((Tarkus, I just looked at your character sheet, and assuming that your current HP is updated to this point, it looks like you forgot to take out the Bite attack damage from the same turn that you got nailed for 59 from the tail. Either that or you assumed that the total was 59 from both hits; I wasn't as clear as I could have been there. Whatever the case, your current HP should be 46.
Crocodile goes Full Attack Mode on Tarkus. Bite Attack: 29 vs AC. Tarkus takes 26 damage.
Tail Attack: Uh... I kid you not, I rolled another Natural 20. I don't keep a log of my rolls like some of you guys do because I'm the DM and I reserve the right to fudge rolls, but in this case I kind of feel bad that I can't prove it :-\ 22 to confirm the critical hit. Tarkus takes 54 more damage, killing him.))
As the crocodile continues its reign of terror, outright decapitating Tarkus with one brutal swipe of its gargantuan tail, for Evaneth time seems to move in slow motion.
Time is a funny thing. For the Dark Monk, it is more mutable than it would be for most. Thanks to the influence of his God, Evaneth exists outside the normal flow of time; by all rights, in his current form he should not even exist. Altering the flow of history created a different version of Evaneth, a version whose family was never slain in the Monastery of Ao on his home plane of Faerun.
As a consequence of this fold in the very fabric of time itself, Evaneth did not experience the flow of time like others would. Over the years he found that his perspective shifted massively depending on a number of factors, and with some practice he learned to manipulate those factors to his will.
With this in mind, watching Tarkus's head fly off of his body, its momentum blunted by the surrounding water, he suddenly finds that he can remember the conversation that Tarkus referenced earlier as though it had happened five minutes ago.
"Gods move in mysterious way, for good or for ill. But one day we all fall, by blade of heaven or hell. Tarkus can only wish for glorious death protecting comrade. But that day not today."
"A man chooses. A slave obeys. Fight for god or man...belief in own strength makes our fate."
The words reverberate within Evaneth's skull over and over again as he looks into Tarkus's eyes, and something wells up inside Evaneth that he has not felt for twenty years.
"Tarkus can only wish for glorious death protecting comrade. But that day not today."
"That day not today..."
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Evaneth bellows, his words echoing through the cavernous ruin of a monastery. He throws up his arms, and the Celestial Dire Crocodile vanishes into nothing. The curtain of blackness dissipates, making Evaneth plain to see, his face distraught. "I can't.... Ao forgive me, I can't bear to be the cause of any more suffering. I surrender. Do what you must with me." He falls to his knees and lowers his head in defeat.
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Muun opens his eyes. He is in a small clearing, and is surrounded by nature: a deep, colorful, vibrant nature, the likes of which he has never experienced. Lush bushes; technicolor trees; wild grasses that are taller than he is.
Or, as tall as he would be if he were standing up. He overcomes the urge to continue lying in the pillow-like bed of foliage and rises to his feet.
All of his equipment is gone. In its place are a white, silken shirt and pants - almost like a set of pajamas, but slightly more form-fitting. His feet are bare, though there doesn't seem to be a need for shoes here.
The skies are clear and blue, with slight wispy cloud formations littered about here and there. Multicolored birds sing their love songs, and dragonflies buzz about happily, serving to complement the otherwise-silent serenity. The aroma of honeysuckle and blueberry wafts into his nostrils, and involuntarily, Muun's mouth begins to water.
"Welcome, human," a tiny voice chirps. Muun looks in front of him, and at the edge of the clearing is a miniature humanoid creature with thin, translucent, rapidly-beating wings keeping her afloat. "Welcome to Ehlonna's Grove. When you are ready, the Goddess wishes to hold an audience. I can take you there. My name is Celia. How are you feeling?"
-----------
Normally, when Tarkus closes his eyes, all he can see is black. This is kind of like that, except instead of blackness, he sees a silvery, dark rainbow of swirling colors, and he has no eyes to open.
All sensation has left him. He can only see and hear his surroundings, and he notices four voices. They seem to be bickering. He tries to focus and tune into them. They are speaking in a strange language, and though he has never heard it before, somehow Tarkus understands it perfectly.
"He was wearing my boots," a crotchety old man's voice insists. "By all rights he should be inducted into my Elite Scouting Brigade."
"He wielded our (Axe/Shield)," says a bizarre dual-layered voice, half male and half female. Somehow, "axe" and "shield" were the same word. "We have need of competent guardsmen."
"He fought with courage, conviction, honor, and valor," says the voice of a battle-forged soldier. "My Legion requires his services."
"I CLAIM DOMINION OVER ALL ORC SOULS," says a terrible, demonic voice. "HE WILL ARISE IN MY DOMAIN."
Suddenly Tarkus opens his eyes. The first thing he notices is the absolute silence here. Never has he experienced such a pronounced lack of sound; it's a little jarring. He lifts his head and looks around; he is in a large, marble room, made of the finest building materials, and yet lacking in any sort of decoration. His best guess is that it's a hall of some kind. The floors are shiny, while the walls and ceilings are less so, but are nonetheless every bit as pristine.
The room is empty, save for a single, slender female figure standing perhaps thirty feet away. She wears a black dress, form-fitting but designed to drape down in places. A black veil covers the bottom half of her face. Her eyes have black pupils, and her long, raven hair runs down to the middle of her back. Her skin is very pale. She is looking directly at him.
Tarkus notices that all of his possessions are gone. He is wearing a simple black, cotton robe that is incredibly comfortable, with soft wool slippers on his feet. He also notes that he feels fantastic; all injuries and scars that he's accumulated over the years have somehow vanished, and he seems to be in peak physical condition.
"Tarkus Rook," the woman says, her voice just a touch deeper than her petite figure would suggest. "Welcome to the Astral Sea. I am the Raven Queen."
