The Harpy's Kettle
As the albino Wolf snapped Jjuldae’s spear with a loud crack, another projectile slammed into the beast’s flesh just beneath its shoulder. A thick dart, traveling at great speed, buried itself deep inside the Wolf. That wound went together with a thigh strike from some cursed, silver sickle, wielded by some silent, able warrior, who was now wisely back-pedaling.
It felt pain, but knew that soon the damage would heal. It felt no cursed, poisonous silver in the dart’s point, unlike the druid’s spear and the warrior’s sickle, which had sent waves of pain and nausea through the creature’s body.
Only seconds earlier, the creature had smashed the crossbow from Vee’s grip, and sent the rogue careening across the floor, albeit in a dexterous spin, landing Keykold safely against a far wall, for the moment. The rogue surveyed the chaotic blood sport.
For the time being, the White Wolf returned its glare to Jjuldae, though it noticed the huge behemoth that had buried his dart in its flesh. The half-ogre now whooped and hollered, seemingly deciding between another steel dart, and the gruesome axe in its other meaty paw. No fear that one, the White Wolf allowed himself to muse.
Vorodon’s eyes searched the taproom for Maegla as he prepared to attack this raging beast once more. He spied the blind woman. She was hiding beneath a table not far from Vee, who was $%@#ing his crossbow once more, after retrieving the unbroken weapon from the spot on the floor, where it had landed, after the White Wolf sent it, and Vee, sprawling. Maegla was safe, Vorodon ascertained, and turned towards the abomination once more.
Kadarin made his way down the stairs and arrived just in time to notice the somewhat recovered Dujek, twisting his hands and wrists in passionate animation, while chanting gruesome words of Arcana.
The White Wolf suddenly felt its own joints and bones begin to lock up. What was this treacherous sorcery, it thought, the accursed druid had too many friends! But no matter it snarled, the Old Ones had given it this opportunity at retribution, and would protect their assassin from harm, at least long enough for the self-proclaimed, “Last Scion” to destroy the traitor.
The White Wolf lunged at Jjuldae once more, tearing bloody stripes across the druid’s thigh, then neck and face. The druid staggered and fell back. Momentarily, the White Wolf leered at the druid, savoring its upcoming deathblow. Jjuldae looked on defiantly, bleeding profusely from his shredded neck and face. His dark vulture-eyes still staring back at his nemesis.
As the abomination was about to tear the druid limb from limb, the charging Glordren came on like a runaway wagon, barreling directly into the monstrosity, while bellowing a dwarven battle cry at the top of his lungs. This one, haphazard attack, finally caught the beast by surprise, and both dwarf and werewolf collapsed from the charge, the dwarf ably positioning himself to mount the wolf. For a moment, the monster was down, sprawled on its back from the force of the tackle, pinned by the bulbous, but surprisingly nimble priest. Glordren reared his fearsome mace, as his rock-like knees momentarily pinned the lycanthrope's arms to the floor. Sitting astride its chest, the dwarf was about to mash the Wolf’s face!
For the first time since it had brazenly assaulted the druid, by smashing through the window of the Harpy’s Kettle, the Great One’s assassin felt a strange sensation…fear.
Though it was not aware of the doppelganger’s existence, like Veitch, the White Wolf had underestimated the druid’s new cadre of companions.
No matter, it thought again, as it struggled, bleeding from multiple wounds, pinned for the moment against the mass of the mailed dwarf, now sitting on its furry chest. Though it did not like the taste of dwarven flesh, it would now tear this meaty barrel to shreds. It would teach the Traitor’s allies a lesson. Ultimate victory would be HIS, the White Wolf thought. It had to be, for thus it was decreed. “Tooth and Nail” it intoned once more, through its bloody, slavering jaws. The beast looked up at Glordren and seethed, its thick, corded muscles, rippling beneath its milky, bloodstained fur. The dwarf would pay the price…then, Jjuldae would die.
As the creature was about to rend its claws through both mail and flesh, its limbs froze, defying the Master’s will. The beast felt its joints, tighten, its sinew congeal, and abruptly, its spine constrict. It was paralyzed, it realized in horror, its fur rising in fear!
Just then, all went black as the dwarf’s mace smashed bone and cartilage in a brutal downward strike. This too would heal, was the Lycanthrope’s last thought, before it spun into unconsciousness, there was no silver venom in the dwarf’s weapon.
“THRROOSH!” came the sound of Glordren’s mace once more, smashing the White Wolf’s snout into further pulp and paste, sending meat and blood in a tumultuous spray across the taproom. Glordren could feel no more resistance from the gory corpse.