Offering a nod in Arith-Zind's direction, Bonegrit responds, "Assumin' he gives us leave to do so, I'm all fer that idea."
Pyotr limps near to Bonegrit and whispers, "Perhaps if one or two were to stay and indulge this... thing's... idle fancies, the others would be free to hunt down the tomb mote. If we are not to end this creature, I would soonest be free of its odious presence. I will stay with Delkaneth and watch the wight. The mote would likely see me coming from the tunnel entrance."
Alagor just nods at Pyotr, stating matter-of-factly: "I will stay. If Arith-Zind 'ere is willing to tell me of the history of Tanladvir, than I would welcome the chance to know more."
"I for one would very much like to hear that tale, although I suspect finding another of its equal would be difficult. Our companion is correct that our time is short and the mote we seek tends to move quickly .... perhaps if we had your leave to pursue him now since he is so close by, and we came back to hear the tale? I assume your holdfast here is expansive enough that we should take advantage of the fact that he is nearby.....so as not to intrude any deeper into the garrison than we need to?"
“Should we come to an agreement, I can take steps to curtail the mote’s movement and make it easier to catch. But only after a deal is struck, and before such negotiations begin I will have my tales. Hear Tanladvir’s story, provide one of equal worth, and then we can discuss terms.”
"Mind trying it on me?"
Agtharda gives a little snarl of irritation to see her instructions cast aside with such immediacy. .
Seeing her irritation, the magus quickly turns to Agtharda, "I'm sorry I forgot. Del, please heal her first as she is also gravely wounded."
"I will tell you tales of true deeds, if you wish. Eleven tales of deeds greater than any man could ever boast of. Would you truly care to hear such tales?"
Second: She defeated a coven of Garundi witches, freeing the city of Eleder from their tyranny.
Third: While riding a griffon in an aerial battle, she cut the wings from Segruchen the Iron Gargoyle, so-called King of the Barrowood, then slew him in his falling-crater before he could flee.
Fourth: With heartfelt words and a prayer to Arazni, she convinced a regiment of mortally wounded knights at the Second Battle of Encarthan to hold back a wave of wraiths long enough for reinforcements to arrive at dawn to save them.
Fifth: She smote Erum-Hel, Lord of the Morghs, at the Battle of Three Sorrows (where the Whispering Tyrant returned Arazni’s body to the Knights of Ozem), causing him to flee, crippled, to Orv.
Sixth: After the Whispering Tyrant used magic to break her sword, she fused it together with a prayer and an oath to bring an end to his evil, her pure heart and righteous ire reforging it in an instant.
Seventh: An image of Iomedae appeared at a shrine to Aroden in Absalom, healing anyone virtuous who touched it and burning wicked folk who came too near. When she later became a goddess, the shrine was expanded into a temple dedicated to her, named the Seventh Church.
Eighth: She convinced the graveknight known only as the Black Prince to throw himself upon his sword as punishment for his evil. This reversed his undead state, redeeming his soul and allowing him to be judged in the Halls of Aroden.
Ninth: She gave nine drops of her blood to free nine righteous knights imprisoned by the vampire-mage
Basilov; she and the knights then slew him when he attempted to recapture them.
Tenth: She ruled the city of Kantaria for a year and a day while its lord, heirless patriarch of House Narikopolous, was missing; the city prospered despite constant attacks by shapechanging horrors, which she battled personally.
Eleventh: At the Pit of the Starstone in Absalom, she cast her cloak of common wool before her. It straightened and expanded to become a firm walkway across the gap, allowing her to enter the Cathedral and take the Test.
Pyotr regales Arith-Zind with the Acts of Iomedae, going into some detail and giving a long, tedious performance deserving of someone who believes, wholeheartedly, the divinity and supremacy of his chosen goddess. Surprisingly, Arith-Zind listens in rapt attention, and appears to quite enjoy learning about the deeds of his master’s mortal enemy. More than an hour passes before Pyotr gets to the final act, and when the tale is told, Arith-Zind applauds it. At a nod from the wight, his remaining skeletal defender joins in the clapping, and their fleshless palms make a weird echoing that carries around the chamber.
