through rubble to T3
Monkeys & Window
Weeks (knows about Ask - torturing soldiers - heading for Winshire)
Rope ladder & monkeys
Connor the cleric shave
Question for the tank (cigars)
"Were were with the Rise when the 5 cities were destroyed and we know who did it. This is their home plane & we are here to stop them"
Zephram on the radio (recognise Bal)
Theta 4 (2)
to the roof (weeks, fuller, zephram)
Radio op / Major Ortavia (bucket)
Bal goes for Weeks (dies), Fuller for gun, slowly, sniper turns sniper
(Scry caught, Bal on bal with bfg)
pick up from beach plan
rope up & strap on - Bal, Rog (wave), San (wave), Scry (water bulge)
up up and caught by arse disease tentacle (Scry caught, then Bal and free)
Dragged out to sea, missing ship, Bal rope bullet into webbing
Fuller gets a laugh
Radio shift to the tank
little dome, big dome
Tank (local Bal & geeks)
model of realities
"lining up shakra"
"What like this - oh shit"
Back to T42 & heading for Winshire
Load up Bal's bullets
The loading bay of the T42 is hung with a few garlands and some lit paper lanterns. The group preps for the drop in heavy leather furs and are wished “happy new year” as they lean over the open bomb doors. By accident or design, It’s Midsummer’s day.
They plummet down through wind buffeted sky strapped to the LTA devices and land in deep snowdrifts amongst a cold but not unpleasant flurry of flakes. Not the nosebleed “hot zone” experience they expected.
A long struggling walk downwind leads them to first a tree line, then a road, then finally the long low damaged ruin that is Winshire Lodge. Working round it they see the snowbound ornamental gardens and lights flickering in one of the rooms.
A quick reconnoitre inside the house and they find the room, and the hint of the giant imposing shadow of the crystal encrusted golem creature whose powerful unstoppable brutality has been foreshadowed for years leading to just this moment. A brief trip outside by Scry and a peer in the window reveals a barely visible human figure sitting before a fire surrounded by a vast assortment of books magazines and paintings of a romanticised mythical/heroic nature. A small space on one wall is reserved for a cluster of mostly portrait pictures of (seemingly) specific individuals interspersed with newspaper clippings. Your own images are apparent hanging there along with an “Eats his pupil theatre co” poster.
Scrylash states his belief that this roomful of seemingly random fiction and art is all connected with them, the quest and the higher machinations of Deagh and his crazed plot. Sanguine openly mocks him for his insane conspiracy theory.
Sanguine sneaks down to the entrance to the room and peers in – the occupant is confirmed as Hayden Deagh a man whose powerful unstoppable brutality has been foreshadowed for years leading to just this moment.
Due to aforementioned foreshadow/brutality/moment conceit the group then spend 2 hours in the corridor in psychic communication talking about how best to proceed. Many plans are concocted and discarded, other plans made – discussed at length, compared to previous plans and judged useful only in that they make the previous plan look good.
Ultimately a plan of action is decided upon and it is then that they are made aware of Haydens ability to overhear them when he lets them know that the Golem is bound by artefact to many of the worlds it’s visited and to attack him will send it into a destructive frenzy – and to destroy it will bring about the end of several hundred universes.
With the by now familiar battle cry of “So what?” and “Big fucking deal?” our heroes leap into action instantly gaining the upper hand by forgetting all previous plans and opting for the classic #1 manoeuvre that’s worked so well for them in the past “Blunder in.”
Cries of “I do this” are -as tradition demands - followed closely by “No, don’t do that” and the bloodcurdling yelp of “Quick do this” – “ok I do that” are followed by “No, wait, oh shit ...” as sure as night follows day.
Hayden is surrounded by a multi-layered glimmering orb of protection, each onion skin like shell offering a shimmering wall of mystical protection The Golem has no such protection but is able to punch really fucking hard.
Roggen keeps the hideous clay and glass construct off balance by pummelling it with rounds from her recently acquired “rifle” - so ridiculously accurate is the barrage that the dwarf is forever more known as “War Machine” a real step up from the previous nickname of “That Fucking Dwarf”.
