The group finds themselves in a rambunctious town, one much like those a normal person would have have spent time in before.Townsfolk idle about, many of them with a mug of ale in hand, an appropriate activity for this time of evening and at some sort of festival.
A man of rank, distinguished by a town leader pin on his jerkin, approaches the small group. “Hail, mortals. It’s been a long while since we’ve seen anyone come through those gates. The town of Ivarstead welcomes you -
- How might we suit your fancy tonight? Run out of ale? It’s the festival of the dead - grab a mug and join the celebration!” He says, raising his arms in welcome. His smile falters upon seeing the serious-looking members of the Conclave, and the man shies away. “If you want, that is. No pressure.”
The Townsfolk of Ivarstead make their way out of the square, grumbling but moving swiftly. It seems the festival wasn’t too far underway, many of the folk are able to make it to the Docks without incident. Those that struggle are aided by the guardsmen of the town. The guardsmen ensure that the boats are loaded, and soon have the first downstream. At closer inspection, every one of the people seems half dead, mostly rotted and wholly unaware of their own state. Besides being apparently dead, things go on as a normal place would.
Whispers cut the air, before flames break the gloom of the night. Balls of fire cascade over the river, striking the house to the right of the group. The dry timber ignites, the crackling of wood engulfed by hungry fire is heard as pillars groan with the load of the roof. As the sky rains fire, both demons breath out red plums of dusty smoke that overwhelms the area and begins to burn away the ground and bridge around. One lunges for Apollyon. [All roll defense, A roll 2 times]