Tavern Rumors of Peltarch
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_After the battle for Peltarch, Dodger, her armor stained with blood and ichor, staggers into the first tavern still standing, orders wine, and proceeds to methodically drink herself into a stupor.
Then, swaying but still collected, she staggers upstairs to a rented room and doesn't emerge until her next shift a day later._
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In her combat leathers, rapier held firm in her hand, Isolde steps up to the walls or whereever a good number of the city's defenders are gathered. Her beautiful face is pale and hard with determination, her posture straight and fearless in defiance as she sings the following air, voice ringing out loud and clear:
"Forth to the battle!
Onward the fight,
Swift as the eagle in his flight!
Let not the sunlight o'er our pathway close,
Till we o'erthrow our fiendish foes.
Strong as yonder foaming tide,
Rushing down the mountainside;
Be ye ready, sword and spear,
Pour upon the spoiler near.Winds! that float o'er us,
Bid the tyrants quail,
Ne'er shall their ruffian bands prevail!
Morning shall view us fetterless and free,
Slaves ne'er shall Peltarch's children be!
Heavens our arms with conquest bless,
All our bitter wrongs redress;
Strike the harp! Awake the cry!
Valour's sons fear not to die!"
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_While some fear the fire that comes, there are always those doomsayers who have something to say. Cormac Randolph, brave Skald is one such doomsayer - or is he a soothsayer with a song to embolden the heart, and get his the soldiers and adventurers on his side's blood pumping with manful warlike energy. Naturally, it is Cormac's belief that all men should think as he thinks.
With the red glare of the descending crimson star falling as his backdrop he ascends the steps onto the city walls, his magical axe humming with energy as his fingers find the points of resonance on the unique instrument. Fully helmed, and with his cloak hanging like a lead weight atop the windless wall he begins his powerful song.
He plays with a heart filled with fury, his voice raw and dry with the heat of the falling ball of fiery doom. His muscled body coated with a glistening film of sweat. He bellows out loudly over the commons, his noisy instrument sending banshee-like wails and demonic-low bass tones out over the Commerce District._
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ap1agRjSJOo
The wait is soon at end
Always charge never bend
Morning is here, make your stand
Live for honor, glory, death in fire!Total war is here
Face it without fear
Age of sword, age of spear
Fight for honor, glory, death in fire!See the fire rise
Flames are raging high
Soon all will burn and die
Burn for honor, glory, death in fire!Storm of lethal flames
Only death remains
Ragnarok is closing in
Die for honor, glory, death in fire!Forces of chaos is on the move
Everyone, choose your side
And know the end is coming soon
The day for all to dieThe day is here when Bifrost breaks
Nor sun or moon will rise
When the dead rise from their graves
And Surtur spreads his fireAll you know will wither away
And sink into the sea
A new world will be born one day
Where everyone is freeTotal war is here, face it without fear
Age of sword, age of spear
Fight for honor, glory, death in fire!Storm of lethal flames
Only death remains - Ragnarok is our fate
Die for honor, die for glory
Die, death in fire!
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_Blistering heat beats down from the heavens, there are some who claim to hear the roar of fire as the 'star' descends from above. It has drawn near now, and it may only be a matter of time until it impacts. Steam rises from the Lake and fills the Docks district with no mere skein or wisp of the stuff - but a full on fog so dense that one can barely see beyond the end of one's nose. The hot fog sticks to clothing, it coats everything. Untreated timbers, boats, bow and crossbows may rot in these conditions. Leathers and clothing also may suffer, and anything that is held to by glue is sure to fall apart very soon.
The unbearable heat of the falling 'star' seems unavoidable. Windows and doors are flung open in spite of curfew, biting insects are attracted from the swamplands and appear to be breeding at an alarming rate. Heat sickness and exhaustion are rife throughout both military and civilian populations. It appears this Primordial has made it his business to make every man, woman and child suffer before their inevitable end…_
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_As if the top side of the city weren't bad enough, certain rumours would have it that down below, a veritable flood of ooze rose, drenching the unfortunate few present in a thick green gunk that will not, no matter the washing, scrubbing or magical means of cleansing, ever quite rinse off.
Other rumours insist it's not the ooze you must be wary of, but the rising tide of undead, shambling and groaning ever closer to the surface. Thank goodness for the shiny - or perhaps not so shiny, considering the slime rumours - sewer patrolling heroes!
Finally, the more well-to-do may well titter and gossip about the fierce northern beauty, Princess Patricia of Vaasa, who allegedly approached King George with an offer of marriage to herself or one of her many sisters. While it's clear no such arrangement is yet in place, the princess did leave the city in her longboat with a considerable sum of money from the city coffers…_
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_While patrolling the wall near the city garden, Marty saw a young boy climbing up to the battlements. Spotting an orc drawing a bow, she took up a position on the parapet and unleashed a hail of arrows. The orc returned fire, cruel arrows piercing Marty's armour and sinking into her chest. Knowing that if she ducked for cover the orc would have no other target but the boy, she stood and continued firing, her hand drawing arrows and firing them in a continuous circular motion. Each launched arrow after arrow, both combatants taking serious hits, multiple arrows protruding from each of them.
