Crown of the Damned
Seventeenth Day of the First Month 293 AC
You have no need to bandy words with demons, words of fire and ruin quick on your lips, but still not swifter than Malarys who must be eager to purge this living blasphemy and shame of his order from the world.
"Back to the festering murk that spawned you, foul one!" the mage-lord calls, but rather than departing, the misshapen fiend only becomes more bloated like the toad it so resembles, more horribly real, the black tongues growing from its many mouths seeming to lap up the magic and draw some foul sustenance from it.
The thing laughs, head thrown back in bliss.
"More... more... give yourselves to me, first your magic, then your flesh, then your souls!" it croaks, just as a hail of blood-laced flame falls upon it from your hands. Though this time the magic takes hold it does not seem to do much besides drain its stolen vitality.
You have to
stop this thing, before it can attack in earnest. By the grace of stolen moments twice speak words of impossible cold to freeze the blood in its veins... but each time the crown of eyes glows with a malignant light. Rather than being frozen to the spot or even slowed the fiend leaps forward with far more grace than its foul bulk should be capable of even as a whip of sharp-edged shadow from Maelor's hand strikes true extinguishing one of the eyes.
"It eats magic!" Maelor shouts.
The demon falls upon Waymar like a mountain descending upon a man, a wall of corruption, steaming with foul miasmas against the slender blade of blessed bronze shining in defiance in the hand of what must seem to it a boy playing at war. But young though he be the heir of the Bronze Kings of old is no boy. He bends with his foe's blows, moving scarce half a step from where he stands at the foot of the bridge, and strikes with the booming blows of thunder unleashed.
Mighty is the demon, ancient in treachery and thick is its spell-scared hide, and thus two blows are shed, but the third finds its mark sheathing deep into the roiling flesh of its gut.
"I will take your eyes!" It screeches in the foul tongue of its kind as it finally manages to tear a gash in the valeman's side with its filthy claws. Even in the midst of the time-wrought fugue your gut still roils at the dreadful understanding of how this thing had come to be.
Waymar takes 12 Damage
Blessed light fills the chamber in defiance of the thing's words and Oathkeeper drinks its fill as Ser Richard hews at it uncarring of the foul ichor that spews from its wounds.
An instant later two arrows whistle overhead to strike the fiend's left shoulder just as Vee curses: "By blood and breath you don't belong, so get gone!"
To your relief the spell seems to stagger the fiend rather than strengthening it again. You can kill this thing,
unless it chooses to escape. Never have you wished more fervently for the competence of your mortal enemies than you wish now that the priestess of Tiamat knew well her binding lore.
What do you do next?
[] Write in battle plan
OOC: Might as well tell you now since you saw first hand most of what the template can do, the Advanced Hezrou is spellwrapped. You guys gave it +4 to all its physical stats, 30 temp HP (now gone) and even an increase to its movement speed, useless as that is, because it was running out of bonuses to select.[/QUOTE]