RP:Westward Ho! The Venturil Venture

Background

With a request for guild assistance having recently reached him, the Thanadule Valentin gathered together a group of low-ranking necromancers to reinforce the efforts in Venturil.

The group runs into trouble when a group of subterranean cultists attack, riled by Tenebrae's blasphemous acts against their deity 'The Deep One'.

The outnumbered group of necromancers (and one kitten, their secret weapon) fight against great odds to preserve their existence and discharge their duties for the Guild.

Venturil: not a place for a jolly holiday

Many miles away, deep underground, a cowled figure is seated upon a throne of warped flesh and bone in the centre of a circular room. The air is thick with the stench of corrupted earth and flesh, though the Keeper of the Throne finds no discomfort in it. Kneeled before the throne is another cowled figure, the Bringer of Tidings, awaiting the Keeper's response to his report. The silence builds as the cowled figure silently consults the Oracle of the Deep One. When the cowled figure finally speaks, it is in an ancient, dissonant language "These Dark Land interlopers have gone too far already. The Deep One no longer slumbers, due to their meddling, and its rage at their impertinence is palpable." The rich bass sussurations of the Keeper's declaration are enhanced by the acoustics of the throne chamber, giving its voice a mesmeric quality. "And now you say more come to reinforce the efforts of the Madwoman, She Who Steals of Divine Flesh." The room roils with the Keeper's indignation. The cowled figure straightens on the throne, extending a limb concealed entirely by the robe "This is the Will of the Deep One: Any from the Dark Lands are Anathema. Destroy them, that the Deep One may rest undisturbed." The Keeper subsides, and the Bringer of Tidings retreats to impart the instructions to the Reaching Tendril of Fate, and the holy warriors it led.

Desolation was exemplified in the misshapen lands of Venturil. The colour palette of the panorama before the convoy would be as varied as any natural location, but here the overall effect was drab and unappealing. The overbearing greys and umber of the wasteland's cracked ground were dominant, but given a somewhat diseased appearance where yellow and red ochres mottled the soil. A faint haze misted around the distant hills, giving a hint of pestilent green to the air. Venturil was a vicious kind of place, and it seemed that only vicious plants thrived. The only truly abundant flora were almost uniformly spiked and barbed, and a skilled botanist or toxicologist might note on closer inspection that the barbs were reminiscent of a serpent's hollow fangs. But even an unskilled eye would note the occasional dried out husk of a creature who had made the error of entering a briar patch to escape larger predators, its fatal mistake providing much needed nutrients and liquids to the ever-thirsty plants of the misshapen lands. All that the path leading into that wasteland lacked was a sign advising 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter' - but then, Venturil could speak for itself on that count.

Valentin || If you left a place to its own devices for long enough, Valentin mused, it took on a character all of its own. Cenril, for example, was as wretched a hive of scum and villainy as a man could need. Larket was a bustling, prosperous and despicably orderly city. Vailkrin was a breeding pit for irksome vampires with lisps and lacy clothing. But some places could be described in terms of a single word - and if there was a single word to describe Venturil, it was 'horrible'. Even the dwarf-hewn rock passages of Craughmoyle had more to recommend them. The butcher took a moment to let himself have a nice internal grumble about the Craughmoyle affair. It had taken the presentation of his Xalious Staff and a quiet bribe to allow the decidedly suspicious party of black-robed figures through the dwarven realm under the pretext of 'Mage Guild Business'. Not strictly an untruth, but still a damn nuisance. They had then, quite apparently, been directed through the least used tunnels in as roundabout a way as their dwarven escort could manage - this was a good thing, Valentin knew, for both parties. But his inner monologue had nonetheless consistent entirely of griping. However, with the Venturil wasteland spread out before him now, Valentin was reminded that his sour mood was due entirely because of the imminence of reaching their destination, and the hell that likely awaited them. "A'right all. We're on th'edge o'Venturil. It's all bad, here on out. Be on y'guard an' watch out f'trouble"

Artritus pulled at the end of his leather gloves, visibly only listening to his old student with half an ear. Perhaps less, as he seemed completely absorbed by the process of putting on this rather lacking protection. He looked up, eventually, and glanced over the robed figures before them and ran a frustrated (and now leather clad) hand trough his unnaturally well kept hair. "There's something about the wilderness, say the desolation, that attracts our kind I've come to learn..." he buzzed or muttered in an almost-groan tone of voice. Tossing a glance behind him as a last reach out to the past, perhaps, before resigning to his fate. In the end, his assistance in handling the Novus had been largely needless. The Thanadules rough grasp on the younger practitioners had been almost complete due to his rather brutal and irrefutable nature. No apprentice said no to Valentin. Especially not on an expedition under his care. Vox or no.

Daisy is barely paying attention to anything the two men are talking about. Maybe she should be, but that just isn't the case right now. Even though she is sitting right between them, her druidly brain is elsewhere. Where? In those bushes, of course! Her feline eyes don't need to be any closer to see those barbs and their delicious hollow points. No. But she wants a closer look anyway! Practically in Artritus' lap, she leans over the lanky man to get that closer look she doesn't need. They're not going too fast. Maybe she can just... reach... out... and... Damn! They're driving too far away from the side of the road. Maybe when they stop. Yes. Definitely when they stop.

Far away, in a subterranean staging area, the Reaching Tendril of Fate assembled the expedition. The features currently hidden beneath the deepset cowl were accounted beautiful according to the Doctrines of the Deep One, and out of deference to the Divine Beauty of the Deep One, the members of the Order remained cowled whilst belowground. Most new prisoners of the Order, however, experienced a loosening of their bowels when confronted with the reality of their captors' appearance. The Tendril had been advised of a party of approximately two dozen Dark Lands trespassers, and had subsequently chosen a substantially larger force: for the Deep One was mighty, and its wrath was ever that of a mountain crashing down upon a mouse. The use of overwhelming force was a holy tenet, and a historically effective one. The bulk of this expedition were Newly Reborn, those recently recruited and reshaped for the furtherance of the Deep One's designs. They were shock troops, sanity largely lost in the process of reshaping, though they would follow orders well: for the Reborn knew the consequences of defying the Will of the Deep One. More reliable, however, were the Seven warriors of the Beatified Legion. Their beauty, intelligence, and destructive urges were signs of the Deep One's favour - they required only the Deep One's desired outcome, and it was their privilege to make it so. Due to the distance they would have to cover, the Reaching Tendril of Fate had petitioned the Keeper for a group of The Failed Ones to be Reconstituted for transport, and had been granted his request for the Glory of The Deep One. With a command hissed in the Order's dark language, the Holy Expedition of Righteous Annihilation began moving through the subterranean warrens deep beneath Venturil. You

Valentin || The convoy's path would be taking them due south as the vulture flies. Regrettably, unlike the vultures, the convoy lacked the wings to avoid a torturously meandering route where the occasional chasms and unsafe footing required careful circumvention. Added to the difficulty of picking a path would be the dense expanses of what explorers had named 'vampiric briars' in their journals. Named after its method of obtaining sustenance, the barbed vinelike structures of this dangerous plant had a propensity to try and wrap themself around anything containing liquids before the hollow barbs began leeching out the moisture inside its prey. The briars themselves were mildly toxic, containing a paralytic and sedative property considered valuable to alchemists and herbalists, minimising the struggles of the plants' food source. Fatigue had stilled the griping tongues of some of the Necromancers - Valentin had given up on telling them to 'Shut th'hell up y'pack o'whingers', preferring to focus his energies on keeping a watchful eye on the horizon whilst paying half attention to the conversations around him. He responds to Artritus with a muttered "Give me th'city any blimmin' day. These places stay uninhabited for blimmin' good reason." When Daisy leans out to try and get a better view of the briars, one of the vines lashes out, missing her by several inches. Valentin's eyes flick instantly to the source of the movement, but the butcher relaxes a moment later "Careful kitten, I think th'plants are as keen t'get their fingers on you as you are them. No need t'go invitin' Vakmatharas embrace so damn soon""

Artritus had, eventually, during the journey given up trying to drive the feline away. He had yet to find himself tolerating much of her invasion of his personal space, but a mere lean over was one of the things he'd found inevitable. With anyone, really. As such, he merely watched the situation unfold with slight amusement, though he was quick to follow Valentins example and return his gaze to the surroundings. Vakmatharas knows that there was no use advising any Novus to do so. Busy as they were griping about the journeys pointlessness and drag. Not to mention, at this point, danger. The young were always far too ignorant of their own grip on their faith. A sigh escaped from the thin man "Where exactly is the base for this expedition of yours?"

Daisy is very quick to snatch her little paw away from the darting vine. "Oooooh." She clutches at the front of Vox's shirt. Coat. Jacket? Clothes. Yes. Both paws clutch at his clothing as she stares wantingly at those lovely briars. "Mutual feelings." Oh she'll have them. One way or another, the feline is going to take a bit of those with her before they leave the area. Her ears perk up when that name is mentioned. "There was a man!" She looks up at Vox and then over at Valentine before moving back into her designated seat, giving Vox a bit more of his personal bubble back. "A man that said nice things about that Vakmatharas." It was a short meeting, so she never really learned who he was.

Valentin scratches at a shaggy muttonchop "Th'guildmistress was down near th'Barrows last time I got word from the Thanadules hangin' 'round her. It ain't the first time she's gone tombcrawlin' down that way, so I know where we have t'end up. I got dragged along on one o'the expeditions, fact o'matter, though the effort had its rewards." The ancient chest suffused with powerful phobomantic enchantments had been his souvenir from that expedition after it had put the butcher, Tenebrae, and Eboric through a truly blimmin' unpleasant experience. "Gettin' there intact with a large blimmin' group is what worries me. An' this time I'm travellin' through the worst o'the wasteland rather than startin' from the town 'round ol' Venturil castle, so I can't rule out unpleasant surprises" Valentin pretended not to be perversely pleased by Vox' discomfort at having his personal space so wantonly invaded. He comments "Nice things? 'Bout th'god o'death an' entropy? World's full of all types, innit." Valentin called over one of the Novus Morior "Oi, Kalthor, y'still got that blighty bird o'yours?" The aforementioned Kalthor willed his undead horse into a semblance of a light canter to come alongside the cart, answering in his habitually soft and measured tone "How may I be of assistance, Thanadule." Kalthor never bothered with question marks, the more subtextually aware students had noticed. His every word tended to be a declaration of polite intent. None had seen his face beneath the robe and mask he wore, though Valentin didn't give a damn. He was an attentive student, and more importantly wasn't an utter prat. "I want you t'set it out to scout those spots we can't see from th'blimmin' ground. Damn wasteland is full of pitfalls and other pain in th'Xalious hidden chasms. Let me know if y'see anything. Have one o'the others keep an eye on you while y'keep th'link maintained." Kalthor had a knack for linking umbral occuli through the empty sockets of his undead pets, but it required concentration. "Ask Eliza. She's steady." Kalthor nodded "As you will it, Thanadule. I shall speak with Van Radigan, and commence." As Kalthor draws back Valentin mutters "I don't like this place. It pretends t'be flat, but it aint. It's like a Cenrilli shivboy, boring to look at, but plannin' t'knife you in th'back."

Artritus watched Valentin dole out his instruction with a slight approving air. Using your underling to what potential they had was always an action he would favor, if not suggest. Taking the slightest interest in the Novus, cold eyes followed Kalthor on his endeavor to carry out these new instruction, leaving the other two to speak of whatever they might. Even though that particular topic may be more his own expertise. He'd never been one to preach to those unwilling to listen. Not to mention it was highly pointless in current company.

Daisy sits back in her little spot, wrapping her arms around her knees so she can rock a little. She wonders where one can get minions to just do whatever they are told to do. That would be kind of nice, really. Maybe she'll get some of her own. What do you need minions for anyway, kitten? Gonna have them pluck dandelions for you? You can weed your own gardens. Concentrate on not falling out of the cart, yeah? Sure she's in the middle. That doesn't matter.