Just as the demonic orc was about to fall, another joined the the exchange. Marty hastily drew a potion, bit the cork out of it and spat it out. Another arrow hit her as she was drinking. She threw the bottle at the orcs and resumed firing arrows at them. The magic from the potion forced a few of the arrows out of her body, but the orcish hail continued._ "GET OUTA HERE KID!" _The rate of Marty's fire increased. The first orc fell, then a second. And elderly man hobbled up in an attempt to get the boy off the wall, but the boy wasn't going to co-operate.
Eventually a third orc fell to Marty's fire. Totally spent, Marty slumped down behind the battlements, casting healing magic upon herself as she yanked barbed orcish arrows from her body._
((OOC: Happened IG. Pretty sure those NPC commoners, the boy and the old man, are still up there on the wall. Orc archers are dead though. Plenty of the commoners down in the garden would have witnessed it, so posted it here.))
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_During her shift on the walls, Dodger regales her squadmates and anyone else in earshot with tales of a winged kissing wench who appeared in the commons and proceeded to perform unspeakable acts on man and woman alike.
This seems good for morale, although some of the more straight laced mutter about succubi._
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The black-lipped Cormac, often-times referred to as a Skald, offers surprising good tidings despite the burning sky and imminent doom. He tells of a furious battle at the south gates where only handful of heroes (referring to them in point as heroes, not adventurers or warriors) were lifted over the city walls and dropped into the heart of a besieging Demon-Orc force. His tale involves much blood and gore, and he tells in great detail of how he - while the others in this small band raised their shields and pushed out a wide circle amid the anarchy, had swung his axe through the belly of an advancing Demon-Orc to spill its black guts upon the ground and within the same whirling motion had rendered one of their siege catapults utterly useless. Yes, it was Cormac's bold action that had ended the siege. Not Dermin's or Gnarls, who earn only small parts in the long tale of how he had won the day.
"…and not a one walked off the field alive, archers lined the walls and shot them all down before they, the Demon Orcs, could quit. My arrows too split the air and toppled many a wicked foe; for I took no rest when my ax's work was done - and so I killed them with my bow..."
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_While the fire in the sky likely dwarves all other rumours, there is one persistent and disturbing tale that circulates, warning any and all from the temptation of seeking solace from the heat by visiting the bath house. The Peltarchian stronghold of cleanliness, it is said, recently played unwilling host to a demonic orgy, their unearthly screeches of pleasure and pain drawing the attention of a handful of adventurers passing by.
While details of this tale may vary, a recurring few insist Hezrous like it rough, Vrocks spew spores when excited and three out of five Succubi prefer Succubi…_
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There's little distinction these days between day and night in Peltarch, even in the wee hours when darkness should be upon the city there is instead a dull orange glow, like the last moments of sunset, painting the sky. Central to this unusual light is a fiery white object, at this distance a mere small thing. No larger now than an apple, or a fist. The days and nights grow warmer with the passage of time.
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With the great red star looming over head, endless days could grow ever hotter. With spurts of chaotic flames, some of the local clergy encouraged others to do what they could to protect the citizenry and defenders with blessings of elemental endurance and protection. White robed Ilmatari among them, at the very least one of which seemed to be torn between words of encouragement, chaotic babblings and doom-saying. The toll of war is a great one, on body, mind and heart alike.
Who is there?
Lady fair, do you need care?
Pathetic, so pathetic… Oh gods... this is hectic..
But we must weather the weather, before we weather.
Its laughable really! Oh yes, how they cackle, its silly....
Let them laugh! Its true... But those of us who can, we should do.
Oh how I do so miss the tear-hiding rain.... Someone... Please end this pain?
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In the wake of the great battle, the air still hazy with smoke from the funeral pyres, Isolde steps into the commons clad in a regal red robe. Her crimson hair is braided in a crown-like circlet ontop of her head, a few carefully selected strands allowed to fall down in soft corkscrew curls. The usually light-hearted bard adopts a stern and commanding poise, her chin lifted and an unfamiliar fury shining in her dark blue eyes as she begins to sing, no drum or yarting in her hands:
"I must contain my anger, or I won't control my power,
But gods! How long I've waited just to see this very hour!
It's just as well I'm not the one who calls the storm of fire,
Or I would turn this battle plain into your funeral pyre!The priests all say I must not hate, but I will not pretend.
I saw the wreck you made of her, my Jewel and my friend!
The scars you left in stone and wall will be so slow to fade,
Oh, would I had your coward heart beneath my naked blade!I must control my rage, or lose ability to plan,
I must direct the fight from here, not charging in the van!
As you will likewise do, no doubt, for all that you are cruel,
And revel in shed blood and pain, I think you are no fool!But in the name of all the gods, you're all that I despise,
Who planned to take by vicious force my kingdom as your prize!
My throne, my land, my people. All, you plotted to despoil,
By tricks that only desperate fight enabled us to foil!I must control my fury or let slip all that I've sought,
But vengeance would not be enough for all the grief you've wrought!
