“Quickly, you fools!”
The cultists scrambled about, preparing for the oncoming attack; the magical alarms had faded, but the fear of assault had not. The necromancer stood on the catwalk above the frothing vats of decay, watching the deathpriests below summoning undead minions and mentally preparing the unholy prayers needed for the defense.
Several thoughts ran through his head at once: what had they lost so far, having intruders discover the secret lair? The time, the resources, the manpower needed to secure their traitorous plans—all gone in a matter of moments. However, what could he gain? If he stopped the assault right here and now, how he could wave his victory in front of the priests as a sign of competence, of sheer skill. He would be promoted for sure, maybe even sent away from this clustered city and its petulant crowds. They would never understand what his cadre was doing, what great experiments lurked beneath their streets. How little they had come after a revolution took this city. No, Korvosa was doomed to wither away in its own ignorance, and the necromancer Rolth would profit from its demise.
He quickly grunted in frustration. No! Not now! He still had this trouble to deal with. Grandeur can come later. Following the priests’ example, he also began preparing his arcane tools, instinctively stroking the glass rod hidden in a side pocket.
Rolth didn’t have long before the wide doors in front of him slammed open. Their first assault was quite unexpected—their image. “YOU! It’s you fools again!” he screeched, recognizing the wild-eyed gnome and the lanky boy standing at the entrance. They were accompanied by two others, no doubt replacements for the meddlers before them. Almost immediately, one of the newcomers cast a spell—the entire room was bathed in holy energy, consecrating the very ground these dealers in death stood on. As he stood there in shock, one of the deathpriests below finished the incantions to a spell. Even before Rolth could identify it, impenetrable darkness engulfed his vision. His ears were filled with the sounds of combat as the realization of the situation hit him.
“You FOOL!” he exclaimed as he began dispelling the darkness spell one of his rotting allies had cast. The darkness was gone as quickly as it had appeared; the scene in front of him was chaotic, as both sides had been flailing about, trying to attack the other. Rolth watched as a metallic glint shot through the air, cleanly cleaving through one of the plague doctors’ skulls, the glint materializing into an axe embedded into the vat to his right. What he didn’t notice, however, was the growing storm cloud collecting itself behind him.
The necromancer felt his body tense up and electricity arced over his body. Whipping about and seeing the fully-formed air elemental behind him, he tried to make a break for it—his position on the high ground would not do him any good against the outsider. The creature was ready for his retreat, however, a solid lightning bolt shot out at Rolth’s feet, causing him to fall on his face. Cursing his luck, he began to stand up, but before he could think of an appropriate attack, the elemental barreled into his chest, sending him over the railing and into the very full vat below.
This was not going to plan.
His mouth full of the disgusting liquid, his limbs still tense from the electrical shock, he managed to reach above for the lip of the vat and pull himself up. Drawing his last reserves of strength, he leaned over the lip and let himself fall to the ground below, sputtering as the impact knocked the air and chemicals from his lungs. Coming to his senses and standing up, he saw that his allies had at least held the foes at bay, although the undead numbers were thinning. Damn this holy energy! Damn that cleric!
“You like lightning, do you!?” he screamed as he pulled that glass rod out of his pocket. The fact it had not shattered from the blows was a miracle. Rubbing fine fur over the trinket, he finished speaking the final syllables of the spell and a lightning bolt, much larger than the one he contended with earlier, shot into the crowd, aimed directly at the elf in the back. His aim was true, and the magic blasted through the foes before him. The mountain cat at the front of the group, no doubt a trained pet of theirs, let loose a painful “MREOW” before it slumped to the ground. Unfortunately, none of its allies were taken out of the fight. He motioned to the priests to his left, and they began to take up a defensive stance, their attempts foiled however, as magical grease (damn caster!) made one fight to maintain his combat stance and the other tugged at his scythe, the blade firmly lodged in same vat Rolth had fallen into. The elemental flitted around, raising the ire of the necromancer.
He had just enough time to slip his hands into pouches on his belt when a new figure charged through the shadows. A grizzled dwarf—also a long time foe, but where had he come from?—charged past his allies, unsheathing a large axe as he ran toward Rolth. The attacks came quick, with ruthless precision. He was sure he could get off one last attack and then make his escape; twin gouts of flame shot out of his hands into the dwarf as the gnome snuck around to his side.
Rolth knew he was well and truly cornered when his final ally fell. He would not be victorious this day, but there was always another opportunity, provided he could get away. He focused on casting his final spell, dimension door, which would magically transport him away from this hole in the ground, when the axe buried itself in his chest. And continued hacking as he fell to the floor, life draining out of him. And again.
(So yeah, I did this right after the session when I should be sleeping for work the next day and I know I left out a lot of details but I think I got the gist of it. Just imagine Mungo booming “TA REN TA RA” every eighteen seconds and I think it’s accurate.)