The Campaign Builder's Guild

[ic=Alisandre]Alisandre's query draws an audible gasp from one of the diabolists -and a terrifying guffaw from the arch-demon as it excretes another slime-covered egg.

The necromancer, however, has little time to regard either as she braces for the implacable assault. As her lips complete the final arcane syllable, the tome violently decomposes into a swirl of spores. The hungry cloud invades her mouth and nose. It blinds her, covering every inch of exposed skin, burrowing through her clothes. The spores attempt to penetrate her, to join her. Their embrace is both consumptive and transformative, enticing and horrifying. To fight against the transmogrification would be madness...[/ic]

[ooc]Glad to have you back, FE. And yes, you recalled correctly about the +2 bonus. You succeeded in obtaining your answer (or egg with the answer). Now, you must see if you survive to learn/employ it.

Make a Might save.

Also, make a Perception check (Intellect-based) to identify which diabolist gasped at your question.[/ooc]

[ic]Catena makes her way rapidly along the corridor to the stairs, eyes twitching this way and that with half-feral alertness, her crossbow still in hand. Anything that seems aggressive will get a quarrel to the guts.[/ic]

[ic]...but madness or no, the alternative is far worse. Alisandre gags as the fungal spores enter her, yet she strains to remember that she is a Mei-Vourne, that she is a caretaker of the sacred dead, one ennobled through blood and duty alike, and more than this basest of opisthokonts...[/ic]

[ooc]Might save, spending 1 grit:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6+1 : 4 + 1, total 5[/blockquote]

Perception check:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 2, total 2[/blockquote]

Pools: Pools: Might 4/8 (0), Agility 6/11 (1), Intellect 8/17 (1)[/ooc]

[ic=Catena]The smoke-threaded stairwell thrums with the jostle of ascending feet. Half-dressed patrons and prostitutes flee to the higher floors, coughing and clamoring in confusion and simmering panic. In the hazy gloom, the scene reminds Catena of her slave-pit origins, but the echoes and scents are off, too-refined, too-articulate. Too passive. No one harasses the bolt-touting mercenary.  

At least, not until she reaches the fifth floor.

"Draukyr's hoary muzzle! Get yer crab-faced molly-rag o'er here!"

Titus barks at her from the fifth-floor's corridor, its previously barred entrance melted by some kind of caustic slime. The button-eyed sailor strains as he half-hefts, half-drags a copper still across the mossy carpet. A blood-soaked petticoat has been wrapped around his bum as a makeshift bandage. He grunts.

"Well, fish-brains?! Ye gonna just gawk with 'em ratty deadlights or are ye gonna help me get 'dis thrice-shelled grog-pot to me walker. It's sunken just outside tha' window. I'll give ye a ride -and e'en consider the spine-fingered barker bygone. Or, ye can run like sharkshat till the gas-pipes blow like a sixteen-cannon salute!?"[/ic]

[ooc]If you decide to hustle to the top and down the fire-escape, make an Agility check. If you decide to help Titus, make a Might check.[/ooc]

[ic]Catena grunts and holsters her crossbow, then hurries to help Titus with the huge still, suppressing a sigh of exasperation.[/ic]

[ooc]Might check, applying one level of Grit:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 4, total 4[/blockquote]

Pools: Pools: Might 9/15, Agility 11/14, Intellect 3/7[/ooc]

[ic=Alisandre]Alisandre overcomes the transmogrifying assault.

Between terrible spasms of wracking coughs and spore-filled drool, Alisandre gnashes out the diabolic benediction, simultaneously banishing Succorbenoth and denying the archdemon its final sacrifice -herself. The se'irim screams like a petulant child -though its cacophony causes the very air to shudder and bleed. With a noisome quiver, the paraphysical womb re-opens and swallows the Horned Eunuch with a sickly slurp, silencing the fiend's sanity-crumbling echoes. In the aftermath of Hell's exorcism, pipes and canisters hiss and boil. Colors and gravity stabilize as reality stitches itself back together.

And in the middle of the spent hexagram, six viridian eggs gleam with slime-shelled secrets.

While most of the diabolists struggle to regain their metaphysical footing, one robed figure shouts a command in Morbis. In response, something detaches from the the venous-tubed ceiling and drops to the floor with the scuttle of bone and metal.

A necromechanoid.

Even in the incarnadine gloom, the elegant construction of the spidery juggernaut is evident: a half-dozen corpses neatly joined together by twisted machinery and animated by dark thaumaturgy. Eight human arms support its necrotic bulk, and a rotating, many-barrelled gun dangles from its thorax. Its head is human, but a naphtha-thrower bursts from its preserved lips like some obscene, murderous tongue, and its eyes have been replaced with glass lenses. Heat and flames flicker in its articulated throat.[/ic]

[ooc]Make an initiative roll (Agility-based). You might as well make an Agility-defense roll 'just in case'. Finally, make a perception roll (Intellect).

