RP:Hourglass

From HollowWiki

Part of the Township Troopers Arc


Part of the The Day I Tried To Live Arc


This is a Warrior's Guild RP.


This is a Mage's Guild RP.


Summary: With help from the Mage's Guild and various other allies, the Warrior's Guild commences its mission into Gualon's Nameless Desert. Warped to the insectoids' lair by the kindly, mysterious Nel and Endred, the team does battle against a wide array of foes. As the sands above cave in upon the heroes, and the queen of this colony fights back in truly horrific ways, it will take one hell of a charge just to survive. And as the dust settles, Khitti will acquire something vital to her own ongoing mission... and Rorin will do what he must for Oline.


Gualon: The House of Mercies

Lionel | As the sun’s last rays blanket the desert sands in a cascade of orange and red, the Warrior’s Guild arrives at the deeply-isolated, curiously-located estate of the elderly couple known as Nel and Endred. The sloped shapes of the various cemented buildings permit the brief rain cycles here in the dry climate to send much-needed water down into moisture traps, and the short stone wall around the perimeter seems a slight defense against the rumors of miscreants and carnivorous insectoids stalking the region. Yet when Lionel leads the team to the door, and touches a stunningly realistic portrait of an emerald green leaf, the smiling old woman who greets them, beckoning them inside, seems to be as casual and comfortable as if she and her husband were protected by the higher walls of a well-fortified city. “Welcome one, welcome all,” she says, and her tone suggests she’s in no great hurry. “Some tea, perhaps? Endred? Endred, come downstairs, we have gue --” Lionel cuts her off with a purposeful throat-clearing. “Oh, fine. You just need the spell. Well, I’ll reiterate, this is the very last time it’ll work. The artifact has just enough juice left in her for one more sojourn, and after that, I don’t care if Kaizer himself rains fire on the realm, I won’t be able to help.” Lionel smirks, turning to examine the guild members gathered with him today. Emrith, who has had a hefty hand in strategizing. Rorin, who scouted with Lionel and has already met these kindly folks. Khitti, who is under close surveillance by not only Brand but the elf Esche and young human Anton (read: NPCs). Eirik, who has recently proven himself invaluable to the mission. Oline, who may or may not still be carrying around trophies from the last time they’d all squashed some bugs together. It’s as motley a crew as ever, but Lionel believes they will rise to the occasion. And now it’s time to prove that. “Do it,” Lionel asks of the old woman, and she bows, fetching a peculiar star-shaped black metal from a nearby table stand. With a few cryptic waves of her hand, she causes the artifact to resonate an eerie blue, and the pulses grow greater with each passing moment. Lionel eases a sore in his shoulder and speaks up to the guild. “We’re about to get ourselves magically blown straight to where Nel here thinks Gualon’s insectoid horde is located. I don’t know precisely what we’ll be finding, but apparently, wasps the size of horses are on the menu. And scorpions not much smaller. We’ve done this once. Let’s make it twice. Grab your gear and touch the artifact when you’re ready.” He takes a deep breath, offers a cautious yet sympathetic gaze to Khitti in particular, and does as he’d explained. In a flash of white light, Lionel is gone. He appears now surrounded by an endless wave of dunes, with strange claw-like hooks at the tips of each one. When the guild members follow him, they’ll be deposited right next to him.


Emrith arrives at the unassuming house in the wilds perched on Ilaerothil's back, and something in the set of his body gives a strong impression of grim, even ruthless resolve. The spell-blade slides down, bids the green dragon wait quietly outside since she will likely not fit inside the house, and makes his way to the door. Garbed in his customary cloak and boots, the vampiric elf has new accoutrements to suit the upcoming mission as well, one of which is the obsidian faceplate covering his countenance; this formidable barrier will not impede his sight, but will ensure that he is not blinded by sand so long as it remains whole. Gracing the elf's knees, hampering mobility only the slightest bit, are a set of spiked knee-guards, which might turn out to be ferocious weapons if close-quarters brawling is in the offing. Perhaps strangest of all is that Emrith appears to have left Heleg and Nahr behind, carrying with him instead a long wooden staff carved with runes along its length. The weapon carries a wicked-looking blade on each end and is nearly seven feet long, possessing aspects of both the spear and the quarterstaff, and though it appears heavy, Emrith's vampiric strength allows him to carry it with ease. He holds it in his hands now, treating it much like a walking-stick that is too tall for him. Should anyone, friend or foe, get particularly close to Emrith, they will discover the last and most terrible of his new additions: a faint aura of both cold and dread seems to encapsulate him now, but its origin is unknown. In truth, it is a combination of two factors. The first is a potion, quaffed shortly before, which makes his entire body as cold as the most frigid fastnesses of Frostmaw; thanks to his vampiric nature, he feels the chill without being forced to care about it, and need not worry about the frostbite and hypothermia that living flesh would fear under these conditions. The second is the rising of the corruption in his blood, imparting to his thoughts a hardness, a calculated disregard for emotion which will likely suit him well in the upcoming confrontation; unknown to Emrith, the taint he carries is baking off him in a tight, body-hugging cocoon, formulating a faint feeling of menace. Both concoction and corruption mean that it will be somewhat unpleasant to be too close to the elf for too long, and touching him directly might be unwise. All this, though, would be impossible to notice at a distance greater than seven feet or so, and given his typically stoic demeanour and aloof temperament, the unnatural aura around the spell-blade is likely to go unnoticed until such time that it makes itself known in some more direct way. For now, there is nothing to engage, nothing to kill, and plans to make, and so Emrith enters the house with a polite bow for those occupants already gathered therein.


Emrith :: Wasting no time, the better to impart his instructions before the artifact can send any of them off to the lair they seek, the elf raises his voice. "We depart soon, and before this, I must make a few things clear. First, pay attention to your teammates, and cover their weaknesses; I have had neither the time nor the means to align you specifically one to another, but bear in mind that we are not single people entering each by each, but a team on a mission. Second, a word of warning: if any of you should come close to me, do not touch me directly except at great need." Emrith then begins pulling small items from inside his cloak, little rods with hoops on the end, furled mesh stuffed inside each, and a very cold and jellied lump of something caught up inside the mesh. "My traps. Take two each. Cock your arm to throw them. They will heat, spray the treacle within, and tangle foes. Do not catch one another in their radius of influence." Emrith looks sternly at each in turn before quickly passing out his sticks to all who want them, then strides forward toward the artifact. Lionel is first, and Emrith is second. In a flash, he is gone.


Rorin followed the old hero into the ancient desert with a focused gaze beneath his goggles and bandana. He hadn't worn his typical armor, instead favoring cooler leathers, faster travel too. A bastard sword and an advanced crossbow sat at his hips with an old tattered coat keeping off the desert dust. As they approached the lonely domocile of Nel and Endred Rorin felt something. Something off. Something... wrong. It caused him to lick the dryness off his lips before swigging some water. He tapped his foot and seemed impatient as his fingers tensed around his weapons. "Sir, perhaps-" Lionel was already gone. Damn. "Be careful," he advised the remaining members, "I have a bad feeling about this. A few of you should stay close to me, my magic can aid you in battle," he sounded as if... no. It couldn't be. Still though one of Rorins hands went to the amulet of Arkhen about his neck where he would start to incant a prayer. The other touched the stone and ge vanished. As soon as he would land he would be ready. That terrible feeling hsd settled in him again. That feeling of horrible danger ahead of him.


Ranok eschewed teleportation travel. When he could, anyways. Which, given the rarity and difficulty of casting it, was not a difficult task. But it made his teeth ache, ears twitch, and simply did not agree with a number of the devices on his body. Plus there was the little matter of getting back. These things had a way of turning tits up at the slightest provocation. So, he'd forgo the offer of easy travel, instead heading out early to the destination. A desert crossing to a man without wings was a daunting task, but then, Ranok was desert born to begin with. The dunes were his heritage, where others merely adopted them. And he, in true Ranok fashion, was not exactly opting to walk. There was a craft, pulled by a team of horse and muscled beyond the plains. Crafted and located for trips into the desert, most notably in chasing a particuarly pain in the ass pyromancer by the name of Slintora, he'd wrapped it over in a tarp, left it in a hollow of rocks, and let the dry conditions of the borderlands protect it. When he pulls it out, a sheet of sand and dust cascading off and causing him to sneeze, it was left in practically perfect condition. Much muscling and swearing and he's got it prepared. A rather simple thing of wood and steel, it resembled a rowboat, but raised up on runners settled on heavy springs. Each runner was treated with an alchemial preparation to reduce its friction, of which was given a reapplication today. Each spring had a few runological tricks too, to give all sorts of little advantages, the depth of which was no doubt very interesting if not for the fact that no one was there to ask Ranok precisely what the hell. That all said, he climbs into the craft, wedging a pack of supplies under a seat. Those being various jugs of water, some medical, ammunition for his projectile weapon, and a heaping lovely dose of high explosives, wrapped in wax, packed in a straw and cheap sort of fireproof jelly that was nicknamed 'slub' by those that handled it. Settling into a standing position, a sail is unfurled. The wind's of the desert were wicked, harsh, and hot. But the fickle winds were not what he'd rely on. Right arm extends, a sweeping gesture, and the smith's face is curled into concentration. A wind begins to stir, then it begins to rise, and then it starts to howl. Summoned and fueled by the vambrace on his arm, Ranok draws on the lifeforce of the area around him. Given the environment, that meant him, but he had more then enough to stir the wind and catch the sail, causing wood and steel to creak, and the sand skipper to be off. The trip across the dunes was a bumpy one, full of ups and downs, heavy landings and a steady hand on the rudder. If Ranok didn't use a similiar method to get from Rynvale to Cenril, even he'd be felled by muscle cramps and complaints. But as it was, he makes stupendous progress, perhaps even arriving before the teleporting Warrior's. Directed to the meeting sight because of Reasons (Lt. Jasper Reasons being the name of his Intelligence Officer), the craft is brought to a stop, sand goggles put onto the dusted and sand streaked forehead, and a well deserved drink of water while all assemble.


Khitti hadn’t been around for much lately since the last time the entire guild gathered to specifically slay some insects. It was, well, a difficult situation to be sure, and while she had that duty to the guild and knew she should’ve attended the meetings, she had more of a duty to herself to take a much needed trip to Cenril to destress and get her mind straight again. She was as quiet as she had been the last time around, but this time was sans Amarrah. The redhead, surprisingly not hidden beneath her hood as she usually was, was careful to avoid the gazes of her guildmates. They weren’t the first to shun her because of Amarrah and the dark magic the shadow creature brought with her and they surely wouldn’t be the last until Amarrah had been gotten rid of. There’s an impatient sigh and a brief glance in Brand’s direction as the old woman and Lionel make their exchange of words, but otherwise, things were as right as rain with the von Schreier woman--if by ‘as right as rain’ meant she were a bundle of nerves and wanted this to be done and over with -now-. She’d catch that look from Lionel, but before anything could be said or done in response, he was gone. Khitti smirked and when both he, Emrith, and Rorin had gone, would pull the bow from its place on her back, and an arrow to accompany it, in preparation for what might lie ahead in the tunnels below the desert. Both Esche and Anton would be regarded finally, with pity mostly for being made to watch her, and an innocent grin (in an attempt to show that she was mostly in good spirits) to Brand was given before she touched the strange magical object and teleported to the unknown.


Dyraxdiin || Within the walls of the Mages Tower, the place can be found abuzz with activity - as is the norm of late. Even so, within the higher levels of the tower, a gathered group of mages stand around an intriciate design drawn with a black sand-like substance. The many granules sparkle against the light from fire-enchanted sconces in a way only describable as magic in nature. The gathered mages chant in a dialect seemingly from another plane - their cadence a perfect mirror of the others. Diin stands just outside of the circle, the great wyrm overseeing the orchestrated ritual of teleportation, Wisax presumably next to him with any manner of tinker-spawn. The many voices reach a dramatic crescendo, rising in pitch just as all falls to silence - and then the tower produces a groan of displeasure, as the floor beneath quivers for a moment with the summonation of an ephemeral doorway. It opens up like a yawning maw, greedy to consume. The black sand is gone, and the mages gathered lift their arms up as tendrils of mana leak out, to hold the doorway open and allow passage for the two set to depart. Diin would not allow the Warriors Guild to go into battle alone, a thought of thanks is given to those in the tower gifted with scrying, for providing the information about the events leading up to today. With a sideways look to Wisax, Diin says, "I hope you're ready." And the great wyrm, armed with his Xalious Staff and garbed in his typical halfrobes and mithril halfplate, marches through the teleportation doorway, and arrives... In a grand show of concussive force, akin to the booming echo of thunder without lightning. His feet now touch the rolling dunes, halfrobes to flag and wave against the sudden change in pressure and errant wind. The great wyrm eyes the group gathered before him, and then turns so as to face the chosen frontline. The hooked-nest mounds and the buzz of insects an assured reminder of exactly what they're about to face.


Dominic || Brand hadn’t done much more than usual to prepare for this trip, honestly. He’d dug out lighter garb from the back of his wardrobe, and a broad-brimmed hat to shield him from the sun, for however long they’d find themselves above ground in the desert. (It was an entirely silly-looking hat. Probably don’t tell him this. Lookin’ at you, Khitti.) So, Emrith’s traps were taken gladly -- couldn’t hurt to have more tools for the destruction of the insect horde, right? Other than a murmur of thanks to Emrith, Brand was every bit as silent as Khitti throughout Lionel’s exchange with the woman; he’d encountered the elf Esche before and was busy brooding over the displeasure of encountering him again. Anyone with -that- elf’s abilities gave him the heebie jeebies. Immediately after Khitti touched the teleportation device, Brand would follow, seeking to stay close by Khitti’s side and somehow as far away from Esche as practical. (Which probably wouldn’t be much. That bastard.)


Eirik comes to halt with the group dressed for the grim task to come. A single chain mail sleeve working up his right arm and weaving into a leather and steel plate pauldron. A black silver stitched sleeveless jerkin the only form of protection coving his torso. Matching pants give way to scuffed steel greaves that protect booted feet. In one hand lies a basic winged spear, while strapped to his back is a steel reinforced, pine round shield. His long sword, Brann Forbruker, lies tied to his hip via means of a leather baldric. A canteen and gourd hang from his belted waist denoting his own variation of preparation. The ash covered warrior takes a moment to mull over everyone words though saying absolutely nothing in response. What needed to be added anyway? Silver gaze sweeps to the remaining group, before he steps forward. The berserker abruptly takes to the method of travel with a clenched jaw. Magic. Hand touches stone and everything changes, and is gone from sight - transferring to the intended spot. The feeling Rorin has mentioned only bringing the slightest twitch of muscles which pull at the corners of his mouth; almost smiling.


