Location: Gorlf Northern Territory: Ahead of the Caravan.
Interacting with: Pain. Possibly Kyra.
May thy cosmic ears hear my single plea!
And the favour of the Gods be with me!
Let my fortune to thy glories be blest,
A prayer to reap in my sweet success,
A prayer to ward off my dire duress,
Favour me always, oh gods of the game,
Grant me good fortune: Remember my fame,
But when cometh the folly: forget my name,
Bless'd be the roll which favours my die,
Curse'd be the roll upon which I die.-The Prayer of the Roller
Impossible. Well perhaps not quite impossible, however but highly unlikely. Improbably really. Of all things that could be, may be, perhaps even would be, that a farmboy-turned-mage survived? The metal man fell first of course as the party's designated tank. Yes, every team assembled had critical roles to fulfill, as any old adventurer could tell you in a myriad of ways. And yes, it was better to take advice from an old adventurer than a dead one, usually because the dead ones were the ones that did not survive. Unless of course the olds ones still living were the cause of their deaths, be it through betrayal, cowardice, or worse, refusing to do what their designated task was. However, usually it was blind, stupid luck that was the most common reason for death for adventuring types, usually.
As such what terribly bad luck was it that the armored holy-squire just happened to be the first man down? Stabbed by an arrow between the joints of his greaves, just above his shin guards but below his thigh, where the plating met to bend. And more, the arrow didn't just embed itself in the flesh, but also managed to puncture the popliteal artery. What bad luck was it then for the paladin-in-training to have attempted to lay-on-hands himself trying to cure light wounds? Well it would have worked, if he had hands. Yes those savages cut off his hands. Hewing his praying palms clean off with a battle axe before ending the man's misery. And while this is certainly no time to make jokes, the Bard has to make a quip about fallen Paladins.
And that was why the bard was next. It was either for that really bad joke, or perhaps for attempting to break the fourth wall, or worse playing really bad music. It appears the orcs did not appreciate the musicality of a Halfling bard. It was not everyday that one decides to use the power of music to manipulate one's enemies, but for the former minstrel, promises of large women, and larger stacks of coin were better than drunk tavern patrons. But these Orcs did not seem to apperciate his talent or jokes given that they had lopped his head off after deciding the noisy shortpint was next. Perhaps they prefer a half-elf, although certainly an full elf bard would be better. There's just not too much meat on a Halfling after all, being so puny and diminutive. Not that must orcs would even say diminutive, but for the sake of the story, go along with it and pretend these orcs are somewhat civilized. Civilized enough to say that the comic relief's punchline was just cut short.
Which left the duo of adventurers from the original four in frantic panick of what to do next? Several orcs remained, and unlike the heavily-armored knight-to-be or the chat-witty man-child, D'ritz did not care to meet the business end of a swung axe. The elven rogue planned to push the young spellcaster in their group into the angry tribe of orcs while he snuck away with the loot, hence through the death of three, the fourth would live. Never trust such a dark elf, especially those who dealt with thieving, lockpicking, and other underground activity. With a surprise, the sneaky cutthroat pushed their unarmored and unarmed mage into the fray of laughing orcs before turning around to dash out of the way. Into the night where the shadowy forest should hide his skin.
"Call!"A cry of pain.
A body dropped.
How unlucky.
Cold and distant, yet unbearably hot and bright. The stars which tell the stories of eons past. Gaze up at the sky, can you not see them? Pinpricks of light against the brilliance of the ever burning sun, and glimmering candles to the lustrous moon. Yet they were still there, watching, waiting, far off in this realm held aloft on their own ethereal plane. Some scholars believe the cosmos was not truly there, and the lights we see were merely the escaped magnificence of the realm beyond the void. For the world some claim, was merely suspended in the aether, floating in a sea of infinite darkness, the gaps which was that which was not. And the celestial lights merely holes in the fabric of that blackness, punctured through into the world as they shine down upon us. Only the truly powerful know the truth. And the secrets of the astral sea would remain just that: secret.
Bear the pain, the sensation of your body freezing, your lungs gasping for air. And yet your boiling blood screams as you swell up until your body explodes. The light so blinding, and yet you are the light. How much longer would it be? How much more could your body take? For the human body could only withstand so much, the imperfect vessel for raw power. Skin already splitting, blood escaping, and with it the arcana. Fracturing the cracks of the porcelain doll, shattered as the spider-web cracks laced themselves from his arms and legs towards the core. Just a bit longer, push through the burning, the pain of existing here in this plane recalled by the stars which guide us. No, no more, any longer and the stars would reclaim their lost brother. End it now, return to the Earth.
The spell ended, and with it, the orcs were gone. Long gone in the distance, and D'ritz was a ghost in the wind. Or perhaps that back-stabbing backstabber was already hewn in half by the orcish raiders. Suppose it was only fitting that the universe reward such heinous actions of pushing the young Thomas into certain death, or worse capture. Even after managing to disappear without a trace, perhaps to the envy of the flabbergasted rogue who might as well be holding a neon sign of crosshairs, there was still a chance those orcs waited around for him to return. Although as fortune would have it, those dim-wits either lacked the patience to wait around for some wizard to come back, or were smart enough to assume that Thomas teleported himself to safety, far, far away and was probably enjoying a dry martini by now. Even if the slim boy looked rather young.
In as such regardless, there was probably something more concerning by now as Thomas screamed lying prone and aggregated. Who could blame him? For his body was wracked with pain, pain to the threshold of death, his experience in the safety of the Star was not without its price. Though his body was unmarred by the physical destruction he had still experienced every agonizing cut across his body. For if the mind perceives pain, then pain is felt, the illusionary becomes real. His skin paled as his form shifted, favouring the moon though he wore the robes of the sun. And his body hot to the touch, a fever set to further his misery. Why did they even accept to weed out those orcs in orc territory? That bard and his big small-Halfling mouth.
Not too far away from where the omniscience may know another adventuring party travelled with a caravan. And yet quite far away, well away for Thomas to be encountered by them as he shouted at the endless sky unable to move his extremities. He had to pick himself up, he had to, bandits and thieves and brigands would make swift work of him. Or more orcs, really it was a rather dense region of orcs. Some half-orcs too, they seemed to be plentiful around these parts. They would also probably like to either kill or kidnap him or whatever they decide was best to do with the young wizard.
Oh, and so would the dangerously-clad woman with hair a whiter than Thomas' skin. How she would react to a screaming boy suddenly appearing a dozen or so paces before her would be interesting. Especially as how after the spectacle of watching him cry out as if he was currently be burned alive or something despite nothing visibly there may make him look like a madman. That and how he suddenly stopped, passing out.
Is this the end for Thomas Richard Harrison?
Is there was such a thing as saving grace,
Or was his roll up and number done?
Should they suffice to save his face,
and the gods with hearts of ice,
they throw the colder dice.
