The zombie finally begins to falter, and Motsognir sees his chance to deal a telling wound. Shoving Garrmondo aside, he raises his axe with a shout and hacks off the chillborn's left arm. The zombie's attempts to contort his frozen face into a frown but succeeds only in shattering his own jaw.

Start of Delic's turn: 5 ongoing cold damage

Delic stands there with his feet frozen to the ground, mumbling incoherently. Something about dating a turtle. The rest of the Horde tries to ignore him; he's lost quite a bit of blood after all and he's probably just confused.

Garrmondo rushes in with what looks like a sure strike this time. Just as he raises his sword to deal the blow, the dwarf barrels past him. Set completely off balance by the warlord shoving him aside, Garrmondo ends up somewhere he didn't really want to be — and, it goes without saying, doesn't so much as give the zombie a bruise.

Snapping out of a long, seemingly irrelevant reverie, Bob incinerates another passing seabird. Ooh, a petrel! He wasn't contributing to the fight overmuch, but he'd already cooked dinner for the next three nights.

The rotwing makes another attempt at dive-bombing the party, aiming for Garrmondo this time. The zombie barrels into the fighter's shield at about 50 MPH. It's not pretty.

The chillborn zombie staggers away from Soggy, clutching sadly at the stump where his arm used to be. Carelessly meandering by the cliff's edge, he smacks Delic in the face with his remaining arm. Delic, for his part, collapses to the ground and passes out. Somebody probably ought to move him. People roll around sometimes when they're sleeping.

Slam: 8 damage to Delic. Unconscious, Dying, Helpless, all that jazz

:savepoint: Motsognir, Delic (DYING), Garrmondo, Bob, Rotwing Zombie, Chllborn Zombie

The new one was down already. "These prissy types..." the dwarf grumbled to himself, walking over to the winged undead. He leans back and swings at the thing's torso, but only manages a fleshwound.

Inspiring Words to Delic
Move to P5
Bastion of Defense


what the hell kind of damage roll is that :/

13 damage

My wandering thoughts were hampering my aim rather so I concentrated really hard, raised my staff slowly, took a deep breath and held it before lashing eldritch fire at the two undead abominations.

Flames and shit at a square just behind the deadites so as to hit both

As yet another gout of flame left my targets completely unscathed, I shook my staff and peered at the end of it, wondering if it needed recalibrating or something and longed for the good old days of fighting goblins that didn't move around much and broke easily.

This was taking too long, Soggy groused, and the nancies he had to deal with for backup weren't helping the situation. He smashes his axe into the leathery bat-monster but it barely seems scratched. What were these things made of, metal?

Bastion of Defense: All allies (this doesn't include Soggy) gain +1 to defenses for the encounter and 5 temp. HP

Beginning of Delic's turn: 5 damage from ongoing ice

FUCK! DELIC'S TURN! Watch this space. Sorry, I started the update without realizing they'd healed you.

Delic stands up slowly, muscles sore and contracted from the cold of the ice beast that attacked him mere moments before.

"Sonuva..." he slurs, the word coming out of his mouth like loose marbels or another really bad analogy.

He stops, still hunched over, too warry to move very far when he looks at his feet. "What the fuck are these things at my feet? Some kind of rebus?"

Turning his head like a confused dog, he utters "Ice Lock No Down Sleep Death Blood? Man, I wasn't even drunk and you people had to write all over me?"

Attempting to brandish his sword, he swings widely at the closest creature.

Attack at creature at O3

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Delic lashes out at the Chillborn — and his blade actually connects! Perhaps the curse was over!

PS: all the dice for this post are on post #130, if you're wondering
Start of Garrmondo's turn: 5 damage from aura

Garrmondo attempts to capitalize on the zombie's wounds with another attempt to push it over the ledge, but to no avail. As Bob incinerates a particularly unfortunate pair of starlings en route to their nest, the Chillborn dashes back up the trail toward the wagon to avoid getting stabbed from three directions at once. The zombie makes no attempt to cover his flanks, however, and Garrmondo's shortsword cuts a massive gouge into the frozen meat. The Chillborn interrupts its retreat and mauls Motsognir with its remaining arm.

Garrmondo's AoO: 10 damage to Chillborn
Slam: 7 damage to Motsognir; immobilized, cold, etc

The Rotwing zombie moves to launch itself into the air for a third diving attack, but both Garrmondo and Delic slash into its wings as it attempts to take flight. It tumbles back onto the ground, rattled.

Garrmondo's AoO: 8 damage, bloodied
Delic's AoO: 14 damage

:savepoint: Motsognir, Delic, Garrmondo, Bob, Rotwing Zombie, Chllborn Zombie

Motsognir keeps at it. Unable to move yet again, he sees the zombies' preoccupation and shouts for Delic to take another swing at the rotwing.

Commander's Strike

Not knowing where that voice came from, Delic moves next to the rotwing and swings.

Because he does what the voices tell him.