Through the labyrinthean warrens come the flapping patter of flesh on stone as the Reborn, favoured children of The Deep One, rushed forth to perform Its Will upon those who had dared anger It. A series of cracked chasms and canyons would be the departure point for the Reaching Tendril of Fate's forces. Leading the Failed One mounts, the large cowled figure looked forward to the glorious acts of destruction which would be wrought upon the Anathemata trespassing from the Dark Lands. When the final staging point is reached the Tendril deploys its forces, each of the Failed Mounts capable of bearing several of the Reborn on their broad backs, while the Tendril and the Beatified had each been granted an individual steed, a gift from The Deep One in recognition of the favour granted unto those chosen to destroy Its enemies. At last, the command is hissed "For the Glory of the Deep One... Move out!" and the Holy Expedition of Righteous Annihilation began its ascent to the wasteland surface.

Valentin had subsided into a quiet watchfulness of his own, paying careful attention to the terrain in front of him. While the meatcart contained necessary supplies, it was still a damn pain to drive through the wastelands. Huff and Gruff, tough bastards that they were, endured it well enough but were definitely more cranky and inclined to nip each other than usual. Valentin, for once, let them have at it for an hour or two until even their stubborn pony minds realised how stupid their tit-for-tat game of biting was.

Artritus only acknowledged the ponies fight for a brief moment before turning his gaze to the surroundings. But he didn't exactly seem to see them. Rather, he gave special attention to disjointed spots that seemed to have nothing to do with anything. As if looking trough holes into something beyond. Silent all the while except perhaps a slight hmph-like noise in response to and sound that momentarily caught his attention for long enough to gain any visual confirmation

Daisy leans forward to watch the ponies have their little nip fight for a little while. "Sshhh." For some reason, the kitten just can't keep her paws to herself. Why do you have to touch everything! Foolish girl. Well look at that. You nearly got kicked just now. Are you so surprised? "No." Pouting, Daisy sits back between the two men with a little huff.

Valentin flicked the reins to remind the swift-kicking Gruff that he and his partner had a damn job to do. His silent musings on what he might have to deal with when they reached the barrows are interrupted by the reappearance of Kalthor and the black-veiled figure of Eliza Van Radigan, who held Kalthor's pony. Eliza's hoarse, toneless voice cut through the air like the wind in a graveyard "Kalthor, we have reached the Thanadule." Kalthor, who had his head sunk to his chest, spoke "Further to the west, several large centipedes, five or six that I could make out, and groups some kind of people or goblin astride them. Several riders, also, on large horses or similar riding beasts, I could make out six. It is difficult to gauge numbers via this method of observation due to the terrain. But they are moving with purpose in our direction, and outnumber us." Valentin pursed his lips a moment, then tugged on the reins before shouting "Haul in, you lot. We've got trouble." Soon the stationery meatcart becomes the temporary command centre of the convoy as Valentin swiftly goes through his current mental checklist of contingency plans. "Right, depending on what we are up against, we may need t'fight, or run like buggery. I need someone t'find us an escape route now. We're closed in on th'east side by those bloody briars, it's open plains behind us, Vakmatharas-knows-what ahead of us, and some bankers closin' in on us from th'west. And there ain't nothin' friendly out here, so we're in a bit of a situation. This ain't a defensible spot. We're open blimmin' targets and have no idea if we're outmatched strength-to-strength. You lot ain't brawlers, so I am thinking we find a better spot what can be defended." Valentin looked around. "That escape route. Anyone got any blimmin' ideas? Or are you lookin' forward t'fightin' off a horde o'the natives like in them stupid storybooks? Well, let me tell you, a fight ain't blimmin' scones and high tea, I'm tellin' you." Meanwhile, Valentin racked his brain. He could get himself out, no problem. Getting two dozen Novus Morior and Sclerati, however, was a right feckin' problem.

Artritus climbed off the cart as Valentin spoke. Once again listening with half an ear as he paced around the improvised command center. Almost striding legally, still hooking his gaze on those seemingly unimportant spot. Jumping between them somewhat like a birds gaze once grounded. As Valentin went silent and asked for ideas Vox spoke up. But with instructions rather than ideas. His attitude was very much the sort that didn't wait for or tolerate being questioned in the current situation. "I'll need a scrying circle about a meter in radius. And whatever people you have adept at containing my gate." the gate, of course, was something none of the Novus would know much about. It was, indeed, an obscure term and knowledge. A sort of tool for the darker parts of summoning and conjuration largely related to the passage of souls and spirits in a controlled manner. Rather a trademark for one of Vox's expertise. The thin man himself, after stating his requirements climbed the cart towards his pack and rummaged around in search for some specific tool.

Daisy enjoys stories. Especially good ones. She also enjoys scones and tea. Unfortunately none of these things are happening right now. Right now is for ideas and plans. Right now is for getting out of the cart. Stupid thing is so far off the ground. She rolls to her belly and stretches a single foot towards the ground. Why is it so far!? That little foot kind of waves at the earth, stretching and reaching while she claws at the cart's seat to keep from just wha--! Oh. Yes. You were only a few inches away, kitten. Good. Now. "I can do it." She scampers over there towards the vampy thorns and squats down with her corgitush resting there by her heels so she can have herself a little conversation! She whispers and giggles and swats at a naughty vine with a serious look. The kind of look where you swear the o's have eyes. Evil kitten eyes! Daisy's kitten eyes smile over at the butcher. "They'll move for us." She points yonder. "And make a path."

Valentin nods to Daisy "First bit o'good news I've had today". As Thanadule, he calls out "Alhandry. Get over here. You too, Maledict - but keep y'trap shut an' follow Vox' orders to th'blimmin' letter, y'hear? Or it's Reanimation class all over again, get me?" Jeremiah Alhandry was a hereditary necromancer, like his father, grandfather, and so forth. He was reliable, if a bit surly. Maledict was a pompous ass with more talent and fashion sense than he had tact or common sense. Valentin reckoned Vox would find them the most capable of following his instructions, given Kalthor needed a rest from his extended use of umbral energies. The butcher rubs the stubble of his jaw in minor agitation as the problem of logistics demand his attention, then takes off his duster and rolls back his sleeves, revealing the complex and intricate array of sigils his insane sire had carved into his flesh. Reaching back, he takes his cleaver and harness from the rack behind him, slipping it over his broad shoulders. "Right. Vox. You know what t'do. Then find us a place t'set up some nastiness for whoever these bankers are." Valentin turns to Daisy "Once Vox has done his bit, follow his directions as t'where t'make your path." Finally the butcher addresses the necromancers "You lot, when th'kitten has a path made, follow her like you're her new blimmin' tail, got me? An' If any of you lot can surprise me, and are actually better at travellin' through shadows than you've otherwise let on, feel free t'join me on th'front line for what will probably end up killin' you if you can't escape through th'shadows."

Artritus pulled out a small glass orb that, should one look closely, seemed to contain a skull bathed within a liquid filling of blood. Like an incredibly twisted snow globe. He rises up, clutching a rune enscrolled bone from what might have been a horse in his other hand and lobs the orb towards Valentin. With a simple "Catch". The Thanadule would very likely recognize this device from long ago. Old and simple blood magic. Few things could hold and store necromantic energies like constructions such as this, it could very well serve as a quite handy battery to avoid exhausting one self on a potentially draining task such as what the Thanadule was about to attempt. The sage didn't wait for a response but turned to his newly assigned Novus, pointing at a fairly flat spot close by. "I Want a simple circle with your basic channeling array made right there, one meter radius. As fast as you can. But be aware; should you cause me to fail you'll be the ones dying, not me." as they supposedly set to this task, the necromancer himself dug into his trust satchel and pulled out a silver amulet which he quickly slung around his neck as the twisted syllables of the language of the dead begun to flow from his lips like a vehemently haunting song of twisting horrors. Unlike most others, however, it would seem more familiar that the usual crawling noise. Much like the undeniable presence and approach of ones own inevitable demise.

Daisy's smile holds with a firm nod and that little mhmm sound girls do when they nod. She isn't so sure how she feels about those men being that close, but maybe Valentin didn't mean it so literally. These are strange people so who is to say what they are capable of. Gosh that man sure is close. "Don't touch," she warns before returning to her whispering to the bushes.

Valentin lets the blood orb land safely in his large hand, then drops it carefully into his apron pocket. "Cheers, Guvnor". Meanwhile, Jeremiah Alhandry and Maledict Avernus get about putting together the basic channeling circle Vox had described to them. Even Maledict, perhaps due to the memory of the disastrous reanimation class, kept it simple and to specification. Standing on the driver's seat of the meatcart, Valentin caught sight of dust rising in the distance "We're runnin' out o'time, old man. Soon we'll be starin' in the faces o'what you are scryin', innit" Valentin rips off a bit of cloth from his shirt, and punctures his palm with a sharpened nail, squeezing some of the stale black blood lingering in his veins onto the cloth. The butcher tosses it to Vox. "I'll try an' buy us some time. Find a path for the kitten to make, and when you've got enough distance and briars between our lot and the incoming lot, scrawl old Thanarkos' Umbral Beacon out somewhere with that cloth as the activator. I'll be able t'get back to you in no time." The butcher jumps off the cart with a shouted "Someone take th'blimmin reins!" As Valentin tromps over a few feet from the convoy in the direction of the slowly-developing dustcloud, he is joined by Eliza Van Radigan. The butcher nods "Y'black tides are comin' along, then, I take it luv." The faintest of nods could be distinguished beneath the thick black veils concealing Eliza's features.

Artritus watched the progress and catch'd the cloth, stuffing it into a pocket in his tattered red jacket before he, quite suddenly, shooed at the Novus and stepped into the circle, his shadow morphing to fill in the gaps within it. It was a trick limited to already mostly-prepared circles and very makeshift. Really a solution only in moments where one was pressed for time such as now. His voice reverted to common speech for a short moment as to dole out instructions. "There will be an oncoming surge of energy. Weave this back into the circle best you can." he said to the budding necromancers around him in a matter of fact tone before turning to the druid. "As soon as I start moving, you had better be ready to clear the path." It was as if he swapped language mid sentence as he didn't wait to return to the deathly chant. Unlike the usually quite visual use of the dark arts, there was little to see with Vox's ritual. There was a distant echo at one point and those with keen senses might have sworn they saw a circular portal open around the mans feet. But it would be gone as quick as it'd appeared. The air, however, was quite a clear sign that the old sage was indeed up to something. Chills ran trough the atmosphere within certain spots, rushing out from the circle and other places. Rising slowly from the ground and moving away at barely comprehensible speeds. It was much like something the eye couldn't see having awakened at the Necromancers behest. Something cold but incorporeal now surging trough the surroundings as directed by the old man.

Daisy looks between Vox and the briars, turning her head back and forth several times as if this were some sort of great magical feat for her to handle. She flashes him a sunny grin that makes most of the area cringe and then straightens up to stretch out all four feet of her, planting both kitten fists on her hips. Vox is moving! Now to get down to business! Sweet briars! She coos at them, taking small steps closer. There you are now. Just move on aside. There you go. Make way for us now. Oh you're such good little plants, now aren't you! Once she has control, her steps lighten and she skips on through in that carefree way she does: twisting and turning and bending around the deadly briars. The plants seem to dance with her, parting just in time to keep from harming that furry little ballerina. On several occasions, both the men and the briars are scolded with a wagging clawed finger for getting too close to each other. "Back in line." We can't have any accidents, right?! Right. And then she breaks through, practically stumbling into the clearing. Looking up with a proud grin, she calls out to Vox. "Found it!"

Valentin notes where Daisy commences cajoling the briars into parting for the convoy, the vines lashing lazily in the air, and grunts to Eliza "Right. I need you t'construct an umbral gate array while I get busy with a nasty surprise for the sods comin' at us t'slow 'em up. Once y'done, think o'something t'cause some damage. And find out if Vox knows what we are up against." Valentin and Eliza get to work, the veiled Novus Morior using a stick to mark the ground, Valentin standing in absolute stillness as he concentrates on the black tides, forming a wide expanse of shadow-sigils on the ground in an elaborate pattern. Valentin checks and double checks his work as Vox conducts his art and the necromancers begin lining up at the start of Daisy's briar path.

