Concept: a reverse druid.
Instead of a human who shapeshifts into animals, they’re, like, an owlbear that shapeshifts into a human.
They’re mystically attuned to cities, which their powers treat as a sort of exotic but naturally occurring terrain.
Rather than seeking intuitive oneness with untamed nature, they carry out hilariously reductive scholarly analysis of humanoid society, all writing up thesis papers like “On the nesting habits of the Common Halfling”.
(They can still call down a lightning strike on your ass, though, because some things don’t change.)
Summon Fallen Powerline; rev-Drd 3
#concept of powerlines need not be invented yet
While most of the party stepped warily into the darkened room, the druid took large, bold steps, pointing an accusing finger at the hooded figures surrounding the candlelit altar. In a loud, booming voice, he shouted at the group, “deluded, wicked men! You are the most foul and evil of scum, for your crimes are not merely against the laws of man, but against those of nature itself! Cease, and surrender at once!”
“You fools! You think you can stop us? Stop the True Path? Ha! Behold, foolish ‘heroes,’ and tremble before a mere drop of the power Great Zentron grants his devoted!” the demon-cult leader shrieked. Then, he and nearly a dozen other robed figures leapt down from the dais, leaving the few necessary underlings to continue the ritual. He had a wicked gleam in his eyes, and it wasn’t just a figure of speech – as those cursed eyes roamed across the party, all their protective wards, curative spells, and deadly buffs. A creepy, almost inhuman giggle trickled from his face, rising into a cackle, and then full-out laughter, before he and his subordinates threw off their cloaks, revealing them all to be well-equipped with no shortage of underhanded, cruel implements and concoctions.
The leader held up his hand, and a wide circle of glowing runes surrounded the battlefield, coming just short of the ritual. When next he spoke, it was in the deep, gravely tone of a being who did not belong on the mortal plane. “This will be your final thing; I seal us all within the ring. While the summoning does start, I will collect for it your heart. My blades grow sharp; my poisons fill, and you will all bow to His will. To ensure your soon death knells, I hereby strip us of all spells!” As he speaks, a powerful magic wall fades into being with the runes. The knives, swords, and sickles hanging from the cultists’ robes shine briefly, and several empty bottles glow and fill with mysterious, menacing liquid. Then, the final spell began to take effect.
In the eyes of the head cultist, the sigils and spells around the party wavered, then shattered, or simply vanished. Except for one. He glared at the defiant druid, who still had one more spell about him. With a demonic roar, the leader thrust his arm towards the adventurer, forcing more power into his command. The fool WOULD break. And then, the last spell snapped.
The effect was tremendous. One second, a tall human, covered in ivy and deerskin and holding a staff, stood in the circle. The next second, the human had vanished. In his stead, a huge dragon sat on its haunches, its silver head glaring down at the cultists, visibly miffed. With the cultists taken off-guard, the dragon swiftly swept most of them aside with its strong, scaly tail, where their own points and poisons invaded their flesh.
The leader leapt back and once more called upon his god’s power to end what was very obviously a Shapeshift spell of some sort. There was no response, save for a blast of freezing air from its jaws. Again, he tried, and again, nothing happened. On the third attempt, the dragon finally caught him, and a cloud of gas seized up his muscles. As he dropped to the ground, his body unable to obey his commands, the dragon’s expression changed to one of pity, almost sorrow, and it spoke, “if it is any consolation, your spell worked. However, I must now ensure your bigger spell does not.” With a decisive, wet “thok,” it drove its claws through its aggressor’s chest, making the magical walls vanish.
As it turned out, a blast of very cold air does wonders at extinguishing candles needed for ceremonies.