Whispers of the Withering Wood
Log Info
- Title: Whispers of the Withering Wood
- GM: Dirk
- Place: Village of Dunhallow, Alexandros
The village of Dunhallow is fairly small, so far as settlements in the greater Heartlands go. It's a hardscrabble community of farmers and foresters, eking out a living within the fringes of the forest, right on the edge of where the greater Eldwyn begins to give way to the Felwood. However, a circle of druids has always been present to provide protection from the darkling wood's threats. And to be fair, Dunhallow is small enough to escape the notice of the worst of the Felwood's more dire inhabitants.
But all that has changed. A harried villager from Dunhallow had been sent to Alexandria, to petition the Adventurer's Guild for assistance. Within the last week, villagers have gone missing. A total of three souls are unaccounted for. More than that, there have been reports of strange voices whispering from the wood in the darkest part of the night. Others report strange lights glimmering in the depths, temping the good villagers into wandering deep into places where no good folk should wander.
Now, the group of you have arrived in Dunhallow, where the mayor, one Devin Aldrich, has invited you into his home. While his wife offers tea and refreshment, the mayor sits at his broad table with his expression haggard and his hands worn out from worried wringing.
"I just can't figure it," he says. "This ain't never happened in all my days, nor the mayor's before me. The Felwood's always left us alone afore now." His wife, a matronly woman introduced as Madeleine, plunks down a tray with an earthenware tea service and fresh oatcakes with apple jam. "Where's the druids? That's what I'd like to know!" she declares. "Near a week now it's been, and we've not heard a peep!" Mayor Aldrich takes up his mug of tea, clasping it between both hands. He regards the group of you with a desperate expression. "Please, good heroes... we're at our wits' end! We need you to go into the wood and find our people. And put a stop to this madness before it claims the rest of us!"
Once again, Harshad has gotten pulled out into the woods for a job. At this rate maybe he should start learning about the wilderness, considering he keeps having to come out of the city for the coin.
Still... coin is coin, whether it's made in alleys or forest paths. The half-orc is dressed in his usual nondescript garb, with the light mail shirt over his tunic for a change and a cloak wrapped around him. He's got a curved cold-iron dagger in one hand, inspecting the blade, before making it vanish back into a belt sheath. "Maybe it's the druids themselves," he offers. "Any odd offers made, any strange conversations?"
One black-scaled sith-makar with red painted lines on his face that make him look all the more fearsome stands in the house with a strange looking spear in one hand and an offensive-looking shield covered in spikes set next to his foot. He leans on his spear a bit, thinking and finally nodding. "Spirits coming and taking away the villagers is bad. That your druids are not helping says something too. They must be angry for some reason."
The sith, who introduced himself earlier as Atzi, has no trace of a draconic accent. No syllabant hiss to his words, though there is an accent, it simply isn't the usual sith one. In fact he sounds far more like he hails from one of the islands. "Them or the spirits that is. Or perhaps they went missing first." He nods once. "Either way it is best if we find out what angers them."
The egalrin warrior known as Mist stands behind the golden-scaled sith-makar. Seeming content to shrink into his cloak, Mist does not speak for a long moment, his head pivoting like he's hearing something from elsewhere (that doesn't appear to be evident to others). Until finally, he does, and it's a strange high pitch, softly spoken.
"Three lost. The Moon weeps." Those dark owl-like eyes of his blink, yet they do not open nor close at the exact same time, just slightly staggered in an unnerving way. "We can help and be of aid. It would put a peace to the weeping Moon."
Then Mist pauses again. "Have there been any quarrel with the nature-keepers?" He means the druids. "Your people, that is. The Moon has witnessed people coming to disagreement and then letting the wolves feast on an unlocked hatch of rabbits, leaving behind crimson in the moonlight."
The golden Sith has been entirely too positive for the whole trip to this small, backwater town. He happily points out bits of nature; colourful birds, the odd hare or two dashing into the deeper woods away from the cityfolk, this tree or that. Mostly to himself, but occasionally directed towards the Owlish Egalrin.
In the shiny spots along the way, few and far between in the misty journey, causes the Sith to shine and shimmer brightly, something that pleases him greatly.