Meri had received her instructions from Eirik as to where to meet with him and what her role within this mission would be, she was to stay close to both him and Oline. It's with the lycan that Meri arrives, opting to hang back about a foot behind him. Like the rest of the group on this expedition, Meri was dressed for the occasion, donning light armor that included but was not limited to bracers to help protect forearms, an armored vest, a shield, and a sword that was lashed over her back. The traps the Emrith offers up are taken as instructed prior to his disappearance, fastening them to her person for safe keeping. In the spirit of following orders, Meri only follows the lead of everyone else and touches the teleportation device after Eirik, making sure to locate the lycan once she rejoins the group on the other side.


Oline was actually a little surprised to find that she'd made it to the described destination on time. It had taken her quite a lot of time and effort to get cleaned up and ready, and more than one friend's intervention as well. Oh well, no matter! Here she was in all her ten-and-a-quarter feet of glory. Clad from head-to-toe in a suit of sturdy, beautifully-fashioned Goliath Beetle (as they'd apparently taken to calling the damnable monsters) armor, Oline dismounted from Valkr's enormous saddle and quickly gathered her gear. Over one shoulder went her diamond-studded, amethyst-tipped war club. It snapped into place nicely on a weapon mount she'd personally installed after the fact. Two more such mounts on either hip already held a pair of long-handled Mantis Scythes. From the other side of Valkr's saddle she unhitched a massive tower shield made from three thickly-armored millipede plates. Naturally acid-resistant and thickly reinforced with several layers of the same beetle-shell armor she wore, the massive shield would have been unwieldable even with the giantess' immense strength if it hadn't been for the help of a little runic magic lightening the load. The shield clicked easily into the second mount on her back, at which point the towering huskarl set off to meet up with the rest of the assembled guild. She didn't really expect much out of Lionel's speeches anymore... the man was a good leader, but she could relate to his lackluster skills in the delivery of motivational speeches. That certainly wasn't why she followed him so willingly into the fray. She'd seen the way he reacted to those dead villagers in the Sage Forest Nest. She'd seen the genuine desire to make the bugs pay for those lives... and then she'd seen him marge into battle and make it happen. Speeches were for con-men and drunken braggarts wasting their lives in the tavern. Lionel was the kind of warrior that Oline aspired to one day become... and so it was without the barest hint of hestiation that she chose to follow. Taking two of Emrith's offered devices and tucking them safely into her satchel, the armored giantess strode right up to that strange black star-thing and then... 'POP!?' ... she was somewhere else entirely. The hives looming in the distance made her feel as if she'd just set foot on some alien plane. Wasps. It just haaaad to be wasps. Scorpions too. Valkr's might, if she ran into any giant abominable spiders in there... she could not be held responsible for anything happening after that. "Sheyeht... Ah shoore 'ope tha' this goes bettuh thenn'a lass tahm."


Wisax was well prepared. Not that was ever untrue but if his normal state was 'ready' then whatever you could call whatever he was now it'd surely start with the adjective 'excessively'. Well dressed for the occasion in his sweeping wrap-around cloak and wide hood – Complete with intricate many-lensed goggles (The same ones with the beak like noseguard) and a scarf wrapped around his face, neck and shoulders – he looked as if he was native to the desert. As for tinker spawn he was, unsurprisingly, covered in pockets and devices strapped to his person in various ways, all hidden under his own wings as he had them wrapped around himself like another feathery cloak. But more than that he had several of his clockwork canaries fluttering about the room or perching on his head or shoulders as well as a large, intricate, crossbow-like contraption on his back next to a large and heavy looking backpack. The tinker mage gave Diin a slow nod under the hood. ”Just another weekend.” And, on that note, strode after the wyrm through the yawning portal. On the other side he turned around full circle, revolving while he walked a few steps forwards, to survey the surroundings. Two out of four canaries taking off and circling about the place. While Diin focused on the others gathered Wisax was more concerned with where they'd ended up and assuring they weren't sprung upon.


Xzavior traveled behind the group for the most part. Having stuck to himself preparing for a rather curious time. A curious and rather dangerous time. Having only to prepare by training and honing his skills with this ice make ability. Armor and weapons all came with it. So there are some perks to it at least. He, however, was concerned with the amount of moisture that he'd be able to use in order to be of any use. He only had so many flasks of water stored in his satchel. Speaking off, once he had entered the house and listened to the speech, he didn't take a trap. He didn't need one in this case. But he did pull out his medium and juggled it around in his hand as he watched, one by one as the group disappeared. Smiling a bit after he ended up being the last to touch it. Grabbing the water, he came forward, reached a hand out, and found himself, once more surrounded by the warriors he'd be fighting with this day. Giving a soft smirk he looked around and hummed in thought about the environment. He'd say 'this'll be fun.' But he was doubting that himself.


Gualon: Deserted Valley

Lionel watches the various members of his guild blink into reality, one by one. He adjusts the collar of his thin black silk shirt and crosses arms over his lithe form, his azure eyes almost glowing in the quick-dark dune sea which surrounds them. When Esche and Anton appear beside Khitti, the shaven-headed elf Esche cants his head slightly in Lionel’s direction, and Lionel cants back, knowingly. The air is chill, of course, and soon it will be all the colder, but there is a haunting lack of sound. A disquiet set to follow all the souls of those gathering; their own noise is the only noise. There are others gathered here, of course. Some of whom Lionel had anticipated; some of whom he had not. Ranok’s loud, impressive arrival causes the Catalian to focus and grin. He’s made it, after all. Yet when Dyraxdiin -- who is recognized from a battle during the saurian war -- pops into the scene with a very different magic than Nel’s and Endred’s, Lionel O’Connor is given pause. Behind him, a stranger -- in truth, Wisax -- and it’s roughly the moment they approach that the buzzing noises begin. “Weird,” Lionel breathes. The simplest of deductions for a worrying set of circumstances. He reaches behind himself with his left arm, grasping the hilt of the legendary blade called Hellfire. He withdraws it from its prismatic Frostmaw-emblazoned sheath, making greater care now to examine all those hill-like dunes and their strange claws at each peak. In a sudden roar, the time-tested steel of Hellfire is coated in a bright green flame; this will serve as further light amplification, given the darkness of night they’ve warped into.


Lionel | It happens without further warning: the dunes, all but one of them, collapse. Each pillar of sand ripples down to the smoother surface of further sand beneath it, leaving only one thing in its wake, but it’s a heck of a thing. Colossal plated beasts, antlions by the looks of them but so huge they would barely fit in Larket’s Fort Freedom throne room, drill upward from the earth with hooked, deadly-sharp pincers. Blood-red and heavily-armored, even their eyes are the size of jaguars, and all eyes are firmly fixed on the large band of intruders here to sniff out Gualon’s insectoid lair. The sound is deafening. Four gigantic beasts, crashing in from every cardinal direction, so thick, so heavy, yet so swift it will bring to mind the queen of the Southern Sage insectoids to those who had participated in that particular skirmish. That one lone dune remains, and it is increasingly obvious now that through there, the Warrior’s Guild and its allies will find the entryway to the enemy horde. Yet first they’ll need to survive the welcome party. In one flash, Lionel is standing firm, and in another, he’s ten meters ahead and swinging the green-flamed Hellfire toward the mandible of an antlion even as it swoops down in an effort to crunch him whole. Everyone else will be under assault as well, by proxy of proximity. These beasts are too big for anyone to be outside their area of attack, and all must work together to destroy them.


Emrith is barely able to get his bearings in this new locale before all hell breaks loose. The spell-blade's hands are a blur as he whirls his staff in a tight arc, pivoting on his left foot. As the bladed weapon cuts the air, the runes along its length spark to life and commence glowing, and arcs of electricity begin to spit and sizzle at either end of the weapon. He adopts wind stance - truly the only form which will suffice for such a large implement as this one - and begins to assail the nearest antlion - the southern one, as it would happen - with lethal precision. A seven-foot staff with live electricity at either end serves as a formidable weapon in the vampiric elf's hands. It wounds and electrocutes with equal efficiency, and the sheer power generated by the sort of strikes favoured by wind stance is a definite counterpoint to the far faster flurries for which Emrith is more widely known. Even an armoured carapace cannot easily stand up to such punishing attacks forever, but despite the force he wields, the spell-blade does not dare stay still. He dances adroitly from foot to foot, never facing the same direction for long, alternating two-handed overhead strikes with sweeping, one-armed lower strokes of the staff. The crunch and sizzle is music to Emrith's ears, but Emrith's face is as devoid of expression as ever. Killing has begun, and it must be continued until no foe remains alive. A pincer snaps at his head. Emrith intercepts it with a vicious upward thrust which carves a deep gash between the claws, then steps sideways, wields the rune-carved weapon like a drill, and punches it forward at the antlion's mandibles. A sickening ripping sound tells him all he needs to know. Another wound dealt, but the beast keeps coming. "Someone distract this one!" he bellows, yet his voice does not sound particularly alarmed. Given half a chance and even the briefest window of opportunity he will slip out of range, circle around to the big beast's flank, charge up the staff and fry this enormous insect to a crisp with one terrific bolt of lightning. But he needs that support; he cannot escape its notice if he fights it alone. Another shout. "Be quick about it!"


Rorin scans the setting side of the dunes cast into great darkness. The rises were blazing with heat and light while the shadows sifted and stirred in silence. It is in that silence that Rorin grips the hilt of his sword. "Not weird," Rorin replied as Lionel started. He knew. The bugs knew. "Ambush!" Rorin screams in a way Lionel must feel awful familiar, casting his sword up and unleashing the paladins magic. Beneath him a powerful white glyph of ancient divine force spread along the ground, reaching over 40 feet, surrounding by heavenly blue that would spread upwards in a dome. All within would feel themselves gaining complete control of both body and mind, an absolute clarity, so perceptive it would seem as if time itself had slowed around them allowing them to move with extreme precisiom and speed to the devastation of all foes before them. "I need at least 2 of you with me!" He cried, "together we shall fell these beasts and the true battle begins! Concentrate your attacks comrades and stay close to me, with our power combined we shall win! Now- charge!" Rorins blade would be forward as he met the infernal insect head on, magic shield ready to be summoned as he cut into the gaps between the arachnids exoskeleton. Lionel, Emrith, and Rorind had taken the charge on three of the four opponents, each at its own corner, each calling for assistance. That could mean nearly 4 warriors to an ant lion. Rorin hoped that would even the odds.


Khitti was glad for the feeling she’d had prior to teleporting here, for no sooner had they all appeared had those disgusting bugs made themselves known. While Lionel closed the gap between himself and the antlions, she opted to stay back. If Esche and Anton seemed displeased with this, it could be assumed as she raised her bow and nocked the arrow back into place that it was necessary for her to keep the distance--close range with a bow was never optimal, you know. That first arrow was released, and then another, and yet another still as she focused on the first that Lionel had chosen. The projectiles, aimed in between the plates, would mostly hit their marks: two would hit and great shards of ice would form while the last would bounce off and hit the ground. The ice, thanks to the magic of her bow, would help to not only to pry apart the plates and allow for more damage to be inflicted there as they grew but would aid in slowing down the beast as well. The vampiress would continue her assault from afar, moving only when necessary while staying close to Brand’s side. She certainly had her head where it should be now in terms of fighting; this wasn’t going to be another episode of her guildmates getting hurt like last time, she’d make sure of it. “Hit in between zheir armor, vhere zhe ice is, “ she’d say off-handedly to Brand, “Zhey’ll be veak beneath it.” It wouldn’t take a genius to figure this out, but she didn’t want the opportunity to be wasted.


Ranok hops off his craft, booted feet grinding into loose sand. Nostalgia was for those who could not stop looking back, but even he couldn't help but feel a small dose of...something to feel the sand under his feet. It wasn't just the sand, that being present aplenty on the beaches and shores. It was the whole sensation. A fine powdered slip that only the merciless wind's eternal grindings could accomplish. The sharp, hot scent of the air. And the lack of rotting sea things was a bonus. That all said, Ranok is more then ready. The breather having restored much of what reining the winds cost him, he heaves his gear up and sorts through what he deems necessary to carry into a dark hell hole. The explosives were set aside for the time, brought along because...well, when weren't they handy? A few choice little party favors The water and medical were likewise left for the after party, though he does fill his canteen. Careful not to drink too deeply, as that could be as dangerous as not drinking enough, he's finally ready to crest the last dunes and get eyes on the anthills. Sand goggles are placed back onto his face and he strides forth. His garb was not unusual from his typical, given that the duster and long brimmed hat he bore were made for this environment. Some additional cloth wrappings covered places he didn't want sand to get into, and it was complete. One controlled slide later, and he's with the others. A glance at all assembled. Motely crew was a kind term he'd use. But he supposed Lionel knew his stuff. A cold stare was fixated on Xzavior. Oh, but he did not forget a certain incident in Xalious village. But now was hardly the time. Of much warmer regard was Wisax's little number. Call it a soft spot, but Ranok had a little fascination with throwing machines of death. Right hand delves behind the duster, seizing the custom grip of his own 'little number'. Pulled out, the rune powered crossbow blossoms. From a folded state, it enlongates as mechanisms click into place. A rather strange thing, it was of sleek construction, made of mithril and ghroundium. The only metals that could withstand the massive force. Rather then a bow and string, instead, there were two shortened cylinders at its tip, each rounded and slightly bulbous. A string ran from these into the depths of the weapon. Near the trigger was a large lever, looking to be a lever action. Sat atop was a purposefully shortened box clip of short, sharp, and steel darts. Kept minimal to prevent snags when in storage, he'd replace it with a more volumous offering of death later. While he might have seemed to be showing off, it was only wise to draw a weapon so close to the lair. Which turns out to be wise, as the air begins to erupt in sound and motion. That was always how it started. Life and free breathing in a single moment, then hell. A breath to drop his load, canvas tumbling into the rumbled sand. Precarious footing is bypassed as he's airborne. In another breath and a heartbeat, his boots are spurred into action. Stored kinetic force launch downwards, the term spring heeled in perhaps almost the most literal sense, and several hundred pounds of angry man and metal are airborn. Mirabelle is leveled with a steady arm, the name for his crossbow he'd chosen. His target chosen. The furthest antlion, as his range was a bit more then most. The trigger squeezes and the thing jumps in his hands.


