Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
It is sundown on Birth 2 in the 721st year of the Imperial Age. The Tarsisian Empire is in the midst of a bloodless civil war, with a trio of would-be emperors claiming to be the successor to Empress Addares XXXIII, and each has claimed a city in a different corner of the empire as their seat of power.
The Barony of Midwood on the Prustan Peninsula is closest to Tarsis itself, where the nobleman Segaci Fellisti sits on the Lion-Guarded Throne as one of the claimants to the title of emperor. But a recently ended barbarian invasion and rebuilding Tarsis have occupied much of his attention of late, and he has mostly ignored the high mountains of the Prustan Peninsula, despite the men of Prust originally founding the empire.
So in Midwood, life goes on much as it has for the past decade. The green dragon Gax, who ruled the neighboring Green Mountain for more than 500 years and whose kobold servants wiped out the native gnomes of the Tulgey Wood and drove the dwarves from the mountain fortress of Glangirn, simply flew away one day 10 years ago. Where she went, and why, no one knows. In the absence of their mistress, the Green Mountain Kobolds fell to fighting among themselves and no longer raid the barony's settlements, nor do the wandering Black Reaver goblins. Although the dwarves have not yet been able to retake Glangirn -- five centuries gave Gax ample time to prepare numerous surprises for would-be invaders -- peace has settled on the barony.
Baron Nicodemus Midwood, the ninth baron of Midwood, diverted the Eastern Horde barbarians from his barony when they invaded from the Grey Mountains to the east of the peninsula, concealing Hangman's Pass with illusions with magic he learned at the Redhurst Academy of Magic. Since then, things have been calm, although rumor has it that the kobolds have at last united under a new leader and that change has come to the Black Reaver tribe as well. Although no one yet knows it, peace is at an end in the lands under the shadow of Green Mountain.
It is the second day of the new year. Two days of cold sleet have kept everyone indoors for the most part, and if the kobolds were intending to restart the tradition of the Blood Roast, when the kobolds and goblins would once hunt and kill the humans and dwarves of Midwood, dumping their remains into a pot for a ritual feast, the icy weather kept the cold-blooded humanoids inside instead.
At The Cat & The Fiddle in Maidensbridge, everyone is huddled around the fire, warm cups of cider warming their hands and discussing Blood Roast, kobolds, the weather and the future.
Maidensbridge is the smallest community in Midwood, only a small fringe of trees separate Maidensbridge from the lower slopes of Green Mountain to the west. The hamlet is named for the bridge that straddles the Moss River as it heads south, then southeast and downstream towards the larger community of Foxton on Moss. Although it is close by fast-moving water, by land, the hamlet is distant from both Foxton on Moss and Middleborough beyond it: It is more than five miles on the Baron's Road through the dark Tulgey Wood before travelers reach the safety of Foxton on Moss.
The road is nothing but dirt long before it reaches the hamlet, and Maidensbridge itself is simply a slightly muddy clearing on either side of a bridge, with a small number of buildings facing in toward the common area. Children, dogs, cats, chickens and ducks tend to be the only people in the middle of the hamlet during daylight hours; everyone else is working, many of them off in the orchards.
A merchant from the lowlands has said that the town of Goblin Falls, at the bottom of Hangman's Pass, was hit during the monstrous "holiday" of Blood Roast. A force of trolls, giants, ogres and wolves attacked the town. They were repelled, but at the cost of many lives lost.
Seemingly blissfully unaware of the gloomy mood, Fibber Bridger throws open the door, letting the cold wind blast in off the glittering frozen road outside. Patrons yell for him to shut the door, and he slams it shut behind him with one hand. Looking around the room, he spots a group of friends near the fire and makes his way towards an unoccupied seat with a grin, a leather sack with something inside dangling from one fist.
He drops in the seat and puts the sack on the thick oaken table beside him. Something in the bag makes a loud clank.
"Buy me a drink," he grins. "I've got something you lot will want to see."
The thuggish Ragglus Chaplin drains the rest of his cider, burps loudly, and grabs his crotch.
"Some of us're bigger than others Fib, best keep yours hidden." He laughs at his own joke, not noticing he's the only one.
Fibber turns bright red at Ragglus' comment, but says nothing.
"Eh, lad, yeh don't have to tease us with fancy tales to be able to drink wit' folk in a tavern," says the dwarf Emus Graymullet. A berserker, he's seen as an unkempt dullard by others of Clan Glangirn. "Jes' find yerself a seat and the conversatin' will happen."