Tonameyo listens to the Mayor and his wife, nodding sympathetically at their loss, as well, agreeing with what the others have said so far. "I will not posit any theoriess as to whom or what the creaturess are, those which ssteal away your townsfolk. However, it seemss as though the good workss done by the druidss have ceased. This is likely a coincidence. Shall we first inquire as to the druidss health and wellbeing before heading elsewhere?", the gold-scale Sith wonders of his travelling companions.
Mayor Aldrich stares into his mug of tea, as if all the answers to the ills that plague him and his village might be found in the beverage. "It's true what Maddie says," he says. "When Old Man Harker disappeared, the first thing we did was send someone to the druids' grove. Mama Gantry was always friendly with 'em--but she was the second one to vanish. And now, the Taylors' son has gone. Lured out into the night by those damned lights." He looks up and around at the gathering. "If you wanted to inquire about the druids, I'd look for them in their grove. It's a couple miles into the forest." He sets his mug aside and gets to his feet. He steps over to a desk overflowing with stacks of papers, books, bills, and other accouterments needed to run a village. He rummages around and brings out an old parchment map. He indicates on the map Dunhallow's position, and then the druid grove, maybe 30 to 45 minutes walk deeper in the wood.
To Harshad, he shakes his head. "I'm afraid I haven't heard anything myself. But folk who've seen the lights say that they... they call to 'em. Sayin' that they ought to join 'em, in the wood. Somethin' about... all their troubles fading to nothing." To Mist, he shakes his head again. "No, no quarrels, none that I know of. We've always been friendly with the druids. We take care not to over-harvest from the forest, and we offer 'em a fair share of our takings. In return, they keep the evil of the Felwood away from Dunhallow."
He looks to Atzi, spreading his hands wide. "I can't imagine what we might've done to offend the spirits of the wood. But if we have... then please, I ask you, find out what we must do to atone." Lastly, he addresses Tonameyo. "Yes, please. Find out if this... whatever it is... has taken the druids. Without them, our village is defenseless!" He offers out the map for the group to take, if they wish it.
Harshad hmphs. People aren't near as complicated as weird forest creatures. Guess it'd be too much to ask for something relatively straightforward. He glances at the others, measuring them -- Mist gets a long look after his response, but Harshad doesn't say anything. Instead, he rubs a thumb along his tusk. "Guess the first step is to check out the grove, see if there's any clues there."
He tilts his head a bit. "Unless someone's got a better idea. I'm not good in the woods, so I'm kinda guessing here."
Atzi might have taken the map, but the truth is that he was half distracted from the mayor's words by blinking at the egalrin. Looking at the owl named Mist like Mist might have a second head or something. "Are you calling your-self the moon?" He inquires, sounding half-affronted. "Or are you referring to the actual moon?" Atzi snorts. "One shouldn't pretend to know what the Moon wants or thinks unless one is a shaman. Are you a shaman."
At this Atzi leans toward the egalrin hiding behind the golden sith and sniffs loudly. "You do not *smell* like a shaman." He lets out a humph and thumps his spear and tail at the same time.
Mist's dark eyes blink in that slightly unsynchronized manner again as he looks at Atzi. "Of course I am not the Moon," he says, followed by a little rasp that Tonameyo knows passes for laughter from him. "The Moon is beautiful. She is kind. She is loving. I hear her often." His words are very reverent. "I am none of these things, but I seek to learn from her all the same--and to fight for her."
His head cocks a little in that way that owl-heads do. "What does a shaman smell like, the Moon wonders? Incense? Fresh water? Burning wax and wick? I am also none of those, only feather dust and this morning's meal."
Mist then looks back at the Mayor and nods to Harshad's words. "Let us go into the grove," he says. "The Moon wishes to see it."
"One must tell his people to not listen to the lights. Stay away from the forest at night, remain in ones' homess.", the golden Sith intones, nodding to the mayor. "Some beingss mean harm without one having done anything to offend or injure them. That is often the way of evil and darknessss. We will do what we can to determine what has happened here, and determine what, if any, atonement needss be done."
His nictitating eyelids blink, followed by golden ones. Tone's glance goes to Atzi, his shoulders rolling in a shrug. "The softskinss cannot easily be sorted as our People can, kin, but Mist here may very well speak for the Moon. Who are we to say? I have seen... enough for me to believe that indeed, the Moon speakss to them. Much as the Sun Dragon, resplendent Platinum, speaks to me, the Moon speaks to Mist."