Artritus heard Valentins call just as he was about to move along the new path. He looked behind him and saw the cart left behind. Cursing in some far off language, clearly frustrated. "When the Thanadule says to take the Reins, he does NOT mean the man engaged in a ritual you Death-addled dimwits!" he calls out before darting towards Daisy and the closing path. "Keep it open then! Lest we have to fight them here because of some waste-of-life pair of ponies and their cart." he growls as he comes up upon the feline. Passing trough the passage should it be open enough only to quickly, with another display of his rather insectoid way of agile movement, place himself in the driver seat and rouse the two ponies. Who really, in his perhaps somewhat surrealistically critical mind, may just as well have picked up on the danger damn well on their own.

Daisy blinks rapidly when she hears Valentin hollar like that. Her eyes widen and her ears droop. "Oh shi--." Kitten! She quickly moves the briars so Vox can drive the cart through, careful not to let the ponies get hurt.

In the chaos of Vox starting up the pony express, accompanied by the smug noises Huff and Gruff make, the creators of the no-longer-distant dustcloud come into view. The blessed avengers of the Deep One are revealed in all their horrific glory. Their Black Cowls of Humility are cast back, for on the surface world the Will of the Deep One demands they reveal their divine beauty to those pitiful and inferior creatures who had not been similarly blessed. But beauty is ever in the eye of the beholder. Arrayed in a loose skirmishing formation are creatures whose appearance could be called the stuff of nightmares - if the one dreaming was irrevocably deranged. The Newly Reborn were evidently once human, one or two having an unmarred face or unwarped limb here and there to give evidence of their original form - but that was all that was left of them. Fishbelly pale, the wretched creatures had been warped by fell magics, and the results were uniquely monstrous. Strangely disjointed limbs, boneless appendages, faces with no features at all or dangling wattles of wibbling flesh where a beard might otherwise be. None looked alike, save in that none were human in appearance. But there was a strangely fervent energy to their movements, like the tense excitement seen in hounds before the hunt. Yet, if the creatures approaching them were grotesque, the beasts they rode were horrendous. From a distance, it may have seemed that they rode giant, broad albino centipedes. As they get closer, though, what seemed to be a multitude of insectoid eyes are clearly human faces growing out of the transport creature's fleshy head, the faces contorted in agony and silent screams. The insectoid limbs are revealed to be strangely articulated variants of human arms and legs. The carapace, too, bears the same pallid hue of the Newly Reborns' flesh.

To the rear of the Centipedal horrors and the numerous Newly Reborn riding them are eight more figures perhaps more deserving of caution despite their fewer numbers. Each of them rides a grotesque parody of a warhorse, a golem of flesh and razored bone extrusions skillfully crafted from those who failed the Sacrament of Rebirth which had successfully warped their riders into monstrous harbingers of destruction. At a guess, these multilimbed horrors would stand at seven to eight foot tall if not seated with the exception the apparent leader who rose from his saddle like a behemoth. That creature, at close to nine or ten feet in height, was clearly a more refined masterpiece of destruction. The creature's face was a mass of fleshy tendrils which writhed independently of any breeze, its body was a patchwork of flesh studded with sections of bone plating, and four powerful limbs extended from its torso. Two of the appendages resembled the vines of the briar which infested this part of the landscape, fleshy tentacles studded with protruding bone barbs. The other two limbs would have appeared to be normal, albeit large, human arms were it not for the blades of bone scything out of the flesh and curving back along the line of each arm. From behind the curtain of tendrils on its face would come a dissonant stream of instructions in a language unfamiliar to Daisy, but recognisable to the necromancers present. Of all of them, Vox would have the best chance of recognising it as a corrupted dialect of the necromantic cant, and that the command is a simple directive to 'Destroy the Anathemata in the name of The Deep One!'.

Valentin swears under his breath, a curt sequence of Cenrilli invective designed precisely for when a man found himself in trouble right up to his castles. "Well, ain't that a pretty feckin' picture. Change of plan, luv. Unless you think you can get through that lot alive, I'd be usin' that array o'yours right now, an' rejoin t'others" To the oncoming creatures he calls out a sibilant phrase which, despite the differences in necromantic dialects, should still translate roughly as "Vakmatharas rot your genitalia" and prepares himself for more trouble than he was being paid for.

Artritus was not going to wait for the druid to climb up, slow as she was at that, when he came by. Instead, she'd find her own shadow lifting her feet to bring her within reach of the necromancer, who quickly pulled her onto the car as he past, struggling for a moment to direct the Death-deserving ponies with one hand. As soon as she girl was on board, however, he kept the pace and followed behind the stream of Novus that would, most likely, have continued down the path towards the chosen, more defensible spot. In any other situation, he would've given the reins to the feline in order to give Valentin his beacon. But at the moment her talents were needed to close the Briars behind them. The butcher was a tenacious man however, and was counted on to form some sort of solution to hold off for the short moment needed here.

Daisy lets out a little yelp. On the ground one minute and next to Vox the next. Lifted by... gosh, she doesn't even want to know! Her lips part as she watches this army approach. This really is no place for you. You know that, right? Take a breath. Good girl. The worst thing you can do is get in the way. The best thing you can do is help protect those men! So the bushes thicken and the briars grow long. They are thicker and hungrier than before, able to pierce a man in two if needed. Satisfied with her barrier, she does her very best not to interrupt Vox's concentration as she turns towards him. "Tell me what to do."

Valentin || Eliza Van Radigan saw the wisdom of Valentin's words, and in her slow hoarse voice uttered the cantatus of umbral binding, sinking into her shadow where it falls within her circle, and subsequently slinking off in pursuit of the meatcart. The butcher, in the meanwhile, waits for the first of the Centipedal Horrors and its grotesque riders to reach the circle he had scorched into the ground. In the distance, the Reaching Tendril of Fate wibbled its tentacles in zealous indignation, responding to Valentin's jibe in its own sibilant and gurgling voice "The Deep One will feast upon you, blasphemer!" Valentin, recognising the phrase blasphemer, and having always equated it to the clergy, lets a grim sort of smile tug at the corners of his mouth. A priest. That one was his. If not now, then later. But for now, he waited, trading jibes with the approaching enemies. He'd let Vox figure out what in the blazes the damn things were later. The most zealous of the attackers neared his circle and Valentin began the complex variant to the cantatus of pyrumbral channeling required to activate his ritual array, dissonant syllables coursing from his throat and tainting the air with their utterance. Halfway through, the Reaching Tendril of Fate wibbled urgently, calling the order "Turn back now! Halt!", but while most of the oncoming assailants had the time to haul on their transports and cease the forward momentum, it was too late for the lead Centipedal Horror and the dozen Newly Reborn on its back. As the fleshbeast skidded across the dust in the riders' efforts to halt its momentum, Valentin reached the crescendo of the canta, drew the blood orb from his pocket and called upon its reserves. Valentin, Thanadule of the Necromancer's guild, uttered the final command canta as the creature came within the boundary of the circle. The sigils, seared deep into the earth as they were, survive the Centipedal Horror's entry intact, and for a few brief seconds a powerful pillar of black flame roars into existence as the circle, and everything in it, is drowned in the Black Tides, obscuring the sky and the creatures behind it. A smell of ozone and less pleasant odors intrudes upon the air, and Valentin is showered in ash - the remains of the creature still affected by its initial momentum. A perfect black scorchmark is left in the earth and Valentin grunts. Orb or no orb, channeling such powers took its toll on him, and he would be resorting to the hell which was Tenebrae's mystical hangover cure soon.

Artritus handed Daisy the reins with a short cut "Get us there" as he saw the black flames. That was about as clear a cue as the necromancer had ever been given, save perhaps a loud 'Do it now you abomination of a man!!'. Which had happened a few times. He climbed the cart to find a suitable spot, pulling the rag from his pocket along with a scroll from his satchel, standing for a moment as to find enough balance. It didn't take him long to preform the spell requested. As he unfurled the scroll on the surface of the cart, it was revealed to sport a premade array. Painted with exquisite detail and care, almost a work of art in it's own way. The Death priest places the rag he'd been given on it and spoke once again in that well practiced rendition of the language of the dead. The array lit up for but a brief moment before the scroll itself rotted away into some sort of dust. Reduced to what may as well have been the ash of a corpse. Still, the short lived flare would be more than enough for a user of the tide with Valentin's skill to grab onto.

Daisy doesn't want to drive the cart! She wants to go back there and make sure Valentin is okay! That is her job. Her only job! The job she is best at! If he is broken, then she needs to fix him. Oh come now. He's a big boy and he'll be just fine for a minute without you. Do as you promised and mind Vox. She takes the reins and plops down on her butt with a very visible pout. "Come on, ponies!" And she drives. Rides? Directs. Hm. Anyway, she is in charge of the ponies now! Onward they go in a steady fashion so Vox doesn't fall off.

Valentin gathered himself, preparing for the next onslaught when he felt a tap on his shoulder. A flick of the butcher's gaze revealed his shadow jerking a thumb in the direction of the retreating convoy, a crack in the outline of its head's silhouette resembling a raised eyebrow. Valentin gives the Reaching Tendril of Fate a long hard look, wanting to know what it felt like to cut an inhuman priest down into its component parts... and the blimmin' thing had so many parts to remove... but there was a time and a place. And Valentin was a patient man. The butcher hissed out the sequence of sibilants for the cantantus of umbral binding, and sinks into his own shadow. Within the Umbra, the afterglow of the extremely shortlived shadow beacon was nonetheless sufficient to guide both the butcher and Eliza to the convoy's precise location - in that sea of vampiric briars, there was little room for error. As Eliza rejoins the other Necromancers, Valentin makes his way to the driver's seat with a grumbled "Well, this is th'kind o'trouble I jus' knew th'damn mistress would be bringin' down on me. I bet the blimmin' things are her inbred extended family, an' this is their way o'sayin' hello to hard-workin' folks like m'self." Valentin would eventually retrieve the reins and take over driving duties once more "Somethin' tells me, we're goin' t'need t'be creative t'take out th'rest o'them. I don't have th'wherewithal t'pull that kind o'stunt more'n once in a day or four. That blimmin' banker knew what I was chantin', called most o'them back afore I could roast most o'them. Downright dangerous, them things."

Even Rocky (outcrops) Got a Montage

In the distance, watching the group of Necromancers passing through the normally-ravenous briars with the aid of a most strange druid, the Reaching Tendril of Fate seethed with righteous fury. By the Deep One, it would make them pay in coin of blood and despair. It was not the loss of a dozen Newly Reborn and the centipedal transport crafted from Failed Ones which galled - those could be replaced with some effort at a later date. It was the affrontery of the Dark Lands interlopers in temporarily escaping the holy destruction for which they were destined. And yet, deep within the hazed and warped perceptions of the Reaching Tendril, a semblance of worry stirred. These interlopers could understand the holy language of the Deep one, had responded to it in a strangely familiar dialect. The Reaching Tendril too had understood the nature of the Aproned Darkbringer's incantations prior to the annihilation of one sixth of the Newly Reborn contingent in a towering inferno of black fire. It had witnessed the Keeper of the Throne using similar 'Dark Flames of Purification' when punishing heretics and apostates. To then see these Dark Lands infidels use such holy rites upon the Chosen of the Deep One... the large warleader hissed and with a waving motion of one barbed tentacle the Holy Expedition of Righteous Annihilation began the lengthy process of circumnavigation what was a veritable sea of briars claiming miles of foothills. The Deep One's will would be done this day, and no later. The infidels had bought themselves maybe a handful of hours, at most.

Artritus looked behind him momentarily as they finally arrived at the chosen spot. He held up a hand as a signal to halt as he slid off from the drivers seat, planting his feet heavily onto the hostile soil beneath them. They'd arrived at a hill of sorts. A dull outcropping that the briars couldn't seem to climb or grow on. It was a fragmented rock, however, full of cracks and crannies, much like an enormous stone cracked and sunk into the cursed soil of Venturil. The old man stood as a stark contrast to the colorless surroundings as he climbed the hill, tossing a glance towards the single, rather slim, approach up a rocky path leading up to the clearing trough a forest of thorns and gods know what else. "I think this should do, given what time we have.." he mused aloud, looking over to the Thanadule.

Daisy takes just a minute to gather herself. A pretty little smile staring up at the sky fools pretty much everybody if they didn't really know the kitten for real. Folded paws rest calmly in her lap. One ear droops lazily to the side. Oh this is practiced. Oh so very practiced. Don't let them see you falling apart, girl. It makes you an easy target. That smile shifts back to those vampy briars. Such good friends they are. They thicken and shift, irritated from the disturbance that did not bring the feast that should have been amazing! "Maybe later," she coos before following close behind Vox.

