May 29th, 761, 7:09 AM; Day 73 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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"Gunpowders kept seperately, just in case." Samael said shortly. "Think three kegs is enough?"
The Borcan paused for a moment, trying to remember in which of the large packs the reserves of fine black powder were kept. The kegs were stout, small barrels weighing maybe twenty pounds each, not terribly imposing but containing enough explosives to render a man to component parts.
And not very large components at that.
"We'll all run out of ammunition by Expedition's end, but no help for it." Samael muttered as he and Guy brought the small kegs over, one by one.
The portcullis, for its part, was a remarkably imposing looking structure, which made sense considering its job is to keep unwanted visitors out. The metal bars were the thickness of your arm, and welded together in a way that centuries of ethereal miasma hadn't managed to rust away. You would not want to be in the position to try and assault the portcullis.
[OOC: Knowledge (Architecture & Engineer) DC 15 to figure out how to level the portcullis without taking the gatehouse down with it. Setting up the explosives and triggering them (assuming a proper check), takes one minute (10 rounds)
The Torture-Chamber, Sub-Level Two, Dežbār Keep
May 29th, 761, 7:09 AM; Day 73 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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Mortals... they never cease to annoy. Marchosias murmurred to himself. It was a state of being that the fiend never truly understood. Here they were, offered treasure beyond the dreams of avarice all for one little task.... and instead they commit suicide over a sob story by someone who had recently been doing his level best to kill them.
Madness, really. Well, its neither here nor there. The fiend considered what to do next. The firelings were not to be despised, but neither were they infallible. Something more... extreme... was required.
Yes.... this would do nicely.
For this incantation, mere will was insufficient. Marchosias scowled. There was a time when the Red King had been greater.... long ago as it was. Nevertheless, this trick of magecraft was still within his power. Sweeping up his taloned hands, crimson flames dancing in his eyes, Marchosias began to chant.
They weren't words in the conventional sense. They were sounds, thoughts, emotions from the eldest days, from the time when the universe was only a glimmer of possibility. It was the language of the gods, and of the highest angels and daemons. It didn't really have a name.
It was also incredibly taxing. Little by little, Marchosias felt exhaustion sweep over him, the sheer difficulty of the eldritch chant made difficult. And then.... success.
Floating in the air before the Red King was a small, pure-white flame, no longer than a candle-light. It was also the most dangerous creation in the entire Amber Wastes, and possibly the plane.
Hellfire. Mortals used the term extravagantly, and even Marchosias was guilty of it from time to time. But true Hellfire was not flames with a dark tinge. Hellfire was the fire beyond fire, the white-hot blaze that burned everything. Wood. flesh. cloth.
Stone.
Metal.
Souls.
It couldn't be stopped, not by water or magic or any means short of a lack of fuel. And Hellfire fueled itself on life. The touch of life, the barest whisper of creation, of mortal passage or mortal construction was its fuel. Where Hellfire had passed, nothing but a barren ruin remained, inhabited only by ghosts.
With an effort of will, Marchosias placed the flame upon the ground, outside of his summoning circle. Sikarba'al's Prison would not be undone with Hellfire, sadly. Marchosias had tried during his third century of imprisonment, when the desperation reached the boiling point. All he had accomplished was nearly destroying the torture chamber.
But now, the little white flame sat upon the cold, lifeless stones of the torture chamber. But not entirely lifeless, for the traces of blood, of human presence and human passage, were enough.
It flickered.
And began to grow.
The Courtyard, Level One, Dežbār Keep
May 29th, 761, 7:10 AM; Day 73 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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It was a good thing that not everyone was too busy with the explosives, because something unusual even for Dezbar was happening not too far on the walls of the castle behind the Expedition. Well, no. Even for Dezbar, this was more or less par-for-the-course of bizarreness and insanity. It was merely the latest.
The stones along the wall were glowing. A dull, red-hot glow not immediately visible on sandstone in the reddish dawn light, but nevertheless, large blotches started to appear in the wall, and those closest felt the heat begin to grow.
[OOC: In six rounds, the walls will melt enough to let whats inside out. Those who succeeded on their spot checks recieve the full six rounds of prep-work. Those who flubbed them only get three rounds.
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At the moment, from my perspective you have the following options:
- -Say sorry, call Marchosias, and give him the Sefer Raziel HaMalakh nicely.
-Get the portcullis open (six rounds during prep time and four rounds during combat), then get everyone out (i.e., run like hell)
-Destroy the Sefer Raziel HaMalakh. It is possible to do so within the next minute. You just need to figure out what the four elements are, and apply them.
-Dawdle long enough to let the Hellfire cut you off and so you all die.
Have fun! I'll finish the prep-time on Sunday evening, and then we'll proceed to combat. One way or another, Book Five ends this week.
Player General Hitpoint Report
Ishaq: -16 HP
Khalil:
Kuzan: Mass Aid (+6 Temp HP)
Charles:
Lia: Extended Mage Armor (+4 AC), -8 HP
Tomas: Magic Weapon (+1 AB, +1 Dmg), Endure Elements, -12 HP.
Andre: -10 HP,
Otto: Barkskin (+2 AC)