Congrats on not becoming a quivering pile of hellmould. :)  [/ooc]

[ic=Catena]Together, Catena and Titus easily heft the monstrously heavy still. They carry it across a half-ransacked office, then attach it to a nest of magnetic cables and clamps that dangle down from a battered-open window. Sweat drips down Titus' blood-blanched face as he checks the lines and cinches them tight with a heavy crank.  

"Anchorgut job," he murmurs weakly.

Steadying himself against the smashed lintel, Titus points up and out the window. Following his gaze, Catena spots Titus' 'walker'. The ten-legged contraption -formed of barnacle-studded chitin, leather, and galvanized steel- resembles a giant crayfish. It clutches the roof's lip and wall, surprisingly camouflaged and stable against the Stallion's brick exterior.

Titus smiles, "She's from the War. Since it ended, she wasn't gettin' no loadin', so I crimped her, fair and dry."

His smile fades, however, as he grabs a rope ladder and laboriously climbs, his petticoat-bandage shifting painfully and dripping fresh blood. Reaching the soon-to-be cramped cockpit, Titus wearily grunts, "C'mon, crabmeat."

As Catena climbs the swaying rope and wedges herself behind the sailor, Titus maneuvers a litany of levers, drawing the cables and cargo into the walker's articulated 'tail'. Yanking another level, and spinning a well-greased wheel, he closes the cockpit and begins to pilot the vehicle via a host of gauges and glass-portholes. Steam-boilers roar to life, and the giant cray-machine begins to slowly half-scamper, half-slide down the wall. Dust and sparks fill the air, and the cockpit rattles like an enraged demon.

"And by... Shuddegoth's scaly cannonballs... keep yer eelish... pincers... to yerself," he grumbles between painful jolts.  

No sooner said, a terrible sound cuts through the air.

"What'd I tell-" Titus shouts, only to look back and curse, "-Basatan's meaty cakes!". Glancing back herself, Catena watches as the Stallion's gas-pipes catch, triggering a chain-reaction that savages the drug-dealing brothel. Five stories of windows burst into a storm of shrapnel and fire.

As the explosions try to throw the walker from the wall -and subsequently shred it with a shower of glass and burning metal, Titus frenetically turns, yanks, and spins a prolix combination of devices. Screeching in protest, the walker violently leaps the last story, off and away from the burning building and falling flack.

The walker lands with a hard -but not lethal- stop. Steam hisses as hydraulic pistons catch and carry the apparatus' weight.

Wincing at the less-than-graceful landing, Titus checks on Catena, then curses as he spots his blood-sopped seat. He murmurs to no one in particular, "Hagfaced gods, that was too grog-washed close."

Gingerly testing a few levers and gauges, Titus taps one sinking dial and sighs, "That briny dance cost us nearly all her powder, but I can get her limpin' someplace scaly. Radula's close, but ye can shove-off now if ye want."

Behind them, klaxons sound. The greasy cul-de-sac is a flurry of movement. Dazed boatmen rush out of the adjacent hostel, groggy and clutching their ears. Passers-by gather and stare. A few, brave roustabouts rush to the inferno-wracked fire-escape to check for survivors.  Overhead, an ornithopter soars into view, its edges backlit by an elytric blue spotlight that sweeps over the dying conflagration.[/ic]

[ooc]Make a Might defense roll (DC 2 for you) or take 2 points of Might damage, after Armor, from the jostle/fall/landing.[/ooc]

[ic]Even as one crisis boils over into another, Alisandre cannot help but feel a surge of vindication--someone did not want her to see that egg's contents. Its knowledge was valuable. And it would be hers.[/ic]

[ooc]Initiative:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 3, total 3[/blockquote]

Defense:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 3, total 3[/blockquote]

Perception:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 6, total 6[/blockquote]

Pools: Might 4/8 (0), Agility 6/11 (1), Intellect 8/17 (1)[/ooc]

[ic=Alisandre]The other diabolists curse at their treacherous peer, though only half of them have the celerity to invoke a protective hex. While one summons a cocoon of translucent slime, another diabolist scratches open a scabbed wrist, creating sanguine rivulets that momentarily form a goetic seal. From that bloody sigil, a horde of malformed imps burst -flinging themselves out of the witch's arteries in a gory torrent. Meanwhile, the traitor stabs a finger at Alisandre and shouts another Morbis-spoken command -in a high-pitched voice whose Somnambulon accent is all-too familiar to Alisandre.

The traitor is none other than Symos' wife, Lenora Mei-Vourne, formerly of House Gervais of New Gromlech. 

Alisandre has little time to savor this revelation, however, as the necromechanoid scuttles to cut-off the ex-magistra from her egg. Simultaneously, its necrotic head swivels in a staccato motion, its naphtha-thrower vomiting a gout of flame that incinerates the nearest diabolist, burns through the other's slime-cocoon, and catches Alisandre's clothes on fire. Her nostrils fill with the stench of her own burning hair and flesh. As Lenora rushes to collect her -and Alisandre's- egg, the necromechanoid's gatling gun fires -cutting down another diabolist and savaging the swarm of imps.[/ic]

[ooc]You take 5 points of damage -which drops you down the health track -so you now take a -1 to all rolls and cannot spend Might points. The necromechanoid is blocking your path. Lenora is almost to the eggs.

