Post #2594027 in The City of Chains, a roleplay on RPG

The next part of their continued trek towards the tower bridge was mostly uneventful, passing them through several more rooms mostly dominated by sand and silence, but as they reached the midway point of yet another, Nostariel and Stroud both showed a hitch in their steps. Halting a moment, they exchanged a look. Nostariel’s brow furrowed heavily, her face betraying clear confusion, and though Stroud remained stoic, his frown deepened enough for her to tell that he was just as perplexed as she was.

“It’s… there’s something in the next room.” She realized the others would have no idea what the silent communication between herself and the commander meant. “It’s… it doesn’t feel like a darkspawn, but… be careful.” There was something very wrong about the feeling, but more like a sick kind of wrong than an evil one. Darkspawn tended to feel like both at the same time.

They resumed their forward progress, though upon entering the next room, Stroud and Nostariel were both bearing weapons again, and they weren’t alone in that. What they saw was at once a relief and a further confusion.

A haggard-looking man in Warden armor appeared to be searching through the contents of the room. His hair, perhaps originally a reddish-brown, now occupied sparse patches of his head and nothing more. His eyes were glazed over, partly foggy with the taint, and his gait was shambling, almost more apelike than human, his back hunched. For a moment of utter, cold terror, Nostariel looked at him and saw her future. She’d never seen those closest to their Calling, but shed heard that some of them tried to fight it off, perhaps for too long, and it was not hard to imagine that this was what they became. The thoughts closed her throat and dropped a stone into the pit of her stomach, and for a moment, she forgot how to speak.

An ability that the stranger, at least, seemed to retain. He glanced up sharply, as though he had sensed their presence in the same way they had sensed his, blinked his rheumy eyes, and immediately started shambling in their general direction, with as much haste as he seemed capable of mustering. “The Key!” His voice rasped, likely not having been used in some time, but the expression on his face was open, and might have been friendly—it was hard to tell, given what the Blight had done to him. “Did they find it? The dwarves? I heard them… looking… digging.” He paused for a moment, his eyes, or what was left of them, seeming to bore into Nostariel for a stretch of time she lost track of, but he did stop a few feet from the party, perhaps mindful of how well-armed they were, perhaps just out of habit. “How do you bring the Key here?”

“I don’t understand. How is this a key?” Nostariel’s hand tightened on the staff she held, knowing nonetheless that it was the object he referred to.

“Magic. Old magic, it is. Magic from the blood.” Well, that certainly confirmed the hypothesis from earlier, not that they’d needed any more assurance that blood magic was at the root of this somehow. “It made the seals. It can destroy them.”

Seals? There was more than one? Nostariel pursed her lips, trying to make sense of all this, and decided it might be best to stick to the most important thing going on here. “We came in here to find Corypheus. Do you know anything about him?” Perhaps that had not been their exact intent in coming here, but it seemed to be the problem they had to deal with at this juncture, anyway.

The man’s reaction was immediate—he flinched backward with a soft hiss. “Do not say his name! He will hear you. Do not wake him… not when you hold the key.”

Behind Nostariel, Amalia’s lips pursed, and she folded her arms across her chest, the sharp end of the knife she was holding sticking out past one of her elbows, safely away from any of her companions. She did not particularly like the look of this man, the way he was hunched over like something half-regressed to animal nature, but at the very least his words were comprehensible—even if she did not yet fully understand what all of them referred to. “And how would this Corypheus leave, even if he did wake? The entrance we came through is sealed.” And unless they found a way out, they were sealed in with the darkspawn, too.

“Corypheus… he has power. But you—no way out when the walls stand. The Wardens build their prisons well. If the center holds, who cares what else is trapped?” He paused for a moment, and his eyes passed from Amalia back Nostariel. “But you hold the Key! The key to his death… yes, I can show you out, yes.”

Nostariel pursed her lips, something in her eyes softening against her will. She could hardly help it—the man seemed to be in such pitiable condition that even her wariness of strangers was being swamped by it, diluted by her concern. “Who are you?” The question was gentle rather than accusatory. “What happened to you?”