His sinuous golden tail curls and uncurls, thumping into the ground.
So it's decided, the party will head into the wood and seek out the druid grove. To see what can be seen, and hopefully get to the bottom of whatever eldritch strangeness plagues the villages of Dunhallow. It's a bright, sunshiny spring afternoon when the group sets out. The villagers pause in their daily routines as you pass through the town. Mothers gather children to their aprons, while the menfolk grip their tools and watch them pass by with tense apprehension. A couple make the sign against the evil eye, murmuring quiet prayers to Dana and Gilead to protect their homes.
At first, the travel is quite pleasant. The cart track that winds through the wood is open and broad. The sound of forest critters chattering at one another mingles with the melodic calls of birdsong in the treetops. But soon, things begin to take a turn for the darker. The sky overhead grows dark and gloomy, casting deepening shadows upon the path. The tree trunks become blackened and twisted, with stark branches clawing at the leaden skies. The trail underfoot becomes overgrown with thick weeds and brambles that catch at your feet--and where there's no weeds, the ground becomes muddy as it squelches and sucks noisily at your boots. The warm spring air soon turns chill, and the lush greenery becomes the dull tan and ochre of dead autumn.
GAME: Mist rolls Perception: (10)+12: 22 GAME: Harshad rolls perception: (4)+9: 13 GAME: Atzi rolls Perception: (5)+2: 7 GAME: Tonameyo rolls perception: (10)+8: 18 GAME: Mist rolls Will: (14)+3: 17 GAME: Tonameyo rolls will: (16)+8: 24
As Mist travels with the group, he catches the glimpse of something out of the corner of his dark eye. "Hold," he says softly. "There is something..."
Mist looks for a moment, and his body language looks a little subdued. "I had hoped it was the Moon," he says. "I did not see her. It was a light. I wanted to follow, but I realized it was not her."
He looks around at the others. "Did anyone else see it?"
Atzi doesn't reply to either Mist, nor to Tonameyo, offering them only a harsh glare that says that this conversation is far from over. Later, on the trail, Atzi still offers nothing in the way of conversation, growing more and more grumpy as the path becomes harder and harder to forge through. The sucking mud gets between his toes. The brambles catch upon his feet. There is no safe place to walk, and he grumbles to himself the entire time in draconic.
Oddly it's Mist that he glares at rather than the ground or the brambles with every mutter of draconic. As if he blames Mist for their growing misfortune. When a bramble wraps around his tail, he cuts it with his spear viciously and growls in irritation, thumping his tail and splattering himself and those near him with muck. "Ill fortune!" He grumps in tradespeak, shuddering and stomping forward. "One would hardly know that we have a druid's grove near here with all this decay of life!"
Mist speaks for them to hold and Atzi points his spear at the egalrin. "I am not listening to *you*. You who sees what is not there, and who speaks of things that you should not!" He keeps stomping forward along the path, ignoring Mist's warnings.
Harshad is ill at ease. More so as the terrain changes, because even he knows this doesn't look right. "What the f..." he mumbles, dragging a booted foot out of some mud. "Are you sure we're on the right track? This place looks like it's halfway to a swamp."
At Mist's comment, though, his head comes up. "I didn't, but that doesn't mean it wasn't there." He pulls a pair of matching sickles from sheaths at the small of his back. "Eyes up, let's stick together and..." And then Atzi starts to march ahead.
"Slow down, we don't want to wander into an ambush." He looks like he wants to add something, but then gestures to the others to pick up the pace and move as a group.
The mud? Not a worry for Tonameyo, who happily squelches along through it, heedless of how it may or may not feel between his toes. The brambles? They could hardly penetrate his scales or armor on a good day, and today is not that day. He happily chatters along as the group moves.
His cheery mood falters only momentarily when Atzi complains that Mist sees things that others cannot. "This one did not see what Mist saw, but this one /heard/ it. Just as the mayor said, they bid we join them in their rest. We should heed his warning." Tonemayo's cheerful nature returns then, as he takes up a defensive posture at Mist's side, his heavy shield protecting them both from the side. "You watch the to the left there, Mist, and this one shall watch to the right."