Moves to face rotwing
Swings

Tired from the climb and the lengthy battle, the fighters make a last ferocious assault before the cold wears them down entirely. Delic chips away viciously at the icy coating just as Garrmondo darts in to jab his shortsword through the thing's torso — in the process puncturing a long-sealed pocket of putrid corpse gases. A faint hissing quickly escalates to a high-pitched whistle, and the pressure of escaping gas blows the chillborn zombie completely to bits. Chunks of frozen zombie go flying in every direction. Garrmondo takes an airborne kidney to the temple, but the brunt of the blast is absorbed by the rotwing, whose head is ripped clean off by the force of a flying clavicle.

It's kind of messy and unorthodox, but a kill is a kill.

VICTORY! 1500 XP (375 XP each)

Whatever trouble may lie at the lighthouse still looms ahead, but more pressing is the question of divvying up the late paladin's possessions. He's fish food, he's not gonna want that shield anymore. On top of that, there might be something worth having in the wagon now that a body can take a look without getting gnawed on.

From around a bend in the trail comes a worrisome combination of gurgling and growling that sounds very much like a large predator in some gastrointestinal distress. What rough meal, its hour come at last, slouches toward the Horde to be vomited up?

Motsognir picks up the boots Gabe had acquired from the sailor just before his disappearance and put them on, saw to his wounds, and began picking through the wagon wreckage.

Use one healing surge

The zombies defeated, I stopped to catch my breath and warm up my extremities. Seeing the pile of the ugly dwarf's belongings, I bowed my head briefly in recognition of the passing of a truly mighty warrior, before picking up the dog statue and helping myself to some of his trail rations and his rope. I planted the skull on a stick next to the road, with his skull hat laid beside it and scrawled on the cliff face using my chalk "Near here lies a dwarf (About 6 feet out and 600 yards down). Ugly as sin and mad as a box of Basilisks. We are proud to have known him" as an eternal monument to this sadly lost, undead warrior.

Wiping a tear from my eye, I joined the other dwarf, the last of my creations, who was busy rummaging through the cart to help him look for loot.

Healing surge back to full health, search for treasure

While the rest of the group pick through the other guy's crap, Delic takes his time to take the sea-tree's vine, knotting it down its length and then tying one end around himself and the other to his sword sheath.

This will come handy on a mountain, if theres a problem with falling over cliffs.

What was left of the Horde rifled through the late paladin's gear, leaving most of it where it lay. Most of it was unsalvageable; what few things didn't have little animal skulls pasted to them were coated in hairs of unknown provenance.

Delic, inscrutable as ever, busies himself by knotting the rope he'd pilfered from the ship and then tying himself to his own scabbard. The scabbard is very important to the gentleman swordsman. Without it, the damage to the blade from rust can be immeasurable; now, no one will take this important accessory from him.

The rest of the group goes to take another look at the wrecked wagon. It stands to reason that they weren't the first group to fall into the zombies' trap and some of the poor idiots en route to the lighthouse must have had some worthwhile loot. Sure enough, a two-handed falchion is wedged under the wagon axle, miraculously unaffected by the weather.

http://www.ddwiki.saxypunch.com/imag...ngweapon_2.png

As they consider which of them should take the sword, a hulking grizzly bear staggers into view. Groaning as if in great agony, the poor animal unsteadily meanders within a few yards of the Horde before flopping down onto the trail and letting forth a truly majestic torrent of vomit. An angry animal of some kind, possibly a badger or wolverine, thrashes about in the puddle for a few moments, trying to get back to its feet on the slippery trail. The bear, for its part, merely passes out.

Quite unceremoniously, the badger is then abruptly replaced by an equally ferocious halfling who continues to roil about in the puddle of bile for a few awkward seconds before he realizes he's being watched. Finally managing to right himself, he wipes the effluence from his face and assumes an expression of surprised optimism. These people were extraordinarily unlikely to swallow him whole. Today might turn out all right after all!

Finding nothing of immediate use in the wagon, I turned my attention to the small child who had just been vomitted up in front of us, remarking to anyone who was listening how strange it was that everytime we lost a party member, another candidate seemed to appear almost immediately. The last time we let a child tag along it hadn't ended well but with few alternatives on this path, we could use all the help we could get and the bear looked in no state for adventuring.

I waited for the others to finish what they were doing before heading off up the trail. I figured one of the humans would fill in the kid on what was going on, I was never great with kids.

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And explore he did. The halfling went scuttling about through the crags and eventually stumbled upon a rather boring village. Very much empty. Very much dead. Nothing to steal. Nothing interesting. Boring. It did have a path to follow away from it though and that led to the cliffs. The path led up into the cliffs. Oh yes it did but Gordok thought following this path felt disingenuous to who he was. He could climb this cliff. He would caress and fondle every last stone until he was up to the top. Oh this would be good.