Ranok || Designed to punch through anything living, up to the scales of dragon, chitin was no much tougher. Accuracy was not an importance in a strict sense, and was impossible with subjected to the forces Ranok was undergoing, but that wasn't the point. As the jump arcs and another heartbeat, he releases Mirabelle, blue lights erupting into brilliance to match the sun as he sails. Left hand was rearing up and the sound of steel meeting a hard surface is heard, cracking hardened shell. A weakness, which was soon exploited as Ranok falls down as a meteorite, his left hand wreathed in electricity and an inner heat, to slam it into weakened carapace.


Dyraxdiin is quick to answer to the call of battle. But, instead of acting first with the destructive power of a mage's might, he instead focuses on amplifying the groups presence. Diin reaches one hand out to Lionel's brash charge, mana to expel forth and ignite Hellfire even more, using it as an anchor and channeling device. The green color of the weapon would change for but a flash, as a column of white-fire erupts from the blade in time to meet chitin-armored antlion; the surface of the flame like a liquid, to splash and coat all that it touches. The sand beneath boot scorches, and the air hisses as a vaccuum is created for a singular moment in time. Thus, the antlion is seared nearly in two in a show of might - to perhaps force the hand of hesitation upon their foes. Once more he is quick to react to Emrith's command. The great wyrm swips his staff at the sandy earth beneath him, and in echo if his arcanic desire, the earth rises up like an ocean wave. It rolls forth, snowballing in its advance, to crash forth into the side of the fourth antlion, who had been heckling the Elven Vampire. This act does gain him the newfound animosity of the beast, a job welldone, as it roars in anger and charges towards him.


Dominic || Their journey, first to the house and then teleporting here, all took longer than Brand had anticipated. The metaphor of darkness falling as they’re attacked isn’t lost on the man, however. Guess he won’t need his silly hat anymore -- which is fine, because it would almost certainly get lost in the chaos of combat anyway. Electing to give the thing a decent send-off, Brand flings it at the nearest antlion -- Rorin’s target, as it happens, which happens to be nearly on top of Brand at the moment -- and ignites its straw material in a great torrent of flame right as it approaches the beast’s eyes. Shrieking and clacking its mandibles together in fury, the antlion reared back, giving Brand enough time to get some hits in on the antlion Khitti’s just mentioned, as well. More of his fire is summoned directly under the plates her ice has pried apart, seeking to sear the great insect apart from the inside out.


Eirik only gives a single glance to Meri and Oline who had transported behind him before eyes fix on the scene before them. The ashen warrior waits only for moments ensuring that whatever the Paladin is doing, aids himself as well. “With me,” he states to Meri while snapping his spear forward. Eirik too is quick to follow in pursuit of carnage and mayhem; The sand is an odd change, though not unfamiliar to the Northman having spent countless hours training up the snowless training yard. Emriths antlion, would find itself the target of the Lycan during its freakish run towards Dyraxdiin. With a barbaric leap spear tip is sent out, screaming through the air sailing for the soft tissue of the Ant-Lions eye. Now freed right hand yanks his runic long sword from sheath as booted feet hit the sand. The berserker quick to cover the gap, that blade is brought forth. “Ignite,” the lycan bellows throwing his own sword into a fiery frenzy feeding off the anger within. The blade turning searing white in almost an instant; tip flies forward aimed for a spot just beneath its shell. It could easily seer flesh, and sink hilt deep backed by the weight of the Northman. However, inside the creature fire would not die and continue to magically burn within. Jaw clenches and teeth nearly buckle under the strain. The creature hisses at Eirik, shifting his attention to the madman at its side. The blade is finally yanked free with a disregard for its life. The bug now sweeps its maw for Eirik, but he is too quick to leap and roll away. In and out, that was his plan while yanking its attention away from the group.


Meri reacted on instinct the moment that dunes began to collapse, left hand reaching behind her to draw her bastard sword deftly from the metal-scabbard that it rests within. The scabbard itself, won years ago, is coated with pitch from the swamps of Gualon, the friction of metal scrapping against metal when the sword is drawn causes spark enough for the sword to ignite in flame. Admittedly Eirik's version of this is cooler, more effective, runs hotter, and doesn't run the risk of the pitch that fuels the fire being entirely consumed causing the flames to sputter out. Fingers of her left hand tightly grip her sword while her right arm takes up shield, blue eyes on Eirik as she watches what that warrior does. There were many commands being shouted by various people amongst the warrior's guild but her instructions of who to stick with were clear: Eirik or Oline. The command to go with Eirik is not ignored, when he rushes toward Emrith's antlion, Meri does as well. In addition to weaponry and armor, there were a number of things that Meri thoughts to bring with her. Water was the most obvious and canteens are lashed to the backside of her belt along with several bulbs that seem to contain black liquid. It'd the backend of the creature that Meri goes for while Eirik assaults eyes and shell, both of Meri's hands were occupied by sword and shield but one of those black bulbs of liquid comes free from her belt. It's not of it's own accord but of Meri's own will as the psion launches the glass object toward one of the back legs of the antlion. It connects with it's mark and glass shatters, lining the creatures leg in the sticky black gunk. This is where Meri would aim her sword, setting the pitch ablaze to torment the bug with the slow burn of more fire. No remorse though. Her assault would not stop there, with the tattooed woman looking to drive her sword into the beast at any weak points she might see, dodging this way and that to avoid being stomped on bug the antlion, or pincered.


Oline fell into a sprint behind Lionel the very moment she saw his foot move. She'd known better than not to expect an ambush this time. These bugs were smart, and they only seemed to keep on getting smarter. Wasting no time, both scythes came off her hips as she hit her stride. Each fell into hand with a deftness that could only have come from obsessive practice. Faster than any creature her size had a right to be, even in a suit of armor, the Giantess of Larket hurtled forward on long, sturdy legs straight toward the very same sweeping mandible as Lionel. She swung out wide around the Knight-Commander so as to not get into his striking path, then bent her knees and promptly launched herself through the air with both scythes outstretched in an effort to land atop the antlion's head. She'd seen the things cleave through metal armor and the bone inside with impunity. She didn't know how well it would cut into an Antlion Titan... but both those curved nightmare blades would soon find themselves driven down into the beast's head regardless. The carapace split, and the blades went in... but this only seemed to enrage the gargantuan bug all the more as it began to flail around wildly. Oh well, perhaps stabbing it in the head hadn't managed to kill it, but at least it had hurt like hell! Using her scythes like anchors to keep the antlion from whipping her off into the waiting jaws of it's three hungry friends, Oline rode the shrieking creature's head for as long as it took before Lionel or anyone else got a chance to finish it off. Sacrificing the grip of one arm for a moment, she reached back over her shoulder and slammed her arm into the grasping 'legs' of her millipede shield. Instantly they latched on, allowing her to haul the massive thing up over her head and bring it down like a hammer against the giant bug's head again and again. More shrieking. More rage. Still it kept going. She knew there had to be a weak spot in the armor somewhere, otherwise the damn thing wouldn't be able to move it's head. Finally, she found it... and BAM! In went her shield, locking the antlion's thrashing head into a single position. Now the Antlion had to move it's entire body if it wanted to attack... and though it was all-too-happy to do so, it was at a severe disadvantage.


Wisax took to the air. What else would you expect an Avian to do when surrounded? He'd been ready for exactly this turn of events. As soon as the massive monsters began emerging, Wisax shot into the sky as if launched out of a catapult with his canaries trailing after him, escaping the chaos to come. Once airborne, Wisax wheeled about and, with a movement quick enough to be blurry, drew some kind of runic scepter out of a holster on his hip. The device extended with a resounding 'clunk' as the tinkerer braced it under one arm for stability and wrapped his forearm around and under the rod like a lance. He swept around the battlefield in a half circle as the others engaged, eyes quickly darting form one thing to another to take in what was happening. A keen sense for detail enhanced to be even sharper by Rorins nifty buffing. Returning the favor Wisax swept over the paladins charge as he called out and extended his free hand. The strange weapon on his wrist – some kind of crossbreed between a crossbow and a sling – snapped back on it's own and then promptly released two perfect, white, spheres joined by a rope. A typical bolas weapon. It spun through the air and then wrapped itself around one of the antlions threatening mandibles. And then promptly exploded in a small but concentrated (and potent!) burst of aether. A rather violent approach to 'disarming'. Pulling out of his dive, Wisax aimed the scepter down at the back of the beast below and unleashed a veritable storm of bright, curving, projectile. A classic magic missile taken to the umpteenth degree. Not that each bolt needed to be particularly powerful when fired so rapidly. The barrage spread out across the carapace, striking at points both strong and weak. If you can't find a weak spot, just hit it everywhere repeatedly until it breaks. Physics!


Xzavior would look over at Ranok and return that stare with one just as cold as he entered the scene along with the two others who've seemed to arrive by different means. Tilting his head curiously he didn't have long to think about it before the sands around them exploded into life. Giving a huff he started drawing in whatever he could from the air first so he wouldn't have to hit reserves right away. Making himself a halberd, getting in close seemed like the least smartest thing to do. Alone that is. Turning to the sound of Rorin's voice, the naga twirled his weapon, giving a bemused smirk as he rushed in after the paladin. Noticing the ice being shot into the ant, Xzavior slowed a moment to call, "If you'd be so kind as to provide me with some of that ice when I need it that'd be great!" Well, that'd solve the ice problem if it all worked out in their favor. Continuing on his charge, he watched as Brand burned his way to the other. "I'm bringing this thing down to our level!" He called as he swung around the side to bring his ax down on one of the ant's leg joints. Parting the creature of one of it's many appendages before working to sever another before the insect decided to try to part the naga with his tail.


Lionel has avoided the fateful sensation of jaws snapping shut upon him courtesy of Khatherine ‘Khitti’ von Schreier and the giantess Oline. Khitti’s bow, Diamond Dust, strikes true upon the antlion’s mouth, freezing it and forcing it to twitch, its massive eyes blinking in frustration. Hellfire’s emerald flames burst into the thin space between the thing’s armored plates, setting flesh ablaze… but only slightly. The weapon is no one-on-one match for a desert-dweller of such enormity, so slash after slash can only buckle the armored plating, crack it in sections, but Lionel must move swiftly, each frenzied footing followed smoothly by another, in order to maintain his momentum and avoid the bulk of the antlion’s body. Latching his sword into the thing’s dented carapace, the Catalian climbs the hilt like a pole, then hops up further and desperately hooks himself into his foe. Hellfire’s emerald flame then turns bright-white, the handy symptom of Dyraxdiin’s beneficial magics, and in that brief hook, the antlion’s innards begin to burst. It roars, weaving its bulk about the battlefield inquisitively and almost bashing the man off of itself in the process, but he maintains his composure, hanging on for dear life until he’s near enough to the sands below to hop down and throw his blade wayward. He catches himself with a roll, barreling down the sands, grabbing his hilt again and swinging the tip down to hoist himself back into a better stance. Behind him, an antlion explodes. Lionel regards Dyraxdiin appreciatively. All around him, a pattern is forming -- the antlion welcome party had not anticipated such fierce resistance. “Press the advantage!” Lionel barks a command, although half the sound of his voice will be suppressed by the tumult of sand and screaming beasts now enveloping the desert. Beside him, Esche swings his staff, blasting a fixed column of pure energy to unravel the dirt and stone which might block the entryway to the insectoid colony from sight. “On us,” Esche orders, tapping Lionel on his shoulder, and the Catalian nods in the affirmative. They race toward the entryway, leaping from a dying antlion as its corpse collapses, trembling the desert with the vibrations..


Lionel | As they lay dying, the antlions widen their jaws, firing off thick beams of electricity in final defiance. These volleys of magic will no doubt scorch any in their path to the bone, save for them that have the most durable of armors. Thus, it should be noted, that when one particularly devastating beam passes Oline entirely too close, her Goliath Beetle armor deflects that beam, bouncing it off of her chest at a right angle and taking it soaring into the starry sky. Esche now leaps down into the chasm which will take everyone into the bug’s nest. Lionel, on the other hand, will wait. With Hellfire’s flame as a guiding light, he waves, ensuring that each and every member comes down into the nest before he joins them. Inside, they will discover a wide-open expanse of tunnels, far larger -- almost cathedral -- than the tunnels at Southern Sage. Bats of conventional size buzz in frenzy as they frantically fly out from the chasm, disturbed by all the arrivals. Again, it’s hauntingly quiet, but the way forward is relatively clear. For as big a place as this is, the lair of the insectoid monarch and its minions will almost certainly be straight ahead. The most peculiar element of this cavernous dungeon is either the strange trail of juvenile mindflayers snaking off into a narrow corridor due east or the fact that the sand above is being kept perfectly still without apparent aid of supportive rock or stalactite. A tense, foreboding ambience. And then there are the scorpions. Oh, what a thing to see: row after row of chromatic two-meter scorpions, scampering out of their alcoves and swinging their stingers like spears. Their motions are like dances, they prance and flail in the most delicate of manners, and yet there’s a deadly, cunning pack mentality, and when the nearest one stands upright and reveals a ghastly humanoid face, all bets are off. “The flesh craves flesh,” it tells the team in a matter-of-fact hiss, and then all its scorpion allies stand upright as well, and in unison, they politely inform everyone that -- again -- “the flesh craves flesh.” And then they bounce back to a standard stance and leap, hopeful to skewer their meat.


Emrith grins behind his faceplate as his staff sinks home in the great beast's flank, issuing forth a terrific burst of lightning into the wounded antlion he has been tormenting. The creature shrieks, thrashes, then lies still, and Emrith whirls away, looking to and fro to all that he can see. He does not seem to register the burst of electricity the antlion looses from its gaping maw, being well clear of its trajectory. "To me!" he shouts! "To me!" And in a flash, he is sprinting toward the tunnel-mouth and Hellfire's guiding light. He arrives just in time, it would seem, to meet the wave of peculiar scorpion-things, and more mayhem ensues. Speaking melodious words in the elven tongue, the spell-blade draws an oval in the air with the tip of his rune-inscribed staff, then thrusts the weapon forward like a spear. There is a low, threatening hum, followed by a blinding white flash as a disc of pure energy the exact size and shape of the previously-drawn oval suddenly forms in midair, then rushes forward toward the chittering horde. It is a conjuring akin to a force-field, but made of kinetic energy, and the last trick possessed by his staff. All the grandiose sweeping strikes, all the savage thrusts, have been storing energy in the staff Emrith is holding, and that oval now contains all the bound-up force from those motions. It rushes forward like a shield attached to the front of some invisible but horribly powerful vehicle, smashing into the part of the horde nearest the spell-blade and literally spraying the far wall with what's left. This is far from the entirety of the swarm, however, and Emrith takes up wind stance on the instant, sweeping and striking again. Once more, the runes begin to pulse and glow. Once more, the staff is storing energy. The spell-blade does not breathe or shout or grunt in the throes of combat; he is simply death with a bladed staff.