Gods grant this day you fall beneath the steel of me and mine,
And drink full deeply of defeat, that cold and bitter wine!My crown is on my brow, my naked blade within my hand,
My army like an eager hound lies waiting my command!
With how you tortured, killed and lied revealed to them this day,
By all the stars that ever shone,
By all the gods, known and unknown,
For goodness plight and my Jewel's own,
I swear that you will pay!"
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_As if the commotion of a war was not enough, more seems to hit the city. Some of it good, like the three masked Witches of Rasheman showing up in the commons with close to fifty beserkers at their side to aid the city.
On the bad side of things, it seems Rass appeared again after years and took the time to burn some of the enemy fel-orcs to ashes as well as a few siege engines and a couple unlucky Defenders on the southern wall. The mighty red dragon took to the skies shortly after, the noise of the war likely waking her from her sleep and the appearance she made a show of her displeasure at both sides for disturbing her slumber.
As the citizens of Peltarch brace for more attacks, they can't help but keep their eyes on the skies to see if the mighty wyrm returns, most seeming happy though very little damage was done to the walls or the Defenders numbers._
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Following news of the great battle in the streets, word of a minor skirmish within the sewers spreads. It seems a group of adventurers ventured forth into the subterranean maze of tunnels and stumbled upon cultists in the middle of flaying some of the fine citizens of Peltarch! Though the fine citizens in question were eventually saved, the fact that they had to first stop at the morgue would seem to indicate that the trip did not go 100% ideally.
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Alvaniel drops a ring that was once given to her by the covenant Raryldor…. his advances were denied and now it is a ring she does not want to touch so the ring has been thrown into the sewers.... she is distancing herself from the elves....
((Edited by Dorakhan - keep it IC))
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_Burning fires and screams of pain and grief. Cursing guards dashing to and fro, glancing often at the sky.
The push was heavy and vicious. The outer south wall was left in ruins, and the inner wall breached. A mix of Defenders, allied troops, and adventures fought desperately, as civilians ran in terror or died screaming. At one point the forces of Peltarch were pushed back into the commons before rallying and driving the baying hordes back.
Survivors speak of a great red dragon incinerating both sides, massive demon siege beasts, swarms of demonic flyers, Vrocks, herzou, succubi, and fiend-orcs. Many soldiers and adventurers fell.
Yet the city still stood at days' end… Even if the exhausted survivors might be too tired to savor their victory._
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_After a skirmish at the south gates, an inpenetrable wall of infernal fire rose, trapping the defenders at the walls as demons poured in to assail them. Just when it seemed all hope was lost, bright creatures descended on the whitest of feathered wings - at long last, the city's own guardian angel, the most beloved and revered Lady Daisy Millern of Tyr had arrived, alongside the shining Devas known as Lunara, Bastilla and Spica.
Carried over the flames in celestial arms were Ashena Teroldys and Allestor Hollins of the Order of the Divine Shield, and the Cerulean priestess of Mystra, Sheserai Foutopolis. With these new arrivals, the fight was won and the flames vanquished.
Word soon spreads that the four celestials will remain to protect the city, residing within the Temple of the Triad itself to be called on in times of need._
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"…so and out of the sky, right, it's a dragon! An actual dragon. Not as big as I'd heard they were. Little bigger than a big ox, sort of thing. Right in the middle of the commons. Copper. Those are the safe ones. Safer. Whatever."
Dodger motions for more ale.
"So it lands and starts to talk, but it says very little. All profound and philosophic like. Everyone's gasping and grinning and nodding at the thing, like it was Ilmater come to cure the sick. Mostly it just grinned and enigma'd at people.
"It did say something about more dragons. Watching us. That pleased everyone even more. Tempus's Arm, why in the name of the gods would you welcome being watched by dragons? I mean, are they watching when I bathe? Because that's sort of creepy. And if they're helpful dragons, wouldn't they have stepped in by now?"
Clearly having had a few glasses, Dodger gestures grandly.
"Mark my words, when there are dragons burning the city and watching us all undress, you can cover your privates, huddle in a cellar, and say, 'Dodger told us so'."
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_Rumour goes round peltarch that a group of adventurers made good with a mage's help through a portal to south norwick. With limited time they made quick work of collecting better basic weapons and shields with some armour for the guards and adventurers within the city. Along with the supplies are two large Oxen that Dermin and Abigail set upon the old soup table before the usually golem covered plate Abigail set to gutting, skinning, and butchering the animals.
Several hours later a stew was started and the exhausted pale looking warrior stumbled to the east, weaker and more exhausted than one may expect from a typical supply run._
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While doing rounds healing soldiers on the wall and doing what she could to bolster morale, Martoushca leaffall was cut off from her companions by a cluster of flying demons. Her sickle seemed incapable of inflicting serious damage against the flying creatures that blocked her exits. She fought against them on the wall alone, and would eventually have fallen or been carried off if it weren't for General Theon and a mixed group of Legion soldier and adventurers who broke through, provided a distraction and enabled the "Voice of the People" to join a melee that defeated the airborne/teleporting assault.
