The fraying skin of the world
Challenge 3 Aftermath
Or Oh this, I got it fighting a giant duergar!
Last week everyone got bloody and everyone went down, including the monsters. Describe in excruciating detail, the stuff of Hostel and Saw is you wish, what your character looks like after that battle, what a major blow to your HP might have looked like, or if you’re not comfortable giving yourself a permanent scar, what some of your enemies might look like in the aftermath of the dedication of the Hall of Viscera to Gruumsh. I look forward to your submissions.
Prayer heals all wounds — the physical ones, anyway. Not that Alis is sure she’s entirely happy about that, considering that she’s only still in one piece because she alternated between standing and floating face-down in the resanctified aquatic vessel of an evil deity, but it was Tymora’s favor that got and kept her there.
Still, next time she leaves her room at the Good Lich Inn, her hair is noticeably several inches shorter; she’d lost a chunk in the fight, and evened it out as best she could with a dagger. Her old leathers need to be cleaned and patched before she can talk to Jangi about enchantments, and one sleeve has to be replaced entirely. (Tymora’s favor, it was her off arm, or she’d never’ve made those last few sling-throws. ‘Course, if she’d been in better shape, that one vial might not’ve broken on the bounce, but at least Father Hubert didn’t seem too mad about it . . .) The clothes are a total loss, no way she’ll ever wear those again, and she’s glad she left her harp at the Inn.
And for a good day or two afterward, her voice is shot. Maybe it’s the constant, desperate chanting she’d been doing since she first fell into the pool. Maybe it’s that last hit that caught her in the throat and jaw, knocking her out before she even really realized what happened. Maybe it’s the water; drinking a god’s never a good idea, she thought, and can’t laugh because it makes it hurt worse. All she can really do is croak responses when she absolutely has to talk, and, with the others, drag herself away from the bloody aftermath of the battle.
This wasn’t what she’d dreamed of, the day she left home.
Bienzar sits at the tavern after the ordeal, magically worn out but impressed with himself. He had only falled once during the encounter, but it happened quickly. His robes were put through their paces, but are mendable. The peculiar thing is his robes are now shimmering after being submerged in the mystical holy water. They have an aura around them that he simply can’t identify. Oh well, it’s for another day. His hair is knotted, his body is brused, but he did his part to earn his keep. At least there weren’t any goblins.
The funny thing is that he basically fell forty feet, bouncing between Darwin and the jagged walls of the pit while clinging to the rope for dear life, and that barely left a mark on him. But a bunch of oversized beetles and scorpions, those sure did a number on his body. Dorfin doesn’t really have a sense of humor, though.
What in the name of Corellon’s Light were you thinking, Dorfin? These adventurers can’t be trusted, not in the face of the people who are after you! It must be more than your skin and bones that got scrambled up in that scrum. You took a few good shots to the head, too, didn’t you?
He puts a hand to the back of his unhelmeted head and finds that, sure enough, his scratchy brown hair is covered with drying blood. By Gruumsh’s bloody fangs, he hurts everywhere. He tries to sit down on the temple floor, but it’s more like a collapse.
His knees have torqued so much they feel like they were inverted. His arms are covered with short, jagged cuts, partially cauterized by the blasts of magical fire he was launching out against the enemies. His leather armor bears many of the same cuts, some deep enough to have punctured skin as well. His skin is pallid and a little blueish as he continues to detoxify from all the poison he was exposed to.
But it’s the blows to the face that really did for him. His brown beard is covered with sticky red spots, and yellow and… is that blue? Dorfin wonders what kind of demon-spawned fluids he’s secreting now. He wipes it off his chin with a sleeve and prays to every god in the pantheon that they can make it back to town soon.
The ramifications of the last encounter the party fortunately survived was grave to the mental and physical being of the young half-elf boy. Though it is hidden from his allies, Gradiz’s chest has two large grapefruit size scars where Hargosh’s spikes pierced one end and impailed him straight through to the other. Despite this the pain at the end of the battle is subtle, besides a dull aching in the back of Gradiz’s head. The wounds and blood on his chest dry and scab fairly quickly. After an extended rest Gradiz may wake up with puss and other odd fungi growing from the infection in his chest. Oddly enough, he doesn’t feel a thing. What has been bothering him is that damned humming in the back of his mind. That ever-creeping whisper that calls out his name. Is it his father? No it doesn’t sound like him. Is it Sam? No Sam only speaks dog and a few phrases of abberant. This voice is different. Every now and then Gradiz will explode in outburst, answering a question or yelling in protest at what is going on in his head, at what though even he doesn’t know.