Near the bar, the bard Tock Chandler finishes singing "I Thought She Was a Gnome for Honest" -- Tock knows a seemingly inexhaustible supply of ribald songs -- and wanders over to hear what Fibber has in his bag.
"Aye, Fibber," he says. "How's that cousin of yours? She's not still sore at me, is she?"
"No, Tock, but her pa is. You better watch yourself," Fibber says.
The son of the Maidensbridge's leatherworker's real name is Hans Bridger, but no one calls him that. Ever since he could talk, he's been "Fibber" to the others in town, much to his father's consternation.
Fibber is not strong or wise -- in fact, he's perhaps a touch slow, and he is certainly clumsy, sickly and weak -- but he has an active imagination and a winning-enough way that he has been mostly insulated from the consequences of that imagination running wild and coming up with the tall tales and lies that gave him his unfortunate nickname.
Fibber is in his late teens, and is a mass of acne, elbows and greasy hair. His leather clothes are well-made, if plain, and when not telling wildly exaggerated stories, is theoretically capable of helping his father with the family business, although Fibber never works when telling a story. And he's always telling a story.
He waits for the mug of warmed cider to be put down in front of him. Keeping a firm grip on the bag with his left hand, he drains half the mug before saying more. He puts the mug down on the ancient stained table and makes an appreciative noise.
"Thanks!"
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a helmet and drops it on the table. It wobbles a moment before settling down. It's a half-helmet, but not in a style that those at the table have ever seen before. The nose guard is shaped to look like an owl's beak and a circular spray of feathers extend out from each eye slot, forming a circular face. The rest of the helmet was once covered by smaller feather designs, it seems, but time has taken its toll on the helmet: It's pitted and rusted, with holes showing right through it. Despite that, Emus can see some shinier metals in part of the feather designs. It appears that, once upon a time, this helmet was decorated with precious metals.
"You lot think you're up for getting rich?"
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Ragglus' leans forward eagerly at the prospect of making good coin.
Without missing a beat, Tock grabs a chair from a nearby table, wedges it next to Fibber, and sits.
"I always knew you were smarter than they all said."
Renraw Kem, the bookkeeper for Maidensbridge's bailiff, rolls his eyes at Ragglus, then immediately perks up when he hears Fibber's question. He had been skulking quietly in the corner, so he says nothing, but pays close attention.
Glancing over from his place by the fire, the gnome cleric Ebuferpaly's eyes go wide for a moment as he catches a glimpse of the helmet. Quickly surveying the group surrounding it, he nods to himself, takes a sip of his ale, and wanders over nonchalantly.
"What's this, then, Fib my boy?" he asks with a smile. "You haven't been 'borrowing' things from Therut's stores again, have you?"
Although Gax wiped out the gnomes of Treeline centuries ago, gnomes have recently resettled in the barony, erecting the forest mansion of Wit's End, and then promptly hiding it behind layer upon layer of illusions nine years ago. Ebuferpaly Whitethatch Potentloins is a junior cleric of Wit's End.
Hazel, the daughter of woodcutter Jack Sawyer, takes a swig of cider and casts a suspicious eye on the helmet from across the table.
"Since when have any of Fibber's schemes made anyone rich? They're more likely to turn you black-and-blue than fill your pockets."
"So is Tandia Brown," Tock says. "But that won't mean it ain't fun trying."
"That's certainly true," Bufer nods. Receiving strange looks he receives from the rest of the assembly, he adds, "Ahem. Or so I've been told.
"Seriously now, son, where did the helmet come from? If'n your pa finds out you've been thieving from Therut again, he's like to be even harder on you than he was last time."
Fibber looks at Bufer, picking up the helmet, turning it around and around in his hands, the firelight glinting off what looks very much like the glint of gold in the lines of one molded feather.
"My dad was skinning this stag he found off in the woods. It had been dead for days and it smelled horrible, but he thinks he can salvage some leather from it. Anyway, before he could ask me to help, I scarpered on out of there. I couldn't go any of the places I usually go, since my little sister has figured them all out.
"So, anyway, I follow this deer trail through the snow and found myself at the Tulgey Barrow. I didn't know it at first. I just found a big overgrown hill. It was only when I found the cave that I knew where I was.