GAME: Atzi rolls Survival: (13)+2: 15
With Atzi tromping ahead of the rest of the party, he'll be the one who finds a spot of particularly stubborn brambles. They do indeed seem to reach out and curl around his ankles with a life and a will of their own. And their long thorns seem blood red in the deepening gloom. It'll take him a moment to rip himself free...
GAME: Atzi rolls Will: (13)+2: 15
Atzi manages to tear himself free of the brambles though they were particularly noisome, and he pokes his spear at one of the vines viciously as he works his way out only to fall to a stop and growl. "I have found the caretaker of these woods. The plants have taken them." He points with his spear at the body of an individual dressed in tattered robes. At least a week old. Atzi notices that the body is holding something to itself and braces himself to reach to the hands and see what it is by prying it forth. The corpse's face is frozen in an expression of horrified terror.
GAME: Harshad rolls knowledge/local: (7)+9: 16 GAME: Mist rolls Knowledge/Religion: (13)+5: 18 GAME: Atzi rolls Knowledge/Religon: (14)+Knowledge/Religon: 14 GAME: Atzi rolls Knowledge/Religion: (4)+2: 6 GAME: Tonameyo rolls knowledge/religion: (20)+5: 25
Harshad comes to a stop next to Atzi and the body, and hunkers down a bit. "So did the plants get them, or the lights?" He uses a sickle to cut away some of the vines, shaking his head. "Hell of a way to die though."
The half-orc looks up. "Hate to say this, but I don't think we're going to get any help from the druids. You'd have better luck knocking on oak trees and hoping for a response."
Mist blinks his dark eyes at the wheel that the body had been holding--before Atzi got tangled up in everything. "The Moon is unhappy," he says gently. "As am I. I agree with Harshad. The nature-keepers are no longer able to help us."
Something slightly resembling a sigh (it's a somewhat raspy noise) leave Mist, and he looks at Atzi. "Are you well? The brambles were vicious. I heard them speak angry words." Except Atzi, up-close-and-personal with them, heard nothing.
From the way the brambles have curled around the body's limbs and throat, it looks pretty clear that those bloody thorns are what ended the poor druidess' life. Indeed Harshad, a hell of a way to die.
The golden-scale Sith lets out a noisy breath from their nostrils as Atzi reveals the body. His features darken, hints of anger evident in his expression and posture. He slowly crouches down to look more closely at the fallen druid. "This is, judging from the accountrementss she bears, the high priestess of the grove. She has been dead, as my black-scale Kin says, for about a week. These bramblesss must have sucked the life from her."
Another whistle of breath, and he looks to Harshad. "Knocking on the oaks may actually be the answer we seek. This may be the activity of fae creaturess. Which, I do not know. There are ... taless in the Peoples' history that speak of such things. Sadly I am not a Speaker, merely a shaman."
At this point, the party is maybe 15 minutes away from the grove proper. Surely you can make it there in good time, assuming you don't run afoul of those wicked brambles or treacherous mud bogs...
Atzi hisses at Mist. "Now you hear the words of plants as well?" He snorts loudly and turns his back on Mist, looking at Harshad instead. "We should make our way to the grove and look for the lights that the villagers saw on the way. If one of us sees them, we should let the others know and follow them into the woods. They may lead us to the other people." With that he continues forward, tail thrashing unhappily.
GAME: Mist rolls Survival: (3)+5: 8 GAME: Atzi rolls Survival: (4)+2: 6 GAME: Harshad rolls survival: (20)+3: 23 GAME: Tonameyo rolls survival: (8)+5: 13
Onwards the party forges, deeper into the gloom. By now, it's getting dark enough that those relying on normal vision are having a hard time seeing well. Low-light vision and/or darkvision provides the usual benefit, however. Though you might wish you hadn't--there's nothing pleasant to look upon in this corner of the wood. Eventually, the track broadens out into a wide clearing in the wood. The trees ringing the clearing curve their branches towards the center, as though in supplication to some profane deity.
At the exact center stands the grove--a great oak tree that must have once been beautiful and majestic. But now, its bark is black, glistening with tacky red-brown slickness. Its branches are bare, rising high overhead to claw at the sky. At its base, a large stone menhir, carved with the whorling sigils sacred to the Green Word. An arcing stone ring encompases the menhir, with circular impressions at each of its four cardinals. Impressions just big enough to hold those sacred icons you found--although only one remains in place. The other three are empty.