Arith-Zind follows his applause with another burst of maniacal laughter, and when cackling has fallen to a dry chortle, speaks; “How fascinating to hear such tales told as legend through the prism of the centuries. I was there at the Battle of Three Sorrows, and I saw your goddess as a mortal woman, just before Tanladvir parted me from my own mortal coil. And I did see her strike down, Erum-Hel, the so-called Lord of the Morghs, though in truth he was one of my master’s lesser generals, and not so terrible a foe.”
“Let’s hope your faith is not also shaken, Master Pyotr, for the men of Iomedae’s day spoke of Arazni in the same reverent tones. I watched the Whispering Tyrant break her as easily as a child, and now, they say, she emulates Tar-Baphon as a lesser lich; the Harlot Queen of Geb. My master has proven capable of casting down even the immortals, and Arazni will not be the last to grovel as an earthly thing, stripped of all divinity.”
“Thank you for your stories. Now let us speak of the Azlanti-forged blade Tanladvir …”
Pellius is too enraptured to complain as the wight tells his version of the story. His faith unshakable, he sees the 'taunt' for it is.
Although he wants to strike down the undead creature, he bids his time and addresses the wight as casually as possible, "It is interesting to hear your point of view but be careful how you address the Lady and don't compare her to the Harlot Queen."
He signs Iomedae and bows his head, "By the way, you do know who won that battle don't you? Who is a true goddess and who is imprisoned for eternity, right?"
The magus has listened to this abomination long enough and grips his sword a little tighter just waiting for an excuse to attack...
Bonegrit offers a brief quip while casually eyeballing the garrison around him, "If yer service is as boring as you make it seem, what would there be worth lookin' forward to if The Whisperin' Tyrant got his way? World full of deaders standin' at attention in garrisons with no visitors left for visitin'—seems pretty awful to me."
"Can't wrap my head around 'the world will bow before me' types. If they get what they want, there's nothin' else to get. Sights too high, if ya ask me. An' I'm a marksman. Aimin' too high's one of the surest way to miss the shot."
"Yet, even a relic of a dead god is enough to send your master to his tomb. Aroden's shield, The Shield of Arnisant, is embedded in the Tyrant's hand, and holy fire rains upon him if he steps from beneath Great Seal of Gallowspire."
"Stall no more. Tell us your tale, or give us leave to hunt the tomb mote."
A moment to offer healing, so our painful wounds don't distract us from your tale?
Arith-Zind’s red eyes roll around in their sockets as Del moves amongst his companions, healing their wounds with touches of the wand.
“If you think me foolish enough to believe such an awkward excuse, then you truly do underestimate me. Never fear, I can shatter those misconceptions no matter how strong your bodies are.”
Delkaneth efforts completed, Agtharda steps up beside him and reclaims her wand with a silent nod of thanks.
"By the way, you do know who won that battle don't you? Who is a true goddess and who is imprisoned for eternity, right?"
“Tar-Baphon is as immortal as Iomedae, and can wait an eternity for his imprisonment to end. And we, loyal troops, wait as well. Our time will come.”
"Stall no more. Tell us your tale, or give us leave to hunt the tomb mote."
“With pleasure, Master Pyotr.”
Putting his own glittering greatsword point down on the floor of the great room and resting his hands on its pommel, Arith-Zind begins its tale:
“When Ulsverd the Unyielding ended my life at the Battle of Three Sorrows, a fascination for the blade he bore was birthed alongside my new undead existence. There was reason for this interest, for I knew Tanladvir long before the day of my death, before I had tied my banner to that of the Whispering Tyrant. In those days she was borne by my battle-sister Eladys, and Tanladvir’s power kept me from death many times before it finally sent me to spurn my grave. Strange; for I sense no such power in her now.”
