A Sword Without a Hilt: A Song of Ice and Fire/D&D 3.5 Crossover

Sometime in the Age of Heroes, Before the Rise of Valyria

Aife sheds the shell of mortality in an instant, the herald of a god unbidden in this hour. Power ripples through the air like a wave crashing against the shore. It is not enough. Divine powers strikes against eldritch might and the latter stands triumphant due to the work of minds beyond the Spheres of being, for all this monster seeks to twist the threads of time from within. A shiver goes down your spine, a word of unmaking almost too heavy even for your own will to bear... to break and to steal.

In a twitch of a glistening tentacle a band of bilestone 'shines' with colors the mortal eye was never meant to see and your magic dies just as Aife's had. Part of you, the part that is not plotting the enemy's death and cursing their tools and weapons, feels a sort of grudging admiration. Just as prepared and likely for far longer than you could ever know. Regardless, you will see its end.

From your mind into the world is forged a sphere of space folded on itself to trap the horror true. The thing simply flickers away, in what to eyes less sharp than yours would look to be a common arcane blink, but it's something else.


Three cold staring eyes fix upon the sea cat, floating serenely in air as though in the sea's embrace and with a nameless multi-tonal screech binds her among a thousand thousand fractal planes even as an obscene parody of a mouth opens in the enemy's stomach and spills out a scream more terrible than the depths of the Pit. Another spell gem shatters.


Tears of blood gather in your eyes and to your left Ser Richard staggers slightly at the blow, though Lya who took the blunt of it shows herself bleeding but unbroken, her wards held. "I didn't ink this into my flesh with my own blood because it was fun," you remember her saying when you traced the arcane design along her back.

Though a ray of black power from Qyburn's hand glances of the horror's slime shrouded form and into the ether as it moves with prescient skill you are still certain you can end it. If nothing else you can send Ser Richard against it....

As though in answer to the thought the skein of the world breaks and one of the eaters of minds steps forth besides Qyburn wreathed in ethereal light, a staff of bone and squirming darkness in its clawed hands. "Die pretender!" it calls with hate beyond words. For the first time since his transformation the flesh-smith looks shaken but unbowed.


Space roils and twists in the Illithid's wake and Qyburn calls out the warning that you suspect the enemy had meant to silence: "A Custodian is coming, a Portal Keeper, and with it an army!" There is worry in those words and caution aplenty, but there is also another feeling you are not stranger to; greed, desire and little wonder. You had wanted one of the things for the Flesh-Forges ever since you had heard about them in the assault on the Orange Court.

But do you dare allow such a foe to take the field at the head of an army when you are already sore pressed by two powerful mages and whatever horrors they can conjure by their own powers?

What do you do?

[] Kill the enemies quickly before the gate can open and spill forth an army into this time-frozen realm
-[] Write in plan

[] Fight what may come and claim it
-[] Write in plan

[] Write in

OOC: Ser Richard has not had his turn yet this round, he's holding his action. Very swingy dice this round by the way, first the chronomancer shuts down all attacks on himself and actually manages to take one of your characters off the field, and then the reinforcements roll 'squishy caster before the main body of the enemy'.