The Battle of the Sandbar
When he first arrived, it had been brought to Ricmo's attention that Skull River Bay was hemmed in on it's eastern approaches by a collection of sandbars. Despite the extensive system of lighthouses and the relatively deep, buoy lined channel leading to the harbor, running your ship aground on that bar was still a favorite pastime of inexperienced captains. Given that Captain Ricmo brought new meaning to the word "inexperienced captain" the more senior members of the crew had been quite concerned about the approach, one of the reasons the Lady Jezebel had anchored so far out in the bay.
He hadn't really thought about the bar much since then, though it was often visible from shore during low tide. Occasionally the inhabitants of the town rowed out and partied on the clean, sandy beaches the bar provided, often at night the fires from revelers glittered over the half mile of sea that separated the bar from the town. Just one of the many strange customs of a strange, strange town.
However, tonight there was going to be a LARGE party on the bar. This was evidentially a traditional event that marked the midpoint of the Solstice Festival. The tide was exceptionally low tonight, and pretty much the entire town was planning on rowing or swimming out the bar to take advantage of the opportunity provided. Bella Bell's had already grabbed some choice real estate and was picking up in mass, temporarily renaming itself to "Bella Bell's on the Bar"
Sally Brown was also in on the action, constantly running ferries from Drunkard's Beach back and forth to the bar, in addition to claiming her own area (fortunately for the common peace she picked a spot well away from Sally.).
Ricmo normally loved this kind of party, but tonight he was working. Davies, (who at this piont Ricmo was certain was actually a spy for Governor Davilia of Haven Towne) had plans to leverage the opportunity to have some more of his private conversations with various pirate captains. Davies had talked to most of the high profile ones already (Rose, Diamond Joe, Big Tom Cutter) and was now working his way down to the less prestigious ones. The party provided a perfect opportunity to talk to several of them without drawing attention or being overheard.
Ricmo was not sure what scheme he was trying to sell to these worthy's, but judging from Davies body language after the conversations, whatever it was didn't seem to be going over very well, even with the lesser, hungrier captains.
Of course the party also provided a pretty good opportunity to murder Davies, an activity that several assassins had already shown some interest in, so Davies had requested his bodyguard detail be present. Ricmo was starting to wonder whether the relatively large retainer they had been given was worth it.
The sea was so low that the narrow channels of water that separated the specs of sand from one another were rarely more then calf deep, party goers were constantly wading from one group to the next or sometimes just sitting down in the warm water itself, drinking and talking.
Existing structures out on the bar were utterly mobbed, the lighthouse docks was covered with drunken dwarven pirates. Even the monks and nuns of the Monastery of the Bells were in on the act.
Dozens of small dinghies and longboats were also employed as party support, several enterprising merchants rowed from sandbar to sandbar selling wares.
Even entertainers were in on the act, The Fire People had acquired a boat somehow and were travelling from island to island working their fire illusions. Occasionally an especially large display lit the entire sandbar like a firework display.
Several of the nearby islands showed some familiar faces. A few hundred yards away a group of old shipmates, halflings from The Traveler gathered around a fire. A group of sailors from the Wild Rose, too late to manage to secure a stretch of beach had lashed flotsam and driftwood (and what appeared to be the body of a dead shark) together for a makeshift raft.
This general serene, relaxed backdrop probably explained why the party was a little slow to notice that the dead were wading up onto their beach. Ricmo had to do a double take before he realized the pirate wading up toward their fire wasn't, in fact, a live pirate, but rather was a rotten swollen corpse. Well past it's expiration date.
"Uh. guys..." he murmured. "I think we have a problem".
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The first few zombies went down pretty easily, Sturg hewed two of them and Ozraeline finished off the third, but they kept coming in waves, walking out of the sea. The bloated corpses of long dead sailors were remorseless and seemed never-ending.
The heroes were not the only ones under attacked either, from up and down the sandbar, the sound of dismay was quickly replaced by the sound of combat, pistol shots and warcrys echoing out across the bay.
Tello had been hard at work assembling one of his portable cannons. After giving The Sturg a calculating look, Tello reached up and placed the cannon on The Sturg's shoulder where it's tiny legs gripped the heavily armored shoulder in a vise like grip. The Sturg, as always, said not a word, but somehow radiated surprise from inside his full plate armor.
"Fear not friend Sturg, but go forth and conquer" the Tortle admonished gravely. The Strug shrugged and walked three zombies, who were staggering out of the surf. He drew his sword and shouldered his shield, but before he even had a chance to swing his mighty blade the cannon on his shoulder spit a ragged cone of burning fire on to the approaching zombies,
The Sturg stopped momentarily, nonplussed. He wasn't used to spurting fire, that was normally Dakhir's job. The zombies burned, and lacking the sense to roll in the waves, were quickly destroyed. The Sturg looked back at the Tortle and nodded approvingly. He shrugged again and waded into the battle. Soon he was playing the fire over his foes like a pro. The fire was extremely effective. For a moment it looked like the invasion was being brought under control.