Arith-Zind then relates all he knows of Tanladvir, a story encompassing the legends of its forging by the Azlanti, the powers the sword possessed, some noted bearers of the blade (including Eladys Stormstar and Ulsverd the Unyielding) and a blow by blow account of how Tanladvir finally came to slay him. The whole telling takes just under an hour.
“And so you see,” Arith-Zind finally concludes “Tanladvir certainly has history worth engulfing my curiosity … if not obsession, over the centuries. And many questions yet remain unanswered, most pressingly how it came to lose its magic, and how it came to end up in the hands of a crude fighter such as this one (Arith-Zind nods towards Alagor) who’d favour a bludgeon over such a marvellous weapon. I’d like to see those questions answered. So that is the price, should you wish to hunt down my tomb mote. Give Tanladvir to me and you will have the freedom of this garrison. You have my word that my soldiers will remain in their slumber, and I will ensure that the mote cannot escape into the deeper depths of Taxathar’s Bane.”
Arith-Zind extends a hand towards where Alagor stands, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the greatsword.
Bonegrit offers a brief quip while casually eyeballing the garrison around him, "If yer service is as boring as you make it seem, what would there be worth lookin' forward to if The Whisperin' Tyrant got his way? World full of deaders standin' at attention in garrisons with no visitors left for visitin'—seems pretty awful to me."
Alagor chuckles at the observation Bonegrit made, nodding his head as if to emphasize the effect: "Could not have said it better meself, mate. Now, let's hear the story of the Blade 'ere..."
The warrior was rather bored by Pyotr's story and a witty comeback from Bonegrit was more than welcome. However, that's when Arith-Zind starts his recount of Tanladvir's history and Alagor's interest is completely focused on the story.
An hour later, still engrossed in the story and trying to remember all those names, Alagor simply overhears the sting about the "crude fighter", but the request for Tanladvir brings him back to reality.
"I do not care if you'd be that Tar-Baphoon yourself, or whatever other buffoon you might be. You are getting Tanladvir. You'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands! And even than, my spirit will wrestle you for it!"
Pyotr grips his glaive more tightly, readying himself for what may follow Alagor's refusal...
"I do not care if you'd be that Tar-Baphoon yourself, or whatever other buffoon you might be. You are not getting Tanladvir. You'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands! And even than, my spirit will wrestle you for it!"
“Are you certain?” asks Arith-Zind “I can understand your hesitation, for a man without such a mighty blade would be a shadow of his former worth. But perhaps, if you are prepared to negotiate further, we can come to an accord. I might even be able to offer you a weapon of equal worth to ameliorate the loss. Or of course, I could simply kill you and, as you boldly state, take it from your cold, dead hands.”
The wight turns to regard the rest of the companions. “Tanladvir remains the price. Should you refuse it, then you must either take your leave of my garrison or die beneath the swords of my soldiers. Though should you wish to take some time to consider these options, be my guests, I’d welcome some more tales of deeds done in the lands of the living.”
"Time for talk is over then. I shall not surrender the blade of my own free will. And yet, we need that creature. You have stated your price clearly. I am not willing to pay it, and I do not care of any other blades which could be won as a result of haggling. I'm a warrior, not a merchant. Prepare yourself Arith-Zind and say your prayers, for Tanladvir will now help you find your peace" - nodding slightly, Alagor takes another half step back and assumes defensive position. He thought of striking first, but somehow it just did not feel right. Not that he was above it - young warrior was not bound by any knightly codes, and there were certainly times when he used anything he could in order to gain advantage over an opponent...but not now. Somehow, something told him now that he should simply rely on his blade and his skill. Either that will be enough and they'll win the day, or his story will end there. Strangely, he was calm. Lend me your strength now, my fellow spirit, and I promise that my hands will guide you in becoming even more famous than Clandaenvir
Pyotr spins the glaive into an aggressive guard. He circles opposite Alagor, though he holds no compunction about striking the first blow against the abomination.