“You ask me that?” He seemed equal parts nonplussed and melancholy, his expression morphing into something very recognizable as sorrowful. He touched a fist to his rusted breastplate, more of a kind with Stroud’s than Nostariel’s own. “Wardens, yes? Guardians against the Blight. You… and me. The seals hold us in. Anything comes in, and nothing ever leaves, not without the Key."

“Wait.” That was Stroud. “You are saying we cannot get out without breaking these seals?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously; like Amalia, he crossed his arms.

The man nodded. “You must, yes. Every seal, you must hold the Key, use your blood. Only then they open. Only for the witch’s child.” There was a pause, and it looked like Stroud was about to argue, but the man continued instead. “Not back, not up. Only way out is down and through the heart. Down… down in the depths…” He turned from them, and started in that direction himself, shuffling through a door to the left, and out, across the bridge they’d first spotted upon their entrance here.

A perceptible sigh issued over Nostariel's shoulder. "It doesn't sound like we have much of a choice... Dammit," Ashton said behind her, muttering the curse under his breath. He didn't enjoy having to follow this...man? Or whatever he was anywhere.

The amount of trust Ashton had could've been gauged by the draw he had on his bow, though pointed toward the ground instead of anything in particular. The fact that Nostariel would have to use more of her blood to work the magic these seals only served to sour his mood even more. "I don't like this," Ashton began, shaking his head, "I don't trust him. But I'm beside you Nos. Always," He told Nostariel, a supportive smile slipping into his lips.

"On your lead, Captain."

Ithilian had been silent throughout the meeting with the old Warden, his face set in stone, though now that they began moving again, following on the man's heels down into the depths, Ithilian came to walk beside Nostariel, a hand always on his blade. He did not speak loudly enough for the corrupted Warden ahead to hear.

"How is he still alive? He must be... too old, too old to still be functioning. The Taint doesn't spare the mind, but it has spared at least a part of his." She obviously didn't need to be told how the Taint worked, but Ithilian had witnessed the progression of its effects in the worst of ways, and this made no sense.

Nostariel pursed her lips, shaking her head faintly. Everything abut this made her uneasy, from the sort-of blood magic to this man himself. Ithilian was right—she’d never seen anything like this. Then again… the only exposure she had had to Wardens near the Calling were those who had enough left of themselves to still be coherent, to file their official notification and plan their last ventures into the Deep Roads. “I don’t know.” Her reply was no louder than a murmur, followed by a sigh. “I’m not even sure how it is that the Darkspawn have not killed him yet. This place is… wrong.”

And that sense of unease, of wrongness, only grew as they crossed the bridge at last. The door immediately in front of them was worn and immovable, blocked off by debris and sand, but they were able to move clockwise along an external walkway, and nothing else molested them on their way to the next door, this one long torn off its hinges, leaving only an empty, unornamented stone archway.

What was inside the room was of significantly more interest, however. On the ground rested what looked to be an iron circle, four spikes protruding vertically around its circumference, about as high as Nostariel’s waist. In diameter, it was perhaps as long as she was tall, and from the whole thing emitted a sickly green light. There was little else in the chamber save for a towering griffon statue near what appeared to be the way out.

“This is one of the seals, then?” Stroud turned his head towards their guide, who stood closer to the statue than anything, and the man bobbed his head in confirmation. Frowning, the Warden-Commander turned his eyes back to Nostariel. “I do not like this, but… whatever has occurred here, we must neutralize this Corypheus. His reach extends too far to leave him to rot.”

That was fair enough, especially considering that their only way out may well be through him, whatever he was. Advancing to the seal, Nostariel stepped up into the iron circle, the light throwing her features into grim relief, and drew Ashton’s knife with her free hand. As before, she took a moment to find a spot that seemed unlikely to do much more than hurt, and found one, accidentally cutting a bit deeper than she’d intended and letting the blood drip down onto the seal. Nothing else appeared to be required, because at the very moment the first drops splashed onto its surface, there was a loud bang, almost like a rapport of thunder, and she found herself knocked back as space temporarily warped over the seal.

Emerging from the disturbance they came, three pride demons, more massive than she was used to seeing, slightly magmatic in form, as though lava coursed through their bodies instead of blood. Even from her spot, now on her back on the stone floor, Nostariel could feel the heat rolling off of them in waves. What on earth had the Wardens been keeping here? And to what end?

