Given the steady march forward, the torchlight gives the horde an easy motion to them, as though they were about to burst or break into a sprint.
As the party forms a loose third line, the spearmen and shieldmen brace against the small army getting closer inch by agonising inch. Talison and Bennet both redraw their bows, cross and short, and fire, this time both hitting their mark; the bolt and arrow both strike into the putrid flesh of an Elven warrior long since passed, piercing through and flying out the other end.
Lorawyn kept her mind talking to the Feyweave, never stopping the connection in her mind, maintaining the doorway so as to ask for its’ help once again. She had a plan, and was going to use it well. Taking some steps back, she strode forward some steps and leapt, her clawed hands straining forward as threw her head back. Breathing harshly, she felt the strain of the heat against her throat, flame emerging and licking the air as it seems to celebrate its’ escape. Her hands guiding the ’Weave, she can feel it lifting the fire and raising it above the shieldwall, sending it beyond and into the undead rabble, missing the living Elves entirely. Her ability so guided, she twisted her body in the air so that she flipped over and landed on her feet, striking a balancing pose on her descent. The fire spread out and struck almost half the encroaching enemy, but as the bolt of flame that preceeded it, appears to have no morale effect on an opponent so unrelenting.
Nix and Darrin, having found a way that works, find that despite the dozen feet separating them, they syncronise their movements. A swift inhalation, a dragging back of a foot, a palm forward in the air and out comes a bolt of pure fire, shooting forward at a rate of knots; Nix’s calm demeanour betraying her calculations and mental excercises to produce the effect as she wipes the dusty feeling from her hands, while Darrin’s face is a look of anger, and then relief once the strike hits, the tingling in his arms and hands causing him to smack them on his legs a few times. “Do you Edhels know any magic?” Nix calls out to her currently static allies. “What about you Geran?” Geran looks up, slightly bewildered at being spoken to during a fight. He nods slowly, then seems to parse what was said, following this spark with a steadier, equally slow nod.
The zombies grow ever closer, eventually reaching the front line of the shield bearers. Geran walks quickly and purposefully, his right hand held up as though he were holding a goblet of some fine wine, the smell of a sickly sweet honey emanating from his position and spreading quickly throughout the chamber. His hand clasps down on Adrik’s shoulder, and he whispers into his ear. For a few seconds, Adrik listens, and Geran then takes his hand away and walks back to his position, nodding at Nix, his expression one of concerned determination.
The creatures, having reached the line, face an immediate onslaught of spears and shield bashes, a few of them falling to this barrage. Some, however, manage to collapse on top of the Elves, starting to bite and scratch. Blood starts the spurt from some open wounds in the Magolglir, one of them falling dead in a matter of moments and leaving a gap in the shieldwall. Adrik rolls his shoulders and twists his hand, guiding with the other, to hit with full force against an offending fell creature, crushing its’ skull before his might. Another zombie, taking advantage of his blow, swipes at his other side. Feeling sure he felt a sharp scratch, Adrik turns quickly and butts the dead man away with the middle of his staff, quickly checking his side. As his nostrils fill with that sweet smell again, he thinks back and realises that the zombie wasn’t close enough to scratch him… a forewarning? What did the Elf do?
Roll initiative (1d20 + Dexterity bonus). What do you do?
The party took out 3 zombies, 2 others were killed by Magolglir. That’s 6 dead(er) total, and so there are 9 left.
The shieldwall is compromised and the Zombies are going to be able to get at the spearmen next turn.