Delkaneth & Pyotr
Skeleton
Khozin
Alagor
Wight & Pellius
Bonegrit
Agtharda
I assumed that the glaive had a minimum of +1 enhancement, or even if you use alternate rules that allow weapon special abilities without a minimum +1, it's still a masterwork weapon.
The damage also assumes the glaive is a +1 weapon, which may have been a faulty assumption:
"Thank you for allowing me to recover my strength," Pyotr speaks solemnly as the two halves of Arith-Zind fall to the floor. "Perhaps, when Urgathoa comes to consume you in death, you can stall her as well. Tell her the story of how you ultimately fell to the blade of 'the Bellknight'."
Pyotr's sudden action surprised Alagor, but seeing that half-orc was able to put down loquacious wight brings a smile of satisfaction to his face. He leaps over the fallen body and moves to strike at the skeleton, Tanladvir singing while cutting the air in front of him.
Seeing Arith-Zind subject once more to an onslaught of attacks, Bonegrit lets free a cry of "Wai-!" It is a cry that sounds too late and the wight falls before Pyotr's impressive strike.
Bonegrit, wide eyed, wheels and bolts behind and around the line of his companions, feet eager to find purchase somewhere offering a view of the garrison halls that stretch on behind the throne of its alleged commander. Stopping before the entryway, the grizzled half-orc watches and listens for any signs of movement within the ranks of undead garrisoned within. More importantly, he looks desperately for any signs of the mote to whom their ultimate prize currently belongs.
The magus relishes his chance to strike but shakes his head as he sees the wight fall under the paladin's attack. so much for that boastful creature
He turns his sight to the remaining skeleton and releases another golden ray of light.
Pyotr steps up and slices Arith-Zind in half, before the wight can speak another word.
Unfortunately Delkaneth cannot match this impressive display, his spinning axe clanging off the skeleton’s shield, even though the undead itself is barely holding it defensively. Indeed, with its master’s demise, the skeleton appears to have lost all coordination. It stumbles towards Alagor, vainly making stabbing motions even though it’s no longer holding its broken sword.
Alagor circles the shambling thing, hopping over Arith-Zind’s remains as he does so. After a moment’s careful judgement, Tanladvir sings through the air, cutting through armour and bone. The skeleton collapses.
Is the battle over? Bonegrit dashes past his companions to discover the truth. Bolting past his companions, he rushes to the entrance of the garrison hall, stopping just before the archway and peering around the corner into the darkness. The undead soldiers are static – their master’s destruction appears not to have awakened them. Unfortunately, there is no sign of the mote they’re seeking, and the hallway stretches beyond the range of the half-orc’s darkvision.
“So, has our overzealous hero here doomed us all?” Khozin shouts across to him.
A vicious smile still on his leaps, warrior surveys the fallen enemies before reaching for his quiver with his free hand. Snatching the two remaining blunt tipped arrows he steps towards Bonegrit and taps him on the shoulder with the projectiles "Here, you'll use these better than me fer sure"
Next he proceeds to pick up his cudgel all the while ignoring Khozin's remark as he was unsure if it was aimed towards him or Pyotr. Sometimes the elf really can be a...hm, actually I do not understand almost half of what he's saying
Trying to skip over elf's sting, Alagor takes interest in Del's search of the fallen bodies. "So, do you think we might use some of these trinkets in here? You Pyotr, you have defeated Arith-Zind. You have earned the right to claim his blade. And if the thing's stories are true, the blade might be rather powerful..."
"You Pyotr, you have defeated Arith-Zind. You have earned the right to claim his blade. And if the thing's stories are true, the blade might be rather powerful..."
"This is the blade that felled the wight," Pyotr brandishes the glaive. "I declared it the blade of 'the Bellknight'. I will not take another, now. But, this," the knight pulls lightly at the age-worn tabard of Arith-Zind. "I may take this as my own." He sniffs at the fabric. "Once it has been cleaned."
“So, has our overzealous hero here doomed us all?”
"I do not believe the wight had such power. He might have been able to command a few of the skeletons at a time. But, he was not their sole restraint."
