Rolled 16, 12, 18, 6, 5, 20, 13, 17 = 107 (8d20)
>>5500996>>5501102>>5501108>>5501160>>5501281You call the elemental to your side and, with only a moment’s hesitation, it obeys. If it will heel like a hound, you see no trouble in continuing its ‘domestication’… Though you make a mental note to watch it more warily. The elemental is clearly half-tamed at best, at least for the time being.
The demons, though… They are a different matter entirely. You will have no truck with these inferior darknesses, as a servant of the true sovereigns of shadow, the Dark Gods Below and Beyond. And the shoggoth-sword… Its reaction, verging on a return of consciousness, intrigues you. You clumsily slide the moonblade into your belt, briefly conscious of the silent stares of those Drow allies who had not yet been made aware that this legendary artefact was in your possession. In its stead, you draw the dagger-sized aberration-blade, and with the aid of the Throat-singer’s humming and the flickering embers of your remaining mana, you will it to grow and change.
The shoggoth-sword expands horizontally and especially vertically, lengthening and growing eyes, jutting spikes and semi-flexible tendrils. It is these last additions, unusual for the blade since its acquisition, which most interest you and afear the spectral devil-remnants. The demons begin to flee, but you pursue them. Following your lead, Jazkarmel and the Novice wield their own magicks to head the demons off, while Olu surprises you with some Southern Human chant which seems to slow and stymie their departure. You wave the shoggoth-sword back and forth, like one might swing a broom or brush to collect cobwebs; the tentacles reach out and grab one demon after another, pulling their barely-perceptible shades towards toothy apertures which form across its flat.
One by one, the demons are devoured, given no time to retreat to their summoner and master. For its part, the shoggoth-blade seems… Exhilarated. It’s tendrils and mouths do not immediately recede, but rather wave about and gnash, eyes blinking and rolling in anger or ecstasy unknown. It broadens, thickens, and its cutting edge grows toothier, while its blackish-grey hue shifts subtly towards a crimson colouration.
“Throat-singer, cease your humming,” you command. “Novice Fleshweaver, assist me in subduing this thing!”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be feeding the comatose aberration demons if you don’t want it to grow more powerful or awaken?” the Novice snipes back.
Both obey, though, and together with Jazkarmel and the Wevenore Ambassador, you work a series of magic in a power-amplifying mages’ circle—an ancient rite to tame the sword…
