Quoted By:
"HERE I AM BEAST!" Gareth shouts and stomps her heavily armored feet to further attract the attention of the wyrm.
The resulting roar is terrible and tortured, almost like the beast is relieved to find something it can hurt after suffering from the strange house and its endless whispers. A dark shape rushes from the hallway and over the threshold of the room.
Frostbind is a killing beauty of great versatility. Or, at least, a great deal of variety. You have seen the magical ice weapon morph into an array of elegant spears. From a simple broad leaf blade of ice to a trident-shaped spearhead to a shortened stabbing ice pike, the weapon never seems to settle on just one style. Yet no matter what form it takes, it always feels perfect in your inexperienced hands.
If the tool is perfect, then the only explanation for its inability to severely hurt an enemy lies with the end user.
You.
The moment the two blind heads of the Wyvern came rushing past the door in a maddened dash, you hesitated for a second on where to attack before stabbing at the lower part of the monster. The hesitation to attack means the best opportunity to harm the beast has passed! At least the sharp blade bites into the hardened scale and sinks into a clawed foot, pinning it to the ground. You lean on the spear bodily to fix the spear point, and you try to arrest the movement of the creature.
The hammer-wielding Baphomet takes a swing to try and break the limb. Alas, despite the heavy hammer hitting the Wyvern's scaly leg, it bounces off after a solid thwack. If only the fat guide assisted with a swing of his stick with the attack, it might have succeeded in breaking it.
"Aaaaahhhhh!" The fat guide drops his stick and backs away frantically. You can't spare a look; you see the rotund goat man crawl away from your side for a second before he's out of sight.
The other side of the ambush doesn't seem to be going any better. A spear sticks into the flesh after losing much of its penetrating force digging through the hard scales, and a hapless Baphomet is tossed upwards when the bucking wyrm rears its body. The goat man didn't let go of his spear in time, and he meeps with rage as he is shaken like a rag doll, unwilling to let go of his weapon.
But the rage of the flailing Baphomet pales in comparison to his leader's rage.
"DEEEEAAAAATTTTTHHHHH!" It's hard to imagine such a battle cry, full of energy and hate, being emitted from such a small body. Eyes burning, muscles bulging, spittle flying, and the axe splitting flesh and scales in a series of rapid chops do more damage than you expected.