I appreciate your post, Richard. Thank you as well to Nomad. I need a post from Keeper at least and then I'll move the game forward.

Remember that maps are found at Roll20.

Yup! Very fun. Well done, sir.

I played one of the zombies in that game. Olan doesn't know it, but I did.

.

I imagine this is what takes place behind the scenes of every movie too. The actors are tortured by the director even when they aren't on screen. Just to keep them in character.

There are a couple of episodes in the various series that that post brings to mind...

I have dropped another post.

There's nothing to say in response to the captor. He has stopped the infection but Ch'dau is still going to have to fight his way back to full strength and there's always the chance that the infection could return. In his weakened state, the Kazari is susceptible to all manners of additional paths to the Halls of Heroes and the priest of Therassor is keenly aware of the risks. 

---------

"We are a paradox, us mortals." Captain Monhest Bollieck is a portly and friendly-looking man, extremely tall with an inherent aura of strength, his rosy-cheeks and baby face make some uncomfortable in their contradiction to his body. Standing in front of two tapestries depicting the inner arrangement of the human body, he is conducting a class on healing. "The sentient races of Audalis are resilient and determined to survive and yet, a small, shallow cut improperly tended can result in our deaths. Make no mistake, my students. For all of our strengths, we are but blades of grass beneath the boot of the gods. For all of our determination, when the gods decide to call us home, we are incapable of denying them."

"But for the grace of their divine power," Acolyte Anjelik chimes in. She's a pretty young lady with a face full of freckles and stark red hair. Gib remembers hearing that her family hails from Pardinal and she certainly looks it.

"And arcane interference," Acolyte Borodine remarks with disdain. "I hear tell that there are wizards in Sendria who have stolen their souls from the gods and live on as decaying bodies long after the gods have called them to their divine halls."

"Liches," Captain Bollieck nods appreciatively. "Make no mistake, those are some very evil and twisted minds living on without their souls. To impose your will over the natural order of things is to risk madness and to be cursed by the gods.

"But we digress..."

---------

Pacing is hardly productive, but it keeps his joints limber. Jogging in circles, so much as his strength will hold out, helps with his mental and physical fitness. By now, all of the moldy, limp straw that was on the cell floor resides in the corner Moreno has designated as his latrine. He spends most of his time close to the bars and away from the toilet, praying, engaging in a philosophical discussion with his companions to help keep their minds sharp, offering up suggestions for wound care regimens, and otherwise trying not to think about what Kith is going through and what tasks lie ahead of them. 

I know the feeling, Pekka. Mt. Dew is the cure!

Post away!

Stardate 2365.02.22
U.S.S. Peregrine; Deck 1 - Bridge – 0735

Lieutenant (junior grade) Candar Moriden looks up from her console and unsticks her tongue from the roof of her mouth. The notification on her screen bears an admiral's seal and she knows better than to delay reporting such a thing while she continues to sort through Gamma's operations reports.

"Captain, I have a priority message from Starfleet Command," she informs Drake in her clipped way, each consonate sounding like it's emphasized with a clicking sound.

Drake sets the PADD down and stands. "Onscreen, please."

"Aye, sir," Candar responds, her tongue immediately returning to the habitual probing of the breathing device she'd had installed before joining Starfleet. Implanted directly into the roof of her mouth, the atmospheric adjuster spreads its tendrils through her nasal cavity and laces her throat, turning the air she breathes from the oxygen/nitrogen mix prominently on Starfleet vessels into the chemical balance of her homeworld. The surgery eliminates the need for her to use the cumbersome breathing devices others of her race had been restricted to in the past.

Watching the exchange between the Captain and the Admiral, Candar immediately begins putting together a thorough report of the entire engagement (as is her way) to send to Nyle. He'll receive the invitation to the senior staff meeting as well, but a Benzite is not a Benzite if they aren't thorough.

Huzzah!

.

Kith is on vacation enjoying some downtime. Cook is active duty!

Thanks, Tann. Don't force the issue. If she wants to join, I'd be happy to entertain the idea but if she has to be convinced, we'll just end up losing her shortly thereafter. It would appear that we're having enough problems keeping people who are interested.

Still nothing?

Wyatt has answered.

I think we forgot we were playing this game again. What happened to that momentum!?

I'm in! When does the train leave?

It takes several flame tosses, but eventually, the gibbering, giggling ghouls leave the party in silence. Resting his forehead against the bars, Therassor's devoted closes his eyes and raises a prayer. 

"Thank you, Mighty General, for these miracles." Then, speaking towards his neighboring cell, he offers words of encouragement. "Stay strong, Ch'dau. The gods will provide a way." Staying by the bars, the cleric frequently repeats the words, knowing that his friend can hear even if he cannot find the strength to respond.

Sometime later, the priest who imprisoned them appears, looking very inconvenienced and annoyed. 

