Clouds churn up above the whispering trees as a breeze whips through the branches and sends down flurries of leaves and raises dust from the hooves of the poor, skinny horse as it draws along a creaking cart. An old man drives it, sitting high behind the horses and glancing nervously along the edges of the forest road as he goes. Though you're all behind friendly lines at the moment, one doesn't relax very easily in times like these, even when the luggage in the back of the cart is something only a very select sort of person would be interested in.
 
 You've all been assigned to guard this wagon. The officer who assigned you wasn't very specific, but the bodies of some very important people are beneath that tarp, and their families have put up one hell of a stink, wanting them to be buried in a proper graveyard, not just left to the mass pyres of war. So you're on your way back toward the now reclaimed city of Versis.

Of course, that same officer was not so considerate as to provide ointment for all the biting flies that buzz about the flapping tarp.
 

<OOC> Myrana says, "Feel free to pose a bit! You're on the road, and maybe have been for a day or two with this cart."
 

 
"Oh! Oh, stars. You'd think they'd have thought to provide a bit of an ointment." Abrahil slaps at the flies chaotically. It makes his skin wobble and his chins flop, and his lenses slip to the end of his long and pointed nose. A welt from one of the flies is rising up from his cheek--red and angry. It likely hurts. He has, of course, afforded himself the most comfortable position that he might manage--which is to say here, not very comfortable at all.


On the road again. On the roaaaad again~

Garo is not-so-hidden under a cloak and cowl that don't really fit well over his shoulders. His face is covered in dry, caked mud, as have his arms and legs. The hobgoblin grunts at the /dainty woman/ of a man sharing the cart with him. "Hrmph. If you used the mud, you would not be assaulted by flies."

"..guard duty. This is totally what I signed up for," says Garrin, tiredly. He's not complaining too much, mind you, but it does not appear that he's particular thrilled with doing this particular job right *now*. His hands are folded together behind his back. "I mean, at least it's good to get otu of the -sewers-.."

Nin-galad would perhaps have perched himself on some far-flung edge of the cart, were it not for both the flies and the smell. Both of these things are a pretty sufficient deterent to the High Elf and so he maintains a comfortable distance from the cart without straying too far. He, however, is wrapped up rather well and so the flies are among the least of his worries. Right now, it happens to be a toss up between that smell and the monotony of the trek. He can't even convince himself to keep a hand on the hilt of any of his weapons, instead keeping both occupied by lacing them together behind his head as he walks along in relative silence.

Craft strolls easily alongside the cart, the flies ignore him, he ignores them. The dog has less success, it whining at the smell of meat gone bad and at the swarm of flies, only it's thick fur for protection. "The fresh air seems to agree with him," Craft remarks, of the dog. The monotony doesn't seem to bother him. Sorta nostalgic, really.

Younger holds what remains of an old shirt against his nose. "Bwis Dinks!" He exlaims through his cloth. It's unclear what exactly this young ne'e'er-do-wells job is, just yet. He seems to stare off a great deal, and generally day dream. Unless of course he has something to complain about. He resides on the back, legs dangling. A hand-axe sits nearby, but he doesn't look particularly prepared to use it.

"But mud never goes with the skin, you know. Why, when I was in wizarding college, I had a very strict tutor, I'll have you know--and he said, Abrahil! If you're ever in a place where you're wearing mud, you're in the wrong place. You do know, I do suppose he was right." The pudgy wizard adjusts his rose-tinted lenses and then folds his hands together over over his impressive figure (impressive for its girth, though cheerfully so). "I've not been able to sit straight for days, and what I wouldn't give for a cream pie." And at the last, he looks so forlorn, as a kitten kicked in the shins.

 

"So," Garo mutters, "You'd rather have fly-bites that could end up becoming pustulent boils within the week than to endure a healthy coating of dirt on your skin? You are a strange, soft, moon of a man. Also, your teacher is equally strange." He seems kind of... grumpy today. Or maybe it's just because he's on guard duty. /Again./ Or maybe he's hungry. It's hard to tell with Garo.

The chatting half-way attracts Nin-galad's attention, his cloth-wrapped head swivelling somewhat in that direction to those talking. For a long moment, he stares rather intently at the wizard as they continue to move along, as if he were scrutinizing him intently. He is actually just watching the various chins bob and jiggle, it reminds him quite vividly of a turkey. The fascination passes promptly, however, and he returns to idly watching the road ahead of them with the occasional glance off to the side. Friendly territory, supposedly, but in a war any sort of territory is rarely friendly.
 

"Wizarding college," says Garrin with a laugh towards Abrahil. He gives him this big old grin, adding, "My ttutors were a bbit the sameway, you know. Until I settled on one who could put up with me." The grin fades for a moment and he adds, "Who knew I'd wind up here?" More rhetorical than anything else.

 
The old man driving the cart sniffs, blinking rheumy eyes and giving his head a distracted shake not too unlike that of the cart-horse, shooing away the flies that try to land there. But by the look of him, he's been doing this for a few years, and if the stink doesn't drive a man off from this job, nothing will.
 