Rorin shouted, "Emrith fall back!"


Rorin was glad for the assistance by his team members as they dispatched the antlions. Rorin buried his sword deep within its carcass only to become a lightning rod for the creatures last defiance. In Rorins own defiance however his right arm came up and something rather strange occurred- he summoned no shield. Instead the lightning was absorbed in an extremely disturbing display of red, glowering power for the paladin, Rorin absorbed the very essence of the creature expended in its last attacks as the power wrapped up his arm in strange archaic energies. He was using a type of paladins magic that was often dispaired and left him heaving on his knee. The pilgrim would wrench the sword out and raise up to flick variois guts off. With his now martyrously charged right hand he would flick out his advanced modified crossbow. He clipped a magazine in place and pulled the reloading mechanism back before putting it in place forward. As the weapon expanded he would follow the commander into the depths. "Once more," Rorin quietly said as his breath began to return and his right arm crackled with stored energy. It glowed a faint otherworldly red as he took position behind Lionel. "What was that?" The Pilgrim whispered through the quiet. That feeling, "Commander-" he said with quiet intensity, "something's coming. Be ready," he said it to the rest of them too. Rorins hand fell on Lionels shoulder and then slowly held up the stop sign while his feet obeyed it. He raised his crossbow, and there they were. "Scorpions," Rorin thought at first. He was quickly proved wrong. "I'll take front- I'll signal when I use magic to attack! Once my magazines empty- I'll defend you with my shield. Get ready- here they come!" They leaped and Rorin shouted for Emrith to fall back before pouring the stolen antlions energy into the three bolts of his crossbow, launching one at a time as a blazing crackling spinning drill through the swarm.


Khitti would follow Esche, of course, once the order was given and he headed down into the tunnel. Upon seeing the illithid however, she’d come to a complete halt--mindflayers...here? Why of all places were they down here in the desert? It had been so long since she’d seen one...defeated one as young as they, and yet despite their obvious death, she was still unnerved. The hair on the back of her neck stood as a chill ran down her spine and a hiss passed her lips like that of a scared cat; it’d only take moments for this panic to register in her mind before she’s setting the string of illithid corpses aflame with her shadowfire, her irritation towards the situation renewed. A brief glance would be spared towards the side room, and then to Brand as a frown crosses her lips. [Something is down there. Nothing living that I can smell, but I feel -something-] was said across their mental link, formed earlier in the day via feeding from the Catalian. [Dark magic, I think...] Her thoughts are interrupted by the onslaught of the scorpions, to which Khitti greets them with a heavy sigh and a flurry of frozen arrows in much the same fashion that she attacked the antlions. After all of this would be said and done, one could be certain that Khitti would never ever ever want to see another bug ever again; they were definitely ranking pretty high on the things she didn’t like one bit.


Ranok rides the recoil, the force rippling up his arm. Where the impact would have torn ligaments and muscle, and perhaps his arm from its socket, Ranok's self made limb was a bit sterner then that. And, as well, further shenanigans were afoot as the forces disappate into the rest of his body. The antlion bucks, as anything hit with the force of a truck in a concentrated area is liable to do, shifting his footing. The intent had been to snatch his weapon from the air, where it had been following obediently by virtue of the application of magnetism, but the plan was immediately discarded. Even as he slides, he's drawing out his sword, which was becoming thinner and pointed. Soon the metal had morphed into a spear, pointed and deadly sharp. Hissing and clicking as the antlion attempts to dislodge its unwanted passenger. Before the rodeo goes on too long, the spear lances down through ruined shell, straight into a nervous center. Which, truth be told, had been the idea all along. Moving mountain becomes but simple dead flesh, and a slump allows him to touch the ground. But...that feeling on the air. The smell of ozone. How many could say they knew that taste in the air as well as he. He suppresses a wince as he knew what was to come, instinctively, and what he'd have to do, "Draeta!" was the roar, a command, and a bit of a curse. The electricity that began to lance out and scattered among the warriors does its deadly dance, but Ranok thrusts outwards his left arm. The blue lights that accompanied him quiver, shaking, and begin to arc tendrils of lightning on their own. Where the deadly strikes might have had fatal results is drastically changed. Ranok turns himself into a lightning rod, his eyes squeezed shut and ears flat down to shield against the horrible teeth chattering buzz of discharge. His armor was the anchor and the rod, feeding upon the static and magical sourced lightning, and acting as the ground to throw what could not be absorbed outwards. The end result was the man on his knees, tendrils of smoke from his duster rising upwards. The leather was sourced from a blue dragon, so it could withstand more voltage then most, but here and there patches of lesser qualities met their end. But ultimately, and after a very vigorous head shake, he was up and moving, albeit blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. The sand goggles helped, but he'd be joining the line against the shined scorpions a little late. Though, even as he does, his armor was abuzz, those blue lights shedding electric, and to get too close to Ranok risked the worst static shock of anyone's life. It seems his armor rather liked the taste of the generous donation.


Dyraxdiin notices Lionel's attempt at gaining the groups attention out of the corner of his eye - somehow, amid the flying arcs of lightning as they scatter this way and that. And then the mage is forced to create a barrier at the last moment, just as one of those tendrils of electricity clash into it on its way to Ranok, and fizzle out. "Damn." He mutters beneath his breath, "Wisax, follow the green light!" He yells up to his guildmate, just as he releases his hold on the barrier. The great wyrm-turned-human propels himself forth across the rolling dunes, Xalious staff in one hand and the other a clenched fist. Sweat, a welcomed relief, to grow cold against his face as he rushes in pursuit of the advancing troupe. If there are more of these antlions below the surface... Diin takes a firm hold of his shapeshifting spell. Things could get ugly down there. He nods his head to Lionel as he passes him atop the den, before descending down into the depths of the labrynth. Saurian eyes are a boon here, as they adjust to the darkness of the cavern. Are those... mindflayers? Could they be responsible...? The thought is cut short, as he hears the announcement of the scorpion, and its echo. From his vantage, he can see the assault of Emrith ensue and those that follow him. Surely, the would forgive him for not joining in, as he chooses different targets instead. Those mindflayer pups. He swirls his Xalious staff about before him, as he channels electricity from the air itself. Nothing short of chain-lightning would do. The ball of electricity swells before him, bringing an unnatural light to the venue, and cast dancing shadows at the many-legged scorpions feet(tips?). "Sunder," He states in that Draconic tongue of his, and the ball of lightning is free, to lance out and trail through part of the horde of scorpions on its pursuit to the escaping mindflayers. It moves with a personified intelligence, to rend each flayer pup like an electric spear travelling through butter. Their cries bellow out, no doubt to alert whatever elder had spawned them via telepathy. These things are far worse than the bugs, and Diin would see to their exterminiation.


Dominic || Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Or… there’s got to be some idiom more fit for escaping four giant bugs only to find themselves facing an entire army of scorpion-ish creatures, yes? Brand doesn’t really have time to think about it, though. “The flesh craves flesh” doesn’t really sound like the sort of thing one says if they’re willing to just… peaceably -not- murder everyone’s faces off? Plus there’s that whole creepy dead-mindflayer thing going on, as Khitti’s noted. So, y’know. Us or them, and all that. Brand’s contribution to the fight is, rather predictably, more fire (the scorpion’s exoskeletons -do- look rather metallic, after all, so it stands to reason they might boil inside them). Where Brand espies the fight is not already being managed by others, he contributes more streams of flame, these ones pinging from one creature to the next as each insect breathes its last creepy chant.


Eirik is well trained muscle and hulking flesh - a grim testament to the men of Rosfjorn. Each hack of Antlion smashing against its hardened shell or biting deep into flesh. Meri’s attack does not go unnoticed, but he is far too focused on the target to give her a sneer of approval. With a final thrust of fiery brand, he catches sight of the kill made by Emrith though he does not give further pause.Suddenly he too is off rushing behind Emrith, and hoping that Meri could follow his own maddened steps. Silver hues catch sight of Lionels flame in the distance, burning as a guide in the tunnels. The sight of scorpions does not deter the berserker and he immediately moves into the fray, shield brought forth next to Lionel to catch the first volley of poisonous tips launched at them. Eirik is rocked back from the force, but does not lose his footing. Instead one of the spear like weapons manages to get caught in his shield and the Northman is quick to sever its bond to host. The Northman mind building into a rage, bringing himself ever closer to the deadly edge of his title berserker. Heavy breath and tired limbs would not hinder his one track mind; shield and sword move to start bashing and hacking at each scorpion who drew near the group. Each swipe of sword leaving a trail of fire for the briefest of moments. Emrith isn’t followed in, as mind sets to the task of holding some sort of line and pushing as a group.


Oline gave the dead antlion one more good 'THWACK' from her millipede shield. She burst out into a fit of laughter when it's attempt to electrocute her resulted only in an arc of lightning being flung off into the sky. She pounded the Goliath Beethe breastplate, shouting savagely into the dead monstrosity's face before yanking her scythes free of it's head and hopping down into the sands below to follow the rest of the group. She'd barely had time to even see the dead mindflayers before they went up in flames... leaving them one more piece of this land's ancient history she'd likely never know. Mayhaps for the best. What she did get an eyeful of was those creepy-as-sin scorpions with human faces... and then, as things a wont to do, all hell broke loose again. The giantess hurled herself at the first beast she saw, shield and scythes used in tandem to both crush down on thickly armored carapaces, or cleave off limbs, as the situation dictated.


Meri did not need to be told twice, press the advantage -- those instructions were clear and they would be heeded without hesitation as Meri turns and breaks for the same entry way in a full run. Perhaps the woman was not hot on Eirik's heels but she was managing to keep the lycan within sight. It is often surprised by the things that she sees within these lands, no matter the number of oddities she has come across. Giant bugs is what she had mentally prepared herself for and she was not let down, the antlions had delivered on that very much. The scorpions were impressive in size, far larger than anything Meri had personally witnessed up until this point. It's the ghastly humanoid face and the creepy unison chant that causes Meri to blurt out a "What the f-..." Except her sentence isn't actually trailed off right there. It is completed. Magic, predominantly in the form of fire, was being loosed upon the scorpions. Assuming a stance next to Eirik, she'd mirror his tactic this time as there was little more she could do lest she run the risk of being caught in the magical assaults of her allies. Shield was raised before to with the hope of deflecting any strikes from stinging tails while sword seeks to impale any of the scorpions that come within range. With the antlions, Meri was lucky enough to evade injury. In this instance, she would not fair nearly as well. Miscalculating one of the blows from the scorpions, the strike of a tail ends up sliding off of her shield and digging firmly into the flesh of her shoulder where there is no protection of armor afforded, but not without retaliation from Meri in the form of a sword to the scorpion's head. This would make wielding her shield all the more difficult as things progressed.


Wisax pivoted out of the way of the curving lightning (even as Ranok drew it in it was a considerably hazard to a flying target) and swept around in a wide curve as the company funneled down into the tunnels. Among the last, if not the last, to go down; Wisax simply dove into the tunnel and landed with a heavy thud as he folded his wings around himself again. Nothing but years of practice could've made a landing among that many people – into combat no less – possible with that kind of wingspan. As the Scorpions dove at them, Wisax found himself at the rear of the group and had little to do put holster the scepter again and pull the heavy crossbow (if it was a crossbow) from his back. Preparing rather than acting, while the others bought him a reprieve. Even if that wasn't their intent.


Xzavior twisted away from the beams. Feeling the crackling in the air as they make their way to the lightning rod of a man. Giving a soft huff, he looked to where the rest had gone and quickly made his way in as well. Looking back to Lionel as he does and giving a small grin before making himself a shorter weapon. Do no good swinging around a pole arm in a small area. Giving himself a pair of long swords. They'd work well enough in this situation. When they came upon the scorpions, Xzavior listened and gave a flat, "Well that's just hideous." Before watching as they all but get executed before he could even lift a finger otherwise. He noticed however, that some here weren't too happy to see them. Besides the fact that they were giant scorpions. What were they..? Seems like things would be a bit simpler if that's how this was going to go, but watching the ice be lain out only gave him an idea for later. Rolling his ice in his hands, he glanced around the place sharply, low key paranoid for another ambush with far more insects.


Lionel | The scampering of human-headed scorpions threatens to slice the team bow to stern. In one great leap, they descend, stingers shooting ugly olive-green venom in arcs to rope around prey and then slam into bare necks. If the venom reaches its targets, it will corrode, melting skin and muscle to reveal bare smoking bone. More menacing is the scorpions’ landing spots -- they topple down with graceful bodily contortions, swinging the tips of their tails to pierce people where they stand. But the guild presses forward, swords and sorcery pushing back, from Emrith’s casting to Eirik’s bashing and even to young Anton and his careful swings. For a time, the fight feels stalemate, row and column of scorpion, hissing and speaking their strangely audible words, throwing poison and barbed claws and cutting into bipedal prey wherever they can. Each thrash results in a return thrash from the guild, Lionel stabbing into their faces and Oline hurling herself entirely. Closeby, Meri is struck, prompting a deeper and more ominous chant from the ranks of the scorpions. It seems that even as their numbers are thinned, the remaining creatures are savoring the small victory -- or perhaps there is more at play? The chant fills the expanse, a steady rhythmic hum, as Rorin’s crossbow bolts claim another life. The hum reverberates, then turns into shriek, and the remnants of this strange arachnid horde suddenly fall back, on wings hitherto unseen, vanishing into the darkness that lay ahead. The shrieks dissipate, dissolving into the void, and the air is still again but thick with the stench of blood and guts from the fallen. Lionel dusts himself off only to realize he’s shoving blood from his right elbow. Not the smallest amount, either; he’s sustained a hit, but a quick fetch of the procured medical supplies has him ready and able to continue the descent. “At the risk of sounding underappreciative, that was… too easy.” He kicks the corpse of a scorpion off to the side, then winces. “We’re heading into something profound. These things are smarter than the average ant -- and I hear-tell ants are smarter than we give ‘em credit for. Let’s be cautious, people. Real damned cautious.” Lionel leads the way.