"If you choose to make annoyances of yourselves," the man decrees softly, "I will be forced to put an end to the annoyance."  He pauses meaningfully. Gib remains where he is standing, leaning partially through the bars, his eyes level with the man's gaze.

"Do you think to force some issue here?" the priest of D'hurgen sneers. "You have no advantage whatsoever. I need exert no effort to end your lives; I can simply compel my servants to stay away from you, and you will perish of thirst in short enough order."

Then, his gaze falls upon the prone form of Ch'dau. He moves closer to the bars, and his nose wrinkles at the smell. "Ah, I see.  Your companion fares poorly." The priest pauses, seemingly lost in thought. The change in timbre to his voice gives Moreno a moment's hope. 

"You present a quandary here," D'hurgen's servant states. "On the one hand, I am inclined to let him seek his own fate with my Master.  If he resists the Devourer with no help, then he has earned his chance at life. If not... then who am I to mourn the death of an enemy?" The rhetorical question hangs in the air for several moments and Gib dares not interrupt his musings.

"And yet," he muses, "if he perishes now, the usefulness of your group to me diminishes greatly."

The evil priest stares into space for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. "Very well," he states, apparently coming to a decision. Gib does his best not to reveal the anticipation he feels as he primes himself for the man's reveal. "I had planned to allow you to sit for some time more before presenting my offer to you, but it seems that Fate is pressing my hand."

He looks into each cell, making eye contact before continuing. "I assume that you wonder why I allowed you to live. After all, replacing my servants is no large task, so losing a few more to end your lives would have been trivial enough, a more than fair trade."

The priest lets his words sink in. "However, I have a use for you four. A task that I believe you will not find to be distasteful, though I imagine that your own prejudices would prevent you from working with me in other circumstances." The brown-haired man grins in a particularly smarmy manner and Gib feels a shiver run down his spine. Is that excitement or dread?

"Truth be told," the black-robed priest adds, "I had thought to offer my bargain to you when the time of my need was closer to hand... but here we are.

"I will intercede to save your friend's life," he offers after a short pause and Gib's heart skips a beat. "If I do this, the four of you will swear to perform a task for me. Upon completion of the task, your freedom will be granted. I will not discuss my needs with you at this time, save to give you my word that my task will not run contrary to any vows already sworn by any of you. Indeed, I believe that you will find that we have a very mutual interest here."

The black-robed priest looks around each cell slowly. "Do we have an accord?" he asks.

I trust in your offering, My General, Gib straightens and removes himself from the bars. "Save my companions and I will make such a promise providing it does not, in fact, run counter to my current oaths."

There is no hesitation in the warrior priest's part. He's been looking for an opportunity—an opportunity presented by his god—and here it is. He knows well that there are often politics at play amongst any order and figures that this priest is making his play. Perhaps it will give us the opportunity to exact justice on Garn and Devena, and save Kith.

Last resorts and all that. Maybe the attack will draw the attention of someone we can implore to tend to Ch'dau's wounds and save the perty kitty from becoming ghoul-chow. Maybe it will draw the attention of someone who just takes it out on Gib. 

Either way...

I've dropped a post.

Anger is a poor source of food for rational thought. Anger peppered by a feeling of complete and utter uselessness in the face of a companion's suffering is even less so. Seeing the ghouls gathering around Ch'dau's cell, Gib can come to only one conclusion. The Kazari warrior is close to death. Vultures! The warrior-priest paces in a fury within his grimy cell. Driving the heels of his palms into his temples, Moreno lets loose with a primal, guttural yell. Enough!

Pressing against the bars, Gib slips his arm through up to the shoulder. "Burn, fiends! By Therassor, you'll leave or burn!" Spittle forms on his lips along with the prayer, the flame forming in the palm of his hand lighting the corridor with dancing oranges and yellow. Angling his throw, Moreno chucks the divine fire at the group of ghouls. Calling out to the God of Righteous Battle again, Gib sends another handful of fire into their midst.

"Begone! Fetch your masters!" Another fistful of flame forms and the cleric hurls it at them with fervor. 

(OOC: he'll cast again and again if he needs to so the ghouls are driven from the cell.)

Well, my idea of baking a cake with a file in it isn't going to work. But...

Peering at the schematics again, Wyatt points to the backup generators on Deck 1. "That's on our way t' the life sign, so we'll all head there t'gether." Looking towards Wolf, the captain reiterates Alex's questions, "Any concern 'bout this paint?"

(OOC: Wolf's answer...)

"I don' want t' spend a bunch o' time opening doors when our primary concern was the life sign," Sung returns to the mission. "We can address the rest o' the ship once we know what's what with what caught our attention t' begin with. 'Sides, I would like t' see the ship's logs 'fore we go opening potential hazards. So, no more opening doors but fer the rooms we absolutely need t' get into.

"Let's get them generators up, then get int' that room," Wyatt points to the room near the head on Deck 1, "then engineering an' the bridge. Unless somethin' comes up t' change the plan."