DM Unstable's Events

[broham1]

The warning...

A thick fog rolls over the fields of the dead, clinging to the gravestones like the dead once clinged to life. Within this blanket the the dirt came lose and undead forms pushed their way to the surface to once again walk the land. Powerful magics pulled these restless souls from their earthen graves, pulled them forth to serve. Anger flashed through this once mighty being, the only emotion he could slighty remember.

"Those of the flesh will pay!" The voice was hollow and grating, "Go forth and give warning! Let those of the flesh know they are not welcome in our lands... The fields are ours!"

The Death Knight kneels into a bow and rises with a nod, turning to gather the army...


Three adventurers encountered the first wave, no warning. Just an all out assult upon the living for violating their lands. Waves of undead fell to their arrows and swords. Fighting until one of their own had fallen. Knowing what had to be done they turned south at once, their friend across a shoulder, determined to find someone to bring him back from Myrkuls cold grasp.

Upon reaching the Farmlands they rallied help to return and put an end to the undead thread that loomed so close to the City. After the group had assembled they struck out for the north once more.

Upon reaching the Fields, they were approached by a Death Knight. The two points of evil red light that served for his eyes level off on the group. "Turn back! You of the flesh are not welcome here! He demands you go! He commands this land now, Leave at once!"

The group swarmed on the Knight, slintering him into fragments of bone and plate armor. The hills then errupted, as waves of the living dead washed over them, time and time again. The adventurers were blessed this day as two of them were blessed in the ways of divine power, either utterly destroying them or holding them froze as the arrows of the group assulted the undead. As the last of the evil fell, again a Death knight appeared.

"It's not over.. He will raise more. He cannot be stopped! He will..." And before he could say another thing he was cut down and torn asunder with magic and steel. The waves had subsided and the group returned south. Before returning to the gate a lone scout was sent to chck for stragglers and search for clues...

* * *

Elohir Ara'del, Phelan Shadowtop, Alora Ap Ravar, Barvok Harrow, Beren Cross, Father Korbin Tenith, and Survania Dredd


All awarded XP

[Aleilsum]

Deep within the near-impossible maze that once had held a library and now held only giant bull-beasts with great axes, a blue-and-scar skinned elf walked warily. Through the doorways he moved, ready each time for the falling of a great axe or the sight of another dried up corpse.

This time, he recognised where he was. He turned to the right, and beheld a body fresh fallen. He looked around, knelt swiftly careful to avoid the bloodstained braid of white silky hair hanging from his belt. The woman was near cold but he thought perhaps if he got her to a temple ...nay. 'T was too late for her, a certain finality made it clear. Some it seemed as if they were but sleeping, their souls redeemable from Myrkul's clutch. Not this one.

By her was her sword, blood and a dirty bootmark on it but undamaged. It looked old. He swiftly searched her body for identification and treasure - for she had no use for it now - and then picked up the blade.

He was startled. It fit warmly into his misshapen right hand, not cool, and the balance seemed near perfect for him. Under the blood, tiny shimmers of blue light seems to prickle. He examined the hilt. It had the symbol of the Protector on and elven runes on the blade. This woman had been sworn to his service, or he missed his guess, and the sword weilded in his name. It was old, very old.

This he would keep, honoured. He knelt by the body, closed her eyes, laid one of this better cloths from his pack over her face.

"Father Protector of the Elves and Eldarin, may this woman's soul be under your aegis. May she rest in honour in Your name". Then he rose. Turned away, turned back. The body ... was shimmering. It crumbled into dust as he watched. He was awed and looked again at the sword. As he watched it seems to warp a little, shifting in his hand, the weight and the shape. He hefted it again. it was not near-perfect, it was perfect. Since the Ilythiir had broken the bones of his hand and let them set awry, he had been slow to re-learn his skilla at arms and no blade had been easy to handle. Until this one, now.

The hair on the back of his head seemed to rise a little. And something shifted inside him, something he thought burned out.

He strode on, head held a little higher, sword comfortable in his hand.

[Lambert]

It has long been the case that the elves have loved their own long lived race, and with equal degree, hated the the long lived undead.

And yet, a fallen ranger named Sarah of the Fields lingers in the Fields of the dead, helping those who pass the fields, and fighting those who's unatural life continues.

So single minded in her quest, she does not even realize what she herself has become, until recently.

She has given my a lock of her hair. I carry it with me wherever I go. I have shown it to Galen'ael, and he and I are praying to the Seldarine for her soul. I am uncertain what can be done of her state, but I respect her path, as it is the path of any ranger, and I am proven how false I was in assuming that all creatures who are undead are evil and should be utterly destroyed.

My missconception, truly challenged, leaves me wondering as I stare up at the night sky. Lying down with Orlpar I gaze into his brave eyes and note the reflection of all life around us contained in his precious orbs.

Even for one as long lived as myself, life always provides some challenge and some new teaching.

I continue to pray for Sarah of the fields as I also pray for my ward. What the future brings, the dawn will reveal.

Aloria

[Aleilsum]

Aleilsum spoke to the Fist Officer. He'd heard how dangerous the Fileds of the Dead were and the Officer said the same. Still, he was strong now, almost as strong as he'd ever been. He would try.

They were indeed a challenge. Each that fell, he learned a little more from of his swordplay. Slowly the experience came, the knowledge of how *this* move might lead to this, or this, and the infintessimal positioning and reflexes that would lead to a little more effortless blocking, a little more effortless counter blow

This was a strange place. Cleansed, it would a quiet rest for the fallen. But it was foul, desecrated. And on the breeze wafted an even fouler stench. His ears picked up low horrible moaning and suddenly he was surrounded. Lurching grey and green skinned things surriounded by a miasma. Easily he slew them, but more came, and more, and then others. He retreated to near safety, to the point they did not venture over. Then he stood his ground and a sort of exhilaration grew in him as his sword licked out and his shield saved him.