Pyotr begins combing the walls of the room and the dais for any items the wight may have maintained.
Somewhat saddened at the lack of combat, the magus goes over and congratulates the half-orc on his strike. "He deserved it. That's no way to speak of our Lady."
His brow furrows, "Do you think he's right? I mean about the Tyrant just waiting to wake up?"
The magus inspects the area making sure no treasure is left behind before readying himself to catch whatever mote was lurking in this tomb.
Somewhat saddened at the lack of combat, the magus goes over and congratulates the half-orc on his strike. "He deserved it. That's no way to speak of our Lady."
His brow furrows, "Do you think he's right? I mean about the Tyrant just waiting to wake up?"
"I do not believe the Tyrant sleeps. He is awake, and desperate to escape his prison." Pyotr shrugs. "That he has not likely means he can not."
"Corpses ain't movin' so far. Still don't see our prize, either." Bonegrit accepts Alagor's offering with thanks, placing the pair of projectiles in his quiver to replace those that were spent against Arith-Zind. "Now let's hope I don't have to use the damned things."
Delkaneth’s divinations detect no magic amongst the wrecked, shattered bones of their defeated foes, but their possessions are certainly of value. Whilst the shields and half-plate armour that made the skeletons so difficult to defeat show quite clearly the wear of the centuries (not to mention the rents and dents inflicted in their final battle), their antique designs might find interest in the right quarter. The longswords they wielded are also antiquated, but remain masterworks of the weaponsmith’s craft (one sword is broken thanks to Pyotr’s hammer). Finally, around the neckbones of each hangs a thin torc of silver, from which dangle tiny golden teardrops.
Of Arith-Zind himself, the greatest treasure is without doubt his own gleaming greatsword. With a cold iron core and coated in silversheen, the straight, masterwork blade retains its sharpness despite numerous nicks and blemishes along its edge. A wide, reinforced crossguard serves well for catching parried weapons, and the pommel is tipped with a large, faceted garnet.
The tabard the paladin claims is in a sorrier state. Torn asunder in two different directions, firstly by Tanladvir in the hands of Ulsverd the Unyielding, then again with the glaive of Pyotr the Bellknight, it’s a stinking rag of dirty dark grey. If it ever bore an emblem, said symbol has long since faded away.
You Pyotr, you have defeated Arith-Zind.
Khozin nudges Alagor and winks to assure his friend the jibes are not directed at him but rather their noble leader.
“Indeed you did Master Bell-Knight, but I hope you also took a moment to note that it was Alseta’s favour, with myself as the handy intercessor, that kept you alive long enough to fell the monster.”
"Corpses ain't movin' so far."
“And it seems she favours us further still. No undead horde yet besets us.”
Pellius and Pyotr’s further search of the throne room reveals nothing more – no hidden doorways or treasures. Arith-Zind’s throne is a simple seat carved from basalt; about as humble as a throne can be.
"Stop yapping Khozin and better see if you can somehow take one or two of these finely crafted longswords. Looks like they might be worth a few gold pieces. Delkaneth, I believe that these silver torcs might also fetch us some gold, and those are probably safer with you than with Alseta's favorite pickpocket 'ere. I'll try to haul some of the bulkier staff." - winking at Khozin while cracking a crooked smile, Alagor picks up fallen wights greatsword and inspects it almost with reverence.
"So, shall we move deeper in to search for that thing, or do we first move some of these antique armors and weapons towards the first room where we killed those undead zombies, or whatever those were? And another thing - why do you think we need to chase that thing? Maybe there are some of those 'shrooms in one of the corners in the room ahead. Athgarda, any ideas?!?"
You Pyotr, you have defeated Arith-Zind.Khozin nudges Alagor and winks to assure his friend the jibes are not directed at him but rather their noble leader.
“Indeed you did Master Bell-Knight, but I hope you also took a moment to note that it was Alseta’s favour, with myself as the handy intercessor, that kept you alive long enough to fell the monster.”
"Corpses ain't movin' so far."“And it seems she favours us further still. No undead horde yet besets us.” ...