Lionel | The air grows thicker, and the small bursts of starlight from fissures in the desert above are the only aid save for lantern and spell-white for the team to note their approach. For as spacious as this desert dungeon may be, it’s relatively short of length, but the distant chittering of shrieking scorpions makes for a constant cacophony. Perhaps it’s mental warfare? Psychological torture? Are the insectoids capable of such sentience? If so, it appears to be working. Young Anton swallows hard, and in the near-silence of these environs, that swallow almost echoes. “Be calm,” Esche tells him, a pat to his shoulder. And so they continue. For nearly a full kilometer they pass in darkness, ever-full with the feeling of an ambush lurking around any bend. And then, ahead, the proverbial throne room of this latest horde can be espied. It’s golden and silver and bronze, a large gold-bricked walkway with ivory pillars half-toppled and half a hundred old trinkets scattered about. That is indeed the most striking thing about this area -- it’s clearly manmade. It’s the ruins of some ancient empire, or at least a wealthy vassaldom. It’s down here, and decidedly non-insectoid, and it beckons them. It beckons them because their prime priority -- the second of the four insectoid monarchs -- is nestled grotesquely at the center of it all. At first blush it might seem just another antlion. It’s thrice the size of the largest of that pack, and its incredibly thick scales are blood red, and its massive wings are the size of each of those ivory pillars, but it seems like another antlion just the same. Then its eyes open. They’re green, and there are hundreds of them, blanketing the creature despite the layer of clear armor which resides over them defensively. And it has thin, furry legs, and it rises and flies above, and the sound that emanates from the thing is not like any antlion. Indeed, this great monstrosity is more wasp-like, and behind it, a horde of hundreds -- scorpions, beetles, more wasps -- roars to life and attacks. Yet none of these are the most problematic of issues. Perhaps one might recall that the sand above the team had seemed frozen in time. Perhaps they might hear the loud mowing noise of billions, perhaps trillions, of bits of sand descending from above. Perhaps the Warrior’s Guild will fear the reaper, now that the entire dungeon is falling down upon them, sand to choke and drown them. They’re trapped inside an hourglass now.


Emrith has been using his staff the best he can in the confusing melee, most often holding it someplace near the middle and shifting his grip to strike forward, backward or sideways as the need arose. He takes a scrape from a stinger on his left shoulder, but his cloak protects his flesh from injury, and the unfortunate scorpion suddenly begins to shiver as if from horrendous cold only a moment later. As he fights, slashing and skewering and bludgeoning with equal efficiency, that aura of menace begins to grow, to such an extent that the odd insect seems to falter momentarily in its headlong charge, seemingly made hesitant by a sense of its own impending demise. Emrith cares not; the man is a whirling dervish of destruction. His twisting, corkscrewing motions allow him to keep an eye on the battle at large, and to dodge Rorin's holy bolts whenever they should streak too close. Ropes of some viscous fluid fly to and fro, and it is all Emrith can do to avoid being splattered; another acid burn is something he does not want. His eyes are spared when a small glob hits his faceplate dead on from the side, but it seems that obsidian, at least, is up to the task of keeping the elf's face pain-free. And then, suddenly, without warning, the scorpions are retreating, and Emrith comes up short, leaning on his staff for support. It still glows with the kinetic energy it has stored, illuminating the tunnel in which they stand. At Lionel's words, Emrith gives only a nod, then sets out to follow him, making sure not to be caught too close to any teammates lest his enchantment of extreme cold should inconvenience them. His shoulder smarts from its impact with a scorpion's stinger, but there seems to be no damage. Before them, suddenly, the vast chamber with its pillars, the queen, and her entourage. Emrith stops short, takes in a sharp breath over his teeth, then immediately sets to work. Aloud, he shouts: "Traps! Traps!", then proceeds to suit actions to words by taking his staff in one hand and fetching a stick from inside his cloak. He launches the thing, and it immediately heats and expands, encapsulating a pair of scorpions in a writhing net full of warm treacle. The treacle's secondary effect causes several nearby wasps to descend, hunger-struck, upon the trapped scorpions, and soon they, too, are twitching and near to helpless as they writhe. Another trap-stick is tossed the other way, as the spell-blade attempts to give his team some small respite from the other flank. The queen is dead ahead, high above, and Emrith has a clear enough shot. Once more he looses that kinetic energy from the staff, this time in the form of a thin disc. It sails through the air side-on and scythes into the wasplike monstrosity, biting deep; armour or no, this much raw force is difficult, nigh impossible, to stop. There is an audible crunching sound on impact, and the vampiric elf grins, an expression of surprising cruelty behind his faceguard. A scorpion gets close; Emmrith hikes a knee into it and rips it open with the blades covering his shin. A wasp flies by overhead; Emrith points the staff skyward, then impales the thing as it descends toward him. He cannot possibly hope to stem the tide on his own, but Rorin's boon, given so long ago - or so it seems - has made him even more aware of the ebb and flow of the chaos than otherwise he would be. It begins again, in earnest.


Khitti was right along there with Anton and his fear, for those chittering and shrieking of the scorpions reminded her all too well of Kreekitaka’s rattling paddles and the sound he made whenever he was pleased or irritated--you know, that weird, terrifying screech. As they continue on, she’s absently grabbing at Brand’s shirt, keeping close to him and using it as a sort of reminder that they’re okay, everything was perfectly absolutely positively fine in this place. No, they’re not? Oh the sky is falling. THE SKY IS FALLING. Not good. Not good! “I’m never going underground again!” Yeah, that’s probably not true, Khitti. Sorry, babe. Better hurry before you get stuck some place that’s worse than a dragon’s cave. Welp, no time like the present to start raining fire and brimstone down on the disgusting creatures--except that’s not really her thing right now, so go get ‘em Brand. Instead, she fires off arrows in rapid succession towards the insect’s massive wings in an attempt to ground it permanently, the ice that forms on them helping to weigh the queen down.


Ranok was buzzing. Literally, really. The stolen electrical power was surging through his armor, blunted only just be sheer virtue of the intelligence that laid within the bone white plate. Had it not, it would have turned inwards and overwhelmed him. It demanded to be used, lest it follow through that threat. But into what was the question. While the man was normally a careful sort, where he'd bank this boon to save it for a true need, sometimes the moment needed to be lived. A battle was not a careful scheme of moves, no matter how many warriors might wax poetic. It was chaos. And the victors were those that managed the chaos the best. A hand extends and the stench of ozone pours from his left hand. His buried weapon, the metalmorphic one still in the antlion's head, wiggles, then breaks free as magnetics sieze it and send it to his hand. As it finds its home in the smith's hand it begins to change again back into a sword, whereupon it's put into immediate use. He was too late to stop Meri from being wounded, but he stops another from leaping upon the psion and her paired beserker. An almost lazy looking strike, but in reality quite a hefted one, and a stinger is parted from its origin. A twist as he follows through and a boot tips another. A third is subjected to a crushing blow with a metal fist. The smith carried no shield for he did not need one. His arm was as much as any sheet of metal. A stinger is caught in his palm, but rather then twisting to sever he instead gathers it and flicks the thing away with strength. Whether by accident or intention, the abomination of a scorpion is sent right at Xzavior's head. But it was so swiftly over, the massed crowd that threatened to overwhelm with numbers dissolving. The resultant psychological pressure wasn't much to the smith. Grim promises of death were nothing, for a promise was not a deed. His stance was, by and large, 'come and get it.'. Still, he kept his left hand up and ready. The tresure chamber might have been awe inspiring, but the squat monstrosity that sat inside of it rather ruined the effect. But there was hardly any time to contemplate it. A wave of fodder was coming down, and Ranok knew what he'd spend the remnants of the stolen power on. Right hand inverts his sword, slamming it home between bricks. Even as the wave of insectoid life descends, the man was calm. He needed concentration for what was to come. Left arm jerks outwards, forming a right angle, fingers skyward and clutched. His feet plant themselves and he lowers himself, centering his gravity as if he were about to pick up an enormous load. Right hand goes to his blade and he leans upon it, reinforcing himself.


Ranok || As his arm raises, his charred duster sleeve falls, exposing more of the mechanics of his arm. They began to shift, panels popping out of true at an angle, raking backwards. It make it seem as if wide, flat spikes cropped up from the arm, aimed downwards. The ripple suddenly, slamming upwards to his wrist, and his hand becomes wreathed in arcs of electricity, pouring out. A sinister buzz was beginning to build. As golden bricks fell as the room itself became an enemy, their fall is arrested as they come to grips in unseen magnetism. A heart beat as it all comes to a standstill. Loose treasures were floating. Coins, necklaces, pitchers, anything, ponderously floated. Then they became a flurry as it all headed right towards Ranok in a maelstrom of golden wealth. Before impact became imminent, the buzzing peaks and again that ripping roar of outpouring electricity and the metal was flying outwards. Using himself as first an attractant, then an anchor, he harnesses the abilities of his armor and the surge of power to seize anything free and metal in the chamber and slam it outwards in a deadly hail of momentum. Gold and precious metals might have been soft, but they were heavy, and it was fast. Ranok is brought to his knees as he shoulders the weight of it all in the outwards slam, a demand through the mechanics. Anything and everything might be caught up in the maelstrom. Plain metals, such as iron, were gripped with ease. Anything inborn with magic held resistance the further they got from the smith, but anyone too close might find their weapon woefully thrown if they weren't careful. Such was the cost.


Dyraxdiin grunts as he watches the scorpions retreat. It was easy. Far too easy. The mage follows the group in their advance into the heart of the bug-kingdom, all the while remaining in the back. A mage is hardly of any use when confronted by the enemy in the front lines, after all. Soon enough, before the sounds of the skittering insects can wear away at his Saurian mind, they arrive at the 'throne room' and bear witness to those that call this place home. Too much. It's far too much. Dyraxdiin's eyes fall upon the horde, take in the flying wasp-leader and the falling ceiling above them all. As fate would have it, today would be the day. Dyraxdiin lets free his hold upon his shapeshift spell from the backline... His Xalious staff is discarded, and as it tumbles away, it vanishes. His armor and halfrobes begin to expand, before magically dispersing beneath the pressure of his transformation. His size doubles, triples and grows ever more as the great wyrm dons the guise of his true heritage. His tail reaches out while it grows, to grip a few insects and crush them beneath the might of raw strength and ancient scale - only hardened by the years of his life. Soon his transformation is complete, as wings finish their growth from his shoulders and back - six in all - and a crown of twin horns rest above brow. A bellow of anger is issued forth from his towering height; this place, even as large as it is, is cramped. "Beneath me!" He shouts in the common tongue, as he stretches out all of his wings to create a canopy for his allies below. The ceiling of the cavern begins to fall upon him, but he maintains his position beneath gritted maw. He lashes out with his tail in any opening he can get between allies to crush and send reeling the insects, a giant clawed hand to reach up and smash down those that foolhardy enough to attempt to assault him.


Dominic || While others may go on the offensive, this is Brand’s moment to play defense. The elementalist focuses his attention on the earthy ceiling above, keeping the majority of his focus on slowing the ceiling’s cave-in. Even with this aid, however, there is still a fierce rumbling all around, and clumps of earth and rock still fall. Here, Dyraxdiin’s help is quite welcome, for there’s no way Brand could manage such a task solo, especially since the man still has to dodge the occasional insectoid projectile. One glob of acid catches him in the back, sizzling through his leather vest and the cotton shirt beneath as though they were nothing; more than likely he’ll have to address the damage to his clothes and skin at a later time. It probably won’t be a pretty sight. As he grimaces against the sting, Brand only has time to be thankful it didn’t land somewhere more sensitive, and then there is Esche, the elf Brand has been trying to avoid this time, directly in the path of a falling pillar. There’s a brief calculation on the Catalian’s part -- he doesn’t care at all for the elf, but would he really let an ally, even one he distrusts so, get squashed in the middle of battle? It turns out that the answer is ‘no,’ for Brand redirects his magic to adjust the pillar’s trajectory, and it instead crushes two of the scorpions who were foolish enough to still linger. For good measure, Brand lobs the traps Emrith had provided earlier, one deep into the fray beyond where any allies still stand, and one directly at the queen herself.


Eirik ’s silver gaze switches to Meri as that blow lands. Determination setting in, eyes shifting in an ominous foretelling; Golden brown flecked hues replace the those bright eyes. Though no shift comes. In a scorpions last attempt to harm the ashen warrior, clamping claws reach for his leg, crushing the metal greave upon his right shin. Eirik nearly screams in agony, though is protected from the utter loss of limb. Pieces of its claw dig into flesh and before it can render his leg useless, Brann severs the pincer and frees his leg. A moment of distraction, however the bugs were backing off. He isn’t sure what is happening, but gives his comrades a momentary glance. Eyes settled on his bloodied shin before taking a step forward, marching towards what he might deem as his end. He imagine this moment in song, so many times before; the shamans had stripped him of what he so desperately sought. As the roof begins to cave, Eirik is unaware, blocking out the chaos of noise and the threat of battle with more bugs. He can’t hold it any longer - Lycan shifting into reality. Its a grotesque display full of human snarls turning more bestial. Bones snapping and cracking, peeling his own skin off with freed hand. Armor twists and shreds, half clawed human hand smashing the first creature to come before him. Eirik was lost. With the final transformation taking place, the Hybrid roars in defiance sending spittle flying from gaping maw. Feet push against the ground and he is airborn, claws and teeth snagging the first wasp in sight. He crashes to the cave floor, squishing the creature like a beetle beneath boot. The Lycan continues his march clearly abandoning his shield brothers and barreling through every insect in his path, leaping over others. Claws swipe smashing into the creatures as he passes. The beasts target, clearly the massive thing in the background. In little time, he is covered in fragments of blood, and insect innards; Berserking through any foe stupid enough to be caught up. Meanwhile Dyraxdiins massive frame keeps the sand from crushing him in his forward advance. Good thing they had a dragon along, though Eirik would most likely not remember this. Hopefully someone else could seize the moment with him.


