The Severed Hand

Ug stumbles over to his companions, his eyes failing on the small collapsed gnome, it had happened again, Ug had still failed to protect his friends. Even with his new abilities, Ug keeps finding he is no match for the evils he and his friends face. But Ug wasn’t done trying.

Ug stands tall despite his adrenaline wearing off, and slowly stalks toward the Collector. Unsure what to make of the grotesque armored thing, Ug grips his weapon tightly and readies himself it makes any more be towards his friends.

Ug now has one level of exhaustion : (

Ras, blinking, sits up and stares at the mess before him. Two of his friends are down, in dire need of help, and the rest of the party looks terrible. Ras shakes his head as he stands, knowing his current headache will probably stick around for a while. It is then that he notices the Collector standing over Zen. No one appears to be fighting the creature, so Ras keeps his distance, but does not attempt an attack. Did he miss something?

He reaches over and touches Fergy, knowing the dwarf can do more to help the party than he can.

Fergy gets 12 HP

Alalla sighs with relief as Ras stands and heals Fergy. She can do nothing for him or the dwarf, so she eyes the collector warily as she bends to collect her sword.

"Are you going to help him or just stare? Or are you looking to add to your collection?" The flames from her weapon light her weary face. Al watches the monster carefully, ready to attack if it does.

Fergy, rubs the sleep out of his eyes, puts his hand on Zen and casts Spare the Dying.

With Zen stabilized, Fergy looks between Al and the Big Ugly.

"Hey big guy, you seem to know your way around this place. Mind clearing the way to the wizards tower for us? We are on important business."

Feeling like he might be getting through to the collector Fergy pours a healing potion down Zen's throat.

Zen gets 7 HP.

Zenithral gasps and coughs up blood mixed with residual red potion. His eyes are filled with terror as he sees the armored figure. He snatches up his bow and scrambles away. (He stands up and takes the Disengage action.)

The spiked hulk looks back and forth between companions, armor squeaking. The depths of its helmet appear empty, reminding the heroes of the animated armors they encountered in Kresselack's Sanctum. This creature seems to have been constructed along the same lines, but is much larger and more powerful. And there is the matter of the bodies... Though they stare with dead eyes, every so often their mouths open to form soundless words or dry rasps.

It looks back at Zenithral, and its gaze seems to focus on his magic bow. The creature hunkers down and extends one spiked finger to scratch a word into a clear surface of the floor. It is written with elvish script:

Kayleesa

Then it points at the bow, then at Zenithral.

Fergy, thinking this a good time to mass the heals, makes everyone feel better.

Party each gets 25 HP.

HP:37/97
AC:16

Alalla stretches as relief from some of the pain washes across her. While she does that, she glances quickly at the word, then returns to watching the Collector warily.

"Is that a... name?" Her Elvish literacy was worst. It's hard to find time to sit and practice an alphabet when you're always on the go.

HP: 77/125

Erevain runs a hand through his hair, dirty from dust and blood, while eyeing the creature. "It would appear so." He steps nearer to Alalla as the healing magic takes hold. "Thus far we have seen many creatures twisted from what they once were. So what... or who... was this creature before the Hand fell?" The elf squints his eyes as he tries to look over the attached corpses without getting too close. "Perhaps it retains some fragment of who it was. Might 'Kayleesa' be its name?"

HP: 54/88

"Kayleesa..." Alalla thinks back on the tale Zenithral told her. "Wasn't she the owner of your bow before you, Zenithral? Wasnt she waiting for your grandfather?"

Alalla is tired of looking at the grotesque creature, but she isn't sure it won't attack yet, so looking away would be unwise. Having something to focus on also helps keep the skittering shadows at the edge of her vision at bay. She adjusts her damp eyepatch quickly and tries to ignore them.

While the others try to talk to Kaylee the Collector, Fergy takes a look at the Seer and friends. Turning out pockets and checking to see if there's anything of value on them. Then he turns a critical eye at the collection on the Collector to see if there's anything... special... collected on it.

Zenithral remains in a panicked state for a short time before calming down and coming to himself.