At the end, many of the things had fallen. He was wounded, damaged. Naught that had not happened before, worse even, but still. More might come.

Suddenly he felt the claw marks heal, the rips and slashes, the puncture wounds vanish. New strength flowed into him. He stood, refreshed.

And in the bright daylight, this strange land, he heard a Voice.

"You have done well, my son, but more may be asked of you. Follow the path you have chosen for now, but another may become clear". With that, a strange feeling of joyous warmth rose in him, as though bright Elven wine was flowing in his veins and his father's hand was on his shoulder.

The man stood, his sword still in his hand, elf-great deepset eyes holding now a flicker of wonder and of awe. And of relief. This was a benison to him, a gift beyond anyone's expectation or hope.

A smile tugged at his lips. Again he set to bringing a final rest to the dead, his blue-rippling sword cleaving through the odds.

A great foe arose, one who threatened to take his soul. This he feared, having twice before come close to having it riven away. Yet, the warmth around him still lingered. 'I do not think you can take my soul, foul thing. Let us have at it!'

And indeed, he was overcome, sliced near in twain.

And yet, and yet ... he returned to consciousness under the clear blue skies, not healed but with enough gifted that he could make it to safety.

And his soul was his own.

[Amal'launim]

A Broken Promise

A metal grey dagger tore through the darkness, a dangerous gleam reflecting in the sharp blade from a nearby torch as it draws first blood. The goblins fought the intruder, a dark figure clad in iron and fighting with a malicious, pain-emphasising technique. The unholy symbol of Lolth hangs around her neck like an unambiguous warning for all that dare approach. When the dust settled the mutilated goblins lay dying, spread from the entrance to the lower caves and all the way to the sanctuary of the throne room, their only wish was for the pain and screaming to stop...

That heartbreaking screaming echoed throughout the tunnels for what seemed like eternity, accompanied by a most malevolent laughter, which only served to offer a vague hint of the atrocities happening behind the shut door after the goblins had negotiated a truce with the drowess. The high-pitched voice pleaded, begged, bribed… to no avail. Finally a dire silence befell the caves, only the sound of the last goblins exhaling one last time as the peace of death finally saved them from their excruciating wounds.

The door to the throne room was kicked open with a brutal sound of metal breaking the wood planks. There’s an uncanny pride in each step as Amal’launim leaves the room, the door left wide open for any remaining goblins to find their former chief sitting on his throne. The sight itself ghastly, the small black tongue of the creature poking out in the most macabre position as he sits nailed to his very own throne, with a bone hairpin through his left shoulder and a slit throat. The mark of a spider is carved into the rock itself beneath the throne, the grooves of the carving gradually filling with the chief's life blood.

Spoken in an almost too velvet soft tone and uttered in perfect elven as Amal’launim leaves the room with treasures rewarded for a now broken promise "Lolth watches, Lolth tests, - but above all Lolth consumes."

[Amal'launim]

”Get out of my kitchen! BOUNCER!”

If he had known just how much trouble those words would’ve caused, he’d probably have kept his trap shut. The deep gnome chef unconsciously kept a hand close to one of the knives on the kitchen table as he looked at the unholy symbol dancing on the tall drowess' chest, it depicted a large spider with a woman’s head. The combination almost screamed for trouble in this city he thought to himself, as she surveyed the scene with an eerie glare... God he hated those crimson eyes it was as if they were filled with a unquenchable malice, hiding the just barely contained storm of raging emotions threatening to be let loose at any moment’s notice. A Minotaur stood pressed up in a corner with something clutched in his large furry hand as if it could save his life if only he squeezed it hard enough; all in the room knew what it contained... Well, all except for the dead tanarukk slave he supposed, the slave who had foolishly dared to attack the bouncer and fell before anyone had blinked. The same bouncer who now flinched away from this unarmed drow, who the heck was that cruel bitch?!

Before all this mess she had done some shady business with a duergar, she handed him a sack so heavy he had to drag it out from there and it almost broke through the floor. Surely he was in his right to call for the bouncer? The clergy of Lolth did not hold dominion here he kept reminding himself again and again, a silent mantra to take the focus of the predicament he had landed them in. Heck... they just killed one of her slaves, she did not seem the forgiving type to him. And the blackened scale. A shiver ran up his back and he tried pushing himself harder against the oven, just to get an extra inch away from her as he tried to forget that bloody scale.

The drowess leaned towards his Minotaur Bouncer, they were both wide eyed with fear. A fact that seemed to amuse this sick woman. She spoke with a velvet soft voice so pleasant and forthcoming he was sure they’d both die this instance, left as rotting corpses next to her slave. She spoke in a tone that might just have put his mind far from matters at hand if not for that blasted thing she had left in the bouncer’s hand, it was an unspoken threat and they all bloody well knew it! Why did she want to sound so pleasant now? It just made it all the creepier.

“That was much better, now remove the body of that thing and I’ll pretend this never happened.”

He watched astonished as she left, both small hands quickly searching his chest for any wounds. He was alive and unharmed; he almost wanted to laugh with a relieved sense of humour that washed over him. He blinked a few times, watching the Minotaur obediently drag the body away while the drowess left Glouria’s Inn.


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OOC: I just want to add a big thank you to Unstable for this little event and the ambience he's adding to the Underdark, it's really appreciated so thank you!