The initial force of the blast had caught Stroud square in the chest, pushing him back several feet from his position closest to the front of the group, and it was only by some combination of training and luck that he kept his feet rather than hitting the ground like some of the others did. His position relative to the blast radius meant he was now to the far right of the room, and his sword and shield were in his hands before he had to consciously command his body to make the needed motions.

The first thing this pride demon did was shoot a sphere of fire for the space slightly to Stroud’s own right, one that a quick glance informed him was occupied by Nostariel’s archer friend. Setting his jaw, Stroud lunged, bringing the shield up to guard against the magical projectile, Chevalier training ensuring that he tilted the shield just enough that it glanced off harmlessly rather than hitting directly on, which was good, considering the awkward angle at which he’d been forced to block. His shield-arm still rattled, and was going to be sore for some days afterward, but it was nothing that could not be overcome.

“Any time you’d like to start shooting, I would be much obliged.”

Ashton had taken the blast as well as he could've. The force threw him backward and off of his feet, but he turned the fall into a roll and made it back to his feet in relatively short order. However, his feet were not so quick as to evade the gout of flame aimed at his head. Instead he took cover behind Stroud, and more importantly his shield. It was moments like these that he wished he'd opted to take the guardsman shield along with the sword. The Warden's served the same purpose, and Ashton stood crouched behind him so as not to get the crown of his head singed.

"My mistake Ser Warden, I thought this was the part where we cowered," Ashton deadpanned. He then peeked up over his shoulder with an arrow drawn, and let it fly towards the demon. It found purchase in the demon's pectoral, but it'd take more than a sole arrow to down a mutated pride demon. Ashton tapped the back of Stroud's shoulder with his elbow, urging him to move. "Go, we'll divide its attention. Won't smash us both," Ashton said, stepping out from behind Stroud and strafing it to its opposite side firing all the while.

Where Ashton went one direction, Stroud moved in the other, rolling his shoulders to shore the set of his arms and torso. He was a long-haul fighter, built stocky and strong, and while his training demanded flexibility and adaptability of him, he was most comfortable right in the thick of things, the sound of his pulse hammering in his ears, and the rasp of his breath loud over the din of clashing steel and the softer sounds of giving flesh and blood. He tightened his grip on his sword, and advanced.

Ashton’s arrows proved of little use as implements of damage, considering how well-armored the demon was, but they were certainly ample enough distraction, especially when one bounced off its cheek, dangerously close to the eye. It turned for the archer, then, and Stroud seized the opportunity, batting one of its massive arms out of the way with his shield to thrust the sword almost straight up. He wasn’t nearly tall enough to reach the armpit, which would have been a much more deadly maneuver, but he did manage to find the joint at the inside of its elbow, burying his blade a good five inches in before he was forced to withdraw and spin to the side to avoid the retaliatory attack from its other arm, not to mention the lavalike substance that seemed to serve as its blood.

He was not, however, quite fast enough, and a few of the demon’s human-arm-sized fingers found purchase around his shield, pulling at it with far too much force to be endured. The straps fastening the shield to his arm gave, but not before the ball-and socket of his shield-arm did, the limb dislocating and cracking in what felt like several places, though he could not be sure. With an inarticulate shout, Stroud stumbled backwards, the arm hanging uselessly at his side as his shield was tossed somewhere across the room. The demon continued to advance towards him.

Before he could reach the Warden, an arrow clattered harmlessly off the back of the demon's head. The lone arrow wasn't enough to deter the monster, but what the archer hurled next did make it hesitate for a moment. "Hey! Hey ugly! Over here," Ashton insulted, firing another arrow harmlessly off of one of its shoulder blades. "Look at me when I'm insulting you, you idiot!" Ashton demanded. That managed to get the demon to turn around and narrow its eyes at the archer.

"Oooh, look, it's not as dumb as it looks," Ashton continued sarcastically shaking his head. "Pfft, pride demon? Pride my ass. Proud of what? You're ugly as sin so it can't be your looks," Ashton said, beginning to count of his fingers. The insults did have their intended as the demon turned away from the injured Warden and began to make its way to Ashton. And you're dumb as a rock, so it's not that, and you're slow! What are you going to kill me with? Old age?"