 The cart suddenly jolts over a rocky patch in the road and a low, blubbling -ffrrp.p.p- comes from under the tarp and a fresh waft of that horrible, sunbaked smell floats out like a horrible, vaguely greasy phantom.
 

"The smell of corpse gas," Garo chuckles, giving the pudgeball wizard a nudge of the elbow, "Well, at least the flies'll be occupied with the bodies instead of trying to get at your meat, eh?"

 
"Yes, they all have their personalities, don't they? Why, I knew a man who--" and then the cart jolts. The wizard is thrown. Or, rolls. Abrahil rolls, and falls off the end of it into a patch of dust. His powder-white hair is now--powder-brown, and he spends the next few moments trying to brush it away.

 
Younger pulls his cloth from his face just in time to vomit over the back end of the cart, and between his legs. It's over as quick as it happened, the young man wiping his face off quickly. Gagging once more, he leans forward instinctually, but nothing comes out. "Never thought being broke would finally be good for something..." He mutters, mostly keeping to himself.
 
Craft watches the others. Some seem to be incapable of walking and chewing gum at the same time. Craft, it appears, is pretty bad at walking and talking. Course, he's rarely loquacious as is. The dog lets out a whine, moving farther from the cart.

 
Hours of this loathesome duty pass. Long, hot hours of flies and short, powerful bursts of escaping gases and rocky road underfoot. It's hard to imagine what you all must have done to deserve this, if anything, but there's plenty of time to conjecture. But finally, finally! The spires of Versis come into view over a rising hill, and down below it the city spreads out like a great, sullied jewel of beautiful architecture and slowly recovering gardens. The road leads down toward it through the trees and a vast field where, presumably, the armies of Alexandria once camped (and some few still remain).
 
 
Younger is lightly sleeping standing up, amidst the flies and everything. His handaxe is across his lap, one hand resting on it softly. Rolling with every bump, he seems to sleep through even the worst of it, yet doesn't fall over or out of the cart.

Abrahils once powder-white (abet whispy) hair is dust-brown, and his clothes smell of corpse. Sweat pours from the small figure from the heat, and runs down his pale flesh in unattractive rivers. He's quite the sight, is this gnome, and it brings to mind that perhaps his teacher had been being more specific: Abrahil, you don't need to get in the mud. And his teacher would have been right. It cakes to him like a crackly, second skin. And turns to powder-puff in places at each uncomfortable, tortuous bump of the cart.

And then...

"Ohthankyou! There'sthecity. I'llbewalking,now," and the gnome practically leaps out of the cart to hurry alongside it.
 

Your path takes you to one of the graveyards of Versis.
 
 A vast, beautiful grove at the edge of the grand city, watched over by the walls themselves, the graveyard rolls gently amid ancient oaks and flowering hawthornes that give shade in places to the graves. Both simple headstones and more ornate crypts can be seen, ornately carved and roughly hewn, many with little brass bowls meant to be filled with oil and lit in honor of the departed. Many have been torn up, however, and more than one headstone is defaced, broken in two. But some have been repaired, either by Vaardamen or grieving survivors, and flowers have been planted over many, filling the greenery and the torn brown and burnt black fields with bright splashes of yellows and blues and pinks.
 
 For a few hours, you are occupied with burying one body after another, and the old man prays in a mumble as the earth is replaced over greying, decayed bodies. The cart gets lighter and lighter each time. Till finally, only one man is left at the bottom of the cart.
 
 A note pinned to his collar, stained with unfortunate substances from the trip, reads: 'Randil'.
 
Craft admires the city for a moment, watching the sleeping adventurer with interest. Then the work of burying begins, and Craft sets to work, having neither muscles to tire, nor nostrils to burn at the smell.
 
 
Younger wipes sweat from his face with a rag, one hand on a shovel. Amidst the work, he has come alive. "One left." He grins, despite the terrible circumstances. "One left." He repeats, seeming to savor the words. Looking to Craft, and his tireless abilities, as he walks over toward the last body. Kneeling, he looks to the note; "Huh. Randil..." He says, ponderous. "I wonder if he knows anyone else here?
 

"Randil? What poor mother gives her child a name...well, I suppose it isn't that bad," Abrahil chats away as he stabs his gnome-sized shovel into the earth. It thunks! in with surprising force--the weak-armed man merely 'threw his weight behind it,' and that, as they say, ended up doing most of the work. "Perhaps related to Randy and Brandy, I suppose."

Garo grunts from his position among the graves. The smell of burial dirt and the presence of so many bodies is... unnerving to your typical Blarite. This is the makings of an undead uprising. So many disrespected graves...

GAME: Abrahil rolls spot: (9)+1: 10
GAME: Garo rolls spot: (12)+2: 14
GAME: Craft rolls spot: (10)+3: 13
GAME: Younger rolls spot: (10)+5: 15
GAME: Garrin rolls Spot: (8)+6: 14
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Younger espies it! I'll emit X)"
 
 
Over yonder, at the top of a small, picturesque rise, a large masoleum stands not far from an enormous old maple tree. The family name 'RANDILL' can be read in moss-grown letters at the entrance of the granite edifice. On either side of the yawning black door, a pair of large stone angels with calm, holy faces look up toward the clouding sky. Someone has painted their faces with ugly splashes of red paint.
 