It's then that danger rears its ugly head--or rather, its ugly thorns. As Atzi approaches, his foot sinks to the shin in icy, gloppy mire. Schlorp! What's worse, numerous brambles snake out with a malevolent hiss, whipping around his legs in a painful grasp. They tighten around his limbs and begin to draw him down!
As Atzi finds himself ensnared and the party looks to their defense, there's a low rumbling, and a creaking. Two smaller trees flanking the blasted oak twitch and shake. Their roots pull up from the muddy ground. The knots and boles on their trunks flow into sinister faces as they begin to advance on the party!
GAME: Atzi rolls Strength: (8)+3: 11 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d4: (2): 2
Atzi rips himself free of the brambles in a bloody mess of loose scales and lost blood. He roars in defiance, rushing forward in spite of the pain toward one of the trees and threatening it with his spear. He doubts that the tree cares much about his warpaint or the threatening tongue he protrudes to make his face a mask of rage, but he does it to please the spirits... and himself.
The other twisted tree begins lumbering towards the party, extending its branches in a mockery of claws and hands. "Rrrresssssst with usssssss..." it groans, like the creaking of timbers.
GAME: Harshad used a Tanglefoot Bag. GAME: Harshad rolls ranged: (7)+8: 15 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+9: (7)+9: 16
"Well, shit." That's what comes out of Harshad's mouth. Followed by, "Stick and move, friends, I don't think they're friendly!" Harshad runs through the mud, splashing it around as he pulls a bag from his belt. Seeing one of the trees approaching, he growls, "Oh shut up, and wait your turn, firewood!"
He hucks the bag right into the tree's 'face' and there's a loud POP as the bag bursts, thick goopy tar and resin spreading over the tree. It doesn't glue it in place due to the muck, but it slows it down. "That'll slow him down!"
GAME: Tonameyo rolls ranged: (2)+5: 7 GAME: Tonameyo rolls ranged: (17)+5: 22 GAME: Tonameyo rolls 1d6: (4): 4
Tonameyo glances to Mist as the burnt tree comes into view, "What says the Moon regarding this?" He makes the sign of Daeus. "May His light shine upon this place once more."
As the mobile trees begin to lumber towards the group, and the bloody brambles force Atzi to bloodily rip himself free, the gold-scale begins to rummage in one of his pouches. He lopes along behind Harshad, his feet finding secure purchase despite the mucky ground. Tone steps left to avoid the Oruch as his free hand makes a throwing motion.
No sooner than the tanglefoot bag begins doing the good work of sticking the tree to the ground, the vial of alchemist's fire shatters against its bark, igniting it on fire immediately.
"Did anyone bring any sausagess? We've got a nice bonfire going..."
GAME: Mist spends ONE use of STUNNING FIST. GAME: Mist rolls weapon0: (3)+5: 8 GAME: Mist rolls weapon0: (14)+5: 19 GAME: Mist rolls weapon0: (6)+5: 11 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+5: (12)+5: 17 GAME: Mist rolls damage0: aliased to 1d6+3: (2)+3: 5
Mist's dark eyes blink in that slightly unsynchronized fashion at Tonameyo's question. "The Moon is weeping," he says unhappily. "The Moon is weeping, and I will take away her sorrow."
So then the egalrin enters the fray, going in after Atzi and deciding to take on the other of the two trees. "Moonlight, guide my hand," he murmurs, walking up to the tree. Dark eyes regard it for a moment before he lashes out with two open-palmed strikes, the first a heavy knock against the bark and then the second more of a gentle slap that doesn't seem to do anything.
"You do not have to make the Moon weep," he tells the tree. "Remember yourself and who you were. She will help you remember."