Valentin examined the spot Vox had chosen for them. Half hill, half rocky plateau, it was definitely appropriate for the enemy they were facing, which in no way surprised the butcher. The old man's mind was sharp as a tack, despite Valentin's frequent accusations of senility. Valentin mused aloud "Wide field o'vision. Useful. Mostly rock is blimmin' handy too - ritual circles won't be bollocksed up by a random gust o'wind an' debris. Th'bankers what'll be tanglin' with us will find it blimmin' difficult t'muss up the outer arrays if we scorch 'em in proper-like." The butcher glanced out to one side of the geologicleal formation to where the forest of vines hadn't really bothered to establish and which, later, would form their own exit route to continue their southerly journey. "I'm thinkin', Vox, that this here's goin' t'be your area of expertise. I'm goin' t'have four of the Novus stick with me, but the other sixteen of 'em are under your guidance until we're clear o'this feckin' debacle of a situation." Valentin calls out to the assembled necromancers "Right. You lot. Pay attention if y'want t'get through this with all y'blimmin' limbs intact." Valentin didn't bother waiting to see who paid attention "Alhandry, Van Radigan, Kerezniev, Avernus. You four are stickin' to me like glue. The rest of you, do what old man Vox tells you to do, an' do it exactly the way he blimmin' tells you to. I don' care if you've read about it bein' done differently. I don' care if you prefer t'do it differently. If you lot don't want t'get ripped t'shreds, you'll follow instructions competently. An' that's not takin' into account th'bastards currently goin' the long way 'round those plants to make a horrible mess of all of us." Valentin cast his dour gaze over them "Right. It's your show now Vox." The butcher nods to Daisy "Don't fret, kitten, been in worse pickles. Vox is hidin' a decent brain behind 'is grumpy face". The hypocrisy of that statement is not lost on Valentin, in truth, he was more concerned about mitigating the risk of the young kitten panicking at the wrong moment. Plant the seed of hope in a living mind, and they'd often clutch to it like a drowning man clutches a lifeline. He'd seen it time and time again - usually in the leadup before he dumped them into the wyrmpit on behalf of some mobster or gang boss in Cenril. But the principle was sound. "Chin up, an' see if y'can convince them horrid plants t'get in on th'game at some point. Got a big damn meal on th'way, after all. An' the plants aren't t'know th'damn things probably don' even have blood in their veins."

Artritus nodded briefly at Valentin. Listening while looking over the Apprentices at hand a pulling at the frayed edges of his tattered sleeves. All that Valentin had said was about what he was expecting. Though he would have to drop some of the work on his old student further down the line of preparations. There were things that the vampire did better, it was a simple truth. But for now, The old man started walking along the mass of apprentices, dividing them into groups, mumbling instructions, pointing out locations and handing out scrolls from his bag to be used as references for the arrays he wanted placed. It took the priest less than a minute to get the entire hill abuzz with preparation for the oncoming onslaught as he himself climbed to the edges of the clearing, as close to the briars as one could dare, and started at the outline of a frankly enormous circle.

Daisy looks up at Grumpy McAngryface then back at Valentin with a brightened smile. You're not fooling him with that one, kitten. He knows. Just do as he says and stay out of the way. She straightens with her heels snapping together and a salute. Ever see a butcher with a feathered hat? Aye-aye, Cap'n! Everything is shiny! This imagery sends her off towards those brushes in a fit of giggles, daring to move closer than some of the others might dare. Sometimes a girl has to get close to her work if there is trust to be had. She purrs at the thorny mess, promising them treats if they behave. Who doesn't like treats?

Valentin got his four erstwhile apprentices together and had a quiet conversation with them. After noting the diameter of Artritus Vox' outer circle, he conjured from shadows a curiously small ritual array for the four Novus Morior to examine. Passing the Pyrumbral tides through the shadowy sigils, Valentin scorches it into the ground, then gestures to a number of locations. As Eliza, Jeremiah, Kalthor, and Maledict head off to follow Valentin's instructions Valentin calls out "An' remember! Draw first, Shadow overlay second, then channel th'pyrumbral tides. I'll be checkin' y'work, so don't cut any blimmin' corners." The butcher too tromps here and there outside the large circle, implanting his ritual circles at strategic locations.

Artritus was, evidently, quite capable of noticing and correcting errors even as he rather lovingly encircled them all in a complex but entirely circular array, quite hollow as it were. "You! Where are you standing? I believe I said north. I also said that if you do -not- manage to place it in the north we'll all risk being tossed into the void and reanimated as shrieking ghasts. Now, barring that you have a rather horrible singing voice you wish to disguise with all our collective banshee-wails; two feet to the left!"

Daisy doesn't mind the glances she gets from some of the others. Strange little kitten playing so nicely with those strange little plants of hers. Not so little, maybe. Some of the thorns are bigger than she is! While those thorns practically nuzzle into the kitten's fur, she watches the necromancers work. Maybe it would be a good idea not to mess up those circles, eh? Just a little thing to keep in mind if you have to start running about. Might wanna lace up your-- Oh right. You don't wear shoes.

Valentin tromps between the small ritual circles his four apprentices had been searing into the ground on his behalf, one lip twitching at the sound of Vox' imprecations against one of the Novus Morior's insufficient grasp of cardinal directions. "Right, not bad. Eliza, run th'Pyrumbral tides through yours again, I need th'scorching t'run at least a foot into th'ground f'this. Th'delicate touch is normally good, but today we're goin' t'err on the side o'robust. This is where th'difference between academic necromancy an' practical necromancy comes into play, right? In th'comfort of your own workrooms, y'can keep things simple an' neat. But out in a place like this, anythin' could go wrong, an' if your ritual array gets compromised, you are fecked in all directions, y'get me? Proper fecked. Now, once Eliza's done, we're goin' t'look at a couple of other things t'keep things interestin'" The butcher notes the kitten in the vines, and shakes his head. Anything else in there would have been a dried husk within minutes, an' she was natterin' away with th'damn things like a kid with a puppy. The world was full of all sorts. Still, the druid had got them this far, and who knew what would happen if one o'them ugly bastards got caught up in th'briars. The butcher was certainly interested in finding out, and had some ideas on how to increase the chance of him witnessing such an occurrence.

Artritus me patted a Novus over the back as he passed over their circle, muttering "Connect it with the Revivification array over there." by-the-by. He soon approached the Thanadule for a brief would, which he didn't bother waiting for. "Valentin. I can invoke the feast around this hill. I believe it might be an idea to work in your particular sort of golem as, shall we say, bouncers? I intend to work on curses next. I may perhaps be able to weave in a puppeteer stage into it for you..." he buzzes on as he looks along the line of the yet incomplete array around the hill. Eyeing it for fault and sockets, as it were. One could never quite know ahead of time what a necromantic fortification like this would contain.

Daisy crawls under the bushes a little, leaving her corgietush up in the air while she digs in the dirt. Borrowed roots tucked in her bag probably go unnoticed by the others so busy with their own work. She straightens again, whispering soft words mixed in with a bit of playful laughter to the one responsibility Valentin gave her before she prances back to the butcher. Watch the damn-- Seriously. Don't mess up those circles! Somehow she manages not to destroy anything and Val's sleeve is given a tug. "They like us." The kitten smiles. Oh sure they'll help. Only cause they know she can drain them to dust too.

Valentin glances at Vox "Th'feast o'Suffering, Guv? Y'aint lost y'touch, I take it then. That damn circle's still too complex for me t'plan out independent-like, even for a small sequence of arrays. Reckon you're one o'the few what can make th'damn thing work without gettin' themselves ripped apart by the collidin' entropic energies, so I'll follow y'lead. Shadowice golems, comin' right up." Valentin nods to his four helpers "Right you lot, follow m'directions, draw in th'circles, but do -not- run the pyrumbral tides through the circles yet. Vox'll be tinkerin' with them t'link them into his own specialty." Valentin jerks a thumb at Vox "You'll get t'witness somethin' of a legend wi'this one. Th'feast o'Suffering is rarely seen on account o'the complexity o'the damn thing. An' on account of its creator bein' a blimmin' recluse." Valentin continued lecturing even as he started sketching out the linked arrays of umbral binding and cryumbral summoning required for the creation of a shadowice golem. "Y'see, the Feast o'Suffering is never formed in th'same way twice, except when the ritual conditions involved happen to be completely uniform in every way. It's a ritual born of Ol' Man Vox' habit o'breakin' ideas down into their component parts an' rebuildin' them from th'ground up t'suit him. Now, you've all seen what I've done with Vandon LeRouge's little bit of ingenuity t'power an individual ritual array usin' life energies of some critter. Well, th'feast is bigger, better, an' feeds off more subtle energies. Don' ask me how to do it after, neither, because I ain't that skilled in th'construction o'ritual arrays. Now, stop gawkin' an' get drawin'. Use this design I've got here, an' double check then triple check every little bloody detail, because this particular array is technically above your guild rank, an' I don't want it messed up." Valentin, finding his sleeve tugged upon, looks down to receive Daisy's report "Glad t'hear it, kitten. Every bit counts when we're facin' superior numbers. Jus' remember that, if th'vines ain't attackin' you, you're probably goin' t'be safest hidin' in among 'em when th'crop of ugly bastards come rushin' up that embankment, innit"

Artritus nods and kind of strides away at the confirmation, overseeing some of the connections made between the circles he'd set the Novus to make before assigning them new work and starting at his own connection. His calm and collected attitude was both similar and different to the Butcher. Different sides of the same coin, this pair, but yet the same coin when value came to count. He would be quite busy for a while. Drawing circles of his own in layers inside the circular feast array as well as both assisting and drawing arrays of his own upon the hill within the embrace of the feast itself. The priest seemed quite in his element as he, spell for spell, ensured the oncoming onslaught rode willingly into hell by his hand.

Daisy knows all about hiding in the foliage when times absolutely call for it. Especially when that foliage is as dangerous as this particular kind happens to be. Just look at that grin on her little face. Yes, she absolutely knows. Plans that are deviously sneaky are made as she searches the faces of those necromancers, making sure none of them are fish-like. The last thing the little druid needs is for someone to point at her and yell, "It's a trap!"

Valentin likewise focuses on the task at hand, setting up a line of linked arrays, but would make a note of the direction which Daisy heads off in when the time came. It was important to at least know where -not- to hurl one's victims. As the butcher continued preparing the array, he pondered. Under normal circumstances Valentin would never bother with creating so many ritual circles, as the energy required to maintain them all would be impossible for him to maintain alone, and wouldn't typically be feasible even with this many Novus Morior and Sclerati. The variable which altered things in this scenario was the presence of Vox, and his Feast of Suffering. There was enough anxiety present in the human Novus Morior to begin charging the Feast and ease the activation of the initial rituals which would, if all went well, cause enough damage and chaos to truly get the cycle of energy-to-mana conversion turning apace. Valentin had never been able to figure out how Vox had done it, but he knew that part of it was an advanced understanding of phobomantic principles. Phobomancy, which fed off and enhanced the fears and anxieties of its victims, could in principle be retroengineered for alternative uses - but how Vox had taken that notion and used the energies typically stirred up by phobomancy to act as a cyclical conduit of necromantic energies... well, Valentin knew he would probably see the passage of a century before he got the concept hammered out in a practically workable state through independent research. Of course, he knew Vox had seen the passage of at least a century, despite his appearance. There was more to Artritus Vox than folks would appreciate from jus' lookin' at the ol' bastard, Valentin knew. Once the shadowice golem arrays are in place, Valentin gets Maledict and Kalthor aside "Right. Kalthor. Get that damn bird of yours in th'air an' scoutin' due south of here. If I was them' I'd be tryin' t'chase us by first cuttin' off the direction we was first headin' in, then fannin' out like beaters on a pheasant hunt. Find 'em, an' let Maledict know what's happenin'. Maledict, y'got a loud voice, so give me a holler when Kalthor spots somethin'. Eliza, Jeremiah, come with me."