Younger stands, bringing his hand up over his brow to peer across the graveyard. He pauses, "Huh." Points. "You all see that, the mausoleum there? It's got his name." He looks to those gathered, and then down at their dead fellow, considering something quietly.

"Wait, what?" says Garrin. Apparently, he was lost in la-la land, thinking about something or other entirely different! He turns towards Younger, pausing. "What's all this, then?"

        Garo peers up at the mausoleum, "...You sure?" He crosses his arms over his chest, "...There's an extra 'l' on that sign. Anyway. I do not trust that mausoleum. It seems... hazardous. Filled with undead, surely."

 
 
Abrahil looks at the dead man. And looks at the mausoleum. "Oh, I just be there are more stinking dead things in there. You know, this is going to smell just awful." He looks down at the tarp the man is resting on, and then back towards the mausoleum again. And back and forth and back and forth. Again.
 
Craft looks where Younger points, then back to the body. "Perhaps the second l rubbed off?"
 
GAME: Abrahil rolls strength: (16)+-1: 15

<OOC> Abrahil ... ... ...
<OOC> Garo says, "..."
[RPOne] Garo says, "...Bravo."
[RPOne] Garrin says, "Don't get mad! Get Abrahil!"
[RPOne] Abrahil ohdear's. X)
[RPOne] Craft says, "He's got that 'fat guy strength.'"

Younger looks over at the mausaleum, furrowing his brow. Finally, he shrugs. "Maybe it isn't his. Who knows..." That gleam gets into his eye. "Maybe we should check, though?" He hefts his hand=axe in what he thinks is a threatening manner, but is rather more embarrassing.

A breeze rustles peacefully through the grasses and wildflowers. The corpse continues to sit, hot and decomposing in the back of the cart.
 
 

"Oh! Well, I'm sure their spelling is off in any case. One l or two--writing's near an art, these days." The gnome sniffs, and shrugs his small shoulders. And reaches down to regather their shovels and drag them to the cart. Somehow he makes it, somehow he accomplishes this feat of strength, though he bobbles and wobbles most of the way.

 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Do y'all bring the corpse in the cart toward the mausoleum? :)"
<OOC> Younger says, "Indeed. Onward!"

 
Craft considers the building, and gives a nod to Younger, taking point, leading a path that avoids the graves on the way to the crypt.

Garo grunts, following after the rest of the group despite his better judgement.


So Garrin, of course, pulls out his crossbow. Because crossbows are totally useful about now. He casually begins to make sure its springs are proper and such. One can never be too careful in graveyards. "You know. I've had terrible luck with graveyards lately," he adds.


Abrahil waddles bravely onward. This means he keeps himself upwind of the corpse and a little to the side of it, that being the best calculated position to avoid the stench. As Garrin speaks and Garo grunts, the small gnome is doubtless working this out in his head. "Oh?"


Closer up, the mausoleum looms cold and regal. It was clearly built in a more peaceful time to house the bodies of the wealthy family, as the wide, yawning black doorway provides more than enough room for a formal procession of pallbearers can bring a litter in without brushing the sides. The angels stand guard, seemingly profaned by that ugly red paint. Versis suffered much during the demon occupation. Not the least of which was suffered upon its people in this life and the next.
 
 And as you come closer, you can see that the doors are entirely gone. Ripped off their hinges.
As all good Hobgoblins know, undead do not like being smashed. They also do not like being slashed. In this case, Garo is leaning on the latter being true. He draws his father's falchion as he notices that the doors to this mausoleum are /missing./ His eyes narrow and the hair on the back of his neck bristles. A hobgoblin among the dead is /always/ paranoid.


Something about that paint seems... wrong.

Craft, meanwhile, has only second hand accounts of the undead, but he does stop, looking at the paint as he draws close, considering it for a moment.

GAME: Craft rolls spot: (19)+3: 22

The old man hops down off of the cart and lumbers back with a grumble, going to collect up the body.

You paged Craft with 'That's blood.'
Craft pages: And how tall are the statues?
You paged Craft with 'They're the size of big humans. It's not hard to imagine an orc, for example, splashing a bucket at them without trouble.'
You paged Craft with 'Or even a tall human'
Craft pages: Ah, so no 'blood splatter 20 feet up of scaring even Craft'
You paged Craft with 'Nah XD'
Craft pages: Freshish?
You paged Craft with 'They're like... maaayybe 8 feet tall. Not /so/ big, but just like... not The David or Lincoln or anything.'
You paged Craft with 'It's quite old.'

<OOC> Abrahil'd like to summon some dancing lights. It's a spell-like ability-thing.
 
"That is not paint," Craft shares, a look back to the old man as he goes for the body. "Perhaps you should remain there for now, elderly one," the much younger than you'd think, but, at the same time, older than he remembers, golem warns. "It's old, but..."
 


"Blood," Garo spits, "For a foul ritual. I knew it, all hands, prepare for the worst. We may have an infestation to clear out."