But the animated bodies weren't the only thing to slither out of the ocean.
"Be gone, by the power of the God of Morning!" thundered Radiant Lightbringer and a dazzling light flashed out from his hand, rippling over the island. The zombies moaned, their first sound since the battle had been joined, and turned to flee. The tentacles momentarily went slack, dropping the unfortunate druid on the sand.
But still, more corpses rose from the depths to take the place of the ones who had fled. And the tentacles were merely stunned, not dispelled, and quickly resumed their attack.
Dakhir rushed to Whisperleaf's side, helping him up, his back guarded by The Sturg, who played fire over two approaching zombies and then clove in twain a tentacle that was attempting to recapture the druid.
"This is likely some kind of spell" Dakhir observed to Whisperleaf.
"Entirely likely. Zombies are certainly not part of the natural ecosystem here" Whisperleaf agreed.
"A spell must have a caster" Dakhir pointed out.
"Yes, but it could be anyone" Whisperleaf motioned toward the sand bar. "Difficult to see them in this throng.
Dakhir nodded. "Then we must seek a better vantage from which to see. Sturg, guard the Druid". Infernal syllables visibly fell from his lips, red glowing hellrunes dropping from mouth into the sea and boiling the water he was standing in, and then in a cloud of brimstone and steam he took to the air.
Below him the battle raged. As he watched in awe, he saw groups of pirates and sailors engaged n mortal combat all up and down the strand, dozens of desperate fierce engagements fought in the darkness and the surf. Even as he watched he saw one group overwhelmed by zombies, the defenders vanishing under a tide of the undead. A longboat, desperately rowing for shore was engulfed in tentacles and pulled down into the deep with all it's passengers. From far to the west he saw flashes of fire, as someone brought magic to bear against the tide. Probably The Fire People he thought. Or Rose's pet witch.
Down below him The Sturg was a walking flamethrower of black death, carving and burning his way through hordes of the undead. The cannon on his shoulder spat a constant stream of flame, charring tentacles while his sword made short work of whatever survived the fire, cleaving zombie's and tentacles alike. He was a juggernaut of mayhem. Whisperleaf followed in his wake, guarding his back and using his elemental to overwhelm anything that got past Sturg.
"I bet he is really enjoying that" thought Dakjir. "I hope he and Tello are careful where he points that thing"
Near the center of the island a tight cluster of Ricmo, Freddy, Ozraelne, Tello and Lightbringer shot and slashed into the mass of the undead, and kept the hoard from the far side of the island in check.
Whisperleaf was right, the caster could be anywhere
"He would likely need to see his targets to cast his spell" Dakhir reasoned it out. "Difficult to see far on this low reef. A spell like this is probably a ritual , would take some time to case. So, somewhere isolated then, with not much chance of interruption, and a good line of site. Where would I be, if I was trying such a working?"
Dakhir's eyes were drawn to the lighthouse. And in the dim light of the half moon, he saw his enemy.
Whisperleaf looked up and saw Dakhir's bolts cut through the sky like tracers. His hands glowed green and two great eagles materilizied next to him.
"Attack the creature on the tower!" he cried and the eagles soared forth.
The creature that had once been Joshua Marlin, the lighthouse keeper, had voyaged very very far from the shores of sanity. The voice in his head had extinguished nearly all the remnants of his humanity, his will, even his self awareness. All he heard was the voice of the kraken. All he thought were the words of the kraken. All he felt was the rage of the kraken. The magic that flowed through him was powerful, so powerful, and he could feel his master, looking through his eyes, taking delight in the carnage and the destruction he was inflicting.
But Joshua Marlin, as changed as his physical form was, as powerful as his form was, was still far far from the true power of the kraken. He was not the kraken, he was but a servant. He was not invulnerable. And as the bolts of the warlock slammed into his form, he felt pain. He felt the hold his mind had on the ritual her had cast weaken.
He could feel the kraken's rage upon seeing the warlock, that hated hated warlock .The one who had burned him, who had deprived him of his kill. Who had made him feel pain for the first time in a long eon. The rage momentarily blinded him, and it was in that moment that the eagles struck, like two massive bolts of feathered blades. And his hold on the spell broke and the spell failed.
All across the reef the tentacles fell to the ground and evaporated into noxious smoke. The zombies continued their mindless violence but no new corpses rose from the wave.
The tide began to turn.
But the kraken was old, powerful and cunning, and even through this imperfect instrument he had many cards to play. The creature that had once been Joshua Marlin screamed in rage, his great tentacles slashing out, slapping the eagles away from him, inflicting grievous wounds on them.
Joshua could feel his master welling up in what was left of his mind. Words thundered forth, words in a language that Joshua had never learned to speak, a language that very few humans could even understand.