GAME: Dirk rolls 1d4: (3): 3 GAME: Atzi rolls Fortitude: (2)+7: 9 GAME: Atzi rolls Fortitude: (7)+7: 14
From above the crown of the twisted oak booms a voice, full of sound and fury. "INTERLOPERS! You shall not stop the Winter Unending! You shall not profane Our Lady Of The Black Solstice!" From the branches drifts a figure floating in the air. He may have once been handsome, but his features have become pinched and emaciated. The tatters of his robe flow around him like kelp in the sea--robes very like the ones you found on the high priestess. This, then, must be the druid circle's high priest. Or, at least, what remains of him. In one hand, he grasps another of the sacred seasonal icons. The other is clenched in a bloodied fist. His eyes sweep over the ground, wild and bloodshot. He rests his gaze upon Atzi, and he sweeps a hand up. "In Her Blessed Name, a pox upon thee!" he booms, swinging his hand out and crooking his fingers like talons. Atzi finds himself afflicted with a horrific rash as foul pustules spring up all over his scales. Gods, they itch!
GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+6: (17)+6: 23 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d6: (1): 1
While Mist exchanges blows with the twisted tree, the wicked arboreal decides that it is not having any of it. With a rumbling groan, it swings a branch-like arm at the egalrin and thacks him with a glancing blow! KRAKK! "RRRRRESSSSST!" it moans.
GAME: Atzi rolls 1d20+7-2: (4)+7+-2: 9 GAME: Atzi rolls 1d20+7-2: (13)+7+-2: 18 GAME: Atzi rolls 1d10+3: (8)+3: 11
Atzi feels boils and pustules spreading over his scales, and he feels the intense urge to itch them and make them go away, and he roars again. "ILL FORTUNE!" And rushes the druid who caused the misfortune, bonking the druid over the head with his spear with a twirl of the weapon. "FALL YOU MISFORTUNE-SPIRIT!"
GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+6-2: (3)+6+-2: 7 GAME: Harshad rolls 2d4: (6): 6 GAME: Tonameyo rolls 1d6: (6): 6
The other dark tree, its limbs moving stiffly from the sticky resins encasing them, lurches towards Harshad. It swings a burning branch towards the half-oruch, but flails wildly and hits only the air. "RRESSSSSST!" it howls, even as the flames from Tonemayo's fire causes large chunks of its blood-sticky bark to crisp up and fall away as ash. It looks like it's taken some grievous damage!
GAME: Harshad rolls acrobatics: (17)+12: 29 GAME: Harshad rolls weapon12+2: (18)+9+2: 29 GAME: Harshad rolls damage12+3d6: aliased to 1d6+3+3d6: (3)+3+(12): 18
Harshad casually leans out of the way of the flailing limb. "I'll rest when I'm rich!" He turns the lean into a roll, spattering mud as he goes past the horrid tree and coming up with a glimmering sickle in his fist. "Now, why don't you just be a good boy..."
Whack. WHACK. CRUNCH.
The sickle splits the trunk, and it comes apart in a tumble of limbs at Harshad's feet. The half orc grins impudently. "...and just leaf."
GAME: Tonameyo rolls weapon1+2: (10)+5+2: 17 GAME: Tonameyo rolls damage1: aliased to 1d8+2: (3)+2: 5
The gold-scale Sith guffaws at the demented Druid as he floats down from on high. "Brightest of Days, dark foe. We are here to light up your dreary life. This place needss a certain something something, and we shall deliver." Tona has his blade part way out of its sheath when Harshad simply takes it apart with his sickles. "Resssst?" The shimmering statue sniffs. "You first."
With a pat to Harshad's shoulder, he says, "Good work. You assist Atzi there, and I shall go to Mist'ss aid."
The Sith struts across the battlefield, humming to himself as if this were just another sunny day and he was taking a brisk walk in the park. Few times has he ever had to draw his blade in a park, but today is definitely turningt into one of those days.
"I am here, Mist!" His blade WHACKS at the side of the tree, shaving off chunks of bark and wood.
GAME: Mist rolls weapon0+2: (10)+5+2: 17 GAME: Mist rolls weapon0+2: (17)+5+2: 24 GAME: Mist rolls damage0: aliased to 1d6+3: (5)+3: 8 GAME: Mist rolls damage0: aliased to 1d6+3: (3)+3: 6
Mist's dark eyes blink again, cocking his head at the tree. "You do not remember. You refuse to remember. I will not rest. It is you who must--"
Then Tonameyo comes up from behind, glittering, and Mist can always trust the glitter of gold is him. So he doesn't talk anymore. He moves.
Thwack. THWACK. Two solid blows into the bark, Mist only barely wounded as of yet. "The Moon is weeping still. The leaves are restless. The wind is yearning. _You_ must rest."
