Chapter Eight: The Virid Coronation

Zangua rockets up to Gorham and cuts at him with a relentless series of blows, missing only with the blunt end of his glaive. Gorham tumbles backwards and for a fleeting second presents a perfect target for Leth, who puts one flaming arrow into the wizard's leg and another into his shoulder. With a cry, Gorham spirals downward to a rough landing on the roof of the Mastaba as Felor's golden bolt sails past him.

Meanwhile, the Hierophant continues to stand his ground as green sparks crackle and flare at his brow and around his hands and wrists. With a thunderous howl he bashes his staff into the ground again, and for a moment his entire body is wreathed in emerald flames. The devil before him suddenly drops to its knees as if a giant invisible hand placed itself on its neck and shoved it downward. The devil's colors shift strangely, it becomes translucent, and then it is gone. Reeling, the Hierophant staggers backwards, bracing himself against the ground with his staff. Sparks dance around his head.

The banishment of the first devil momentarily turns the tide in the melee between the Six-Pronged Crown and the Hierophant's warriors, who chase the cultists back behind the shelter of the ice walls. Lendras is presumably somewhere behind the walls and cannot be seen.

Atop the Mastaba, Gorham lurches to his feet, shouts a strange word, and flings his hands up into the air. The party is blinded by a brilliant flash of blue light.

Everybody make a Dexterity saving throw.

Sorry Zangua, my mistake -- you weren't in the line of fire.

Zangua watches as a brilliant blue bolt of lightning arcs from Gorham's outstretched arm to the patch of ground where Leth and Felor stand. Dirt and stones explode into the air with a thunderous crack, and Zangua's two companions are tossed like ragdolls.

Edit: After the flash, Leth and Felor find themselves lying prone, staring up at the night sky with sharp waves of pain coursing through their bodies. Felor rolls to his side and sees the Hierophant, his head aflame like an oil-soaked torch, beating the butt of his staff on the ground with a foreboding rhythm. Leth lurches to his knees and orients himself toward the source of the attack. He sees a devil fade from view before the overlapping ice walls, Gorham rising into the sky above. One of the walls cracks; sheets of ice begin to slough off. Leth and Felor stagger to their feet as somebody -- a cultist or ally, who can say -- lets out a dying wail.

Party members, it is your turn again.

He's about 80' away when on top of the Mastaba and of course flying adds some vertical distance. Should have caught that with the Hold Person spell, oops.

Leth, you take half damage from the Lightning Bolt. You and Zangua can take your turns.

In the final seconds as Zangua darts toward Gorham, the sorcerer looks up and a look of utter mad delight seizes his face. "He comes! He comes!" Gorham cries out to no-one in particular. "He comes, as prom--"

The words are never finished, and whatever deliverance comes from the skies, Gorham will not see it. The first flying sweep of Zangua's glaive takes Gorham's head from his shoulders, sending it tumbling down to the roof of the Mastaba below. A moment later, Gorham's body follows.

On the ground below, the rest of the devils are beginning to fade from existence, but the cultists are still fighting for their lives against what remains of the Hierophant's fighters, even as the ice walls crumble and collapse. Suddenly, Leth and Felor see a figure spring up on top of the Pharate: Lendras has finally reached her objective. She raises the vorpal sword up high, and falling to her knees plunges it into the chrysalis-like abomination below.

A thick rush of boiling black steam bursts from the wound with a roar. Lendras screams, sharply, for a brief moment, and then is silent.

Oblivious to the chaos unfolding below, Zangua looks up to see what had captured Gorham's attention in his last seconds. He sees a winged white shadow circling high up in the starry sky.

The party members are no longer engaged in combat for now. Anyone may take an action.

The white shadow begins to descend in a long spiral over the northern half of the city, revealing a draconic shape.

Before you, ice and slush are all that remain of the ice walls. The devils are gone, cast back to Hell, and the cultists who remain alive -- outnumbering the Hierophant's remaining warriors by more than a few -- stand transfixed at the sight of the horror descending from above, or the remains of the Pharate expiring anticlimactically in front of them, a collapsing and venting shell belching out gray sludge and black steam.

Not far to your right, the skeletal form of the Hierophant smolders prostrate on the ground, still clutching his staff, green flames nibbling away at the flesh of his skull.

Any party member may take an action.

The dragon wheels around sharply to the right, descending fast toward the Isle of Ilhaz.

All of you -- the party, the cultists, and the guardsmen and cityfolk who remain to bear witness -- recoil or cry out as the dragon lands atop the Mastaba at frightening speed. Chunks of rock and masonry fly from where its claws take purchase. Easily forty feet long, the dragon is white with patches of mottle gray and pale blue. A long crest and horns extend back from its head, and along its body scars and missing scales evince past battles. The dragon flexes to steady itself, then looks down at the roof of the Mastaba. It snorts disdainfully, releasing a cloud of icy spray, and flicks its tail, swatting two objects off of the roof of the Mastaba: the head and body of Gavrel Gorham. The body lands near the remains of the Pharate while the head rolls away toward a cultist, who kneels over it but does not touch it.

The dragon raises its head and looks down at the people gathered before it. Its yellowy eyes seem to hold more reptilian cunning than intellect, but you can read confusion and vexation in the creature's visage.

"Gods, spare us!" a woman cries from somewhere behind you.

Sure, you can give me an Arcana check.