 

Abrahil's fingers do a sort of twitching thing, and so does his nose. He slides the rose-colored lenses back up towards his eyes. "It is rather...oh. Oh, my." and he putters a shorter ways in before wriggling his fingers together--and summons together small and bobbing faerie-lights. They sweep outward, dancing, and providing some illumination for the party's immediate area.




Younger scratches his chin thoughtfully. "This does look bad... But it also looks mighty /curious/." He comments, stepping forward. "I think we should take a look. It's probably nothing!"



The old man turns round with a flapping of his long, oiled corpsetaker robes, grimacing at Craft and the others. "Eh? Oh for..." He trails off into foul-mouthed mutterings, stumping up to the back of the cart and leaning against it, swearing under his breath as only a corpsetaker can.

<OOC> Myrana says, "So what exactly are you up to?"
<OOC> Garrin says, "Garrin is gonna advance to the crypt and check the door for traps!"
<OOC> Garrin can roll search. :)
<OOC> Myrana says, "Okay! Pose then roll :)"
<OOC> Younger will assist him in such matters.

Garrin sighs. Just sighs. "I suppose we should check and make sure someone hasn't rigger the door to explode on us or something.." He heads for the door, then, and leans forward to begin isnpecting it. Casually.

<OOC> Garrin says, "Younger, if you want to do aid another, you could +roll search and if you get over 10, it will give my roll +2. :)"
<OOC> Younger says, "I will certainly do that."
GAME: Younger rolls search: (9)+6: 15
<OOC> Abrahil'd like to put a mage armor on the hobgoblin if he could. X)
GAME: Abrahil casts mage armor.
<OOC> Abrahil says, "Although, if he's wearing armor--because I'm an idjit, Ab will use it on himself. :/ Because I am smart like that. X)"
<OOC> Myrana says, "So Younger and Garrin are inspecting the door."
<OOC> Myrana says, "And the rest are behind?"
<OOC> Younger says, "Indeed. It seems that way."

You paged (Garrin, Younger) with 'The doors have been ripped brutally from their hinges, and a lone pair of large, clawed footprints lead in through the dust. The tracks look very old. You can see only darkness within, and smell the stale waft of dry corpses and funerary oils long gone faint.'


<OOC> Abrahil says, "It goes on Younger, then. +4 AC!"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Okay!"
<OOC> Myrana says, "I'll wait for a pose from Garrin and Younger."

Younger stands slightly behind Garrin, lending an extra pair of eyes to the task. Pointing at something, he confers quietly with Garrin, before falling silent.

GAME: Garrin rolls Search+2: (7)+8+2: 17
 
So Garrin stops at the door. "Uh." He stares for a long moment. "The door has been taken off the hinges. There's... are those footprints?" He pauses. He looks up. Then down. "Those are footprints. With claws on them. Guys? Guys? I think there's something horrible in there. Oh, bugger."
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Also I will need spots from everyone."
GAME: Younger rolls spot: (13)+5: 18
GAME: Abrahil rolls spot: (15)+1: 16
GAME: Garrin rolls SPot: (10)+6: 16
GAME: Garo rolls Spot: (16)+2: 18
GAME: Craft rolls spot: (12)+3: 15
 <OOC> Myrana says, "Okay, everyone makes it! SO!"

A soft sound, like falling sand. Gravel crunches, red flakes waft upon the breeze... and the red-faced angels shift, turning their faces to look with benevolent calm down upon Garrin and Younger. But where holy faces remain peaceful and unmoving, granite arms loft with a crackling of thick, long dried blood and a grinding of stone come to move. Slowly, slowly coming to terrible, unnatural life. Where their feet rise from the granite slabs, blood wells up and blackens the stone, pouring down in viscous chunks to soil the green living grass at the base of the grand mausoleum with hissing, noxious smoke.
 
A scream like shriven glass whips out of the mausoleum's gaping doors, blasting all before it with dry, dusty air that stinks of mummified stagnation.

<OOC> Myrana says, "Inits! :)"

Craft rolls initiative: Roll: 12 + Bonus: 1 = Total: 13
Younger rolls initiative: Roll: 4 + Bonus: 3 = Total: 7
Abrahil rolls initiative: Roll: 3 + Bonus: 7 = Total: 10
Garrin rolls initiative: Roll: 9 + Bonus: 3 = Total: 12


"...oh. I think I'm in the wrong place, after all," Abrahil says weakly. The cheerful faerie-lights wink out of existence, plunging the area around him into darkness, darkness that holds the quick, scraping sounds of a gnome intent on getting the hell away!

<OOC> Myrana says, "Okay! So Craft goes first :)"
<OOC> Myrana says, "The angels are clearly focusing on Garrin and Younger."
<OOC> Craft says, "Swingity!"
GAME: Craft rolls melee: (2)+5: 7
<OOC> Craft says, "Wow, that's... wow"
 
"That's new," Craft says, way, way, way calmer than the situation warrants. What the heck, golem? He reaches for his hammer, gripping it in both hands, taking a swing at the nearest of the angels. He's had far more impressive swings. Perhaps he's more freaked out by the events than he's letting on.