"Well, I stuck my head in to see what was what, and I saw this here helmet and snatched it. Further in, it gets pretty dark, but I saw what looked like gold. But I also heard things moving around, and got out of there before some spook could stick me with his spook sword.
"I headed back to town, stuck the helmet in a bag so my sister wouldn't see it, and waited for my dad to go to sleep before coming in here.
"I figure I draw you a map, you go get the treasure, and you give me a cut. The barrow's too big and has too many cairns -- some empty now, some full of dangerous stuff -- and few enough that are opened but unexplored for this to be worth something.
"Sounds fair, right?"
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"It sounds ridiculous. You don't even know what you saw in there," blurts Renraw. He awkwardly tries to drink and hide behind his mug when he is glared at. "I mean ... you know ..."
"Well, it's true you've been known to run away from honest work, Fib, I'll give ya that much. Excepting the helmet," Hazel reaches over the table to feel the tarnished metal, "I'd say the rest is something you dreamed up sleeping off a skin of hard cider."
She pulls her fingers back before Fibber gets too possessive about his prize.
"Then again, I've never needed an excuse for a bit o' wandering in the woods."
Emus takes the helmet, trying to determine if it's an artifact from Glangirn before the fortress within Green Mountain fell to the dragon.
"Dangit, son, yeh shouldn't have spent as much time in that place as yeh did! The tales of what dwells in Tulgey Barrow is more than just tales!
"None of yehs should start gettin' any notions about going down in there. That place just ain't natural! Best to jes' stay indoors on a night like this and do what yeh can to stay warm."
With that, he tosses the helmet down, raises and drains his mug, and then signals Ella the tavern girl for more.
"Someone get m'friend here a blanket, he feels a bit of a chill," Ragglus calls out, chuckling as he slaps Emus on the back. "Stories told to keep children out of th'forest, that's all them tales is. Save some ale for my return, Graymullet. I'm in."
"I wouldn't be too hasty if I were you, lads," Bufer says, eying both Fibber and the helmet with equal skepticism. "And, er, lass. This still looks an awful lot to me like one of Therut's infamous 'under-the-counter' specials. And Fibber, here, isn't exactly famous for his forthright nature. Tromping out to some grassy knoll in the middle of winter on his say-so sounds like a waste of a perfectly good Fireday, if you ask me."
"And I think I'd agree with that," adds Tucker Gallaway, dropping his hand on Fibber's shoulder, his fingers reaching across the boy's throat nearly to the other side. While everyone's attention was on the helmet, it had been easy for the constable's deputy to approach unnoticed. He isn't trying to choke the kid or hurt him, but he does squeeze his shoulder hard enough to startle him and keep him from squirming away.
"The constable's gotten reports on you, boy. A common name only grants you so much slack, and you've taken in enough townsfolk.
"Boy's been in here every few days for years, flashing some lump of iron or a few painted river pebbles around and peddling a map to anyone who'll listen. Few enough pay him any attention, but those who do find themselves on a cold trek to nowhere, going in circles through the woods until they lose interest and turn back.
"So far no one's filed a formal complaint, since you've only grifted them of a few copper, but the barkeep's tired of hearing his customers grouse about it. Go home, Fib, or your father won't be the only one tanning hide."
The paladin Emmerson Grant finally manages to get the helmet in his hands, and he frowns as he turns it round and round in his large hands, puzzled. He looks up at the sharp words the deputy has for Fibber, ready to defend the boy.
"Ever since I got here," he said, "I've heard rumors and tales about Tulgey Barrow."
He takes a sip of ale -- his father, a brewer in the baronial seat of power, Middleborough, brewed it himself -- and continues.
"One thing or another has prevented me from going there. And now, the opportunity presents itself."
He puts down the half-empty mug.
"If you're truthful, I see no reason why we shouldn't go there, find if there is treasure or not -- and give you your fair share if we find anything. But if you lie to us, I'll have no choice but to take you to your father so he can dispense the proper punishment.
"So I ask you, Hans. Is there anything you're not telling us?"
Fibber jerks himself away from the deputy's hands on him, and flails one hand for his helmet, then decides finishing off his free cider first makes more sense, although he scowls at the helmet, keeping an eye on it.
"No! If I had a weapon, I would have gone poking around, but there's only one of me, and there's," he starts counting, but gives up, the hard cider already having an effect on the teen, "More of you."
He finishes his drink and thumps it down hard.
"I just want an equal share for showing you the way in to this cairn. The entrance is hidden by some brush, and it's hard to find on your own.