The near perpetual scowl on the newly christened 'Bellknight's' face finally relaxes into merely a taciturn glare. "You fought bravely and well. And remarkably unselfishly. It was not.... what I expected. I do not know Alseta, nor she I, I presume. But, she certainly does favor you this day."
Pyotr discards the faded and torn tabard. "Nevermind. This has no worth as a trophy or as an emblem."
The half-orc stands and pokes his head around the edge of the corridor leading into the arcade of ranked skeletal soldiers. "Let's avoid touching any of them as we move. They may not awaken. Then again... Best to avoid the possibility."
Finally, around the neckbones of each hangs a thin torc of silver, from which dangle tiny golden teardrops.
Pyotr lifts one of the silver torc necklaces from the shattered remains of its previous owner. "Do you think the entire company carries these about their necks?"
Bonegrit stands ready to follow Pyotr. He's eager to fetch their quarry and be done with this wretched place.
Pyotr turns to find his fellow half-orc, bow in hand. "You're far more suited than I to lead this hunt."
Oh by Gorum's iron underwear, we'll never have lunch if we continue like this
Hefting his "walking stick" tightly and making sure that both Tanladvir and the other great sword are properly strapped to his back, Alagor shakes his head a few times before he boldly (foolishly?) walks into the room lined with skeletons from both sides.
"Come on Khozin, follow me. You wanna live forever? Ah yes, elven blood...never mind"
Where's that freakin' mote?
With his mace in hand, the magus cautiously walks after Alagor.
His left hand ready to cast a spell, Pellius looks around for a fungus or a fungus carrying mote.
"Sorry. I've precious little armor to keep a garrison from rendin' me to bits if it takes the fancy." Bonegrit keeps his senses sharp. Tracking something that cleans a place spotless would not be likely to begin with. Stone seldom tells unless something is left behind. Arith-Zind's words lead the ranger to believe it's simply not going to be that easy to find. He will have to rely on his nose instead, which is unfortunate. This place smells bad.
"Stop yapping Khozin and better see if you can somehow take one or two of these finely crafted longswords. Looks like they might be worth a few gold pieces.
Khozin shrugs and counters “A knife does the same work for a fraction of the show, and I notice my good companions generally favour bashing skeletons rather than skewering them.” Nonetheless he awkwardly takes a sword, and realising it has no scabbard, fashions a loose sling for it from a long length of scarf.
"Agtharda, any ideas?!?"
Agtharda shrugs, and points her staff towards the archway into the garrison hall. Meanwhile, Delkaneth’s divinations reveal no hidden portals about the simple throne or the walls behind.
The company gather themselves, and with Bonegrit in the lead, advance into the arcade crowded with Arith-Zind’s undead soldiers. Del’s ioun torch illuminates the motionless undead surrounding them on all sides, orcs to the left, men to the right. With keener eyes, Pyotr and Bonegrit can see further ahead. The hallway ends with another portcullis, similar in appearance to the fanggates they’ve already encountered.
Avoiding touching the skeletons or the weapons they clutch is difficult but possible with slow care and attention, though the avenue between the undead soldiers is barely wide enough for a single man to pass between without jostling a waiting skeleton.
About halfway down the passageway, Pellius briefly catches sight of movement behind the legs of an orcish skeleton. It’s some fifteen feet away to his left, in the third rank of soldiers.
Khozin – one masterwork longsword
Alagor – Arith-Zind’s greatsword
Delkaneth – four silver torcs with golden teardrops
"What a nightmare..." Pyotr grumbles. "For now, let us simply continue to push it towards the back. Hopefully, beyond that gate lies more room to catch the damned thing."
In the confined space, Pyotr decides to sheath his glaive, drawing instead his warhammer.
Was Pytor correct, does each of the skeletons have a torc like the ones we found?
Pyotr pushes forward, often turned nearly sideways to avoid brushing his pauldrons against the skeletal soldiers. He scans through a field of skeletal legs, looking for sign of the mote.