 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Okay! Garrin!"
<OOC> Craft says, "The fact that I'm first with /that/ roll scares me a bit"
<OOC> Garrin says, "I am going to yelp in terror and cast shield on myself."
GAME: Garrin attempts to cast Shield but fails due to ASF.
<OOC> Garrin says, "I did. I failed to cast a spell. :0"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Garo!"

Garrin flails, wildly, in horror. He is trying very much to cast a spell. He's just...failing. Miserably. Because he's absolutely terrified. "AHHHHHHH." That's the response.

GAME: Garo rolls melee: (12)+5: 17
<OOC> Myrana says, "Hit!"
GAME: Garo rolls 2d4 + 6: (6)+6: 12

Garo grunts. /GRUNTS./ It's as though ancestral memories of how to best rend monsters of this sort limb from limb are running through his body like little hobgoblin /lightning bolts./ The goblinoid only roars a challenge in response to the sudden blast of stale, corpsy air. And...

And...

...He runs right up at one of the angels, and just starts hacking away like something that shouldn't be allowed anywhere near swords, seriously this is just a bad idea.

>>>PAUSED!<<<

With a terrific sound of grinding stone the great, red-faced angels step forward off of their pedastals, slowly raising their carven swords up toward the clouding skies. Crimson flakes flurry forward, whipped from them by the howling wind that comes from the depths of the screaming mausoleum and blast the Irregulars. They lumber forward, faces smooth and holy beneath the gory red.
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Younger, it was your go! :)"
<OOC> Younger says, "I am withdrawing, immediately."
<OOC> Myrana says, "Craft!"
<OOC> Craft says, "Hammer both hands, swing at nearest Angel"
GAME: Craft rolls melee: (11)+5: 16
<OOC> Myrana says, "Hits!" 
 
 
"Shiiit!" Younger squeeks, his eyebrows jumping up suddenly as he wheels backward quickly. Leaving direct combat to those who are more capable of such things, he moves back behind comrades. "Good Gods! What are those?!"
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Garo!"
<OOC> Garo says, "Swinging at the same Angel I slashed at!"
GAME: Garo rolls weapon1: (8)+7: 15
 
 
 
Craft grabs hold of his hammer in both hands as the angels approach. He swings it with both hands at the nearest angel, impacting with force on the smooth, less than pristine marble, sending cracks through the material.

<OOC> Garo says, "Rolling damage!"
GAME: Garo rolls 2d4 + 6: (8)+6: 14
<OOC> Myrana says, "Okay! That busts it, go ahead and pose ^^"

       Garo roars, following up his attack with a second, powerful swing! The blade buries deep into the Angel's stone flesh and comes out the other end, spilling plaster onto the mausoleum walls. These demonic statues must /shatter!/
 
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Okay, that one comes crashing down!"
<OOC> Garo says, "He also posed up there that he smacked it. Shall I pose the shattering?"
 

        The beastial roar erupting out of Garo's throat seems to send cracks through the statue's base. In truth, his Falchion is simply tearing cleanly through every ounce of stone and concrete it can catch. Plaster spills out across the ground in gouts of powdery, white particulate as the momentum of the blow pulls the hobgoblin around for a second slice, cutting diagonally where his first slash was horizontal. The tip of the blade emerges from the other end of the angel until the Falchion finally pulls away.

And, with a single kick, four quarters of angel-statue are pushed away to fall and crumble against the earth.

One down.
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Nin!"
<OOC> Nin-galad says, "I'm going to hit the remaining one twice, go go gadget shortswords."
<OOC> Myrana says, "Alright! Roll!"
<OOC> Nin-galad leerily attempts.
GAME: Nin-galad rolls weapon1: (9)+0: 9
<OOC> Nin-galad thinks there ought to be a +1 on that, but goes again.
GAME: Nin-galad rolls weapon2: (2)+3: 5
<OOC> Myrana says, "Both miss. Go ahead and pose ^^"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Younger!"
<OOC> Younger says, "I am pulling out my handaxe, now that that the odds are more in my favor. I'm charging in to attack, if I can, if not I'm just moving in and taking an attack."
<OOC> Myrana says, "You can charge. Roll!"
GAME: Younger rolls 1d20+4: (19)+4: 23
<OOC> Myrana says, "Hit!"
GAME: Younger rolls 1d6+6: (6)+6: 12
<OOC> Myrana says, "You knock off chunks!"
<OOC> Myrana says, "A2 goes!"

Nin-galad stares at the second angel, ghastly as it is he cannot help himself. Both swords are held in a well-practiced pose before him as he stares for just a passing second longer; until the first angel explodes into a cloud of chunks and plaster. This seems to knock him out of his reverie, and he leaps forwards into the cloud of obscuring plaster where the angel ought to be. Two quick strikes slash through the air, but neither find purchase.
 
