Rolled 1, 10, 20, 6 = 37 (4d20)
>>5752863>>5752866>12Rather than react as you might have hoped, though, these loyalist Holy Ones simply speed up their efforts to destroy that which belongs, by right and by fate, to you and yours. The priest holding the strange polyhedron holds it aloft and chants words in a guttural tongue—a mammalian tongue, superficially at least resembling that of Bloodrise’s conquered dwarven population—and the overlarge dwarven effigy lifts the canopic jar containing the dragon’s heart aloft, preparing to smash it.
“NO!”
You lunge forwards to stop this act of sacrilegious sabotage, but the other two priests move into place to stop you. They hiss syllables in a mxi of Draconic old-speak and the True Speech more familiar to you, and trace feet and tails in dance-like step, waving their hands in masterful execution of biological magecraft. Their fell magic slows your approach, knotted and spraining muscles and causing blood vessels to clot or to burst, and nerves to sizzle with agony just beneath your skin. You recall how your Serpent priestess—nee Novice Fleshweaver—hurled imprecise and weak bolts of flesh-searing magic in battle, or hurled potions, and you begin to understand why she was not called Initiate or Mistress in spite of her brilliant mind.
Still, you are no weak-willed creature, to be stopped by pain. You steel yourself, and advance…
[Athleticism to save the jar and the heart inside, DC 16 due to the excruciating pain of the Fleshweavers' combat arts]
