From: Balefire Subject: [Porc] Minor Nuisances Balefire hadn't gone very far along the dead mage's recommended route when he and his comrades encountered the next impediment to their progress. The Dark Elf mercenary had been stalking warily down the clammy tunnels, alert for more attacking spellcasters, with or without their giant scorpion "shock troops". He was beginning to believe his informant's assertion that few if any of the citadel's dwellers dared to descend this far, for his senses and his detection spells remained unalarmed. The warmage's continued existence after long years of battle owed much to his ability to maintain a high degree of readiness even in the face of no apparent danger, however, so he continued his measured pace and careful scanning of his surroundings nonetheless. And it was well that he did. The scythe-sized mandibles scissored together through the space where Balefire's neck had been a heartbeat before. As he dropped to his haunches, the warmage gathered his massive thigh muscles to launch him to...there! A kaleidoscopic image of eight huge eyes glowing evilly in the near-dark, and breathtakingly quick stabbing and slashing of huge, many-jointed, spiked and clawed legs, but his combat -trained mind and eyes saw the briefly open space between the living polearms, and he dove away from the living threshing machine that was the biggest giant spider he had ever seen. Dove and tucked-and-rolled, to come up with his back to granite and facing, Daedric claymore in hand, the skittering charge of the enraged arachnid. Peripherally aware of his comrades' maneuvering for position, but knowing they would have neither space nor time to help, he concentrated on making his blows count, for the spider tribe is tough and dies slowly. First he must stay alive, though, and the scarred warrior mage parried blows from cruelly-clawed legs with speed and strength in no way inferior to that of the monster before him. The spider's sheer bulk was a handicap in the relatively narrow tunnel, since it could only bring four or so of its legs, and its mandibles, to bear. For his part, however, Balefire could not break away from the constant attacks to get at any of the creature's softer, more vulnerable parts. Unlike its scorpion cousins, this spider had no trouble rearing up and confronting him with what amounted to a coordinated cluster of edged weapons, rendering a jump onto its back impossible. Venom dripped from the monster's jaws and hissed, smoking, where it touched the rocky floor. Balefire was less concerned about venom than about the jaws themselves, razor-sharp and perfectly capable of slicing him in two, armor and all. The legs were incredibly strong, as well, and if not parried would surely pin him to the wall like a parody -- he had to laugh at the image -- of an insect in some scholar's collection. A well-angled parry allowed him to catch his sword-edge in a spiked leg-joint, and he twisted as he withdrew, grinning ferally at the sound of the joint's destruction and at the ichor dripping from the now-uselessly-dragging limb. In quarters this close, a Wrathbolt or Skyfire spell would be suicide, so the dusky Archmage wracked his brain for a weaker spell, even as his sword wove its protective pattern of edged metal around him. The darting mandibles caught the sword, and the creature's enormous strength almost wrenched the weapon from his hand. He avoided the impulse to strike forward at the beast's head and eyes, knowing that to do so would put him just in range of one of the waiting legs. No future in a blow that killed your foe and yourself at once. He twisted the sword with all the power of war-trained wrists, and it came loose with the nerve-rending screech of metal on chitin. A leg swept toward him and he managed to dodge it only partially; it threw him into another leg, stumbling as yet a third lanced toward him. He pulled, hard!, on the nearest, and the spider was forced to abandon its spearing attack to steady itself on its injured leg's side. Repositioning itself lightning-quickly the creature pounced forward, two legs raised like halberds, twin descending dooms, its venom dripping maw, mandibles spread wide. A bright blue-white streak of light left Balefire's hand as he released his hilt, and a sullen red-orange one followed an instant after. A violent explosion released a cloud of swirling, billowing steam shot through with streaks of ichor and venom, and the great spiked legs of the giant spider collapsed to the tunnel floor, their rattling crash counterpoint to the thud of the arachnid's body. When the steam cleared, Balefire's companions saw the warmage leaning on his sword and quietly chuckling, looking down at the mangled, raw mess where the spiders head and thorax had been. "Ice and fire. I shall have to remember that when next I have a chance to write a monograph for the Mages' Guild. I was looking for a spell more suitable for a barroom than a battlefield, Elfiran, and I happened to remember an old trick I've used now and then in barroom brawls. You throw a small icebolt spell into a well-heated fireplace, and get steam to confound your enemies. I reversed the process on our multilegged friend here, and caused an explosion well down his gullet." The dusky warmage smiled and shouldered his great sword. "Let us see if there are any more of these minor nuisances between us and this bridge we must cross."