 
GAME: Myrana rolls 1d20+3: (10)+3: 13
 
As the first stone angel falls into rubble and broken fragments, the second turns toward Craft, slashing low towards the war-golem's chest with its stone sword.
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "I assume that misses?"
<OOC> Garo says, "I think so, Myra."
<OOC> Myrana says, "Alright, Nin!"
GAME: Myrana rolls 1d20+1: (8)+1: 9  
<OOC> Nin-galad says, "I attack again, twice, for great justice."
GAME: Nin-galad rolls 1d20+1: (11)+1: 12
GAME: Nin-galad rolls 1d20+1: (9)+1: 10

Craft leans out of the way of the swipe. He's not the most agile of folks, but agile enough to avoid the clumsy swing, his armor not even scratched.
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Garrin!"
<OOC> Garrin says, "Are there any I can grease?"
<OOC> Myrana says, "You could grease the statue itself and possibly cause it to slip, yes. :)"
<OOC> Garrin nods. Okay. I'd like to. Grease it is, then!
<OOC> Garrin says, "DC is 15. :)"
GAME: Garrin casts grease.
GAME: Myrana rolls 1d20+1: (12)+1: 13
<OOC> Myrana says, "It FAAALLS"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Pose it!"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Abrahil! :)"

"....ahhh! What are those?!" Garrin looks... not afraid, really, but actually excited about all of this. Then? He begins to quickly intone a spell and the ground beneath one of the stone creatures becomes coated in a thick, yellow grease and slime that causes it to slip and fall to the ground!

<OOC> Abrahil says, "Enlarge Person on the hobgoblin!"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Okay! XD"
GAME: Abrahil casts enlarge person.
<OOC> Myrana says, "Meanwhile-- Everybody roll me a spot."
GAME: Garo rolls spot: (16)+2: 18
GAME: Abrahil rolls spot: (8)+1: 9
GAME: Nin-galad rolls spot: (15)+8: 23
GAME: Craft rolls spot: (7)+3: 10
GAME: Myrana rolls 1d20+4: (16)+4: 20

"Oh...oh goodness." Abrahil fumbles about his jacket for a--oh, yes! There...aha! Why, it's just where he'd left it! He produces a small mushroom with bright, yellow spots, and tosses! it up into the air above the head of the hobgoblin. "Bippity-booppity, oh...EAT ME! Oh, wait. No, no, I didn't really mean that!" and he hurriedly retreats away from the large and smashing statues as Garo begins to double in size!

 
You paged Nin-galad with 'Something is coming out of the Mausoleum. Slowly, like a serpent slithering up from the darkness, a pair of glowing eyes like milky blue-green orbs vienous and pulsing, appear in the deep shadows of the broken door. As you look, a wide mouth opens, and dust billows out.'


<OOC> Myrana says, "Listen checks!"
GAME: Nin-galad rolls listen: (2)+6: 8
GAME: Craft rolls listen: (5)+3: 8
GAME: Abrahil rolls listen: (7)+3: 10
<OOC> Myrana says, "Nin!"
GAME: Garo rolls listen: (18)+2: 20
<OOC> Nin-galad says, "Oh, my turn. Uh. I'm going to get the hell back from the mausoleum as I yell what I see down there."
 
 
A shriek tears out of the mausoleum like nails splintering upon slate. It's a cold, horrible sound and with it comes the stench of rotting death.
 
 
 
 
Nin-galad lifts his swords up as he prepares for another strike on the remaining angel when his eyes shift for the barest of seconds to the side, towards the mausoleum. As they're all that can really be seen of his face, they are his only way to express anything silently; and his bright yellow eyes are suddenly rather wide. He begins back-tracking rather promptly, keeping his swords in front of him at defensive angles as he yells just before the shriek, "There's something coming out of there, a massive serpent!"
 
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "So Garrin!"
<OOC> Garo says, "Man, my next action is so readying to smash the hell out of the snake."
<OOC> Myrana says, "Angel is prone!"
<OOC> Garrin says, "I cast shield!!"
<OOC> Garrin says, "And keep my distance."
GAME: Garrin casts Shield.

The angel falls with a crash, splitting the ground beneath it into a spiderweb of earth and stone. Greased, it lets out a groan, then starts swinging its heavy limbs, tring in slow, ponderous, one-minded determination to get back to its feet.
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Abrahil!"
<OOC> Abrahil says, "He's going to step back and armor himself. He will try to ahem. Gain some cover from the cart."
<OOC> Myrana says, "Okie! Pose it! X)"
<OOC> Myrana says, "A1's turn!"
GAME: Abrahil casts mage armor.
<OOC> Myrana says, "It's going to spend this action trying to get up.

"Such adventure! Such...I'd...I'd rather not get eaten," Abrahil adds hurriedly as he scurries behind the cart. He bounds rather than walks, leaps rather than hops! His great, jelly-like form bobs across the way to land in the cart's safe shadow. And, he murmurs a few words of the arcane, and adjusts his rose-colored lenses.
 
GAME: Myrana rolls 1d20+1: (3)+1: 4
<OOC> Myrana says, "It is super graceful on the ground. xD"
<OOC> Myrana says, "MEANWHILE (ahaha)"
 
 
Garo is suddnely... /BIGGER./ There is a strange /MIGHT/ flowing through his veins! And he hears the snake. And he is /told/ about the snake! So what does he do? He goes to get ready for the snake's approach. What better way to slay an ophidian than with a big chopper to the skull?

