I got thrown in my that damned Weird Joykill to die.
(Your refusal to capitulate in my kobold juicing plan resulted in the destruction of my lab, and later, my sanity. My berzerk necromancer persona is now totally uncorked. Enjoy the evil you have unleashed! Muahahhaha!)
The hoardes of buring (and exploding) undead and reanimated body parts continue their singular slaughter against the living demons of the abyss.
Hundreds of animated puppy teeth kicked out of rotting and abominable caricatures of once adorably soft and cute puppies gnaw relentlessly at the skin of the eldritch creatures. Sheared wads of wool seek out noses and mouths to crawl down and clog. Hooved burning and skeletal camels and camel legs kick without mercy. One by one, the demons are mauled by overwhelming numbers.
The frenzied shrieks of the dead and damned fill the cold cavern air with a terrible supernatural chill.
The endless armies of hell, constrained by the single, narrow point of entry on the adamantine spire, fall victim to superior numbers and inhospitable terrain. The gaping maw of their point of ingress looms large as the clashing throng creeps ever closer to the source of the invasion; a blood and ichor soaked chasm or gore and bodies of the outre beings the only remnant of the uncountable demons that have spewed forth and met their end.
Ahead, fire, vomit, waves of deadly exhalations, and heavy barrages of flame retardant silk spray ceasslessly while the screaming terrors fill their roles in the red dance of war.
At long last, the opening to the maws of hell itself stands as the last bastion on the field of battle. Splintered skeletons, fleshy zombies clothed only in gristly red ribbons and an abrasive melange of teeth, claws, severed hooves, crawling digits and hair with a single, angry, blood and ichor soaked figure glaring out of eyeless sockets are all that remains of the mighty zombie armies.
The reanimated limbs of the crazed wizard, still held by the sleeves of the now ragged, blood-and_ichor soaked remains of what was once a brilliant white labcoat, wave and thrash unnaturally, obeying the magical will of their master as they direct his armies of the livng undead to pour into the opening of the spire, and clog the opening with their shredded bodies.
The necromancer, sitting atop a once beautiful and magestic unicorn, now reduced to bloody skeletal legs, a clawed open and brutalized head with an ichor soaked horn, and trailing its intrails behind it, bellows out the final command as he dismounts.
Snatching a dented and heavily worn pickaxe from the grasp of a now undead dwarven corpse, his unnaturally flailing undead arms wail and cleave at the natural stone nearby, producing a boulder of diorite. Discarding the pick, the nearly exhausted and hoarse voiced creature shoves on the boulder, forcing it into the breach, and sealing it shut.
His labors of madness completed, his army of undead horrors sealed on the far side of the boulders and cut off from the rest of the world, the necromancer succumbs to the accumulated sum of his injuries.
Weird joykill has bled to death
An eerie silence fills the cavern. The only remaining sound, the distant and relentless whisper of dripping water.
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Topic: If Bay Forum were a Mountain Hall... (Read 448367 times)