Meri advances with the group, injury be damned, though blood is flowing freely down her shoulder Meri chooses to ignore it. There was nothing else to do in the thick of battle but press on. It is here that things seem to get really ugly, and it is not because of the wasp that seems to trump all of the other winged or legged insects in size -- it was the fact that, yes, Khitti, the sky was indeed falling. This was something that the psion felt that she would best be able to help with, bugs be damned. She and the elementalist are of the same line of thinking, some defense was needed here.There were plenty of swords to fight the creatures but it would not do them any good if they all managed to suffocate under the weight of sand before escaping the hive. Meri halted, quite intentionally trying to remain on the outskirts of the battle, away from anything that could sting, bite, or pinch. Both arms would fall idly to her side, with her flaming bastard sword fully released from the grip of her gloved hand so that it can burn out on the ground rather than burn Meri's leg at her side. The shield remains tethered to her arm, likely the only reason the psion didn't abandon her grip on that piece of equipment. Blue eyes turn toward the falling sand, her focus and concentration intense. It could not be seen, but those in tune may be able to feel it as a force pushes upwards to the ceiling with the intention of creating an invisible canopy of energy and keep the fighting warriors from being crushed beneath the weight of sand or struck by falling rocks. How long Meri would be able to maintain this? Unknown. The duration that Meri will be able to maintain this field of energy is also contingent upon her ability to concentrate. All it would take is one lonely little bugger to come along on the offensive and Meri's focus would be gone. It seemed very hopeful though, that between Dyraxdiin, Brand and Meri...the warriors would at least be able to escape the falling sands. Provided they could survive the insects.


Oline was a flurry of death and carnage. Everywhere her scythes struck a scorpion, off came limbs. Legs, claws, a stinger or two. She spun and swirled through the gnashing and slashing of monstrous abomination after abomination, confidently hacking through them until suddenly there was nothing left to hack. Lionel's words reach her ears and for a moment she's once again that humor-spouting whelp from the first mission, though perhaps her voice has less mirth in it as she states: "So they's smaht buggas! En't smaht enuff t'put th'soddin hedds inna raht pless on them stinga-spyduhs." She wasn't being dismissive, though. Levity was one thing, but... Valkr's mercy... something was happening down here that she couldn't even begin to truly fathom. What in the name of all that is holy were these things, really? This wasn't just some bug infestation... and that became redily apparent the moment they came upon the chamber of the queen. A curious thing, that. Unlike the last Queen, which had looked like little more than some horrifying amalgamation of distended flesh and useless mutant limbs, this one actually resembled a functional creature. She certainly wouldn't have been faulted for mistaking it as yet another, super-giant antlion. Once it was airbonre and humming she understood it for what it was, at least superficially. This was a wasp. The wasp, even. Queen wasp of the desert hive. And then the world fell in on their heads. Ranok's raging typhoon of long-forgotten treasures and trash was equal parts blessing and curse as Oline lumbered into the throne room, purposefully choosing to ignore the sand falling in on their heads in favor of cleaving herself a path to the queen. Now was the time to let loose that angry pit in her core and turn it against the enemy. Here, where there were so many, she was less likely to harm a friend. Everything went red, and Oline was gone to the blood-lust. The wasps moved quickly, but the now-raging huskarl's milipede shield was faster. One found itself little more than a smear of guts and fractured limbs across the floor as the giantess charged. Another was deflected straight into the gnashing maw of a goliath beetle and found itself food for its insectoid ally. She sliced with both scythes at a scorpoion which got between her and the queen, cleaving each of it's lashing appendages off save for the stinger. That got special attention as let one of her scythes fall away, only to grab the scorpion up by the tail and wrench the flailing limb off with her gauntleted fist. Howling like a maddened beast, she gave the freshly-severed stinger a testing flick... not unlike some hellish venom-spewing whip... before finally turning her sights on the Queen. There was little between her and the enormous beast now, save for the air upon which it flew. Roaring again, the Oline leapt for the second time at a terrifying creature's ugly head. While her legs alone would not have been enough to reach her destination, she managed to impale the scorpion's sting into the wasp-like matriarch's thickly armored shell and swing herself up onto the Queen's back before it became dislodged and went tumbling down to the ground below. Re-sheathing her remaining scythe, the giantess finally loosed her diamoned-studded Kanabo from its mount on her back and took a look around. Wings. Yes, those looked like a might-fine weak spot. 'WHACK!' went that massive war-club against the beast's nearest wing. Then she whirled around and gave it another crack, this time right at the base. She'd do the same to the other side, or would have... but right about then she found herself thrown off not by the flailings of the queen... but a wasp that had managed to sneak up behind her and hurl it's entire body into her armored frame. Down the giantess tumbled, raging and frothing at the wasp that had assailed her, until she disappeared in a plume of dust and debris on the floor down below... and went silent.


Wisax had little chance to do whatever he'd planned before the scorpions retreated. Looking rather curious – and very alert – Wisax put the crossbow back where it was, pulled out the scepter again and then followed the warriors deeper. New lenses slipped into the sockets of his goggles with soft clicks as he looked around. Once they came into the grand hall and were faced with the shored up defenses of their enemy (and the cave-in) Wisax swore in some unknown language and braced the scepter again. A storm of magical projectiles rained onto the bugs – large or small – wherever Wisax turned. More covering fire than anything. But it was bound to deal some damage. If nothing else from repeated hits. All there was for the tinkerer to do in this situation was back in under his dragon associate, adopting something like trench warfare. Grounded and outnumbered, there weren't a lot of clever tricks Wisax could produce in this situation that didn't risk making it worse for his allies. But then, something as basic as continuous and unending rapid firepower could help a great deal. Braced where he was, Wisax then shrugged his backpack off and gave it a swift kick. For a moment, the bag merely wriggled and emitted loud noises – like metallic structures unfolding – before a small pod (Six, perhaps five.) of insect-like clockwork golems of their own emerged from within. These were smaller, of course. The size of a small dog, really. And moved on four spider-like legs with a spherical body in the middle. Artfully crafted and wrought out of a silver-like metal and wood, covered in runes and other symbology. They did not appear to made for combat – Indeed were not – but they could jump (in spite of their size) with incredible speed and force. And anything hostile they managed to capture with more than one leg would find that they had some serious crushing power and were quite good at tearing pieces out of a mass of moving parts.


Xzavior was at least quick enough to be able to smack the spike out of the air. Looking to where it came from, he gave a sigh, unless there was a scorpion on the wall, it wasn't hard to tell it was thrown. And there weren't many who would be reckless enough to toss something like that around. Especially after one of their own got hurt by said thing. When they reached the opening, the queen and her horde in sight, his eyes widened as he saw the sea of insects and got ready to start going on quite a spree. Hacking and slashing away at the insects, not noticing right away that the sand was coming down on their head till a dragon found his way over them, shielding them from it. Last time he saw a dragon this big was ironically near this same desert. Attention grabbed when Eirik shifted and watched for a moment while the man shred his way through them before narrowly avoiding his own attacking bug. Cutting off the tail to a scorpion, he tossed a flask of water and a moment later, icy shards came down to pincushion any it could. Before causing them to burst as well. Splitting open the carapaces of those hit and confirming the kill. Someone needed to cut a path towards the queen... kill the hive mind. Just the lot here couldn't handle all these insects plus the sands of the desert!

Lionel has lost count of the number of times he’s swung Hellfire tonight. Every time he presses, they press back, wasps buzzing to stab him and scorpions leaping to similar hopes. An insect’s head rolls into another, and that one is stunned and swings around haphazardly, and Lionel ducks and impales it through its underbelly, and he screams as another one -- a goliath beetle -- slams into him from behind, tossing him like trash. He hears more screams, a billowing command from a great wyrm -- a great wyrm? -- it’s Dyraxdiin! Coughing, he jumps up from where he’d fallen only to realize he’s tasking an injured leg with too much traction. He hobbles, then grits his teeth and slams Hellfire into the sand even as it continually rises. It’s a loose footing, it’s not even balance, and he’s nearly thrown sideways all over again, but it’s enough. Halycanos, the Ishaarite fire spirit within him, responds to its master’s demands and sends a river of red-hot fire behind him, spurring his haste and bringing him to the relative safety beneath the wyrm. “Wait,” he mutters under his breath, slapping his elbow with his own hand to smack back further bleeding. His eyes dart to Eirik, fully feral now, ravaging the area. He sighs. It’s do or die, now; the queen is spiraling in toward Dyraxdiin in an effort to carve through the group’s defense, but a man is out there, a man of his guild, a lycan. And he’s almost out of sight. It’s the classical impossible dilemma. Eirik, so far and so primal. Meri, so defenseless but doing so much to save their lives in totality. It’s the kind of gamble Lionel has never wanted to make, never enjoyed making, but now, he must make it. He has no real choice but to leave Eirik to his werewolf devices. Cursing himself under his breath, the Catalian races to Meri’s side. Meri, a stranger who is giving her all for him and his own. A wasp zooms in, as if homing in on the distress beacon self-evident upon Meri’s concentrating face, and in a single bloody slash, Lionel carves through it. Another one is fast to arrive, its stinger extended for the woman’s neck, and it’s sliced clean off, but it does not seem to register the pain. Instead, it opens its mouth to bite, and Rorin is quick to shoot it down mere inches from their flesh. On and on it goes, the sand slowly depositing itself despite the magical best efforts, slowed but not stymied, insistent that sooner or later the guild will be lost to time. And that damned queen. She’s narrowing in on them, now, and her eyes, her vast network of eyes, they’re… falling out of their sockets? A swarm of eyes are raining down on Diin and his charges, bursting into fire before they find their victims. A veritable gauntlet of exploding eyeballs, shrieking like the scorpions as they combust, igniting into heat and smoke. Lionel cannot help the briefest of glances at the queen -- what kind of biology could possibly perceive this as sane and sound? With a guttural roar, he cries out, “behind me!” and he steps in front of Meri, swings Hellfire skyward, and sends a tempest of his own flames -- many-colored, these -- to catch as many of the enemy ‘grenades’ as possible. Fire is fought with fire, and the room is seething with heat, but he’s cancelling the opposition as best he can. It’s very probable that Lionel O’Connor will not see the queen’s final assault until mere seconds remain for him to evade it…


Lionel | The nemean antlion writhes through the air, and as the ground comes down like an avalanche upon her, she begins to swim in it, wade in it, flitter through it like a castle moving through sand. Zhekg’drell, she had been called, once, and she had commanded an army far grander than this one. She can’t remember the details, and it’s driven her insane. She will kill these interlopers; oh, how they remind her of that magister, those Haathians, and their own foes. Diminutive, two-legged, and yet in the distant recesses of her nebulous brain, she recalls an age in which she had feared them. That fear has become malice, and as the kinetical magical energy bursts into her abdomen, and arrows latch into her great wings, she is consumed with wrath, and she… speaks. Through miniature holes between her sea of eyes, words vibrate outbound. “To taste you, to taste freedom from this wretch. To be whole, complete… vivid. Consume. The surface. Consume.” Her movement is erratic, now, making her a harsher target despite her size. Down below, however, her horde seeks to crawl, to envelop, to make the guild disappear beneath a wave of bug claws and bug stingers and bug jaws and bug pincers. But the sand might crush them, too, every last one of them, down to the exoskeleton, down to the organs. Zhekg’drell does not care. Zhekg’drell insists that they all die, every last one of them, and in the wreckage of their remains, she will ascend. Like the queen of the Southern Sage, she is now consumed with a need to reach Lithrydel, to devour it. Something peculiar is beginning to buffet her, however, and she can feel it -- it hurts. Metals, useless humanoid bits and baubles that had filled this strange place she had awoken. They’re slamming into her, the result of Ranok’s maelstrom, and slowing her traipse through falling sand. The sand itself continues to fall, and by now, the Warrior’s Guild and its allies will be struggling to climb in tandem as more and more of it falls upon them, but the queen is spiraling to suspend the strikes she’s sustaining. Lunacy. Insanity. Such unbridled hate. Suffer. Make them suffer. Make them all suffer. She descends, swooping and plucking her own eyes. All of the eyes, all-seeing, all-knowing. Sacrificial. She does not care. She does not need to see; she can smell, she can hear, she can savor sweet meat. The eyes will explode, the eyes will sear them all until they are medium-well, until they are roasted, and the queen will dine, and eat all of Lithrydel in a celebratory feast. It… something thwacks her upon the wing with the force of her own insectoids. She cannot see it, but she can feel it, and it sets her completely off-kilter at the flashpoint moment. As Oline falls away from her, Zhekg’drell’s balance is tossed, and she cannot comprehend how one of these creatures -- even as large as that one! -- could do this. She falls into the sand as it falls with her, roaring angrily. One wing damaged, she buzzes to readjust, to reorient herself with this new reality in which a giantess has outplayed her, snuck atop her as she had reveled in that feast. And then Khitti’s arrows reach their mark, one and all, because Zhekg’drell is still fixated on that damnable Oline, that wench, that bipedal broad, and icy arrows snap the wings, and she screams. Oh, such a scream. If she were angry now, she’s angrier still, but she lands beside Dyraxdiin, and all those he shelters, and she lunges. Where each eye was once housed, an abominable humanoid arm now lurches, and every one of those arms has a hand, and upon each hand is a sword. A storm of swords, a sea of them, juts in and out, back and forth, to skewer. The queen stomps forward, her strange legs carrying her with deadly intent. The sand is still falling. The insectoid horde, although far smaller, is still pressing. And Zhekg’drell seeks to pincer them all into a wall and leave nothing but gore upon her blades…


Emrith hisses in annoyance as projectiles suddenly begin to swarm around him. He is struck more than once, glancing blows for the most part, though one piece of rubble clangs loudly off his faceplate. He is more than preoccupied enough to have missed the fact that Ranok is the culprit here, but when Dyraxdiin's thunderous roar fills the chamber, Emrith looks up reflexively to see his new and terrible form. Surprise is great enough that he takes a battering from a wasp on its way past, head rocked to and fro by buffeting wings as it swoops past; in truth, the elf was lucky not to have his pretty little head ripped off right then and there. He scurries for cover beneath Dyraxdiin's wings, but he will not stay there long. That malevolent aura is growing larger around him, and an eerie, moaning howl seems to sweat out of the very air in his vicinity. The chill felt by any within its reach would likely be bone-deep and dreadful, friend and foe alike. From his relative safety, Emrith is able to catch his breath and reach out to Ilaerothil, who has used their bond to track his whereabouts through the desert; the spell-blade feels more than a little annoyance from the green dragon at having been left behind, but her pursuit is swift, and she reaches the chasm in record time. It is easy enough to follow the backtrail, and the tunnels are more than big enough for her bulk. Emrith feels her approach, but from his point of vantage he sees first Eirik and then Oline enter the fray. And suddenly, something within him snaps. This is not the pure, righteous rage of someone seeing friends besieged. It is more as if some hellacious bloodlust has burst its dam within him. Like a man possessed, the spell-blade surges forward, staff held high. There is more than enough chaos in the chamber that careful footwork and tremendous speed let the spell-blade reach where he wishes to go. Insects who get close seem to crumple, to fade back as if in fear, to curl up in self-protection. A single arcane phrase, one Emrith has never heard before, thunders from his tongue as he stumbles over a hill of sand. "Grrya dama-ka!" The shadows, the cold, suddenly leave the spell-blade, forming into a hideous umbrella of cold and darkness and despair which billows upward and forward toward the queen. Emrith is hardly aware of what is happening now, as the strength leaves him and he falls to his belly. His rune-inscribed staff points toward the queen; his stomach is cradled by soft sand. Kinetic energy, stored in the staff for one last salvo, leaks out and crumples that shadowy umbrella like paper in an inconceivably enormous fist. Ilaerothil has arrived by this point, battling against the sand with both body and mind, fighting her way clear to fly, if only for a moment. As that collapsing umbra falls on the queen from above, as Emrith's own consciousness wavers and warmth seems to pour back into his body from half a hundred wounds not felt till now, the green dragon spews chlorine gas in a cone, imparting to Emrith's attack yet another dimension. This cloak of blackness will eat flesh even as it traps those sword-arms. It will squeeze that insane mind toward lassitude and utter powerlessness. It surely is not enough, on its own, to fell the queen, but Emrith's active role in this skirmish is done. All strength has been literally sucked out of him with that one terrible phrase. Deep in the chamber, a tiny ring pulses fitfully, then goes dark, its use spent.


