Rolled 3, 5, 19, 2 = 29 (4d20)
>>5594187>1At first, it is all you can do to stay out of reach and deflect their blows. A few times you fumble, forgetting the absence of your spade-tipped tail and rending class in this sad human form. You are outnumbered, distracted, unarmed, and out-of-your-element…
>17…But you are still, and ever shall be, the Dragonborn Antipaladin, Champion of the Master Race, Copper King of Bloodrise! You have been practicing martially every single day upon waking since you became a Knight Ascendant in order to maintain your oath, and for most of your life besides. These are rabble—you are , as you earlier asserted, a CONQUEROR!
You use your mighty frame and desperate savagery to throw off the mammals who pile upon you, tanking several blows that would leave a lesser foe dazed. You fall back upon dirty tactics when more traditional martial arts fail you—a groin-kick here, an eye-gouge there. You stomp ankles, break wrists. Your brutality and determination to hold your ground send the weakling cultists scurrying like the rodents they descended from, fleeing from your draconic fists of fury to the opposite end of the alley in much worse shape than you arrived.
And in that time, you form the sword.
The shoggoth-sword is not as it was, once upon a time. Originally, it was a misshapen and unwieldy thing, with a jagged edge composed of tooth-like spiked and cancerous-looking nodules; it could shop like an axe, rip like a saw, but was more of a war-club than a proper sword. Your tutelage under the Nothic, sibling to the being which birthed your blade and creation of the Dark God of Knowledge, has paid off. Now, the weapon you wield is shoggoth-SWORD in truth; still serrated along the tip to inflict terrible damage, but with each tooth thin and deadly-sharp along its cutting edge, like that of a shark. Its veiny, sinuous surface is smooth, aerodynamic.
Its envy-green eyes, remnant of the last demon you fed this sword, stare hungrily down the alleyway, and ichor drips down the cutting edge like drool.
“Very well,” the Incubus says, annoyance turned to frustration now. “I will do it myself.”
Rolling for allies... 