Upon a Sea of Flame Part Twelve
Seventh Day of the Fifth Month 293 AC
Though you argued against being the lure in Yrten's plan, you still find yourself flying as swiftly as your wings can take you over the boiling sea. It would be unwise to leave devils time to plot and scheme, and if that means the Golden Wind will most likely not be in position for the attack then so be it. The crew certainly cheered the plan once the captain made it clear that they would get their share not matter if they did not set foot upon the ship until the last devil is dead.
It would be impossible to mistake the devils' ship for anything else, even upon the face of this otherworldly sea. It seems a floating coffin of rusted iron shaped into grotesque form, its every line a mockery of beauty and every leering twisted or tortured face upon its side an echo of Hell's power and its malice. Spined devils circle it like deformed bats around a skeletal chimney belching black smoke and leprous yellow flames.
You fly as you have never flown before, with arcane
swiftness and in
glamours warded, upon the ether's boundary
skimming like a stone cast over the waters.
Do they see the flames shrouding you in a blood red corona? you wonder.
Do they understand its import?
Soon they will and it shall be among their last epiphanies before their spirits are send howling and empty before their masters.
The world
twists... and then you are upon them.
***
The ship is no less horrid from three-hundred feet away, and now you find yourself having to witness its misshapen crew. Were they once the heirs of any beauty any grace then they have denied it utterly, for brutish savagery and dim malice that knows only the endless carnage of the Blood War and revels in it. These tusked horrors, slouching under the weight of nail-bound armor, are the Orthon: Hell's brutish task-masters.
Eight bolts of hellfire fly striking eight dragons, seven of them mere glamours dispelled with a touch, the third glances off your scales like water off an oiled cloak.
Do they know fear? you wonder again as your own flames overtake them, licking hungrily at blackened plate and twisted flesh.
By some quirk of fate or unhallowed miracle one of them survives unharmed, the others burn in flames kindled of your blood, without even the chance to scream.
Yet even as you approach you hear the rhythmic strike of steel, scores of iron-shod feet in impossible synchronicity. As though standing still as statues awaiting some silent command, a score and more
steel devils march up from below, ready to repel boarders even as the six bulging cauldron like things Yrten called Hellfire belches swivel in your direction seemingly directed by their own malignant will. If the Orthon seem brutish and slow, then these ancient warriors embedded in seamless steel hold only the cruel beauty of a blade's edge.
Not a score... two-and-thirty precisely, gathered in squads of eight, you realize even as the torrent of fire from your jaws engulfs one of the squares of infernal warriors where they stand.
It is into this battle that your companions manifest upon the wings of magic.
What do your companions focus on?
[] Clear as many of the Steel Devils from the deck before they can chant making spell-casting more difficult
[] Destroy the Hellfire Belchers before they can fire
[] Try to seal the hatches to the lower decks
[] Write in
OOC: The nice thing about Steel Devils is that they are only CR 6, but in enough numbers can make even high level spell-casters lives hell. For instance the surviving 24 Steel Devils can force any spell-caster to take a DC 22+spell level concentration roll (because I capped the number of chanting devils for any one chant at 8). If I had left it uncapped it would have been 38+spell level but that would be ludicrous and the devils should have won the Blood War already if there were no limit.