Khitti :: The scent of blood had been in the air for some time now and Khitti had been doing her best to ignore it, as difficult as that may be. But now, as the acid connected with Brand’s back and the smell of burning flesh entered the air, her attention drifted from the attacking bugs and landed squarely on that Catalian that was oh so dear to her heart (shh, you didn’t read that minor detail), “Brand!” Now, it was personal (as if it hadn’t been before with all of the damage everyone else has taken, but she like-likes Brand okay?) and Khitti was angry...and you wouldn’t like her when she’s angry. I mean, she’s not going to transform into some big green monster, but she’s definitely not pleasant to be around right now. Her barrage of arrows on the queen’s wings are brought to a halt; anything and everything that would dare come near Brand, or Meri, or Dyraxdiin as they helped to hold up the ceiling of sand would not even come close as she shot down wasps, and froze beetles and scorpions in their path. She tapped into her vampiric agility, letting loose those arrows with frightening speed--one of the many reasons why Orikahn deemed her worthy enough to join his pack, aka the Ranger’s Guild--bursts of ice magic from the projectiles showering bits of ice and snow over the scene beneath the sand. The strange eye-bombs from the queen is given the same treatment as Khitti does her best to help them explode above the warriors, but sadly some get through. As the wretched she-bug lunges towards everyone beneath Dyraxdiin, she’s quick to grab ahold of Brand’s hand and shadowstep him from harm’s way near the opening of the tunnel; there was no time to warn him, sadly, and she’d likely get chided for it later, but that was a risk she was willing to take. Once moments were taken to ensure Brand was fine, Khitti would resume her attack on the queen, aiming for those holes that had once been eyes and now were arms and swords. Careful, precise shots were taken with the mindset of freezing the beast from the inside-out to get her to slow her pace, while the vampiress prayed to whatever gods would listen to her (who am I kidding, no gods ever pay attention to Khitti) that her idea would work.


Rorin was nearly out of ammo. "Last mag," he said to himself as he loaded in the heavy brass-cored augers. "Make it count," however Rorin quickly collapses and stows the weapon. He would hold off on that until... wait, where's Lionel? Damn Rorin could swear he'd been right behind him! Rorin would blast his way in a thrust of holy force, obligerating the beetle which had blown into Lionels side and been baring down on him. "Need a hand, ser?" Rorin would follow the knight gowards the stranger that had come with Eirik, cursing as he's forced to expend one of the precious bolts to save her. 5 shots left. Rorin placed a hand on Lionel and one on his amulet- "stay still," he requested before he uttered a quick prayer amd the holy magic would surge into Lionels body, repairing the majority of his wounds. It is barely a moment after he is forced behind Lionels strike and brings up his dome like shield, the white glyph absorbing all damage that would escape Lionels counter attack and bestowing it again as a charge to Rorins right arm. Over them the arachnid of sand and flame came barreling forth. "Ser, keep her safe! Glass the sand, keep the bugs off, I think we've nearly won! I'll aid in the fight," Rorin dashed forward towards the mages Wisax, Dyraxdiin, and Xzavior, "you three!" He screamed over the din, "move the sand away from us, freeze it, glass it, do whatever you can! Khitti, Ameno!" He went to them next as he waded through swarms of bugs, cutting them away from the archers flanks. "Focus on the arms, keep her still!" Rorin danced his way to the forefront, rallying warriors to him. "We must strike together! Await the archers rain, we only have so much time- then we strike the thorax as one! My magic will aid us here, please! We can win this!" Rorin was attempting to call the melee fighters to him, to rally to the paladin, whos magical field would burst forth in grand strength once more. He would be dimly saying a prayer beneath his breath that would spread to every blade near him, every fist, every arrow, every club, the divine energy building for the final strike that could bring their enemy down. "Ready!" He would call, waiting the archers fire of ice. Then with them all he would charge baring a sword glowing with holy light like heavens own spear. To strike as one would tear this monster apart. Only there would Rorin loose his bolts into the beast, each drilling farther and farther into her corrupted heart. With one final plunge he would pour all he had into a coup de grace. He prayed for her death. He prayed to save his friends, this family, his home- he prayed ro save Lythridel. Before the grace of the gods they go.


Ranok felt strangely empty without that surge buzzing around the plates of his armor. It wasn't him, strictly, but it was difficult to tell where metal ended and man began. Depending on who you asked, there was no distinction. The wall of metal had results, slamming and rending and crushing. And all he could feel was bruise. The weight had been offset on the area around him as best he could, but there was only so much to be done. And yet it hadn't been enough. More was crushing in. An exhale, and he's hefting his sword and Mirabelle. There was an obvious culprit. Meri was held keeping the ceiling collapsing, the bands and ties of power just barely visible. Had he not had Draeta, he'd have been unaware of her psionics. The dragon was holding the ceiling and besieged, and their marksmen were felling wasp and scorpion alike. There was precious little time to survey the field, as he's ducking and stabbing. A stinger comes periously close to his face, a twitch and a heavy boot to discourage that sort of nonsense beating it back. Lionel was moving to Meri, supporting them...the only thing keeping them alive. The Queen was the source of it all, twisted and transformed worse then ever. And he'd left the explosives at the entrance, damn it all. When the man needed them most. So, time to improvise. But how? He's firing off his own projectiles to deflect eye bombs, steel bolts flickering off in ricocets and then suddenly becoming seized by force, then slamming outwards to sink into carapace or something or other. And that dragon trying to kill them all with a poison attack. A wave of his arm and he's tapping into a suddenly vast reserve of energy. His vambrace was made by Liana, a druidic artifact. Taking a donation of the life force of all around him but never to the point of death, the quantity of what could be tapped depended on the environment. The lifeless desert was one thing...but a hive of insect life? It seems that Ranok was to be the focus here. Rorin's metal bolts sunk into flesh, and Ranok slams magnetism upon them, giving each a repeated kick, the report of thunder as he surges, the lights that follow him flashing each time. Emrith's dragon's poorly thought out gas attack is swept into a maelstrom, forced with a heavy wind into the Queen, driving the gas into every bloody wound, every broken limb. He even adds his own touch, pulling golden bricks to him and subjecting them to a field of lightning to make them molten before sending it out in a golden spray.


Dyraxdiin is tired of holding up this ceiling of sand, tired of playing Atlas to this group of people beneath him; crippled by the weight of the world upon his shoulders, unable to do much beyond tail-whip and crush with hand. His newfound strength unchecked, unbridled, yet the world would force him back down, beneath this sea of sand? No, the great wyrm draws his head back and up, just as those eyeball grenades begin going off in his vicinity. Their concussions stagger him marginally, sending even more sand to fall down from his wings and back, but thankfully his scales are hard enough, given their thousands of years of strengthening, to leave him relatively unscathed. He will not allow himself to be shackled ever again, by mortal or insect. A deep, audible breath can be heard as he inhales, preparing for his own attack. The might of the great wyrm, a perfect specimen of what his gray brethren of old, his own kin, were capable of, is wrought upon the ceiling overhead. A thundering concussion of sonic force erupts forth from his maw and collides with unrelenting force into the remainder of the ceiling. Moonlight descends down upon the pit in place of sand - from the outside, the very vision of a volcano blowing its top can be seen, yet without the following of magma in its wake. And then his arms and underbelly are met with many 'thuds' and 'clanks'. Swords? He glances down to see the onslaught, a few managing to find weaknesses between his scales and cause blood to begin to trickle slowly. This would not do. Dyraxdiin rears to the side and frees himself of the rest of the sandy burden, sure that it falls away from his comrades beneath and behind, before taking flight himself. "You damned insects," Comes the gravelly tone of Dyraxdiin, deep and ominous in its issuance, "Your hide is weak and your weapons brittle." He roars loud and clear in a moment of dragon-rage, before the massive bulk of Dyraxdiin descends back down upon the matriarch herself. All four limbs to grasp the crippled queen, and squeeze with every ounce of his might - the audible, sickening sound of crushing chitin to ensue as he rears his head back and begins ripping into the backside of this freakish monster with ferocity befitting only the Saurian kind. No gas or arrow would deter Diin from devouring this insect. Scorpions and beetles are met with a simple sweep of his tail as they advance upon him in a last ditch effort to, "Save the Queen!"


Khitti :: Brand would continue to do his best to keep the ceiling above their heads and not crashing down on top of them as Khitti helped protect him, Meri, and Dyraxdiin from the horde and the bombs. That is until the gorram redheaded vampiress shadow-stepped away with him in tow again like she had in the past. No warning, no nothing. Figures. He does manage to hold his breath and close his eyes when he realizes what’s happening because who the hell knows what’s in the air in the small bit of the shadow plane that they stepped through to get to safety. “Seven frakkin’ hells, woman. Lemme go! I’m fine!” was given in response to those mere moments of her fussing about his wellbeing before she went on her way again to deal with the queen and he would’ve returned to using his earth magic were it not for Rorin’s shouting. Right, fire plus sand equals glass. This he could definitely manage. Those ever trustworthy flames of his alight on both hands and he’s soon sending fiery orbs to the sand above them, the magic hot enough to melt the sand in spots and fuse it together, continuing for as long as needed to ensure they don’t all die horribly.


Dyraxdiin || Eirik is lost in the blood-lust rage of his cursed heritage. He almost frantically rips apart anything and everything he can find in his vicinity, all the while ever-hungry for more. He pounces upon the backside of a giant beetle, sinking tooth and claw into it and prying at the plates of chitin until he exposes its fleshy insides. Soon after he his ripping into it, desperate to remove heart from insectoid and thus claim another victim as he devours it. Lost is he to the plight of his comrades, long forgotten is Oline, somewhere in the chaos and the other two dragons who seem to be doing as dragons do. Any cut, knick or scrape he suffers is met in kind with equal violence - the lycan a force of its own as he continues his rampant assault of the insects.


Meri is not so oblivious to the scene that she cannot see the wasp that is coming her way, the woman tenses up because in her bid to try and keep everyone safe that she is willing to sacrifice her own life. The tattooed one was about to abandon her attempts to shield the warriors from the falling sand when both Lionel and Rorin step in with the assist. Further support came from Khitti and her volley of arrows, all efforts were appreciated. Relief was an understatement but it allowed Meri to continue on the field of energy that was presently acting as a shield for those in the fight. The plan that Rorin shouts at the mages is overhead and Brand is able to act just within the knick of time. Blood begins to drip from Meri's noses, having pushed her limitations and maintained this feat for longer than her abilities to allow. Flames out not be able to penetrate the wall of psionic energy and so Meri's concentration is released the moment that Brand looses his fire to the ceiling. This mean the sand is definitely falling now so go Brand, go! Hopefully the other mages would back him up in this plan. Sluggish and exhausted, the psion falls into a crouch to collect her abandoned sword but does not seek to actually join the fight. It was up to the others.

Xzavior would continue on his hacking and slashing, with the occasional burst of ice here or there before hearing the queen begin to speak. Gritting his teeth, he watched as the giant went down and as the queen neared. He would have loved to put a spear of his own through her head, but he would have to be content knowing that Khitti was filling the queen up with the exact thing he could use to his advantage. In fact, any of the ice, whether it be on a beetle or the ground. Looking to Rorin when he came forward, he gave a nod before using as much ice as he needed to redirect the sand on a frozen slop he formed to take the spot of Dyraxdiin. Right at the oncoming insects giving them as hard a time as any to get close to the group. While keeping enough around him to spear and skewer any insect getting to close to him while he does. He looked around at the group, the only one so far unable to fight being Meri, while keeping his attention on the current task, he'd have to thank Rorin later, he made his way over to the woman. Giving her a break from having to fight and warding off any bug that happened to make their way through.


Lionel | Zhekg’drell seethes. They must all die. All die! But something is squeezing her. She cannot see Grrya Dama-Ka, the great spider, but its web is surely here. Its great soul-strangling web, and it battens on her huge body. She cannot fly. She cannot crawl. The web is eating her alive, a thousand little mouths with acidic teeth, chewing and chewing. She shrieks, and then the cold settles in, like an avalanche...but it is an inner cold, somehow. Does she want to fight anymore? What is the use? The end. It is the end. She collapses utterly beneath that vast arcane trap, alive but losing life and will, eroded and constricted and smothered from without and from within. And there is more. As she guides her seven hundred sword-held hands in a whipping frenzy, she bears the brunt now of Ranok’s attack as well, all its energy like a conduit flaring up inside her. Then the guild’s melee artists ride this unexpected wave, blanketed by some sort of filthy holy magic from that paladin, Rorin. Lionel rips open her innards, tearing into her when she least expects it. Khitti’s shots, Rorin’s shots, all these shots, all hurting, all painful; the hate is rising, but she can’t do much else! Gone is the need to consume Lithrydel. Now, as she begins to die, she will settle for all of them. She will not eat them; she no longer has that privilege. She will kill them elsewise. “It does what it must,” she says, quizzically, and what remains of her innards abruptly combusts. From inside, she broils, hoping one massive explosion will sunder them all in poison and gore. Her thick plates of armor are the only thing keeping that explosion at bay, but what’s left of the armor, and the arms and their swords, begins to crack and curdle like stale milk, and seconds remain before certain death for the group. In her last conscious thought, Zhekg’krell begins to revel in that certainty, until an ancient great wyrm clutches her and snaps her, and all focus becomes fear, primal fear, and her roasted innards subside. And she has just enough time to recognize that she has failed, and that she is being eaten, before she dies.


