RP:A Brief Siege

Part of the Venturil's Bane Arc

This is a Necromancer's Guild RP.

Meanwhile, At the Duergar Tower, Sage Forest

As the seething, undulating mass seeps from below, the sturdy defenders scramble to protect their coveted tower. They do not shout, for in the underdark to do so would equate to a target on their backs. Instead they move with a reserved, hushed alacrity. As the creature oozes up through the ground beneath them, within the tower itself, they bring their axes to bear not upon the mass itself, but instead upon the huge barrels of water they had collected to prepare for a siege. The water rains down, covering the creature and creating a deep pool above it, for the creature was blocking the gaps through which it might drain. tentacles grasp at their ankles, and even in fear they do not scream, but seem to wait for either rescue or death. As the supply of water wanes, a group of robed men stand forth, chanting in harsh, indecipherable whispers. As one they point downwards, and from each of their fingers a thin, white light flares towards the water and the creature. The arcs strike the water, and the water freezes solid. The creature shall gain no more ground within the tower proper.

Or so they think.. The parts of the creature which had seeped into the cracks of the very stone with which the tower is built, slivers of itself flattened and creeping, expand abruptly and the air rings with the sharp cracks of stone splitting, shaking the very foundations as parts crumble away into the burrowed-out spaces below. The Burrower snags a few dwarves fleeing down there, even as water rains upon it, little draining to underneath for indeed it has formed a vast, monstrous plug. When the ice comes, it runs too into the cracks, and its sudden freeze only aids in the incidental breaking of further stone blocks as the water expands into ice. But the Burrower’s upper portion is frozen in place.. It will no doubt smash its way free in time, its lower portions lashing and clutching violently at any and all life in primitive rage. For now, it is seething and gathering itself for the powerful upward thrust that will shatter that frozen cap and bring it a feast of meat and blood. Whether the ice holds or no, the dim-witted creature, hungry, ever hungry, is compelled to try..

The duergar are not idle, while some work to free their comrades, some work with steel and magic while still others begin dumping a thick, black oil and coating the ice below. Noting the mass does not subside they begin working the always-hot forges furiously, heating long rods of unrefined ore until they glow furiously, they position them downwards, hovering only inches from the now-trembling ice. The robed figures above chant still, and the rods burn brighter and then lift of their own accord. Timing it perfectly with the sharp crack of ice, the burning rods drive downwards furiously, simultaneously igniting the oil and seeking to pierce the flesh of the creature as it thrusts upwards. Those not rescued are left to cook with the beast, though it seems none are mourned. The harsh life of the Duergar leaves little time for grieving.

A thing without a tongue, a throat, without much in the way of feeling, cannot scream. Surely.. it can’t? But whatever foul organs this mass of horror possesses do indeed scream, as if through a thousand mouths and all the west wind for its breath. Vast bellows of rage, strange and hooting, as if an army of giants play the bagpipes, as if a caravan of lions are burning, rage through the melting ice as the Burrower burns… Massive clouds of acrid smoke bellow up to choke those above. The stink is a hell-fart, a conflagration of horrific odor to sicken the stomach and blur the mind. Many more duergar trapped within reach will suffer the backlash of the Burrower’s agonies this day, flattened but not consumed, for this creature in its stupid way is repulsed. Masterless now and having lost the Eye of Blood and all its fell magics, the thing from below is left to its own sparse wits, and is too dull of awareness to want more revenge than that. All it knew was that it was hungry, and it burned! It withdraws from the tower like an amorphous slug that has touched salt, foaming and gibbering with its mad, toothless mouths. Masonry suffers again as this portion of it, like the head of iceberg, which has invaded the tower sucks itself back to the main mass and slithers away, into the Underdark where the picking might be easier. Well would the duergar do, in seeking any parts of it shed in the struggle, and burning them with all the magics they can summons – for, as it is with archaic worms, these cast-off and cut-off portions are now the abominable children of the Burrower, and they will feast and grow endlessly.