Dark Times with Morsatai

[--Ashe--]

"Beshaba's own damned Luck!"

A silvery glint tantalizingly caught the torchlight like a streaking comet before being lost in the imposing nebulous darkness of the crypt, the metallic rattle of its corresponding impact echoing back mockingly.

Chagrin marred the elven features of Raynefire's ash smeared face; grief dancing in the shade of his visage for the loss of his most sacred holy symbol to the depths of the damned. Clearly there would be no opportunities to Turn this undead host now.

The priest quickly ducked under the leaden backswing of the mummy warrior's attack, sparks flying from the impact of the dire sword meeting the cobblestone wall, leaving a lacerating scar upon the stone where the elf's head had been but seconds before. If only Tymora had blessed such a dodge on the primary attack which had disarmed the relic to begin with.

His aqualine eyes darted about quickly taking in the depths of his predicament. Surrounded upon three sides by a host of undead abominations, his back to the wall with naught but a morningstar and a prayer as a shield. Mummys of all sorts, warriors, lords, elites... and even the dread Morsatai itself. This was just not the elf's day.

Raynefire's spirit seethed at the corruption and depravity overwhelming him like a miasma of death. It was by steely will alone that he fought the compulsion to drop everything and run screaming as a banshee from this hellish place. The fetid decaying stench of these creatures was enough to strike lesser beings dead on the spot.

Nearby, his servile summon was faring much better, oblivious to the blows that would kill a living being and dealing out equal punishment to the horde surrounding it. A moment of jealousy thorned into his thoughts, but was quickly dismissed... impervious to pain or not, the creature would not last long. He commanded the flesh automoton with his thoughts, directing it to come to his aid. It halted in mid strike and mindlessly lumbered in his direction, bringing its followers in tow.

Raynefire's shoulder lanced with sudden pain as a mummy lord's sceptre struck, leaving his arm limp and useless; his morningstar dangling heavily, tracing ominous patterns in the soil of the crypt. Pain wrought tears seeped through his eyes as he desperately dove and rolled beneath the mob.

Coming up and leaning heavily, the elf desperately clawed to clear the pain from his thoughts. The words of the prayer came to mind instantly, assuredly a blessing of the gods themselves. Casting his nonrebellious arm forward he released the miracle upon the shambling dead, instantly surrounding them in the bedazzling glory of the heavens. The crypts rang like an anvil as the hammer of the gods repeatedly struck, quickly levelling the depraved dead to dust.

The elf sank heavily to the ground, panting heavily. None of the dead remained but his own servile servant... and the worst of the bunch, Morsatai. The creature was a horror to behold, mocking the loathing depravity that was its servants before it. An aura of evil surrounded the wretch as it soulessly mouthed the words of a curse, causing a wave of negative energy to lance out from its bony fingers to strike Raynefire soundly in the chest. The elf was lifted into the air with great force and thrown a good distance off... nearly losing consciousness.

Unwittingly Raynefire's mindless compatriot stumbled toward its fallen master just as Morsatai's words rustled like cicaeda from its rictus grin. Even in his pain-filled pallor, the elf recognized the curse immediately and knew his doom approached. As Raynefire struggled to his feet, the mummy released the curse, striking not the elf... but the shambling servant.

The elf's mouth dropped wide in shock as the curse had the opposite affect to the intentions of Morsatai, healing and invigorating his ally to full health, where, should it have hit him instead, it would have left him whimpering and dying upon this despoiled ground. Perhaps it was Tymora's intervention, in reflection Raynefire would never know but would steadfastly believe it so.

Quickly he commanded his servant, watching with newfound hope as the creature took hold of both of Morsatai's arms in a grip as strong as shackles, holding it at bay. The cleric reached deep through the exhausted trails of his mind, hoping against all hope that he had something, anything left. Then, like an epiphany, it came to him. The price to his servant was irrespective... the vile Morsatai must be vanquished. Uttering a thanks to the gods, the priest mouthed the litany and unleashed the miracle. Waves of divine fire wreathed the intertwined undead, limning each in holy flames. Morsatai's head fell back, with mouth agape in soundless scream, as wave after searing wave of flame struck. As the heavenly lights diminished naught was left of the pair but articles of armor and the vile undead priest's weapon.

Struggling heavily to the site of the vanquished, Raynefire cautiously drew the mummy's morningstar from the ruins of its demise. "I claim thee, Star of Morsatai. Thy despicable past shall be erased in the light of the divine Way." The priest gripped the weapon firmly in his unhindered arm.

A wave of fatigue struck him, causing the elf to lose consciousness in the ashes of his foes, with a relieved smile on his face.