Oline felt nothing. No pain... no rage... none of the ever-present guilt that had been slowly driving her mad. The only word she could come up with to describe the sensation was... serenity. She felt serenely calm. The wasp's stinger had punched through her armor upon impact with the ground, burying itself deep into her gut. The pain should have been intense... but she hadn't felt a thing. Pushing the dead bug up off of her, she struggled up to her feet and watched the blood pouring out from the deep wound. Shock. She was in shock, that was it... of course... that also explained why her hands wouldn't quite close when she tried to clench them into fists, and her legs trembled with every step she took toward the queen. She'd been forgotten, there, in the dust... if only because more pressing threats had engaged her. Well, that just wouldn't do! Scooping up her club without slowing her trudge, Oline summoned the last of her strenght into a violent hammer-throw. Pivoting around on one foot, she spun her rune-enchanted Kanabo out in a wide arc before letting it go straight into the massive bug's back. Those runes flared to life, increasing the gravity of her weapon by several orders of magnitude, ensuring that when it did hit... and she was confident it would... the hideous bitch bug would remember the 'wench' that had helped bring her down. And then she promptly collapsed, convulsing and hacking up blood.


Lionel will fence with the best of them, but Hellfire is only one sword, and seven hundred swords are fencing right on back with him. He can’t believe his eyes; never has he ever seen a thing like this. The queen’s great girth seems to roll in a practiced motion, forward as the swords stab toward them, pincering them all toward the canyon-sized wall behind them. It’s a dance, and she’s the lead, and they’re steadily falling for her tricks, and soon they will be dead, skewered alive. Again and again, the queen is pounded, from Emrith and his dragon and Khitti and Ranok, and it seems to be having an effect. Some of the arms are shot down with arrows, a coat of ice forming behind them and seeping into the insect’s flesh. “With me now,” Lionel shouts, “now with me!” He bites his lip so hard it bleeds, sweeping Hellfire across a line of swords and spiraling toward Rorin and his boons. “Attack as one! Follow Rorin’s call, and strike true! Now!” And so they do. Every arrow notched is loosed and slammed into the beast. Every slash, every magically-boosted strike. A large portion of the sandy roof overhead is blown off and collapses around and partly upon them, breaking the very trap which had been sprung to suffocate them, and the majority of what remains -- what might still imperil them -- is crafted and spun into glass thanks to the efforts of Brand. And the fiery glass? Well, it’s caught up on an ice-slide now, a heaping helping of frozen water stilling its descent, all courtesy of Xzavior. And then quite suddenly a great wyrm is feasting on a many-armed, formerly many-eyed eldritch abomination. Lionel breathes; the last of her insectoid horde is collapsing, stuttering and dead, just as they had in the previous mission. Once again, there seems to have been an unbreakable hive link at play. “We did it,” Lionel mumbles, though he dare not express disbelief. Realizing he must be louder, to rally them, he shouts it. “We did it. You did it. Let’s get the ever-loving frak out of here before…” He grimaces upon the pale moonlight. “Icy… glassy… fiery… sand… pellets… kill us all? You mages are something else.” He whistles. Then he’s rushing, turning on his heel and blitzing across the wreckage in that tried-and-true blink-and-you’ll-miss-it turnabout that Lionel is known for. He’s helping Wisax to his feet, and affording the same for Emrith. He won’t bother asking Emrith how he managed that feat now; he’ll save it for later. Lionel does not collect anything from the great treasure vault of this strange old ruin, but he does not leave empty-handed. Out of the corner of his azure eyes, Lionel espies two more old journal entries featuring the cryptical writing of the magister from the colony at Southern Sage. He’s too disoriented to read them now, let alone expect anyone else to do so, but it feels like serendipity. It feels probable that these logs are related somehow to this most unusual of menaces. And as Lionel rallies his allies forward, carefully sidestepping Dyraxdiin’s feast, he rejoins Esche and Anton -- oh, how wide-eyed, poor Anton -- and makes way to depart this desert dungeon with more questions than answers.


Khitti hadn’t forgotten about that side room this entire time. Now that the queen was dead and the warriors were left to pick up the pieces and escape, it was the right time to hurry back to where the rest of the dead mindflayers lay. Grabbing Brand and pulling him by the shirt back up the tunnel, she makes a bee-line for that room to check things out as Brand continues to keep the ceiling afloat by way of his fire magic. Once there, she’d find three bodies in total, all half devoured by the bugs that the guild had just laid waste to. Amongst them, she’d find a book swaddled in thick black leather, various scraps of parchment along the ground, and a strange orb-shaped black stone. Within the stone, magic of a purple hue swirled about, the very thing that Khitti had sensed earlier on their way through--this was the thing emanating dark magic. Were she an actual cat and not just a Khitti, her eyes would get all big like a feline when it’s found something shiny before she promptly pocketed the object. Sadly, she didn’t have time to inspect the book right now, and she even says so aloud to Brand, “Not now. Ve’ll read it later.” But, oh gods...could it be? Thoughts of the mindflayer from her past resurfaces once more as she gathers up all the torn bits of scribbled-on paper. She’d shove everything haphazardly into the pockets of her duster as she lead one blonde Catalian back to rejoin Lionel, as well as Esche, and Anton so that they might all leave together, but not before she makes sure to torch the living hell out of those damned illithid. All of these creepy crawlies need to stay dead. Forever.


Dyraxdiin releases one final roar of victory over the defeated carcass of the queen, satisfied she is dead and done. He cranes his neck and head about, to peer back upon the wasteland that is the floor of the cavern. So much chaos that it is reminiscient to the day of darkness so long ago... The great wyrm wheels his bulk about, and scoops up the presumably unconcious Giantess in his clawed hand, while helping his comrade Wisax up onto his own back. He has never given a mortal race a ride before. This is... an interesting experience. Dyraxdiin would allow anyone else the chance to climb up as well, before all six wings begin pumping hard against the air, to bring the great wyrm and company up and out of the insectoid lair and clear of any random straggler insects that may have survived the battle. Once he lands, he'll release Oline and wait for Wisax to climb back down and see to her wounds in the interim, or at least until a more-practiced healer could be at hand.


Emrith feels himself being lifted, borne along by strong arms. He dangles like a doll made of flesh. He is no longer cold, and thus poses no further danger to those around him. Scratches, cuts, sore bones, a swimming head...Emrith is not grievously wounded, but all the little hurts add up, and they render him weak where he wishes to be strong. He maintains a grip upon his staff by the grace of some god or other he does not entirely believe in; its runes are dead and dark, one of its ends split so that the blade has two bent prongs instead of a single killing point. Ilaerothil, largely unhurt, storms along close by, snorting her anger and derision at first, then lifting her head to trumpet a victory call to all and sundry. And all unnoticed, something clatters and clicks across broken glass, bouncing and rolling. Just a little thing that wants to be found. Just a little thing that wants a wielder. He called it, so it comes. He called it, though he did not mean to. Emrith is only semi-lucid when the little ring skips neatly into one of his cloak pockets and lodges there. Is he dreaming when he feels something wriggling against his hip like a tiny, hot insect? He must be half out of his mind. Those shadows, that hellish, oppressive blanket of dark. It is gone now, but with every day that passes, with every new thing found, an old thing changes, is reawakened. The spell-blade knows nothing of the journal entries, knows nothing of Oline's plight and whether or not someone will help her. He can only swim along in a daze, and hope that whoever is holding him does not drop him. Eventually Ilaerothil's huge head lunges downward, butting insistently at those bearing him, and when his bearers get the message and let him go, the dragon flips the elf neatly onto her back by first tossing him into the air and then scooting forward to catch him. Her shoulder-blades are a very uncomfortable bed, but Emrith rests there, trembling all over. "The great spider," he mutters, in a voice so thick it might not be heard or understood. "It's the great spider's fault."


Eirik is still the madman, hurtling claws at each beast - more than just tit for tat. He is a destructive force of his own and lost within the deep and dark bowels of his raging mind. The beast gives one final roar to the face of the insect before him. Hands clasping at the maw of the creature and ripping in separate directions. The result ends its life in a gore riddled display, mandible in one hand, tongue hanging free of the open hole. It didn’t even stand a chance.Though the bugs might be gone and dead now it takes the lycan sometime to calm down. Claws digging into dead carcasses, fangs tearing into protected hides. At the end of it all, the beast stands there with exaggerated breaths denoting his exhaustion. Cuts scrapes and bruises scour his body and somewhere deep inside the ashen warrior, the curse wanes. Eirik is before the group again in nothing but shredded rags while left hand holds the worst of his wounds across his stomach. Eyes take a moment to find his blade and scoops it up, limping heavily. Dyraxdiins offered flight is taken as he is too tired to carry on himself.


Xzavior chuckled at Lionel's reaction to the results and remained there. Looking over everything once more and waiting for everyone to move from under his construct before deciding to stop supporting it. It'd hold for a time but ice melts. With all that said and done, he chuckled, feeling more alive then ever before turning to Meri and offering a hand, "Come on. I can help get that patched up if you need it." Looking her over carefully, all he could see was the initial wound and exhaustion that was giving her the most trouble. He wouldn't push if she didn't need the help, but he'd at least offer. Oline was in the care of Diin, and no one else sustained anything as far as he knew. So, before anything else came up. He'd rather leave.


Meri managed to slide her reclaimed sword back into it's scabbard and makes it back to her full height with a helping hand from Xzavior. A quick but tired smile is given to him but no answer comes in regards to her being patched up. Instead, her gaze travels away from him just in time to see Oline collapse. It was nothing short of a miracle that more injuries were not sustained to this group on this mission, but of all the fighters to sustain injury enough to ground them to the point of needing aid...it had to be the giant. As much as Meri would like to provide assistance to her friend, the woman who stood no more than five nine had no chance of being able to do anything to drag the body out. Maybe a team of people? Meri was contemplating and despite exhaustion feet were starting to carry her closer to Oline. Thankfully Dyraxdinn is more than capable of transporting the giantess away to a better location and ideally to a capable healer. The thought crossed her mind to join those who might be trying to hitch a ride with the dragon but ultimately Meri's preference to keep her feet on land rather than in the sky wins out. She would walk her way back the way she came, out of the hive, past the fallen corpses of numerous insects.


Oline lay upon the ground, staring blankly into the darkness of the... sky? Of... sand? Were... were her eyes even open? She... couldn't feel anything anymore. It was all so far away. And in that moment, feeling as if she might disappear into the void entirely, she found herself singing the old songs of Valkr. Out loud, even... if... barely more than a whisper. "A... brahaav... yung... soljuh... mahches... off... t'wah... sengin' th songs've th'old 'eerows... enna glori-yus deth..." There was more, but it sort've trailed off into an unitelligable mumble as the giantess lost consciousness. The last clear word to escape her lips before her fate was in the hands of her comrades was, naturally, "Ro... rrin...?"


Rorin dived off the queen as he recalled how the antlions outside had blasted lightning in deathly revolt. "Run!" He screamed as he took whoever he could with him off the beast. A fire had burned their in her insides, bursting only in the greater of chasms and craters made within her carapace, but there it died. And it died with her just as everything around them then. The fight was over. The guild had won. Rorin would collect the trophies, the spoils, of what he could, till he felt something so painfully familiar that rang in his ears; a heart breaking sounds like guitar strings snapping. "Oline!" He screamed over what remained of the din, rushing to her, though he had not known where she'd been. "Come on! We have to move, please, get up, we have to get out of here!" His hands were warm and wet with her blood, "no- no, no, no, not like this, not like this," he stuttered and mumbled and cried his pleas as his hands fumbled around the wasps stinger that had forced itself to a gaping wound somewhere in her abdomen. "No no no- you don't get to die like this, do you hear me? You don't get to die, remember, you're supposed to live a thousand words that's what you said! Come on damn it, we have to go home, please just talk to me, stop laying there!" Part of him thought it was useless. Part of him thought... no. He would not allow it. He didn't give a damn what god thought it was her time, Rorin would make some divine intervention of his own! "Come on, come on!" He grabbed around. There. One of the eyes... when they drop, they explode, right? Maybe... just maybe. "Okay, okay Oline I'm gonna get you through this, but you have to trust me okay? This is so gonna hurt me more than you," his left hand pressed the amulet of Arkhen around her wound, trying to stymie the blood. "Damn you, you're gonna live. I don't care what I have to do- you're gonna live, you hear me?!" He took a few deep breaths and- he wrenched the stinger out from her. Much like any wound the blood poured with more force. His hand met the fountain of it there as her organs were no doubt emptying. Hemmorhaging. He had so precious little time. In his right hand he held the eldritch eye of the once flaming beast and- he screamed. A single flash of light. A sound, one loud 'pop'. He forcibly triggered the explosion, his screaming doubled, tripled, the sheer intensity of that flame twisting, melting, burning him. Yet the imstant it happened it was quelled. His right arm glowed powerfully, ancient symbols of the arcane alight, a language unknown, but at the very top on the back of his hand; a white glyph. This was the oldest symbol of love, of purity, of life, and light. It was there that the torrent of flame obeyed a sort of arcane vacuum. The essence of the fire, the abomination which once fueled it, had been held there, and it tested every ounce of Rorins strength to contain just this tiniest bit. Across his arm, his back, the energy traveled? His skin warping, cloth destroyed, crackles of powerful light, changing as it went down his left. What would happen to Oline was no simple healing; it was nothing short of an epic revival. The gaping hole, that cascade of blood, would pour back into her- the wound itself becoming reversed- vast tissues and threads of musclez and organs coming together as her heart would once more beat with the strength of her life. Rorin however became nearly destroyed. The price of such magics was all but the total annihilation of his right arm. Still, he spared on the brink of unconsciousness, but one simple smile.