Titans of Moradin

Divine Guidance

Kendalius

After carefully brushing himself off after being savagely attacked by a group of goblins and skeletons, Kendalius raised his head to catch Steve’s gaze. “And just what the hell were you thinking?” Before the barbarian could answer, he raised his hand to cut him off. Turning to Lyrandyr, his eyes narrowed as he spoke in Elvish, “Ille ar amin liw evah drow einrendi.” Lyrandyr, noticing that the party is now staring at him expecting a reply in a language they don’t understand, flashes a wide smile and ignores him.

He turns away from the party. Walking away a few meters, he drops to his knees and pulls out a Fluffy Wambler and an ornate knife from his adventure pack. His eyes turn to onyx as he begins chanting a few obviously memorized phrases in Infernal. The fluffy wambler’s round eyes look up at the ceremonial knife as it is driven into her flesh, piercing her heart. He starts fingerpainting infernal runes into the rough dungeon floor around him.

With his head still lowered and his runic masterwork complete, Kendalius extends both bloodsoaked hands and shouts out, “Lord Asmodeus, guide me. Tell us of the foe we mean to destroy. The beast with several eyes.”

Roll: Religion 24

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The Unnatural Forest

Lyrandyr d’Bergeron

The air grows cold, still. The stones around Kendalius begin to rime with felfrost. Lyrandyr turns to the rest of the party: “Mayhaps, friends, it would be best if we gave our sinister friend some room. Let us away.” Behind him, the runes begin to glow with black fire. “There’s nothing happening here that any of you would care to see, I think – now, or in your nightmares later.” He ushers the party away, back towards the entrance to the unnatural forest. Half-elf though he may be, forests have always make Lyrandyr uncomfortable, and this one, planted in the midst of an ancient tomb, moreso than most – but even these living trees, their roots wrapped around who-knows-what ancient atrocity, are preferable to whatever… thing… might manifest inside those runes. As they walk away, Lyrandyr spares a glance for the frost-shrouded elf behind him. “Be careful, friend – there are eyes here even you cannot see, and not all of them are so tolerant of your… excesses as we.”

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Bad Dreams, Fleshling?

DM

The ritual having seemingly failed, Kendalius gathers his ritual implements and follows Lyrandyr back to the forest where they setup camp for the evening. In the middle of what passes for evening in this tomb, Kendalius awakens screaming in obvious pain, for Asmodeus demands pain as well as blood in his sacrifices.

Sitting up, his nose bleeding, Kendalius looks up at his now alert comrades. “Tis’ a beast of cold and decay. It fears the light.” Collapsing back upon his bedroll, Kendalius notices one of the stones that inhabit this forest standing over him. “Bad dreams fleshling?” the stone inquires. Kendalius swears he can almost hear the stone laugh behind the monotone voice in his head.

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Earlier, in the dungeon...

M.B.P.

He observed the fluffy wambler ceremony with mild disdain. Once it is over, he transforms into a giant fluffy wambler, which defecates loudly and wetly upon the dungeon floor. There seem to be chunks of undigested leaves and small animals sitting in a greasy multi-colored fluid. The gut wrenching appearance of the spoor is only matched by it’s dreadfully pungent odor. M.B.P. then transforms into a small orange unicorn with a blue horn and prances off to the unnatural forest.

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The Balance Restored

Universe

The universe, observing M.B.P.’s activities says “That crap is just wrong.” An audit of the books reveals that M.B.P. is the result of a gross accounting oversight, because three halves do not make actually a whole. M.B.P. is removed from any possible world line, and it is as if it never existed. In fact, the universe is somewhat touchy about these kinds of causality issues, so any mention of M.B.P. in the future could cause the entire worldline to vanish in a fit of pique. Fortunately, since everyone is part of the worldline, they never heard of M.B.P. Only the narrator knows about him, and he met with an unfortunate accident. What? Who are you, and what are you doing here. Ow! Stop that! Oh no! Urk!

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The Cries of the Fallen
Night in The Unnatural Forest

хүнгүй

The razorclaw shifter swarm druid from the cold and arid steppes, who has always been part of this party, is disturbed from his sleep. He twitches a tufted ear to identify the noise. It sounds much like someone having a bad dweam. In lynx form, хүнгүй rises silently and stalks from the camp to escape the mewling cries. At the verge of the firelight, the lynx seems to disintegrate and disperses into a swarm of crickets that seek rest in the tree canopy.

