The Lays of the Thirteen Claws League - Session 89

     I have been slow in updating the blog. We have played two sessions since the last update. The following is from the session played on 2021/03/04. This is another sort-of-IC retrospective by Bert, the party's thief locksmith-turned-bard. Bert himself pulled a sicky, so that his player could try out a new character, Anubesia of Ultioch, for the fight with the lich. I give +1 character point (XP) for those players who submit a summary for me to post here on the blog. 

    The Lays of the Thirteen Claws League

Canto 8:

Part 1:

Abed, hawking up lumps of phlegm and gall

I continue in swooning reverie:

my friends, battle arrayed behind a wall

of shields in the mist all set for melee -

each taking advantage of their last free

moments of time before he or she braves

attacks by the spawn of diablerie -

come before my eyes: all cramped in those caves

waiting for the onrushing monsters in bleak waves.  

Sir Yvor and wild Hemmu formed the front,

Davin and Anubesia the flanks:

they were set forward to bear the full brunt

of the enemy’s on-washing massed ranks

so many they came piled-up high in banks

so many there they could not be numbered

streaming out from the tombs and birthing tanks

so many that they were themselves hindered

by the catacomb walls: well more than two hundred.

The she-orc tore off an arm with her whip

(the new weapon she had chosen to wield

to snare the lich - later she let that slip).

Miao slashed her sword and smashed a zombie’s shield

darting swift blows through the cramped battlefield;

through the mist dealing, Mr. Stabby’s kiss;

and the wizard Adam Aesalor steeled

himself to cast his magic when a miss-

-ile stunned him and they heard the lich’s dead dry hiss.

From out the gloom a fearful thing was seen:

a glowing form of strands of smoke arrayed

moving intent through the mist - sickly green -

it passed through and around my friends then stayed.

Noxious deadly fumes erupted and sprayed

over the party rear to choke and kill

them, but our brave brother monk stopped and prayed

channelling bright goddess Dawn’s divine will

to send that thing of gas away and make it still.

The holy soldier was beset by foes:

skeletons struck on her shield and armour -

she couldn’t hit them with a dozen goes.

Within the folds of the evil mist’s glamour

Emberwood - dancing lightly on his toes,

slashing with sharp iron at a ghoul’s nose -

missed: clearly this battle was going to take

a long while but it would be one of those

times in which we few would, make no mistake,

be “the wall of valour on which evil would break.”

In the centre, brave Yvor faced a mob

of ghouls with their foul claws and spit

who covered him in their corrosive gob

while he continued to strike out and hit

them with his best blade, as his armour, bit

by bit began to corrode and dissolve:

to stay alive needed all of his wit

and those traits around which victories revolve

valour, strength, skill, stubbornness and mostly: resolve.

But they’re not enough when senses revolt

in a magic mist and they cannot give

protection against, say, a lightning bolt

which hits your shield and becomes explosive

(as happened) after which you barely live

and are scarcely able to fight at all

then you must cling to the imperative

and, like Yvor did, remember the call

that brought you here to fight with your back to the wall.