Rolled 3, 3, 2, 16, 9, 9 = 42 (6d20)
>>5698703“Occultissst,” you command, “do what you can on the move. Focusss on the Merchant, and then upon the men.”
You regard the humans, who look at you through bleary, concussed eyes, squinting fruitlessly against the darkness now that their signal-light is doused by a rain of rock—dead like their comrades. They regard you—or your shadow, such as they can perceive by starlight and moonlight, with a silent uncertainty. They ask you no questions, and do not know your nature enough to even attempt insult… or maybe they’re simply too afraid.
You give them the cold comfort of the moon-blade’s bluish-white light, illuminating you and your forces: a foreign ‘man’ in queer armour; a similarly-adorned woman, pale and familiar of features, beautiful and mysterious; a black-skinned elf holding two silvered swords; a host of apparent humans, including a brown-skinned Southman with yellow eyes; a group of ‘lizardmen’, including one with devil-red skin ululating in an occult tongue and gesturing strangely to the sky and the earth, tracing arcane sigils most unholy; and Natvodosk the Unknowable, a horror beyond human imagination who is part man, part dragon, part insect.
“Relaxxx yoursselvess,” you tell them, and affect a thin-lipped smile. “You are going home.”
One faints. You sigh. One more to carry, then.
[3d20 for healing efforts, to see if any of the wounded die along the way (DC 15/17/19). 4d20 Diplomacy, DC 17 under the circumstances; +1 if no injured humans survive.]