The demon roared at him in a boiling rage, spitting off another fireball in his direction. Except this time, Ashton was still on his feet, so it was easier for him to dodge the brunt of the resulting explosion. It was still close enough to singe the edge of his armor and throw him a little to the side, but he brushed it off as nonchalantly as he could, hiding the burns behind a front of bravado. Ashton came up to a knee and threw his hands up into the air "What? Pissed? Did I hurt your pride? Aw, boo hoo. What a joke, come get me like a man!"

That finally managed to have the intended effect as the demon slipped into a sprinter's stance, before rushing forward with reckless abandon. Ashton dropped all verbal attacks and instead switched to his arrows again, specifically knocking one that had gray fletching. In moment, Ashton forwent his bow and jammed the arrow hard into a ground, causing a pop and a plume of smoke to quickly envelop both him and his immediate area. The demon careened through the smoke, but Ashton had darted away under its cover, letting the demon harmlessly rush through it and out the other side...

... Head first into the stone wall behind them. The impact was enough to create fissures in the stone wall and snap a portion of the demon's horn off, leaving it stunned and opening an opportunity.

"Warden!? Its legs, cut into its legs!" Ashton ordered, trading his own bow in for the guardsman's sword.

A task that was somewhat easier said than done, considering that Stroud had one good arm and a cloud of smoke he couldn’t really see through between himself and his target. Still, he’d dealt with worse, and while the wisdom of this plan was questionable, thus far he had no complaints about its effectiveness, and so it was with haste that he angled himself into the smokescreen and kept his strides long and straightforward, eventually emerging out the other side. The demon still seemed to be stunned by its own impact with the wall, which gave him some time to attempt to hobble it.

Also easier in theory than in practice. He would normally have swung with both hands for such a task, but he didn’t have that luxury. What he did have was a few more seconds than he would have normally had to get the hit right, so with his good arm, he slid the tip of the sword so it was between the plates protecting the demon’s legs, right at the less-armored back of the knee-joint. Using his body weight for extra heft, he stabbed, sinking the blade in as far as he could, then tearing to one side, severing at least one of the lava-covered tendons there.

The effect was immediate, the demon unbalancing and collapsing onto its side, but Stroud, near its back, was ill-positioned to finish it off. “Stab it!” The words were more barked than spoken, his accent thickened by pain and exertion. “The underarm!”

That was the plan, but Ashton didn't have the time to voice it, and instead forged ahead without a quip. Ashton rushed forward with his sword in both hands, but the pride demon wasn't dead, not yet. The searing pain in the back of its knee ripped it out of its daze, and it was aware of that archer closing the distance between them. With the insults still fresh in its mind, it reached out with one of its huge arms and grabbed Ashton before he could deliver the blow. The heat emanating from the monster's hands seeped deep into his plate and began to burn at the flesh beneath. But those burns would be minor compared to what the demon had in mind.

It tightened the grip, increasing the heat and threatening to break some bones in the process as it bright Ashton closer to its mouth. It opened wide to douse him in flame. Ashton had to act quickly before he was crushed or incinerated or both. He managed to free an arm and reached back into his quiver, grabbing a handful of arrows and jamming them deep into the soft spot between the where the fingers met the hand. The arrows bit down deep, and the pain was enough to get it to roar instead of spit flame, dropping him in the process.

Ashton fell back to the ground, but had enough presence of mind to drive his sword deep under the pride demon's arm as he fell. Instead of spurting blood, magma welled up from the wound and added to the burns Ashton had suffered. The heat forced him to leave the sword in the wound as he fell backward, wracked with pain. The damage was done, however, and the demon breathed once more before its chest fell silent-- finally dead.

Not too far away, Ashton laid on his back, alive but stiff and moving very little. He had a number of burns all over his body and maybe even a fractured bone or two-- the last thing he wanted to do was to move and agitate it. Still, he had enough strength to speak.

"I hate demons. I really, really do," Ashton said between clenched teeth.

Snippet #2594027

located in Kirkwall, a part of The City of Chains, one of the many universes on RPG.

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