"Y-yes. I-I was about to say that," he says to Alalla, staring at the figure. He swallows dryly. "Kayleesa was one of the bow's owners and was here when the attack happened. Arranis was supposedly on his way, but did not arrive until after the destruction."

Fergy can see at least half a dozen bodies pinned to the collector, some elves and some orcs. They all seem to have been warriors, judging by their armor, and about the creature's waist are belted many fine-looking weapons: swords, axes, and a rather large flail. The belt itself is very ornate, with an immensely oversized gold buckle in the shape of a boar. Fergy suspects that the weapons and belt are all magical.

The collector responds to the name of Zenithral's grandfather, helmeted head turning sharply. The finger dips to the ground again, and with a prolonged squeal writes another Elvish name:

Arannis

The creature pulls a weapon from its belt, a slender sword with a gracefully curved blade that reflects the light of Alalla's fire sword. Zenithral recognizes it as the one wielded by his uncle in defense of the Hand. He has the feeling that if he looks too closely at the bodies decorating this creature that he may see Lethias' body hanging there.

The hulking creature drops to its knees, sword spilling to the ground as spiked gauntlets raise to hide the opening of its helmet. The thing spasms as if in pain... or grief. It makes no sound, however, except the armor rubbing against metal and stone. The lifeless eyes of its corpses roll about in their sockets.

Alalla watches with gritted teeth. "The more I see of this place, the more I want to beat the person responsible into a pulp." She sighs and puts her forehead to the cool metal of her glaive, eye closed. "Though it may be more than just witnessing the tragedy that's doing that to me." After a few breaths she is centered again and returns to vigilance.

"Arannis lives, I believe," he tells the Collector in elvish. He casts mage hand and pulls the sword away from it. "If you can write, then tell us what you want. My bow? Our deaths? Your death? Do you house the souls of the names you write?"

Eyes twinkling at the possibilities before him, Fergy takes his own belt off and tries to switch them (both with weapons attached) without being caught.

Erevain puts an arm around Alalla to support her (or possibly himself), but his eyes stay on the collector. "From what Zenithral has said, dwarves may be responsible - though I know not of which clan they might have meant."

When Zenithral's mage hand spell fails, Erevain carefully reaches out to take the fallen sword. He examines it with a critical eye. "This is the weapon of a Bladesinger - master of an elvish art all but forgotten." He sweeps the sword through the air to demonstrate, and the curved weapon hums musically as it whips about. "It is said that a Bladesinger could seamlessly blend magic and swordplay, far beyond what someone of my own meager talents can achieve."

He glances at Zenithral. "It is similar to the way that you enhance your archery with magic. If this is your great-uncle's weapon, perhaps he and your grandfather shared a love of mixing magic with weapons. Arannis must be skilled indeed if he can compare to a Bladesinger. And it is more obvious now where your own talent comes from." He flips the sword over in his hand and catches it by the blade, then offers it to Zenithral.

Fergy sneaks up behind the collector with grace uncommon for a dwarf. Slipping his arms around the thing's waist to work the buckle loose, Fergy finds his face uncomfortably close to the gaping mouth of one of the corpses. He can't help but wonder if the orc is truly dead when its dried tongue lolls out between its tusks to rub roughly against the dwarf's brow. Still, with some luck Fergy works the belt free. He finds, however that his own belt is far too small to wrap around the collector's waist.As Fergy backs away, belt and weapons tucked into his arms, a familiar shriek echoes down the corridors. One of the Hungry, or perhaps more, possibly drawn by the healing. The collector stands. As far as Zenithral and the others can tell, it means them no harm. It makes a beckoning motion with one hand, then turns and stomps off down the hallway.

As Fergy pulls back he licks the Orc's brow back. Putting the belt on and wrapping his cloak around the weapons to hide them, and putting his old belt in his backpack.

Hmmmm tastes like a cross between that zombie wyvern I was inside of and raw egg whites.

Zenithral accepts the sword and hefts it, frowning. "Yes, perhaps..." he says contemplatively.

When the Collector moves, Zenithral grits his teeth and readies himself. "Come. If it's willing to fight for us, even if just for the moment, I think it would be best to make haste." He looks to Alalla, knowing they're in dire straights and the decision ultimately lies with her.