Post by Trent Kaliba on Jun 15, 2017 21:07:27 GMT -8
For the second time, he frequented a bar. Today it was a friendly little roadside tavern in the midst of Tyran, just outside of the city walls. He arrived with a fell chill, a kind of rolling fog outside, downright unseasonal in appearance and the pervasive cold. Songs were being sung by London the bard, some mix of a shanty and ballad. Soldiers and peasants, paupers and thieves all filled the tavern that welcomed those who came to the city at night when the gates were often closed, and stopped their travels among the farmsteads.
The man was hard to miss, unsettling yes- but not revealed beyond the grays of his robes and the armor that enhanced it. Without a word, he reached into the robes and removed a glass phial, nearly the size of a grapefruit. He tossed it into the center of the room- his faceless helm boasting no place for a mouth, no place for eyes. Yet it could be seen that he could see. The glass shattered and out of it swirled in magically contained pressure a cloud which quickly filled the room with a sickly yellow and green gas.
The choking gas seized it's victims indiscriminate of who they were or how much they tried to flee or mount offense. A young wizard had been in the crowd who choked on his first spell and had the other easily dispelled by the man with the black mask. The young man and all the room soon succumbed, bar wenches, patrons, all. After moments of deafening screams, silence.
The Arisalonian's expression under his helm could only be described as bemused. The compound certainly had killing potential, but would the mutagen truly work? Could it grip the organs? He watched, interested as their bodies seized and wracked upon themselves. Soon bony protrusions erupted from where elbows had been, at the base of shoudlers and other plates, in some random-but in most, in planned, designed ways.
Muscle tissue warped, and blood curdled in the veins soon the hue of that sickly green gas that still rolled about the floor as it subsided. Many...roughly seven in ten patrons transformed fully into his desired forms- hulking humanoid monstrosities, more monster than man- their will forever erased as the brain had been a throughly transformed as the body. Bony spikes raised from the forearms like weaponry, and as the beasts began to rise from the floor, the Magister smiled.
It had worked. Mostly. Those that failed to survive the transportation were a mess of split skin and ruptured organs filled with bile, and pus ridden boils where muscle failed to adapt. With no survivors, there were no witnesses and after he ushered his new found 'soldiers' from the scene by way of an opened portal- with clinical precision the Arisalonian wiped the tavern from the landscape leaving only scorched earth behind.