Artritus stood silently watching for but a moment, overseeing the transformation of the hill into a bastion of necromantic might, waiting for be released. He looked towards the horizon, and then to Valentin. Thinking to himself. The man must have come to a conclusion. Because it didn't take long before he once again started moving. Once again connecting and drawing circles and arrays as well as connecting the as he went. Slowly moving across the hill, leaving a train of dark magic behind him. Tossing glances around at the people present as he went along. Stage two of preparations had come now: Selective advantage. The right advantage in the hands of the right man.

Daisy is quite satisfied she is safe from betrayals and darts back to her safe little haven over there. Yes, that is probably the best place for you in all this mess. The brushery parts, making a tiny path for the tiny druid to weave her way into the center of those briars. Maybe Valentin and Artritus are mostly calm, but that doesn't mean you can just sit back and relax. Oh no. You are going to sit up and relax! Beneath the kitten's feet sprouts a thick root that scoops her up just high enough so her ears kind of poke out of the bushes. Go on and look. She's there looking at you looking at her, and you'll have to take a second look at her since she's looking at you through a giant pair of binoculars.

Valentin once more clomps out beyond the greater circle of Vox' Feast of Suffering, and starts carefully covering the small circles they had seared into the ground earlier with dirt and debris, directing Jeremiah and Eliza to follow suit. Then, in an area far forward of the main bulwark of Necromantic defenses, Valentin begins constructing his trump card. Doing the larger share of work himself, Valentin nonetheless directs the steady hands of Jeremiah and Eliza into creating some auxilliary arrays. Valentin had a knack for finding rituals designed for the express purpose of torturing an individual, and converting it into something a bit more useful for a brawl. He'd had to, given the frequency with which his sire had forced him into pit fight after pit fight with horrendous abominations - mostly of his sire's own creation. This, a variation of the Ice Maiden, would hopefully allow Valentin the 'private time' he'd like to spend with the oversized banker which led the ugly bastards after them. It'd be rough going, but the butcher was used to fighting horrors larger than himself, despite his own imposing bulk.

Artritus throws a glance at Valentin and his helpers as they cross over the defenses and into the encroaching road. Now what in the world was that for? Very likely some personal preference which may or may not actually be all that beneficial. It seemed very likely the butcher had picked out a specific enemy. The old man shrugged. He'd have to take it out later. But barring some sort of major stroke of luck, the chances of changing the vampires mind were amazingly slim. As such, he may as well assume that whatever Valentin had prepared was going to happen, and adjust his own preparations after it.

Daisy watches and waits and waits and watches, terribly curious about all of the preparations going on. She is what she is, afterall. Despite what 'they' say, she is also still alive. It is possible she is on five or six of them, but still alive. And hungry. There is no time for cake now, kitten. Why don't you see what else you can do. "Do you want help?" That sweet voice of hers pips out of her hidey spot.

Valentin completes the ritual arrays, then scrutinises the workings of Jeremiah and Eliza. The butcher grunts, makes a couple of modifications, and examines the whole. With a slight nod of satisfaction Valentin carefully concentrates, intoning a basic umbral cant as he overlaid the design with umbral tracings. Checking the results critically, and making more modifications, the butcher chants the cantatus of pyrumbral binding, searing the shadowy pattern deep into the ground. This array, too, was carefully concealed with a layer of dirt and debris. Upon completion Valentin returns to the central bulwark, and it is then that Daisy makes her enquiry. Valentin pauses, turns around, and glances in the kitten's direction before saying "There may be one thing, Daisy." The butcher scratched a shaggy muttonchop "Y'know the big banker what was leadin' their merry crew o'feckin' nastiness? Well, I'm layin' out a trap t'keep th'bugger out of everyone's hair but mine. I don' like that he can understand us when chantin' our preparations, an' he might be th'fly what spoils our broth. Now, y'know that big circle I just covered up? If th' bastard attacks us and avoids that circle, I would be likin' it very much if y'could distract or divert him off course long enough t'either get him in th'circle or just slow 'im long enough for me t'get in there an' physically manhandle th'banker into it."

Artritus did notice the return of the butcher and his convoy. Having finished most of what circles he would have the time to make, he wandered over to the Thanadule and his helpers for a short exchange, or rather hearing, before starting at applying curses. The final touch as it were. But first, he came to a stop by the large vampire as he responded to the feline, waiting silently.

Daisy blinks several times. A distraction? A diversion? A disorder? A disturbance? A Daisy. Oh-ho! Has he got you pegged, kitten. She giggles with a little nod before answering the butcher. "I can do that."

Valentin nods to Vox "Well Guv, from all appearances you have one hell of a welcome planned for th'bankers. Now, I'm worried 'bout th'bastard leadin' 'em, as y'might have heard" Valentin jerks his thumb at the area where he had made his preparations "An' it's my plan, once I've got th'shadowice golems in place t'protect th'kiddies, to pop out there an' cut th'head off th'snake as they say. Now, I've got a bunch o'circles set up as umbral portals for ease of shiftin' about with minimal fuss, an' a nasty little arena set up for if I can get the ugly blighter netted in me trap." Valentin nods at Daisy "An' I've a feelin' the kitten can help with that, so long as she don't get caught up in th'arena with me an' it." A not-so-subtle warning to help Daisy avoid losing another of her nine, as it were. "Y'might be interested t'see what goes in there, so I've set up a link to let anyone send an Umbral Occulum through. Otherwise, it'll jus' be an circular enclosure of shadowice from th'outside." Valentin glanced around "When th'time comes, you're in charge o'the prentices. Keep 'em in order an' slap 'em upside th'noggin if they start to panic too much. A little fear is good, mind. But too much'll make 'em freeze. Assumin' I make it out o'the pit in one piece, I'll return to the general brawl." From the other side of the bulwark comes the distinctively pompous voice of Maledic Avernus "Thanadule... If you can grant us a moment of your ever-so-precious time, Kalthor has news. From his bird." Valentin grit his teeth. The blasted Maledict, who had been handballed to Valentin by a smugly vindictive Lorkain, could make anything into a sneer. If it weren't for the faint hope that the git'd one day make Tenebrae's life just as miserable, Valentin would have let the man die of his own recklessness before now. Valentin nods to Artritus "Sounds like we might have run out of time." The butcher raises his voice "Right, you lot. Artritus Vox is in command here. He gives you instructions, feckin' do it, or I'll use you t'power th'crimson chains. Get me?" The butcher starts tromping over to Kalthor "Where are they, an' how long 'ave we got?" The others would hear the quiet necromancer's response "Due south-west, Thanadule, coming out of another canyon. At their rate of progress, we may have between quarter of an hour and half an hour to ready ourselves."

There was a charged tension to the air surrounding the Newly Reborn. Frothed into a fervour by the Reaching Tendril's demagoguery these past few hours, the Holy Expedition of Righteous Annihilation approached its destination with zeal. As it looked upon the Chosen Ones, each crafted in the most exquisite delicacy for the Glory of the Deep One, the Reaching Tendril felt pride of purpose stirring somewhere deep in the bone encased cavity containing its organs. The Beatified had done well, scouting out ahead of the Expedition to pick up the trail of the Dark Lands infidels - a difficult task, even if their information knew the approximate direction the group had been initially heading before their detour. But the Deep One had blessed them with its wisdom, and they had located the trail eventually. Upon determining that their prey was stationery, the expedition had returned underground, passing through ancient warrens to reappear from a cavern into a canyon formed by a long-dried river. And now, in the distance, the poor doomed fools awaited the Judgement of the Deep One made manifest in the hands of the Reaching Tendril of Fate. Eventually, the Necromancers would see their opposition advancing along the dusty plain leading towards their position. Its voice like a whip, the Reaching Tendril commanded a halt for one final exhortation on behalf of the Deep One, where the expedition's prey would be able to witness their glory from a respectful distance.

Straightening in the saddle, the Reaching Tendril of Fate spoke to the expedition in the ancient tongue of the Deep One, which Vox would interpret with relative ease, and which Valentin would adequately understand. "Chosen Ones! Before us cower the Infidel. The Apostate. The benighted Heathen. They are charged with most vile Apostasy, they who follow the Madwoman, She who Defiles Holy Flesh. And what, Reborn, is the holy judgement for Apostasy?" The Reaching Tendril punches both arms into the air whilst its barbed tentacles spread wide in an all-encompassing gesture. The horde respond with a rabid and sibillant chorus in the same dark tongue "Righteous Destruction!" The Reaching Tendril lowers his arms outwards slightly "And we are the Tendrils of the Deep One, here to do his Will! We embody their final doom!" Stretching its arms forwards in benediction, the Reaching Tendril continues "We are the Chosen of the Deep One, Reborn in its Divine Image. Though we lose one limb today, we grow more in the God's blood tomorrow! Though we fall in numbers beyond compare, we are Reborn again, stronger than before. Chosen ones! Reborn! Fill your very bones with the will of the Deep One, and sink it deep in the flesh of the Infidel! Today we visit Final Judgement upon them! Forward, for the Glory of the Deep one! Prepare to advance!"

Despite the rousing speech, the Reaching Tendril of Fate kept one section of Newly Reborn in reserve, as well as the seven Beatified. The first contact with the Infidel had shown that a certain element of caution and strategy was advisable. Instead, forty eight of the Newly Reborn would head the first assault - twenty four mounted on the transport centipedes, followed by the other twenty four on foot. The Reaching Tendril of Fate anticipated that, despite his caution, sending a force four times the size of the infidels' number would be sufficient. The Centipedal Horrors, large and broad enough to carry a dozen of the Newly Reborn each, were a danger in and of themselves after all. As the Centipedal Horrors advanced, their weaving gait reminiscent of a lizard's movements, each currently bearing only half a dozen riders, the other two dozen Newly Reborn followed behind them in two skirmishing lines. The Reaching Tendril anticipated that the defenders would be so overwhelmed by the Centipedal steeds that the second wave would simply speed up their inevitable annihilation. Flanked on both sides by the seven Beatified, the Reaching Tendril awaited with confidence the completion of the Deep One's will. But still, deep within, the seed of worry stirred awake with the question "What had the Infidels prepared in the time they had wrested from its grasp?"

We come in peace. Chant to kill!

In a small secret room, far removed from Venturil, there is a podium on which is set an elaborately etched silver basin. The basin itself, softly illumined by the glow of runes set into the floors and walls around it, contains a pitch black liquid from which no light seems to reflect or escape. In this room, unknown to both Necromancers and devotees of the Deep One, a figure gazes into the ornate basin. A quill-bearing servitor stands to one side with lectern and parchment ready. The scrying figure, having observed and gathered its thoughts, began its dictation in measured and careful speech. The servitor's quill scratched lightly in the background, describing for private posterity the view which was even now being experienced by the conflicting forces arrayed in the Misshapen Lands. "There was a particularly malevolent cast to the afternoon sky, as the greenish mist which haunted that part of the Venturil wasteland painted the scene with its unclean haze. The overall impression was ghastly, giving all present an unseemly plagueblighted appearance; the lengthening shadows adding their own morbid aspect to the battleground-to-be. Strangers to a strange land, the Vailkrinni necromancers had prepared arduously for this confrontation, creating for themselves a lethal warren of mystical defenses and traps with the unlikely aid of a peculiarly aspected druid. In opposition to them were the strangely aberrant and numerous subterranean residents of the region, their grotesque uniformity of uniqueness showing them to be creatures created in the black pools of a foul and ancient arte. Splitting their forces into waves and sections, showing strong evidence of strategic intellect, the aberrant aggressors wasted little time in commencing their assault..."