Alisandre would know that this is a really devious treachery, as all of the diabolists had to disrobe all their clothing and items save the ritualistic garb, depriving them of many protections -which are especially important since diabolistic invocations generally require time and preparation. That one could summon a swarm of imps so swiftly is impressive. Whether they can survive/defeat a necromechanoid is another matter.[/ooc]

[ooc]Might check for Catena:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 4, total 4[/blockquote][/ooc]

[ooc]So Catena weathers the battering without any injury. Tough as nails, she is. Now, just let me know, either IC or OOC, how she responds (e.g., does she gets off/out now, along the way, or ride with Titus to whatever river hideout he's going to).[/ooc]

[ic]Alisandre cannot suppress a scream at the all-too familiar--and no less terrible--sensation of being roasted alive. Even as she franatically bats at her burning garments, she attempts to harness her pain, her fury, to direct it against this latest family member who would see her consigned to the flames.

The nigromancer hisses out a string of arcane syllables in Morbis and spectral demonic forms hungrily race towards the fallen diabolists, their grinning maws spread wide as if anticipating a savory meal. The corpses glow with fell red light, then abruptly lurch to their feet. The first one falls upon the necromechanoid, mindlessly kicking, biting, and battering at the construct with abandon that only a dead man could possess. Meanwhile, the second zombie jerkily ambles after Alisandre's sister-in-law, sizzling chunks of flesh still sloughing off from its blackened torso. Its arms are spread wide as if to embrace its mistress' kinswoman.[/ic]

[ooc]Spending 3 Intellect on the two zombies.

Zombie 1's attack vs. the necromechanoid, 2 dmg if it hits:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 6, total 6[/blockquote]

Zombie 2's grapple vs Lenora:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 2, total 2[/blockquote]

Pools: Might 0/8 (0), Agility 5/11 (1), Intellect 5/17 (1)[/ooc]

[ic=Alisandre]The bullet-riddled zombie catches the necromechanoid completely off-guard. It neither dodges nor blocks the servitor's attacks. It is as if the spidery automaton's programming cannot process, much less counter, the grave-spawn. Without care or awareness of this datum, the zombie brutally tears into the juggernaut's thorax. Its still-warm hands clutch and rip apart dead sinews and stitched cables, causing the necromechanoid's gun to sway and totter precariously. The gatling's shots fall high and wide, ricocheting against the chamber's walls and ceilings. Chymicals spray and spurt from punctured tubes and tanks, making the floor ever more slick and noisome.

Caught in the loathsome spray, the immolated zombie steams and hisses as it pursues Lenora. The traitorous noblewoman, however, evades its embrace and picks up both eggs, cradling them softly in her robes. She shouts another string of commands in Corpserattle and begins to flee. Obedient to its mistress' order, the necromechanoid crawls after her, then halts, its bulk blocking Lenora's living pursuers.

In response, the slime-cocooned witch rushes into the violated hexagram and seizes an egg. Eyeing the other diabolists, he shouts, "Memory is long, but mortality is short," then utters a hex that transforms his body and possessions into a pool of motile sludge. His amorphous-mass oozes away from the battle, mingling with the leaking reagents.  

The imp-shrouded diabolist, however, attempts to strike back at Lenora. A half-dozen fiendlings flit over and through the necromechanoid's legs. Those that survive the gambit fall upon Lenora, snatching, scratching, and snapping at her with their grotesque appendages and maws. Another group of imps protectively surround the remaining eggs. The diabolist -no longer shielded by the demonic flock- performs a byzantine invocation that freezes the air around the necromechanoid. Frost begins to gather and grow around the thing's head, till its face and barreled lips are entombed in a block of stygian ice.  

Meanwhile, flames continue to hungrily lick at Alisandre's skin and naphtha-charred raiment. The odor, heat, and agony awaken nightmarish memories long-buried, but never put to rest.[/ic]

[ooc]As noted, Alisandre's clothes are on fire, and will continue to burn her until put out. She takes 2 more Damage this round. Due to the general pain and distraction  and her specific trauma with fire, make an Intellect defense roll 4. If you succeed, you can act normally (with the -1 of course). Otherwise, you must spend your round dousing the flames, or attempting to.

Also, make an Intellect-based perception check. If you pass a DC 3, you also note the programming flaw in the necromechanoid.

If you move, make a DC 2 agility check to keep your footing, since there is a growing amount of blood and chemicals on the floor.[/ooc]

[ooc]Intellect check on the necromechanoid:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6 : 3, total 3[/blockquote][/ooc]

[ooc]Intellect check vs. fire:

[blockquote]Rolled 1d6-1 : 5 - 1, total 4[/blockquote][/ooc]