 
Out from the crypt comes a creature that once might have been a woman. An enormous head emerges first, propelled by a long serpentine neck and body supported by gangly, hideous limbs like elongated arms and legs bending in unnatural ways, too thin it seems and long to support the bulbous, stinking body. Huge milky eyes bulge out from the white face and a long mouth curves like the sickle moon full of teeth from one tattered ear to the other. Thin, greasy black hair hangs straggled, insufficient to cover the bloated head, like a sheep's bladder near to exploding with noxious gases. It lets out another shriek and rushes out, hands and feet scrabbling over the crumbled body of the first angel and reaching out one large hand for the enlarged hobgoblin.

[RPOne] Garo says, "Whelp. Aza."
[RPOne] Garo says, "I get an AOO?"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Go ahead!"
GAME: Garo rolls weapon1: (9)+7: 16
<OOC> Garo says, "+8, so 17."
<OOC> Garo says, "Rather than +7."
<OOC> Myrana says, "You hit!"
<OOC> Garo says, "And for the second one that I was readying..."
GAME: Garo rolls weapon1: (20)+7: 27
<OOC> Garo says, "CRIT."
GAME: Garo rolls 2d6 + 7: (8)+7: 15
GAME: Garo rolls 4d6 + 14: (17)+14: 31
<OOC> Garo says, "Bam."
<OOC> Garo says, "31 + 15."
<OOC> Garo says, "How's that hurt the snake lady, Aza?"
<OOC> Myrana says, "It's pretty hurt!"
<OOC> Garo says, "I think it's gonna try and hit me?"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Yes :3"
GAME: Myrana rolls 1d20+7: (1)+7: 8
<OOC> Myrana says, "Craft! :)"
<OOC> Craft says, "Is the angel still squirming?"
<OOC> Myrana nods!

        Garo grunts as the snake woman tries to assault him! No! There will be /no/ snakey attacks today! Not ones that go unpunished, anyway. The Hogboblin roars a vicious /YAAARRRRGH!/ and steps into the colossal snake-woman. His father's falchion swings across in a wide arc, slicing her hands into a slurry of blood and scale. The momentum of the blow carries his arms up and over his head--

He /LEAPS!/

And brings the sword down right into the serpent's 'shoulders', leaving a devastating wound in a painful diagonal across her torso, catching various important looking organs as his sword exits her body.

<OOC> Craft says, "WArhammer on the angel"
GAME: Craft rolls melee: (17)+5: 22
GAME: Craft rolls 1d8+4: (5)+4: 9
<OOC> Myrana says, "Hit!"
<OOC> Myrana says, "You knock out a chunk! :)"
<OOC> Myrana says, "I think that makes it Nin's turn"
 
Craft watches, impassively, as the snake creature swarms. His attention returns to the felled angel and brings down his hammer, knocking off a wing with a quick strike, his aim not quite as good as he'd hoped. He keeps an eye on the snake creature, but figures Garo has it handled, for now.

<OOC> Nin-galad says, "Squishy thing looks not-immune to backstabs, so.. SHANK."
GAME: Nin-galad rolls 1d20+3: (8)+3: 11
GAME: Nin-galad rolls 1d20+3: (11)+3: 14
<OOC> Myrana says, "That last would have hit then!"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Go ahead and roll damage :)"
GAME: Nin-galad rolls 1d6+3+1d6: (6)+3+(4): 13
<OOC> Myrana says, "You hurt eet!"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Garrin! :)"
<OOC> Garrinshoots giant snake-woman with his crossbow.
GAME: Garrin rolls ranged: (2)+4: 6
<OOC> Garrin misses!
<OOC> Myrana says, "Abrahil's go :)"

"..ahhh!" Garrin leaps back a step. Points at the GIANT SNAKE WOMAN THING. With his crossbow. He fires. It misses. Badly. Really badly. The bolt splits Abrahil's hair, actually. What little hair he has.

Finally, a target with something resembling a soft and pliable anatomy. As ugly as it is. Nin-galad seizes the opportunity to strike something that looks like it can be damaged a lot more readily than a big old stone statue, and sprints forwards. One gleaming sword with a gently curving blade leads and the other trails, flashing forth when Nin nears the hideous creature. His leading lunge misses, and to compensate he leaps after it to avoid sacrificing momentum. As he soars through the air alongside it, he turns and pierces its side with his second sword to the sound of a horrible shriek from the beast. His speed carries him and the sword a good several feet, cutting a lengthy gash in it's side before Nin-galad falls free and rolls to his feet to prepare for a second attack.

<OOC> Abrahil says, "Shake my fist at Garrin and fire a BETTER crossbow!"
GAME: Abrahil rolls 1d20+6: (8)+6: 14
<OOC> Myrana says, "Hit!"
GAME: Abrahil rolls 1d6: (6): 6
<OOC> Myrana says, "A1!"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Tries to get up XD"
GAME: Myrana rolls 1d20+1: (7)+1: 8
<OOC> Myrana says, "Noooo."
<OOC> Myrana says, "The snakebeastie!"

"Oh!" The bolt splits the tiny pouf on Abrahil's head and the gnome blinks. He adjusts his lenses. "Oh, my. I don't--I don't think they're supposed to fire like that!" he calls over to Garrin, and then the small, paunchy gnome proceeds to show the manly human wizard how it is done! THWANG! goes the mighty crossbow, as painted orange and greens as it is. He gives a small, ham-fisted fist-pump!