Valentin had once seen a barrel cart come free of its chocks, and go rolling down a hill. It hadn't been a big cart by any standards, but the man it hit at the intersection of Merchant Street had died, as twisted a pile of wreckage as the cart became soon after when it hit a stone wall. It was momentun, the butcher knew, that would be the danger here. One o'them centipede things, even if killed on approach, would do some blimmin' damage when its corpse came barrelin' through the necromancers lined up in a tidy little picnic spot. All in all, Valentin reckoned, the ugly banker givin' out th'orders wasn't a fool by any means. Still, the Thanadule of the Necromancer's guild remained unperturbed. Most normal groups o'folks would have wet themselves an' run by now, in truth, but necromancers weren't normal people. This was one of those rare moments, Valentin knew, when he would appreciate the obsessive madness and almost inhuman level of nerves which were typical of those who became necromancers. At least, Valentin clarified to himself, those who survived Lorkain's 'tender' ministrations. As he took a moment to gauge the mood of the assembled Sclerati and Novus Morior, noting the invariably steady hands amidst the nervous tension in the air, Valentin nodded to himself. Some of them may be frightened, but they'd perform their duties. Necromancy weren't a business for them what let themselves get unmanned by fear. As the first wave of Centipedal Horrors bore down on them with the implacable momentum of an avalanche, Valentin called out to Vox "I'll halt their momentum, guv. You an' the 'Prentices handle what comes after." Valentin nodded to the four Novus Morior he had selected to assist him in the first part of his task. "Right you lot, on my signal, begin th'cantatus o'Cryumbral binding. Focus y'self on th'subarrays t'keep th'flow of energies consistent throughout th'activator linkages, right? It's too early for Vox' Feast o'the Damned t'do more than bolster our early efforts wi'this ritual, so's we're goin' t'cop it hardest t'start with. An' don't flub th'feckin' central cantas. I need y'to keep time to a two-count." Valentin eyed the oncoming centipedes, and noticed a sudden change in gait. The butcher cursed, gave the order "Right, get crackin!", and began his part in the choir of cryumbral manipulations. The hideous and dissonant sibilants chanted by the five necromancers writhed hideously in the ears of all, the unnatural sonics tainting the very air with their presence. As the four Centipedal Horrors adopted a strangely undulating system of movement, picking up speed, Valentin shifted into the critical counter-chant which underpinned the entire strategy of the Shadowice Golem arrays. The contra incantation creates a hideous mockery of harmony as Valentin focuses his will on the array, the verses whirling into a harsh crescendo. The four Centipedal Horrors grew ever closer, and with a timing born in the pitfights his Sire had inflicted upon him, Valentin capped off the incantation and activated the ritual. With his assistants maintaining the flow of energy to the component sections of the sigil arrays, Valentin could focus on shaping those energies, and in the path of the hurtling Centipedal Horrors rise walls of black ice. Stygian spears shoot down and back, supporting the walls in the face of the oncoming monstrosities. Arrays of spines protrude forwards to meet the oncoming horrors. Created as an adhoc response to the danger of the Centipedal Horrors' bullish advance, the shadowice golems form the first line of defense, and Valentin grimly continued the chants which would allow him to further modify the golems if need required it.

Artritus was quick to act, himself, separately from and despite the actions of Valentin. Or rather, with. He handed a scroll to a nearby duo of Sclerati with a short bout of mumbled instructions before rushing up to a hall-circular line cutting trough the area but a small distance inside the location where the enemy charge met the Cryumbral defenses. A defense that the old sage was about to bolster. His feet were placed firmly on the line of sigils as he ushered his voice into the horrendous tongue with his particular pronunciation and practice. It wasn't long before the ritual, the trap, was sprung. The sigils had been among the first prepared after the ground works for the feast had been laid. The Crimson Chains were a favorite to customize of not only Valentin, but Vox himself as well. Having set a few Novus on the task of collecting blood from the necromancers present, the priest had ensured that this large scale invocation of the edited and 'improved' version of the ritual fell upon the correct targets. With a hissing noise the Crimson chains arose and lashed around the monstrous mounts and their riders with ravenous hunger, feasting (rather appropriately) upon all who fell into their grasp. The Life drained from these attackers would not only weaken, or perhaps even lessen, their numbers; it would also kick start the Feast of Suffering. Effectively putting the largest trump card the defenders had to use as quickly as possible.

Daisy isn't a necromancer! Not one bit! She is barely all that much of a druid, really, considering how much training she has actually had. Well. Here is your chance to prove yourself, girl! Do a good job and I suppose you'll live another day. Even if you don't, one of these folks around here might fancy you enough to bring you back. That is what they do, isn't it? The kitten shudders, not too keen on being a pet of sorts. Something prods her in the arm and she brushes it away. It happens again with the same reaction. Third time, she gets a little jab that puts a frown on that sunshiney face as she looks over at the thorn trying to get her attention. Sorry, thorn. Somehow this dizzy kitten was sidetracked and everyone is doing something except her! Hopping up off her little perch there, she darts through the brushery. By now she doesn't need to use much energy to move it around. It follows and spreads and thickens around the druid, forming a wave of a barrier around her as she dares to move closer to the battle. Promises of a feast entice those thorns to grow and spread and wash over the ground. Careful not to mess up the drawings, kitten! Oh she's careful. Those Voxified chains deliciously do their thing, making it all the easier for Daisy to let her plants snatch up the fallen riders. Meanwhile, little Daisy stays safe in her own bubble of protective shrubery. They're busy saving themselves. They don't need to protect you too.

The reaching Tendril of Fate watched closely the righteous advance of the Deep One's chosen. If all went as planned, the Failed One transports would soften up the infidel and scatter their defenses, allowing the rest of the Holy Expedition of Righteous Annihilation to mop up the rest. However, the nascent worry of earlier gave birth to full concern as the Aproned Darkbringer rose sorcerous walls in the faces of the Failed Ones and glowing red tendrils of mystical energy lashed out from around them. At ground zero, those present would feel the impact when three of the four Centipedal Horrors collide crushingly with the spined black obstacles conjured from the Cryumbral Tides, their riders dislodged and hurled forwards by the impact. Thick leathery flesh is punctured, the three Centipedal horrors mindlessly thrashing without the guidance of a Newly Reborn's guidance. However, danger still looms for those behind the barricades. Whilst several of the dismounted Newly Reborn are hurled straight into the spines of the Black Ice barriers, several clear the tops, landing like fleshy crimson-glowing trebuchet shells. Two Novus Morior find themselves smashed to the ground by the unfortunate event, but are rescued from further harm as the Reborn are plucked from them by druid-guided barbed tendrils. However, while three of the Centipedal Horrors are halted and their dismounted riders sleeping with the briars, the true calamity is the fourth Centipedal Horror. Having trailed behind the other three, it had been given a precious moment to prepare, and the strange undulating motion suddenly makes sense as it kinks its grotesquely articulated body and flicks itself into a leap above and over the barricades. The riding Reborn find themselves shackled by the Crimson Chains and weakened to the point of losing their hold, dropping to the circle floor for Daisy's vines to plunder when she notices them. The centipedal Horror, though, begins thrashing in a frenzy within the confined space of the Greater Circle of Crimson Chains, too large and insensate to pain to properly restrain. The combined life energies and dark magics of which the beasts are constructed, too, guarantee that the Crimson Chains alone will take a long time to render the horrific patchwork monster of melted and reformed human flesh and bone an ex-monstrosity. Within a second three Novus Morior, too slow in their retreat, are sent flying. One, caught by a bone spur, trails intestines midair, while the second crunches against a rocky protrusion. The third, by fortune of vampiric heritage, would merely suffer breakage to all of his ribs and left arm. The centre of the defensive circle swiftly becomes a dangerous place as the Centipedal Horror flails in its numerous crimson shackles.

Valentin curses. Admittedly, they were faring better than he had hoped, and three of the oversized critters caught on his walls was a bonus. Th'kittens vines were like a regular cleanin' crew, keepin' the ugly bastards from out o'their feet. Shame about th'one that got past him. Two blimmin Novus Morior down th'drain, an' three currently stunned or too injured t'be of immediate use. Apart from his four, that left another thirteen currently ready t'be ordered about "Right. Jeremiah, Kalthor, Maledict, and Eliza: stay here, keep these damn walls up. Use the second verse from th'Cantata for cryumbral spears in place o'the fifth verse o'the standard incantation, but otherwise keep th'chant goin' as is. I want them oversized horrors kept stuck on them walls for now." Valentin juts his jaw in irritation as he watches the Centipedal Horror caught up in the centre of the Crimson chains. On closer inspection, the thing was truly horrendous. It was hard t'count how many pairs o'legs an' arms the thing had, but there was parts in there from at least thirty different people, an' that was a rough estimate an' prob'ly short o'the mark. A standard approach just weren't goin' t'blimmin' work. Valentin grimaced. For once, he was glad this wasn't a pitfight. Assistance would be needed. "Daisy. I need y'to get as many vines wrapped around that thing as possible. Enough t'minimise th'damn things movements. Vox - remember that blimmin' spell you used t'prove t'me sire it was possible for a werewolf t'die of bloodloss? If y'can get this damn thing caught up in that, we've a chance. I'll make enough cuts in th'damn thing to make it worth y'while. The'rest of you, I want you all t'ready a single black ice spear from one o'the shadowgate circles I've set up 'round the place, and stick th'damn thing th'moment it's tied up wi'vines, got it?" The burly vampiric butcher examined the creature with a critical eye. Although an inhuman monstrosity, it had been created by a somewhat human mind, an' those tended t'base their designs on external inspiration. In this case, a godsawful insect, an' insects always had weakspots at the articulations. He could work with that. After all, at the end of the day "...Meat is jus' blimmin meat". Valentin hauled his oversized mithril cleaver from its harness, giving any axes in the country a sudden case of blade-envy, and prepares himself for the right moment to jump in an' begin the job o'carving up the beastie.

Artritus had a bit of a smirk at that moment, as Valentin called out to him with a suggestion. A small crystal bottle was already held in thin fingers, a carved amulet grasped tightly in the other hand. The long silver chain chiming as the Death Priest raises his hand in a sort of confirmation and begins a rather short chant. Within a moment, if that, the eerie 'song' of Vox voice is drowned out in a ghastly cacophony of a sound akin to sizzling flesh or the oncoming wave of a sinister ocean as the ash rises out of the bottle, swirls around like a roused serpent and finally coils onwards trough the air towards the Centipedal horror. Leaving a sort of other wordly trail of smoke seeping into the newly cursed abomination.

Daisy's thorns do a fine job with their stabbing and jabbing and things of that sort, feasting on the weird blood these riders seem to have flowing through them. Dark as it is around here, a gleam dances in her eyes as she watches her lovelies dine. Tis but a scratch. A scratch! Not this time, buddy. Holy-- Did you see that? Right in the eye of one and through the throat of another. Did the thorns get bigger somehow? Daisy lets out a little giggle and turns to Valentin when he calls. Yes! She is useful and can absolutely do as he asks! A tiny paw reaches out to pet at the brushes protecting her and she coos. "Over there now." And the briars dart, following the direction of that nodded furry head. Thick thorns circle and pierce into the multitude of legs. Tangle, trip, jab, anchor. Do what you can, vampire vines!

Valentin waited with the kind of predatory patience only the truly cold-blooded can manage. The butcher nodded with satisfaction as Artritus Vox unleashed the Ash Curse of Wotchamajiggy, or whatever he called it when in lecture mode. A degenerative curse, it would amplify the damage caused to the victim, causing wounds to open wider and wider as entropic energies accelerated the degeneration of flesh. It could be seen in the sheer quantities of green-black ichor dripping from the humanoid limbs which constituted the Centipedal Horror's limbs. But now was the time to act. Valentin didn't often find cause to celebrate his vampiric nature, but this was one of those times. Pounding forward, the butcher bounds into a crouch, bunching his beefy legs beneath him before springing up in a powerful, if graceless, leap on to the flat back of the creature. Restrained as it was now by the dual forces of Artritus invocation of the Crimson Chains and Daisy's morass of vampiric vines, the landing spot was more stable than it would have otherwise been. It helped too that Valentin landed his cleaver into the back of the damn critter while landing, stabilising himself and giving a handhold for that first shaky moment. However, within a few seconds the butcher gets his footing, hauls the cleaver out of the tough leathery exterior of the beast, and makes his way to the aberration's nearest thoracic articulation. Behind him, the wound left by the cleaver slowly widens, more green-black ichor seeping out than a moment before. With a grunt, Valentin kneels and plunges his left hand into the hide of the creature, raising his cleaver with the right. wiggling the fingers of his left hand, the master butcher feels for the grain of the meat in this section of the monstrosity, shifts his angle, and strikes. With a compelling rhythmic sound of thack... thack... thack... thack... Valentin methodically carves into the thoracic articulations until he starts to seperate tendon from bone. All the while, each cut widens under the influence of Artritus' curse. As the creature begins to show signs of splitting in two, however, the defenders may have their attention diverted from the sight of a butcher at work at the sound of two thuds, followed by a thud and a scream: four Newly Reborn have been hurled over the barricades like trebuchet shot, and one Scleratus was unfortunate enough to be turned into crimson wreckage by the bonespike-studded horror used as a living missile. The Newly Reborn used in this fashion, however, quickly fall victim to the Crimson Chains - but more seem to be incoming. Valentin, completing his grisly task, is almost painted in black-green ichor. The butcher descends from the cloven Centipedal Horror with a muttered "Look's like things is goin' from privy t'sewer here" and takes a look at the enemy's current formation.