GAME: Atzi rolls 1d20+7-2: (18)+7+-2: 23 GAME: Atzi rolls 1d10+3: (3)+3: 6 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+4: (7)+4: 11
The fallen druid screeches as his demented servitor is rendered into matchsticks. "O BLESSED PRINCESS OF WINTER, LADY LILLYNDRA, GRANT ME POWER!" he shrieks. He swoops down like a depraved bat at Atzi--which opens him up from a cunning spear strike from the black-scaled sith. His blood spatters the profaned ground, but he remains undeterred. He swings his free hand, fingers crooked into claws, but the strike misses Atzi. But he can surely feel the chilling cold as a wave of frosty air mists over his scales--that would have been a painful blow had it connected!
GAME: Dirk rolls 1d20+6: (18)+6: 24 GAME: Dirk rolls 1d6: (4): 4
Meanwhile, the twisted tree is barely clinging together. Its branches are cracked and broken, and its trunk splintered in many places. With a mournful moan, it swings a branch at Mist, and manages to connect, giving the owlish egalrin's bell a good ringing! KRAKKKK! "SOOOO... TIRED..." it moans. Perhaps it might be that some part of it does remember what it once was, and grows weary of the thing it has become...
GAME: Atzi rolls 1d20+7: (20)+7: 27 GAME: Atzi rolls 1d20+7: (1)+7: 8 (EPIC FAIL) GAME: Atzi rolls 1d20+7: (9)+7: 16 GAME: Atzi rolls 1d10+3+1d10+3: (5)+3+(8)+3: 19
Atzi does indeed feel the chill, and he rounds his weapon around in his hand twirling it like someone else might twirl a baton and at the apex of the twirl, the weapon comes down with a solid THWACK on the druid's head. The weapon bashes the druid mightily, and Atzi growls at the creature that the druid has become threateningly. "Your winter will not stop me! Your sickness will not stop me!" He itches his hindquarters with his free hand and growls. "YOU will not stop me!"
GAME: Harshad rolls weapon11-2: (20)+9+-2: 27 (THREAT) GAME: Harshad rolls weapon11-2: (11)+9+-2: 18 GAME: Harshad rolls weapon12-2: (3)+9+-2: 10 GAME: Harshad rolls weapon12-2: (7)+9+-2: 14 GAME: Harshad rolls damage11+damage11: aliased to 1d6+3+1d6+3: (3)+3+(3)+3: 12
"Angry trees and crazy druids. This is our life, I guess." Harshad glides forward, splattered with mud as another sickle is drawn from his belt. "But since you won't take the obvious hint..." Abruptly the rogue moves and slams the sickle blade into the mad druid, dealing a grievous wound. So severe, in fact, that Harshad's follow-up strike actually hisses past as the druid writhes in pain. "Just die already, you lunatic!"
GAME: Tonameyo rolls weapon1: (3)+5: 8 GAME: Tonameyo rolls weapon1: (16)+5: 21 GAME: Tonameyo rolls damage1: aliased to 1d8+2: (5)+2: 7
"One has lost this fight, when both the SUN and the MOON are your opponent!" Tone raises up his sword, and brings it crashing down upon the animated tree. "Rest now, and go in peace. We shall tend to the wounds you have dealt nature here. Your influence here is lost!"
The golden, statuesque Sith turns, and eyes the Druid, pointing his sword at the man. "You are next!"
GAME: Mist rolls weapon0: (12)+5: 17 GAME: Mist rolls damage0: aliased to 1d6+3: (4)+3: 7
With the tree felled, Mist's dark eyes turn to the druid, looking at him for a long moment. A low rasp comes from him, a low noise of discomfort, before he speaks again. "Screaming. I hear screaming. The leaves, the wind, the trees, they are screaming. The Moon is weeping. She is begging me to make it stop."
Mist charges forward, and he lunges at the once-druid, talons raking across the face and ending it at last, letting the corpse fall. His eyes close.
"The screams fall away one by one. The Moon is weeping. But she thanks me for my work." Mist looks relieved.