Balantine begins the regimen of spells fired from his trusty sidearms that they have planned to deal with the Golem – threat.
Sanguine manages to flit between mico-managing Balantines magical assault on the Golem and attacking it himself – once he sees this is going well he follows Scylash outside towards the windows once again to gain entrance to the room.
Scrylash took the fight direct to the man and swings at him with his favoured weapon of choice – The knucks. Globes of protection melting away to nothing, Deagh calmly stood stock still as the blow was swung and what a fucking blow it was. Man of the match goes to Scry for obliterating one side of HDs head in a single punch and reducing his calm controlled demeanour to a shrieking fucked-up wreck.
Bal and Rog on the golem – taking a terrific amount of abuse but still keeping it at bay with the one/two combo of normal and magical shells. Disturbingly only some of Balantines spell encrusted bullets seem to be “going off”
Chaaskaffer joins the fray and her reticence to swing a blade in front of you folks seemingly behind her she quickly obliterates one of her drow swords on the energy globes surrounding HD, but at least breaks through it. Scry uses his newly improved reaching skillz to replace it with his own once-owned ebay version.
Sanguine tries casting a lightning spell at HD and is cruelly reminded of the connection between lightning and weather. The drain on his magic’s is only halted by a weather altering shell from “Big B” which seems to reverse the draining effect.
Hayden having struggled to heal the severe damage to his face – and only partly managed to reconstruct the gruesome damage done him, turns his back on the attack and obsessively rips at the “info wall” removing all the other portraits leaving just the images of the party. The Golem delivers a savage attack on Bal and Rogs and they are beaten into momentary submission – the attack on Hayden turns the Golems attention back to the room and it charges, backhanding Aaskafer and ploughing into Sanguine.
Hayden makes use of this momentary turn of events to slip away, and his retreat is protected by the Golem, now intent on crushing Sanguine beneath its clay hoof. Scry uses this opportune distraction to check out some books and papers, and possibly fail to pick up the scent of the HD.
Sanguine pinned to the floor by the Golems foot is mere seconds from messy death when he detects that many of Balentines spell bullets have hit deep in the clay form, and simply have not “activated”. He nearly dies when he can’t get over the bizarre fact that most of Balentines bullets seem to have somehow hit the creature !!! but recovers in time to remember this worlds dependence on blood-activated magic – and lays open his arm with a fresh cut.
The spells dormant at the heart of the beast are all triggered at once, and it is ripped apart in a fittingly wide-screen moment of triumph which could only have been improved by a suitable soundtrack and a slo-mo pickup shot.
The team briefly hunt for the missing HD – but then the adrenalin wanes and they take a moment regroup and nurse wounds. Aaskafer is saved and Scry notes that the “roomful of seemingly random fiction and art is all connected with them and the higher machinations of Deagh and his crazed plot.” He says nothing to Sanguine, but does scribble his name in a small black book and underlines it.
The connection is one specific iconic fairy tale, the human who slips into the Fey lands on Midsummers day and by accident or design challenges the lord of the lands to a duel for the kingdom.
Loins girded they begin the hunt, and picking up the trail follow HD out of the Lodge and across the snow encrusted gardens. He seems to have detoured around an ornate maze-like group of low hedgerow: Roggen bellowing the obvious conclusion “HE’s walking a maze!!!!!” and thence onward to an overgrown cemetery in the woods, where a sunken round building constructed of tombs weaves back and forth upon itself in maze-like fashion until it opens donut-like into an exposed center. A faint hint of incense hangs on the air and blood is splashed back and forth as he has wound his way to the center of an ancient spiral pattern in the cobbles.
“We follow” people cry in unison and weaving back and forth a familiar tug at the edges of what oases for “real” is felt – the group succumb to it without a second thought, and perhaps unsurprisingly find themselves standing in a wooded glade, the sun still rising quite low in the sky sending beams through the heavily leafed branches. The huge trunks of these grand trees surrounds them, the moss at the base a soft yielding carpet now covered in a layer of hoarfrost stretching out in a wide growing snowflake pattern from where they stand.
A thin path of creeping icy frost winds away from them and off into the trees.