The Reaching Tendril of Fate howled, an ululating, almost waterlogged sound coming from behind the tendrils of flesh covering whatever served as its mouth. Despite the overall failure of the first wave, there was still an opportunity to take advantage of the moment of disarray. While the Infidel contended with the thrashing centipedal horror, the Seven Beatified, the Reaching Tendril itself, and the final Centipedal horror fan out into a wide skirmishing line and swiftly begin their own descent and approach to the defender's stronghold. In the meanwhile, the twenty four Newly Reborn which had been advancing are called to a halt a medium distance from the barricades, the Reaching Tendril having recognised the danger of the sorcerous crimson shackles and whipping vampiric briars the Infidel had somehow bent to their own defense. "Chosen Ones! Like the Deep One we shed many limbs today... but for every limb shed, two more will appear! Great is the wisdom and power of the Deep One! Blessed we who enact its Divine Will upon the Apostates and Infidels! Stand forth and you shall be as unto the Deep One's mighty hand! Primus! Septimus! MAKE IT SO!" The Reaching Tendril and five of the Beatified haul up, still a distance from the Black Ice barricades. The Beatified ones designated as Primus and Septimus advance with the final Centipedal Horror to join the ranks of the two dozen Newly Reborn standing to await their next directive. Primus stood out above the rest, a corpulent mass of flesh sitting astride a bulkier golem steed than its compatriots, like a pile of gloopy dough sagging over a rolling pin. It is difficult to make out any details beneath the rolling folds of magically warped flesh. Yet though no eyes or limbs can be immediately made out, the fleshheap maintains its seat upon its steed without apparent effort. Septimus is equally inhuman, almost centaurian in appearance, a mismatched multi-limbed conglomeration of bones and uniquely articulated joints. It is in fact only recognisable as once human by the incredibly young face which shares the creatures skull with numerous fleshy wattles and protrusions. The golem steed it sits astride is longer than the rest, to cater for the peculiar morphology of the rider. As the two Beatified approach, ten of the dozen Newly Reborn dismount the final Centipedal Horror, leaving thirty four aberrant infantry prepared for assault. But it is not as infantry that the Reaching Tendril has envisaged the next assault, and it barks the command "Commence the Divine Mandate!". Primus seems to shrink slightly as an immense fleshy tendril extends from its doughlike fleshform to grasp one of the Newly Reborn. Septimus contorts sideways, in the kind of motion which would conjure images of skeletal fracturing were it not for the bizarre nature of its joints, and likewise raises a Newly Reborn in three of its inhuman limbs. A moment later, the two Chosen Ones are hurtling through the air, over the walls, and in the direction of the various Necromancers. Then another two. As the third duo are picked up, the Reaching Tendril gives the order "Advance the Failed Ones for Redemption and Destruction!" Although the necromancers had dealt with one of the Centipedal Horrors, they had another swiftly incoming and prepared to make the jump over the barricades, supported by the horrific artillery provided by Primus and Septimus. Six more Newly Reborn would land among the defenders in the time it would take for the Centipedal Horror to reach the line of defenses and make its jump. In the meanwhile, the Reaching Tendril motioned for the other Beatified to rejoin Primus and Septimus.

Artritus whipped about from his position facing the now dead monstrosity. Looking towards the oncoming threat. He made a quick gesture towards four of the Scleratii, readying their scrolls on his mark. The old sages following actions were quick. He moved a few steps back, pulling out another silver amulet as he moved. The thrown... improvised projectiles crashed around him, and would have to be dealt with. But they were not the main concern. Each one that slammed into the ground did more good to them than it did damage, fueling the feast. Which in it's own way provided the fuel needed for the Necromancers' next move. Small circles draw upon the dust and soil on the ground as Vox and his chosen Sclerati chant their words in a disturbing sort of tandem. Similar but different verses cutting trough the air with their unnatural noise. As the centipedal horror flew trough the air, Vox uttered the final words. The circles he'd been addressing.... for lack of a better word. Launched. The combined effect of the two incantations launches pillars of shadow, dust, dirt, ash and blood into the air. Shooting upwards like the splash of a stone hitting a lake. Though the response was different from there. About each third of the activated circles scattered their 'projectile' over the hill in a swirling mist seeping in and around every being that had not had it's blood included in the circle. The rest of them, seeking the same target, lashed out in long-thin arm-like claws piercing and ripping at the intruders with a savage and otherworldly vigor. It was a deadly combination between the ash curse of paralysis and a shadow-bind interlinked with the earlier circle of crimson chains, now unleashed by the power of the feast of suffering backing the gathering of necromancers.

Daisy does enjoy watching her new friends devour everything in sight. Er. Reach. Thorns don't have eyes! Whatever gave you that idea? Nearly giddy, the little druid pets a single digit down a bit of the bush there beside her. The butcher catches her attention, but it is necromagic pulls her out of her giddy. She stares blinkingly at the newly arrived. All of it. At the same time. How long is she standing there? Seconds? Minutes? Oi! Kitten! Wake up and join the party, already. Maybe it isn't the tea and crumpets you're used to, but that's alright. You'll manage. You're going to have to. Lucky for you, you're small and not much of a threat to these newly born ones. At least not in their eyes. Most of their eyes anyway. That one there takes advantage of the feline's shocked state, snatching her up from behind! Faceless, the thing tries to eat her anyway, but she turns with a hissing flash of her claws. Both paws dig into the pale flesh as a very soft, very calm 'no' is whispered from Daisy's lips. Black, bloodish goo splats her in the face, but that doesn't matter now. SHe wants its spark. That thing that she uses, that druid magic that gives life to so many and so often. This time when she uses it, it steals the the life outright! The newly born falls to its knees, sinking into itself as it is sucked dry of its very being. Still frowning at the corpse, she pulls her claws away. You got something stuck under your nail there, dear. "Ew."

Valentin wipes foul ichor from his face with one hand as he pounds swiftly to the shadowice walls, avoiding the thrashing of the second damn critter to breach the walls. The butcher notes with grim satisfaction the devastating damage being infliced on the final Centipedal horror by Artritus' preparations. Still, no blimmin' time t'be pattin' backs, Valentin told himself, as they had more problems coming. He called out to the four Novus Morior he'd left maintaining the golemwalls. "Alhandry, Van Radigan, Avernus, Kerezniev, listen up. After th'next two verses, switch over t'the orthodox variant. Time t'make up f'numbers." Valentin waited, watching the advancing enemy. It seemed that the whole 'throwin' their own men' idea had ceased with the imminent defeat of the final amalgam of nastiness at Vox' hands. Still, that left problems of its own. And then the transition point was chanted by the Novus Morior, and Valentin began his part of the cantata. The Feast of the Damned was having its effect, and Valentin could feel the flow of dark energies far more profoundly with each sibilant and dissonant verse. Valentin, ever cautious and meticulous at his trade, takes extra time to ensure there was no mystical blowback caused by generating too much energy for the ritual array to handle. As the gore-drenched butcher chanted the spiked barricades seem to melt and shift in the air, becoming amorphous masses of shadow as Valentin deconstructs the ritual bindings. Valentin takes a moment to bellow "Two more verses, then switch back to the pattern I taught you earlier." The butcher glares at the enemy, amassing themselves in a broad line, each Beatified flanked by two or three Newly Reborn. Worse, the sodded banker leading th'blighters was also on the move. Valentin begins chanting again as the Novus Morior switch over to the modified verses, weaving the cryumbral tides with each canta. The shadowy matter, pulsing with the ebb and flow of the black tides, condenses into shapes reminiscent of the butcher himself. Along the front edge of Vox' great circle a dozen shadowice golems form, each bearing four limbs ending in cleaver-like blades of black ice. Valentin lets the unearthly syllables ooze out over his tongue, a sound like the threshing of wet wheat, imparting the golems' instructions. With the walls replaced by a more proactive defense, Valentin looked around for the kitten, finding her apparently playing with her food. "I wouldn't go eatin' that, love. Their fluids ain't natural. I can smell th'stink of alchemy about it." In truth, Valentin would have to save a sample for the Guildmistress. She too was messing about with necromantic alchemy, and she'd have a better idea as to what these damn things were. "Now, this ain't been high tea an' crumpets, but I'd like y'to prepare somethin' t'keep the big blighter leadin' them from joinin' 'is lads. I'm about t'head out t'prepare my own little bit of hell for th'banker. D'you remember where I set up m'little pattern on th'ground out there? Try an' stall him 'round about there if y'can." Valentin calls out to Vox "Th'golems will advance t'engage with th'bankers, but be ready. They seem t'be shifty bastards."

The Reaching Tendril of Fate rages incoherently as it finds the Holy Expedition of Righteous Annihilation essentially halved with the infidel having suffered barely a tenth of the losses. Within the righteous fury suffusing it, however, the Reaching Tendril finds the werewithal to issue new orders "Beatified! Advance! Newly Reborn, achieve your holy destiny! Complete the will of the Deep One! Failure is Damnation!" The beatified gather Newly Reborn around them, and slowly advance at a walking pace. The Reaching Tendril too spurs his atrocious fleshgolem steed, and prepares to join the Holy Expedition's final assault upon the Dark Lands Infidel.

Artritus nodded in confirmation at Valentin and paced back and forth within the circle, speaking with the apprentices, doling out instructions. A few was put aside at circles, reanimating the fallen from both sides to serve as protection for the casters while Vox himself handed out a few new scrolls and orders. He may not have the conviction and authority of their enemy. But he had experience. And a way of handling himself that told of it. The previous display may just have earned him the trust and respect he needed from the apprentices as he took up a position close to the cart, high on the hill. Eying the approaching opposition and rising numbers of their own, holding a newly retrieved staff in his hand. Thin fingers grasping onto what seemed to be silver carved with occult markings.

Daisy shakes her paw like someone thought it would be funny to wrap a bit of tape around it. Oh god did that thing just twitch? She jumps and kicks at one of the hands, turning th3 shell of a creature into a poof of dust. Overkill much, kitten? Yes I know Valentin cleavered that huge monster in half with his manweapon, but that is his thing. That is what he does. Your thing is paying attention and doing like he asked. A distraction. You can do that, right? She nods twice, one directed to the butcher, and then heads off to his circle. Remember not to step in it!

Valentin eyes the oncoming menace, and begins the cantatus of shadowshifting, binding his essence into that of the umbral tides. As the butcher sinks into his shadow, he calls upon the hidden whispers, and Daisy would hear the butcher's voice from air near her "Near enough'll be good enough, so long as y'can stall th'blighter close t'the place I pointed out earlier". Valentin's shadow whisks in a beeline to one of the shadowbeacons he'd had the Novus Morior set in place, waiting for a moment of opportunity.

Valentin || The grotesque figures of Primus and Septimus seperate to allow their equally horrendous Beatified brethren to take up their respective position. Secundus' profile reveals it to have once been nominally female; the creature could barely be recognised as human now, covered over in a rustling mass of fine tubelike tendrils, with arms ending at the elbow - a fleshy tentacle extending from each instead of forearms and hands. Tertius' face would be almost childlike were it not for the empy sockets and a cyclopean orb where the mouth should have been. Tubelike appendages dangle from its neck, writhing like snakes. A third arm pushed from its chest as if trying to escape its cage of ribs. Quartus was, perhaps, inspiration for Valentin's golems - a fourarmed bone-axe-wielding atrocity with a face that appears to have been melted by acid, with wattles of flesh clumped about its skull. Quintus was perhaps the closest to 'human' of the beatified, but stretched out and thin; each finger like a dagger of taloned bone, its face a rictus of taut mottled flesh pulling away from the bone. Sextus' was a nightmare of two skulls conjoined with eyes horrifically misplaced, like a spider's. Lacking arms entirely, this horror had thick ropy tendrils lashing out from its 'shoulders', each tendril ending in a bone barb. As the Beatified get closer, each picks up one of the remaining Newly Reborn, waiting to get closer to pick their targets with more care. With Valentin submerged in the umbral tides, and Daisy moving through the concealment of vines, it would be Vox and the scroll-bearing necromancers responsible for the defeat of the final Centipedal horror who would find themselves targeted by seven flung Newly Reborn, lobbed with surprising strength by the unnatural creatures. The Reaching Tendril of Fate spurs its fleshgolem steed into faster movement, and rapidly closes the distance to where the Beatified advanced. Closer still in the Reaching Tendril's path was Valentin's circle.

