Strider Bloodstone’s eyes flutter open as he drags himself across the slimy, pulsating floor of the nautiloid ship, every muscle screaming. A throbbing ache pulses at his temple, inside, something writhes, hungry and wrong. He pushes himself upright, gripping the hilt of his sword as eldritch shadows flicker across the alien chamber. A githyanki warrior, bloodied but proud, snarls nearby as a blast rocks the hull. Strider wipes blackish ichor from his lips, forcing a ragged breath. The acrid air burns his lungs. Dim violet light spills from fleshy pods lining the walls, illuminating bodies trapped within, some writhing, others eerily still. Somewhere deeper in the ship, a haunting voice calls his name, nearly drowned out by the distant roar of flames and the clatter of desperate combat. Strider steadies himself, his oath burning beneath his skin. He forces a crooked grin, pushes past the pain, and stumbles forward into the chaos, sword drawn and senses sharp.
Campaign
He woke up from a dream: about his childhood, his time as a Hand of Vecna, his adoption by the Bloodstones (a Grey Elf noble family), and the Battle of Sigil that happed 120 years prior. He navigates around the Nautiloid as he remembers events that happened over 60 years ago: his last mission with his adopted brother.
Strider Bloodstone moved through the pulsing corridors, the alien architecture a harsh contrast to his inner turmoil. His thoughts drifted away from the chaos around him, back to a distant past: a harsh childhood, cold service as a Hand of Vecna, adoption by the Bloodstones, and the brutal Battle of Sigil. A mission from over sixty years ago with his adopted brother surfaced, sharp despite the dim, organic light. He pressed on, sword drawn, passing grotesque pods as Vlaakith, the githyanki warrior, watched him with an unreadable expression.
I watch the other githyanki stumble through this foul place. The ship groans, but my spirit remains unbroken. These illithids and whatever else dares to attack us will learn the price of spilling githyanki blood. Let them come. I am ready.
A low rumble echoed through the chamber, shaking loose some of the organic debris from the ceiling. Strider Bloodstone moved with steady purpose, his eyes scanning the grotesque room before resting briefly on Vlaakith. The githyanki warrior stood firm among the pulsating pods, her bloodied armor catching the faint violet glow. Her snarl deepened, a silent challenge to the encroaching chaos.
(I’m not sure if this is Vlaakith, it’s Lae’zel). Strider asks Lae’zel where in the nine hells are they?
Strider Bloodstone turned toward the githyanki warrior, his voice sharp against the ship’s groans.
"Where in the Nine Hells are we?"
he asked, his flame-white eyes locked on Vlaakith’s bloodied form. The organic walls throbbed around them, and the distant clash of combat grew louder.
"We are aboard one of the illithid's foul Nautiloid vessels, Strider. A prison and a tomb, if we are not careful. These mind flayers have clearly fallen on hard times if this is the state of their ships. Their arrogance will be their undoing."
Strider Bloodstone listened closely, his eyes tracing the pulsating, organic walls of the Nautiloid. The githyanki warrior's words confirmed his grim suspicions about their predicament. Her bloodied form stood defiant amid the alien decay, her gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the chamber.
He then says just as I thought and then asks her if she knows where the control center on the ship is
Strider Bloodstone nodded slowly, the pulsing light catching in his flame-white eyes.
"Just as I thought,"
he murmured, his gaze sweeping the alien chamber. Then he fixed his attention on Vlaakith, voice low but urgent.
"Do you know where the control center on this ship is?"
"The control center is likely deep within this abomination. We must navigate its fleshy arteries. But first, we need to find weapons. These illithids do not fight with claws alone, and my armor is already stained with their filth. I will not be caught defenseless again."
Strider Bloodstone studied Vlaakith, noting her fierce resolve despite the wounds marring her armor. The githyanki's gaze swept the gruesome chamber, shifting from their dire situation to the urgent need for better weapons. The pulsating walls of the Nautiloid seemed to pulse in agreement, while a faint, unsettling hum echoed from deep within the ship.
He agrees to find weapons but quickly. And tells her if there are any other survivors on the pod that they must save them
Strider Bloodstone motioned toward the grotesque pods lining the walls, their occupants stirring faintly in the dim violet glow.
"We need to find weapons quickly,"
he said, his voice steady and commanding.
"And if there are any other survivors in these pods, we must save them."
He turned his gaze to Vlaakith, awaiting her reply.
"Survivors? My concern is for *our* survival, Strider. These pods are a risk. We need weapons, not baggage. Let them fend for themselves or become fodder for whatever lurks in these halls. Sentimentality is a luxury we cannot afford."
Strider Bloodstone watched Vlaakith, her words sharp and unyielding as the Nautiloid shuddered with each descent. The githyanki warrior stood rigid, her gaze cold and dismissive of the writhing forms trapped within the pods. The thick air, heavy with alien decay, pressed down on them, heightening the tension between their clashing priorities.
I’ll agree with you to find the weapons. But if there are survivors. We have to get them out!
Strider Bloodstone met Vlaakith’s gaze, his flame-white eyes steady and resolute.
"I'll agree with you to find the weapons,"
he stated, his voice firm.
"But if there are survivors. We have to get them out!"
The githyanki warrior’s expression held fast, her eyes locked on him as the Nautiloid groaned, a low, guttural sound reverberating through the organic chamber.
"My wounds are a priority, Strider. We will find weapons, and then we will escape this place. Those in the pods are not our concern. Let them perish. I will not be slowed by the weak."
Strider Bloodstone studied Vlaakith, her expression carved from unyielding disdain. The githyanki warrior stood firm, her eyes locked on the path ahead, deaf to the faint, pleading noises drifting from the pods. The Nautiloid shuddered once more, a low, ominous rumble pulsing through the organic floor beneath them.
Protagonist
Loading...
Loading the world overview...