The words rolled across the dunes like a shockwave, rippling out from the kraken priest and washing over the mortals below. The words raised waves and broke minds, snuffed out courage, sanity and intellect, leaving only the desire to flee, to flee as far and as fast as possible.
And the tide turned once more
The thing that had been Joshua smiled as the wave of ants below him fled. And he turned his attention to the Warlock.
Dakhir felt the words strike him like a blow as he flew high above the battle, and he felt his hold on the flight spell weaken. He knew the deadly danger that loosing his hold on the spell this far up in the sky represented. A shock of fear shot through him,
But over the years Dakhir had trained his mind to endure many terrible things He had been forced to to endure them, since his youth. Some of his earliest memories were sights that would turn most men's blood to water. His mind was hardened. And a good thing too, because that was a long way to fall. Dakhir mastered the attack. And he did not fall. But the kraken wasn't done with him yet.
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Tello and Ricmo had also resisted the words. Tello's mind was like the sea, constantly changing, always in motion, difficult for any magic to grab ahold of. And Ricmo had endured his own demons, though certainly very different ones from the ones that Dakhir had experienced, they had been just as terrible in their own way.
"Too much space." Tello remarked thoughtfully to the Halfling. "Too much space between us. We must bend it. Will you come with me?" he offered a hand.
Most of the time Ricmo had no idea what the Tortle was talking about. But over the last month, he had learned there was usually some kind of plan behind those words. He took the Tortle's hand.
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The Sturg was feeling very strange after the echoing voice hit him. A feeling he had never really felt before, a dark sinking feeling, was robbing him of strength, telling him to move away. His legs were shaking and for some reason he had stopped killing zombies. He was confused and his sword went slack in his hand. He didn't like this feeling.
He looked back at the party, with some half formed idea of trying to ask his friends for help. Then, the Sturg saw a very strange thing, a thing that momentarily made him forget the terrible feeling. The Tortle pulled his head and legs into his shell. That wasn't so strange, he did that often and in general The Sturg approved of shells. But this time, Tello didn't stop pulling himself inward. He kept pulling in, and in, and in, his shell pulling in on itself somehow. He also pulled the Halfling in with him, by the hand. At the final moment something happened that didn't really fit inside space and time, or inside the relatively limited space provided by The Sturg's head, The Sturg's eyes momentarily crossed and with a flash and a pop the Tortle and the Halfling disappeared.
The Sturg momentarily felt queasy. That wasn't right, shells weren't suppose to do things like that. He glanced down at his own armor, a trifle distrusting. Then, mentally he shrugged it off as one of the many, many things about the world he didn't understand. Oh well, that strange feeling was gone, time to kill zombies. He got to work.
Tello and Ricmo reappeared on a small dune next to the Lighthouse. The Halfling immediately fell to his knees and vomited. Tello looked concernedly down on him.
"You get used to it" he said absentmindedly. He started busily pulling tubes of metal out of his backpack, constructing one of his cannons.
Ricmo got himself together, and staggered back to his feet. "Mithras that was worse then my first sea voyage." He took stock of his surroundings. He was very close to the lighthouse, well within pistol range. The thing up there hadn't noticed them in all the confusion. Ricmo smiled.
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Dakhir was having a bad day. No sooner had he weathered the Voice then storm clouds had come up quickly, supernaturally fas, all around him. And the darkest part of them was directly over his head. He had a bad feeling about this. He left off hammering the creature with hellfire and dived toward the safety of the ground.
Not quick enough. Crack.
The pain was excruciating, the sound deafening, but somehow, somehow, even through the agony he kept his hold on the spell. He spiraled toward the ground, trailing black smoke, but he avoided crashing. Just .
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The kraken priest chortled with laughter. This body was severely injured, wouldn't last much longer, but he didn't care, victory was within his grasp. He could feel the storm he had conjured charging another bolt. The warlock was wounded. Triumph was near.
Crack Crack WHOMP
The two pistol balls and the bolt of force from the cannon hit him almost at the same instant, from the side, completely catching him unaware. Two of the thick lower tentacles that he used as legs were blown apart by the pistol shots. The force bolt impacted his body with terrible force. blowing him over the side of the balcony. Desperately his remaining tentacles tried to catch hold of the balcony railing and failed.
The creature that had once been Joshua Marlin plunged to the ground, 60 feet below. And found peace.
"It's all a matter of geometry." Tello observed. "Application of force along the proper angle."
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As Ricmo and Tello cautiously approached the broken corpse of the monster, it was clear that it hadn't survived that fall. However, even as Ricmo looked at the broken corpse and started to relax he caught a movement under the robes of the fallen priest. One of the tentacles had detached itself and was slinking toward the sea. Ricmo drew and fired in one smooth motion, blowing the tentacle to hell.
A noise behind him caught his attention, Ricmo whirled and very nearly shot Dakhir as he landed.
"Oh, high Dakhir!" he remarked brightly holstering his pistol. "We got him."
"We really have to do something about that Kraken" Dakhir replied.
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