Artritus was not some goddamn healer or anti-air cannon. The defense of the apprentices had to fall to the apprentices. Someone chucks a undead freak at you? You jump aside, dammit. How hard a concept was that? Mages though they may be, a jump should be easily within their physical capability. Vox leaped aside and rolled back onto his feet with a grunt, flinching and stepping away from the sickly crunch as the newly reborn impacted with the rocks beside him. He was quick to gather himself though. It didn't take long before he returned fire however. The staff was swung much like a spear towards the beatified with quick, jabbing movements at the abominations he had yet to identify; A large sack of shapeless flesh and a figure enveloped in what seemed to be some sort of organic tubes. A looming aura, though invisible, shot trough the air at his target with each swing. Whatever was hit, which was hopefully a beatified, would find cuts and rips tearing themselves open in their flesh at random. If also unfortunate enough to have been cursed by the Tyrfing curse as well, which was likely with the continuous rain of ash cursing all intruders repeatedly as fueled by the agony powering the feast of suffering, these wounds would be intensified. And as an added bonus; never close as long as said curse was in effect.

Daisy runs as fast as her little legs can carry her! Which isn’t very fast, considering she’s a bit out of shape. Hey! Fine, fine. Round is totally a shape. Geez. So the kitten runs quickly, but not so quickly that she doesn’t have time to figure out what kind of distraction she’s going to do. Well. No time like the present to try out your luck, eh kitten? Stepping out of the thorns, she smooths down her dress and fluffs her hair a bit. Maybe she isn’t one, but she sure can look like a gosh darn fairy princess when she wants to! So small. So calm. Deep breath. You can do this. A familiar flash of a smile lifts up her cheeks and brightens her eyes. Paws folded behind her back, she strolls -yes strolls- right up to that circle. Right towards the Beatified. Right in the middle of everything. The one time you want to be seen. Stand tall, kitten. Maybe you can hit four-foot-two on your toes. She rocks back and forth a little on the balls of her feet. “Excuse me?” Donotrundonotrundonotrun. Maybe they didn’t hear you. “Excuse ME!” She stays just outside of the circle, like she was told. She sure hopes this thing of the Butcher’s is neat, cause she’s right there with a front row seat! Please don’t start Daisy rhyming.

Valentin senses the new pattern of shadow entering from the vines and releases the ritual of binding, shadows coagulating into the butcher's physical form once more. Immediately the butcher begins another invocation of the cryumbral tides as Daisy's path from the vines cuts behind the advancing Beatified and into the path of the Reaching Tendril of Fate. Perhaps it was the inhuman nature of the being, or the mad zealotry which underpinned its entire existence, but this was a creature unaffected by cuteness. However, Daisy had in a way stopped its advance, for the Reaching Tendril hauled back on the fleshgolem steed, causing it to rear on atrocious limbs of once-human flesh and bone. However, the beast's forelimbs do not come crashing down on the kitten as intended. For from the centre of Valentin's circle a spine of black ice shoots upwards through fleshgolem steed and pierces one of the Tendril's arms as it penetrates through. Valentin, having just finished his invocation begins his charge towards the circle, shouting "Good. Now get th'blimmin' hell out o'here a'fore y'get turned into mittens by th'bankers". The Reaching Tendril of Fate was carefully sliding its arm up and over the tip of the black ice, seemingly unaffected by the gaping hole in the affected limb. In the twisted language of its kind, the creature gurgles at the approaching butcher "Infidel. You shall know the wrath of the Deep One." With its steed transfixed by Valentin's ritual the Reaching Tendril dismounts and flexes its four limbs, arms and tentacles alike, in readiness to receive Valentin's charge.

The Beatified, linked in some subtle way to the Reaching Tendril, had spurred their fleshgolem steeds when their warleader had personally entered the field. Even as necromancers dived out of the way of the incoming Reborn missiles, the Beatified charged, each picking up another of the Reborn as they do. As they advance the arcs of entropic energy discharged by Artritus lash at the corpulent mass of Primus and the writhing surface of Secondus, opening wide and terrible wounds out from which seeps a thick greenish-black ichor. On a mortal man, the wounds would have proven fatal. On the blessed children of the Deep One, such wounds were as votive offerings to their multitudinous deity. As the Necromancers raised the fallen Reborn to their dark will, and the shadowice golems moved to intercept, the Beatified hurled the Reborn they carried, clearing one wave of defending necromantic playthings for the abberant Beatified to crash into the next wave. But it was there, in that moment of halted momentum created by the necromancer's undead servitors and golems, that the true horror of Artritus' preparations took effect within the range of the Tyrfing Ash Curse. Warped as they were in the process of Rebirth, the forms of the Beatified were resillient to damage and insensate to pain, but this strength for once proved a vulnerability. An insensate body will allow itself to suffer the small cuts and abrasions typically avoided by more fragile beings, especially if the necromantically alchemised body is normally unaffected by infection and other ailments caused by the unseen lifeforms of bacteria. Artritus' Tyrfing curse went to work on these, and in the case of Primus and Secondus, the gaping wounds caused by the entropic degradation of flesh. Fueled by the spiralling Feast of the Damned, the Tyrfing curse swarmed the Reborn and Beatified, breaking down physical forms with each passing moment as Beatified fought Ice golem, Reborn fought undead, and Novus Morior and Scleratus chanted with a remarkable composure born of desperation in the face of imminent destruction.

Artritus Vox had a moment of brutal honesty, as it were. A ghastly reminder of his nature to those that may have doubted it. A low toned chuckle escaped him as he was the massive damage their enemies sustained under his curse. His cunning trap had sprung magnificently. The thin man had but a moment of lost composure before he strode back into action. The necromancers had their instructions and, more importantly, their heads. He left them with those as he stepped down from his elevated position. Almost gleefully throwing the wound curse at any beatified he had yet to inflict it on for each step he took. There was little more to do. Little more he expected to have any need of doing. They would perish or retreat. Such was the fate before them. One he'd hard endeavored to weave them into. But it had borne fruit. As such, the priest made no more surprising moves. He reveled, rather, in casting the scourge of his faith onto their attackers. Death was not something to be so easily overlooked. Mocked in the way of these aberrations. Unlike the younger necromancers, and by all means the druid, he feared not destruction. Rather, he took it upon himself an attempt to teach these creatures to respect the inevitable end.

In no way does Daisy need to be told twice. Tiny feet scamper the fat kitten back to the safety of those vampire thorns that easily part as she dives in. Crouched down in her little cubby, peers out at the carnage. Nothing followed you, kitten. Good. You're not dangerous or seen as a threat by anything. Not even that creature that took a black ice spine to the throat (okay arm, but throat sounds so much scarier to Daisy)paid you any attention. We like it that way. Out of sight, out of mind. Wide, unblinking eyes stare at the necromancers as they fight. Such a strange magic. A creepy magic that makes her stomach pucker. Ever feed a lemon to a baby? Yeah, like that. Don't worry, kitten. You'll get to fix them up when they're done.

Valentin no longer had time to spare for words, and simply trusted in Artritus' ability to finish the others off. The large butcher used every ounce of the vampiric speed and strength he'd been 'gifted' by his hated sire to barrel into the even larger warleader of abominations. The Reaching Tendil of Fate slammed his arms down into the Butcher's shoulders, the bone scythes tearing into undead flesh. Valentin grit his teeth, and continued his charge, pushing the Reaching Tendril into the circle's influence, at which point the butcher hissed out the canta of binding, and the two combatants become obscured from the outside by a hemisphere of black ice, laced with traces of crimson lightning. Within the darkness of Valentin's trap, the Reaching Tendril wraps his barbed tentacular arms around Valentin's, preparing a double-overhead blow, when Valentin reaches the crescendo and spits out the canta activating the black ice maiden. Lances of ice pierce the creature from both sides, puncturing arms, legs, and torso. The butcher steeled himself for the next part as the creature, somehow still able to function, started to squirm around in an attempt to have its tentacular limbs at least rip into its hated foe. Valentin gripped the creature's tentacles, willing certain sigils on his arms to flare darkly in formation, pulsing to the dark tides, and spoke the words his sire had used in the horrendous experiments of old. Valentin's arms pulsed with the dark tides, and the circle he created within the greater circle of the iron maiden came to life, activating a new and terrible adaptation of the Crimson Chains. There was no turning back now. The hemisphere of black ice slowly starts to melt, as the energies sustaining it are slowly leeched by Valentin's ritual, forming a pool of shadow within the circle. It would take several minutes, however, before it melted enough to leave Valentin and the Reaching Tendril visible. Red energies interplayed between the two undead creatures as the butcher drew the life energy stolen by the Crimson Chains directly and unfiltered into himself. But this was no typical application of the ritual. For as Valentin drew energy from the Reaching Tendril, the circle fed the energy of the Black Tides back into the abomination, replacing what Valentin took. Despite the undead resilience of both participants the process coursed through their veins with a sensation of burning acid. Both Valentin and the Reaching Tendril bellow and roar as the ritual takes effect, while dark and entropic energies cause the air to crackle and smell of ozone. As the ritual wore on, the pool of shadow in the circle dwindled, until finally Valentin had forcefed it all into the Reaching Tendril. As the agony of the transference started to wear off, Valentin smiles with grim satisfaction, and hoarsely whispers the canta of shadowshifting, melting out of the creature's grasp into his own shadow, to reappear a moment later at one of the previously inscribed shadowgates a small distance behind the Reaching Tendril of Fate. The creature bellowed again, finally aware of the slaughter dealt to the Holy Expedition of Righteous Annihilation, when it heard the sound of Valentin's voice once more, chanting words similar to those preceding the pillar of black flame which had earlier reduced its forces. The creature turned, and staggered into a lurching charge at the butcher, somehow forcing its pierced and necromantically tortured body into a springing leap. Valentin spoke the final sibilant verse, converting the black tides infusing the aberrant warleader and summoning the pyrumbral tides. For one moment it seemed that the Reaching Tendril of Fate would reach the butcher, bringing its wrath down upon him. But the Pyrumbral tides waxed strong at Valentin's call, a confined inferno brought about by the friction of the Black Tides' entropic energies within the Reaching Tendril, and when the creature's form struck Valentin it crumbled into a fine rain of ashes. Valentin blinked away some of the fine ash dust and rubbed his hands on his ichor-and-ash befouled apron before pulling out a small steel flask and taking a swig. The butcher grimaced at the taste of Tenebrae's foul concoction, and looked down at the defenses where the rest of the convoy were mopping up stragglers.

In the scrying room, far distant from the victorious necromancers, the mysterious figure finished its dictations. "...and so the aberrants were destroyed by the Vailkrinni Necromancers. It now seems the will of Vakmatharas in Venturil moves with those of the black robes, and no longer the creatures of the black pools." The figure waved a hand, cancelling the servitor's recording. The figure sighed, a sound hinting of dust and ancient cobwebs, then grumbled "Intriguing as it was from an historical perspective, I'd rather hoped somebody would die in a more... self-inflicted manner. It had seemed like such a positive prospect to add to my obituaries. All that entropic energy, all those Necromancers. And not a single one of them turned themselves inside out. A resounding disappointment. Where's the next Artemesius, I ask you?" The servitor did not answer, its functions not extending to speech. The figure slowly exited the scrying room to return to other research.

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RP:Westward Ho! The Venturil Venture

Background

Venturil: not a place for a jolly holiday

Even Rocky (outcrops) Got a Montage

We come in peace. Chant to kill!