in the best way he can, his voice lifting in light elven song as he sings his respect to a fallen hero.

[Recruiting for this player character. Send PM for details]

Nestaron

He closed his eyes, threw his head back and felt the sun's rays on his face. Life.

The battle was won, but at what cost? Groaning, the cleric lowered and hung his head, gripping his staff with both hands and leaning on it like an old man.

"Heilbutt... I am sorry." He whispered.

Nestaron picked his way across the rocks, the blood and corpses to where his follower, his disciple lay.

"He was barely nineteen, but he chose to leave his people, dedicate his life to fighting the forces of evil.

"And so he did, and so it was."

The half-elf knelt beside Heilbutt.

"He didn't waver for a second...." Nestaron shook his head and rubbed his face.

"Very well," he sighed, "Heilbutt did not think much of himself, but I will hold him in high esteem."

"The Wake Islanders weight their dead and cast them into the sea by the shoals.

"Let's gather his remains, build a raft and let the river -- that he died to protect -- bear him home."

Seyja


Seyja moved up alongside the kneeling cleric and, head bowed in respect, waited for the elven song to be concluded before she spoke.

"I would be honored if you would allow me to help bath his body and brush his hair, Nestaron."

<Weston>

"A burial at sea sounds like a suitable celebration for a great man", he says as he begins to collect wood for the building of the funeral barge.