GAME: Tonameyo rolls knowledge/religion: (10)+5: 15 GAME: Mist rolls Knowledge/Religion: (14)+5: 19 GAME: Harshad rolls knowledge/nature: (14)+3: 17 GAME: Atzi rolls Knowledge/Religion: (10)+2: 12
The druid staggers under the combined onslaught. As Atzi's spear cracks his brow, he tumbles to the side. Then, Harshad's sickle sends him wheeling around as a splash of blood wets the fouled earth. And then, at the last, as Mist charges with talons outstretched, his bloodied lips quiver. "Dark Lady... protect m--" But his plea is cut short as the egalrin's talons slash him across his face. His body tumbles to the ground and lays still. The sacred icon he held in his hand tumbles free, where it glistens in the gloom. The sign of Summer.
Mist looks down at the icon of summer in the druid's hand, and he leans down to take it. "The Moon says that if we restore the icons, the balance will return. The wood will be cleansed. The corruption will fall away."
He then holds out the icon of summer to Tonameyo, glittering like the sun. "Take it; it is better protected in your hands than mine."
Harshad stands there cautiously for a moment, sickles poised over the druid's body. Then when it's clear the man isn't getting up, he relaxes. "Alright, alright... hey, someone grab that." He points to the icon that fell out of the madman's hand.
With that, he sheathes his sickles, and begins searching the dead man unceremoniously. "Do we need to burn this guy, to make sure he doesn't get back up or something? Or do we drive a stake through his heart? I'm a little fuzzy on what the rules are for fucking maniacs like this."
Atzi rolls his eyes at Mist. "Of course that is what we need to do. We do not need you to tell us that! It is as obvious as the symbols on the icons!" He pulls the one that he has out of where he's been keeping it and stomps toward the tree to return it to where it belongs. "How stupid does that egalrin think we are?!?"
Tonameyo lets out a pleased snort. "Well done, we have bested the evil doerss, here." He glances about at others. "Is anyone bothered by their wounds? Thiss one can have you patched up in an instant, if needs be."
The golden Sith blinks slowly at being offered the icon, and he accepts it. "My thankss, Mist, and it seems greatly appropriate for this one to hold the Icon of Summer. Daeus would be pleased. We have Winter there, still in its proper place. We found Spring, and possess now Summer. We need only find Autumn, yes, to bring balance and peace here?"
An eyeridge rises at the ire displayed by Atzi. "Be at ease, Kin. The day is won, and you had a hand in our victory. Moon is simply helping usss tie up loose endsss. One does not need to work up a stroke."
As the party takes stock and goes about the business of replacing the blessed icons of the seasons, a soft mewling cry reaches their ears. There, in the roots of the oak, wrapped up like a mummy in those horrific brambles, is a youth of about fourteen or fifteen. With the passing of the dark druid, his icy grip is loosened upon the land, and the brambles have fallen away. The boy is terrified, but largely unharmed--though if the heroes had not arrived when they did, that would not be the case. Simply look to the stiffened corpses of Old Man Harker and Mama Gantry, both of them bound up into the oak's roots and drained of their life's blood. But finding the young Taylor boy is providential--for he clutches the icon of Autumn in his hands.
As the last of the icons is set in place, the stone wheel grinds to life. The sign of Spring rotates up to reassume its place at the apex of the arc. Almost immediately, the oppression and gloom begins to lift. The trees lose their aspects of menace. Golden sunlight begins to filter in through the canopy overhead. Given time, this part of the wood will heal, now that balance is restored. And yet... one mote of evil remains. A malevolent presence, within the hollow heart of the oak.
Out of the shadows she drifts, her features as beautiful as they are cold. Skin as white as fresh fallen snow, hair like silver fronds that move in an invisible wind, and eyes blacker than pitch. Finery of silver and blue gauze drifts around her, and she clicks the silver nails of too-long fingers together. "And so," she croons in a voice like the breaking of your heart, "the heroes have arisen once more. Arisen to oppose me and my beloved Queen Mother." She sniffs derisively. "Lord, what fools these mortals be." She makes a dismissive wave. "Away, then, pests. Go back to your filthy dwellings. Go back to your meaningless lives. We shall meet again. None defy Lyllandra, Lady of the Bleak Solstice, Princess of Night and Winter, without price!"
With a shrill cackle, the creature's silvery hair whirls around her like a fan, and she vanishes in a flurry of snowflakes. The heroes have prevailed. And yet, at what dread price...?