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Finding rest

Mairil

Mairil, observing the calamity of Kendalius’ failed pleading with Lord Asmodeus, slyly moves to the edge of the company inside the unnatural forest. Removing her cloak, she lies down to rest. Deeply uneased by the earthen life around her, both of stone and of tree, she takes comfort knowing that the gods are near. Soon, she finds herself dreaming well. Her dreams do not frighten her but rather bring expressions of peace and a glow to her face. Her staff, lying near her, appears to glow in response to hers as though they share an inexplicable connection. The knowledge these two have of one another does not go unnoticed by those in the company she finds herself in. It is as though her staff carries a life within, similar to her own.

The squeals of fear jolt her awake. Quickly, though she returns to her rest, her untenable courage is imputed to those around her and their own fears begin to subside. Even during rest, she is preparing her mind for the battle on the morrow, fortifying her mind with assured knowledge of the strength and skill she will bring with the company during the impending battle.

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These Rocks Are Speaking To Me

Kendalius

Kendalius wipes the blood from his nose. Visibly shaken from his communion with Asmodeus, he rises to his feet. “The floor is much softer in this part of the dungeon,” he thought to himself.

“Would the fleshling prefer marble? Or steel, perhaps?” he heard a voice invade his mind.

“Did that..rock..just bear witness to the thoughts passing through my head?” The rock does not move nor respond to his sly telepathic test.

Still unsure if he is awake or still dreaming, he kicks the rock aside cursing in Elvish. As he turns around to face his companions, he is faced instead with a large pile of carefully organized rocks. With many voices now instead of one in his mind, he discerns the threat, “You may find rock is less malleable than flesh, trespasser.”

Clasping his execution axe tightly, he shouts, “And you may find me less malleable than most, FOUL GEODES!” As he brings his execution axe to bear on the pile of neatly stacked rocks, they all move simultaneously, parting along the path of his axe causing it to smash against the dungeon floor. Noticing that he unintentionally woke some of his companions in the commotion, he preemptively addresses their collective concern in an austere tone, “These rocks are speaking to me.”

“Fleshling, there is much hate and evil we sense in you. Father Ent must surely be told of the threats you pose to our peace here.” The pile of rocks collapses suddenly, and the constituent earthen creatures begin rolling away dispersing from Kendalius.

Reaching out with his mind, he tries to call them back claiming, “No I mean no harm. You misunderstood! I seek refuge and peace, not conflict and destruction.”

Roll: Bluff 12

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In the Sanctum of the Ent-Lord

(sort of assuming here that Nuri fails the bluff check) 

Lyrandyr

Elvish is a beautiful language – lyrical and elegant. In its graceful lilts one can hear the rustle of golden leaves in the fall, the happy patter of a forest stream bolstered by spring rain, even the weight of traditions that were ancient when the first man awoke to walk under the stars. It is poetry given form, song given structure, history given voice.

It is especially jarring, then, to be woken by curses in Elven, like being slapped with filth wrapped in finest silk, like being pulled from the release of sleep by a lover's kiss, only to find yourself in the embrace of a troll.

These are the thoughts that run through Lyrandyr's mind as he stumbles to his feet – only to be replaced by an Elven curse of his own as he notices the party's avenger racing after a retreating earth elemental, axe at the ready.

Shouting to the others, he chases the other elf, only to have the chase suddenly ended in the grove of Father Ent, and to find himself surrounded by a group of agitated and hostile forest elves. Glancing around, Lyrandyr sees Kendalius kneeling before the great tree, flinty-eyed and haughty, pleading forgiveness for some wrongdoing.

Muttering to himself, Lyrandyr strides forward, trying frantically to recall the formalities of his elven relatives. Raising his voice, he calls out in sing-song Elven, in the solemn tones of the ancient dialects:

"Tree-friend, ent-brother, I beg you, stay your anger!

Forgive this little one his misguided deeds, whatever they may be.

Corpse-maker he is, and filth-spreader, death-bringer, all of these, but know this – many are there that count themselves his enemies, many who may one day find eternity granted by his obsidian blade – but you are not among them, nor are your people.

We will control his rage, restrain the corruption that roils inside him, keep him from staining this bastion of life, the Ent's deep-dwelling."

Drawing back his sleeve, Lyrandyr raises his arm, showing the living tattoo that covers it.

"By leaf, by bark, by the seed that links us to your domain – I swear it."

Diplomacy: Roll(1d20)+14: 17,+14 Total:31

(I used the official D&D dice roller, here: http://www.wizards.com/dnd/dice/dice.htm)

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A plea for mercy

Mairil

Father Ent, I plead with you for mercy. Kendalius has been unkind toward your children, but it was surely done in haste, likely caused by his restless sleep. See here, he is the one chosen to bear your seed; even now, its brambles grow around his arm. Recall, fairest guardian of the god, of the agreement we made when the seed was placed and of our faithfulness in obtaining the information of the librarians at your request.

history: Roll(1d20)+10:16,+10 Total:26

(thanks for the tip on the dice roller)

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