 
<OOC> Myrana says, "It attacks Garo again."
<OOC> Myrana says, "Full attack this time"
GAME: Myrana rolls 1d20+7: (6)+7: 13
GAME: Myrana rolls 1d20+7: (6)+7: 13
<OOC> Garo says, "DOuble miss."
<OOC> Myrana says, "Okay! Your go :)"
<OOC> Garo says, "Smashing it. :|"
GAME: Garo rolls weapon1: (11)+7: 18
<OOC> Garo says, "I hit?"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Yep!  
GAME: Garo rolls 2d6 + 7: (8)+7: 15
<OOC> Myrana says, "Craft!"
<OOC> Craft says, "Angel again"
GAME: Craft rolls melee: (13)+5: 18
<OOC> Myrana says, "Hit!"
GAME: Craft rolls 1d8+4: (5)+4: 9
<OOC> Myrana says, "You break it!"

Another assault is repelled, Garo weaving left and right about the Snake-Creature's flailing limbs. As it goes to strike at him a second time, the hobgoblin charges into a blindspot, driving his oversized falchion into the snake-woman's chest cavity, tearing it out lengthwise a moment later. It's almost down. Just a bit more!
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Nin-galad!"
<OOC> Nin-galad says, "Stabbing the wormy bugger again, twice."
GAME: Nin-galad rolls 1d20+3: (3)+3: 6
GAME: Nin-galad rolls 1d20+3: (5)+3: 8
<OOC> Myrana says, "Both miss.^^"
<OOC> Garo says, "Magic missile, wizards!"

Craft watches the snake creature, seeing it's distress, and brings his hammer down, hard, on the angel's face, removing it's head from it's shoulders. His attention turns, then, to the snake creature.
 
<OOC> Myrana says, "Garrin!"
<OOC> Garrin says, "I reload and fire again!"
GAME: Garrin rolls ranged: (19)+4: 23
GAME: Garrin rolls 1d8: (2): 2
<OOC> Myrana says, "You put out one of its eyes :o"
<OOC> Myrana says, "Abrahil!"
 
Garrin? Actually hits this time. Really. He realods with shaking hands and then fires once more. This time, he doesn't bounce it off his own magical shield. That's happened before. This time, he actually hits it. In the eye. "HOLY SHIT," says Garrin, shocked.
 
 
GAME: Abrahil rolls 1d20+6: (20)+6: 26
GAME: Abrahil rolls 1d20+6: (10)+6: 16
<OOC> Myrana says, "Hit! XD"
GAME: Abrahil rolls 2d6: (2): 2
<OOC> Myrana says, "It diiiiiies! XD"
<OOC> Myrana says, "And it just /explodes/, by the way."
<OOC> Myrana says, "It was rather under high pressure."
<OOC> Garo says, "Oh God."
 

"Goodness! You really should work on your technique, Garrin!" Abrahil calls over helpfully. "Or get a set of lenses--I've found these quite stylish." And squinting through their rose-colored frames, Abrahil takes aim--and plinks! The bolt splinters as it flies, leaving only a sliver to embed itself in the snake's tough hide. But, that's enough it seems. "All in the aim, Garrin! All in the aim!" He puffs up his considerable stomach!
 
Like a pustule, the horrible snake woman explodes as though under enormous pressure in a blast of filmy liquids, guts, and delicate ribbons of translucent skin. The limbs fall away and the area is just covered.

And Garo is right in the middle of it. While in colossal!Hobgob mode. He shuts everything and turns away /JUST/ in time, but manages to get his side all covered in disgusting snake-person goop.
 
GAME: Garo rolls 1d20: (14): 14

He simply grimaces.

"..augh," says Garrin, like... he's right there. Covered in goo. "That part isn't going in the book," he says, firmly.

Craft, meanwhile, seems to just allow himself to be covered. He looks himself over, then the remains of their opponents. "Is that all of them?" he wonders.

"I...oh, my. This may not be suitable for a grave at all." Abrahil's hand trembles as he lowers his lenses to wipe away at them. His pouf of hair is tinted orange and...reds and...greens. The crossbow lays against his...well. His legs are somewhat obscured by his girth, but it leans against them nevertheless. He replaces the lenses and blinks a few more times. "What are we going to do with the body?"

"Let's just..." Garo grunts, wiping himself off with a towel tucked inside his pack, "Let's just get that body in there and get this over with, huh?"
 
Nin-galad watches the splinter as it soars through the air, and even stays long enough to see it hit the bulbous creature. An instant later, he's crouched behind one of the nearby gravestones, listening to the sickening splat and waiting a few seconds before peering up over the top of the goo and gore-splattered stone. "..Well. Disgusting. But a fine shot."
 
 
"...we will have to get a broom," Abrahil decides. He folds his hands over his paunch, and looks up. At the...dripping. Oozing. Goo. Falling from the ceiling. "Or...well. There's something to be said about the cleansing power of fire, isn't there? Oh! Well, I never suggested it!" and face pink, he scurries off to tend to the cart. He hates explosions.