About thirty minutes up he'd stumbled upon something. Friends! Just the cutest icy zombies you ever did seen! And so Gordy played with his new friends exploring the cliff sides and scrambling over top of one another and biting at each other. It was just like home. Soon enough the undead grew wary of the sport and climbed back into their holes. Gordok waved goodbye and continued his ascent.

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Gordok knew what sleeping in a cave was like. He was quite adept at it. He certainly knew what it was not. It wasn't this comfortable. It wasn't this warm. Least of all it wasn't this wet. Okay, well sometimes it was, but it certainly wasn't this squishy. Something had gone wrong while he slept. He had dreamt of playing with his earlier companions some more, so it was too cruel to find that as he reached out two of his buddies lay compactly and lifelessly inside this non-cave cavity.

As he shed a single tear for his icy pals Gordok noted something else. Whatever he had woken up in was now moving. Coming to his senses Gordok knew perfectly well what to do and what had happened for this wasn't all that an uncommon event in his life having had happened at least ten times before. He'd almost lost Uncle Fehrlok one drunken night when he wasn't quite right for pulling off this escape, but Gordy was pretty damn sober right now and this time he didn't really believe that whatever had swallowed him whole had any relations to him so he wouldn't have to hold back.

Five minutes later and he was free. Back into the cold world he flopped and rolled. The heaving and sick had made it a bit unpleasant but Gordok had rather enjoyed the warmth. He had no more need for his extra tools anymore as whatever had scarfed him up had promptly keeled over for the night.

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Waiting until his woman was out of earshot, Motsognir pulls the new halfling aside and shows him the ropes in a menacing sotto voce. "Listen you little shit, let's get something straight right off the bat. Lady's mine, alright? So you can cut this 'hello gorgeous' business, or," he points to the bear, "I'll feed you to something less forgiving than old Smokey over there. Capiche?"

Arrogantly picking up the weapon from the wagon wreckage, he saunters off after the elf.

Scooping up the falchion, Soggy irritably resumes tramping uphill after Bob. He shoots the rest of the group a dirty look, and they hurry to catch up.

The trail gets rougher still as it ascends into the rarefied air near the peak, narrowing to little more than a tiny footpath that then vanishes entirely under densely-packed snow.

At long last, the Horde reaches the lighthouse gates. At this distance, the Fang Light is finally visible — reduced to a sputtering ember instead of the massive conflagration it's intended to be, it hovers over the lighthouse tower.

The gate itself is locked. A massive figure, armored in head to toe, stomps up to the other side of the gate and stares intently at the Horde, his red eyes glowing through his helmet.

"Adam" he grumbles, his head turning ever-so-slightly to glance behind him. "Visitors."

He pauses, and then, his voice carrying a faint undertone of disgust, adds:

"They're made out of meat."

"What, again? The entire reason we chose this location for our work was its inhospitability to meat. And yet, for the third time this month, meat!"

Another armored figure, this one somewhat smaller, steps forward and pulls open the gate.

"Good evening, Meat Individuals 43 through 47. As there is no plausible reason you should be in a place with such meat-hostile temperatures, you have obviously arrived via some kind of accident in the pathfinding routines of your meat brains. There was a meat-person dwelling here when we arrived, but due to his hostility we were forced to punch holes in his meat until he stopped moving around. Consequently, we were free to discard all of the various articles he had here to make meat-survivability viable at this altitude. Therefore I advise you for your own safety to reverse course and return immediately to whatever seacraft you may have arrived by. Or, it goes without saying, else."

A third voice, seemingly coming from atop the lighthouse tower, shouts something intelligible, and the green lights shining from within Adam's helmet seem to flicker rapidly.

"Unless", Adam asks with the air of someone having to ask a pointless question for the 43rd time that month, "You know anything about the upkeep and repair of Class-R spelljammers?"

"Uhhhhhhh" the dwarf mutters dumbly, thinking back.

Arcana check!

We finally made it to the lighthouse after a long slog through the snow. I had amused myself during the climb by rolling small snowballs off the side of the mountain, watching them grow larger and larger as they rolled before smashing apart on the jagged outcrops of rock dotted about the mountainside.

When finally we reached the gates of the lighthouse, we were greated by what looked like a couple of suits of animated armour. What was particularly impressive was that these suits of armour could speak!

I couldn't really understand them of course as they spoke with the same infuriating dialect that everyone else in this part of the world seemed to share but I did catch the odd word or two, in particular spelljammer which sounded like something I might have learned about at university.

I wracked my brains for any hidden memories on the subject whilst wandering over to the nearest suit of armour and giving it a good looking over, trying to see how it worked. Rapping the breastplate with my staff to see if it was hollow, I peered through the eye-slits, hoping to fathom out the internal workings. These really were quite fascinating pieces of either arcana or machinery.

Skill check for spelljammer knowledge, go and investigate the nearest chap more closely

Delic thinks very hard. Not surprisingly, its the same look on his face when he's constipated.

Insight Check