"If you don't want to do it, I'll just go wait at the Way Inn and some adventurers will eventually come by and they'll pay me instead."
"Relax, Fib, nobody's telling you to take your toys and go home." Hazel glares over at Tucker. "Ease up, Tuck. Just 'cause you joined the town watch doesn't mean we all forgot the scrapes you got into as a kid.
"Besides," she says, tipping her chair back on two legs, "If he's lying, what do we really lose? We're paying nothing up front." A hard edge creeps into her voice. "Right, Fib?"
Bufer cocks an eyebrow at Hazel.
"'What do we really lose?'" he repeats with a smirk. "Good grief, child, do you have any idea what happens to people who tempt fate by asking loaded questions like that? The last person I knew who asked that question was my great-cousin Brenaedoryam, right after he invented a clockwork machine for chopping vegetables. He pees sitting down now, if you catch my drift."
Glancing again at the helmet, Bufer heaves a heavy sigh of resignation.
"I still say this is pure folly ... but fortunately, watching the freakishly tall do incredibly stupid things is one of my favorite pastimes. When do we leave?"
"I've no great need to hurry up and do this tonight. How about anyone who's interested meets back here early tomorrow, say, 10 a.m.?" Tock drawls. "Oh, gods, 10. I haven't gotten up that early in ... Fibber, if there be no profit in this, I'll take the profit out of your hide. Or your sister's."
"Ah, Gods! Yeh kids is jes' stupid I tell ya!" Emus blurts out. "Fine. Fine! If yer gonna go do this, I'll make sure that yeh come back alive. Or don't burn down the forest. Or whatever. What the hells happened to my damned drink?"
The dwarf pushes himself away from the table and goes in search of his drink. As he leaves, the gnome Tosh Bergin enters The Cat & The Fiddle and slips into Emus' vacated seat.
"My apologies, my father had me haggling with a fellow over goblin furs and ... what's with the ugly old hat?"
"Hans has told us a somewhat enticing tale, about lost treasure and adventure at Tulgey Barrow, friend Tosh." Emmerson says, draining the last bits of the Grant Old Ale from his mug. "If we're leaving tomorrow, I barely have time to do my work between vespers and matins. I will see you all tomorrow."
Hazel rolls her eyes at her elders' caution, but drains her cider rather than respond. She's too busy thinking up a tale to tell her folks, since treasure-hunting isn't a Sawyer-family approved vocation.
She's already on her feet when the empty mug touches the table.
"See you gents tomorrow, then."
Hazel slips out through the crowd with a nod of greeting to Tosh, cheered by the prospect of adventure.
"Howdy, Tosh," Bufer nods at his fellow gnome, and gestures towards the fire. The Bergins are a strange clan of gnomes unto themselves, living on the fringes of Green Mountain, where they trade with those living in the forests, the Black Reavers and even the Green Mountain Kobolds in the last few years. "Stay and have a drink with me. I'll fill you in."
Bufer cranes his head around, looking for blacksmith Therurt Glangirn in the bar. He spots the dwarf on the far side of the tavern, the golden hair on his shoulders, back, neck and arms glistening with melting snow as he hoists an enormous mug he made himself. He is gesturing a great deal, and seems to be describing a weapon.
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Fibber looks between the gnomes, grinning nervously.
"I drew you this map, Bufer." He pulls a soft, well-worn piece of calfskin from the leather sack. On it is drawn a long oval shape, apparently meant to represent the barrow. He has marked an X at one point, and an arrow showing what direction is north. In a scribbled hand, the leatherworker's son has cut into the leather a description of the landmarks to look for, and then lightly stained the cuts to form a more or less indelible record.
He slides the map across to Bufer nervously.
"I'm not going in there. It's too dangerous and I'll catch hell if I'm not at work two days in a row."
Ragglus slaps his knees playfully as he stands.
"I'll see you lot tomorrow, then. I best go spend the night in prayer." Laughing, he turns and makes his way to the bar, aiming to steal Ella's attention from Emus and perhaps talk her into lifting up her skirt in the hallway upstairs.
Bufer spares a farewell nod for Ragglus, then cocks an eyebrow at the map that Fibber has handed him.
"Well, Fibs, a cartographer you're not," he says, as he studies the crude markings on the worn piece of calfskin, "but I think we'll be able to manage."
He looks up at Fibber, then, with a glint in his eye.
"Take it under advisement, though, that while I've been known to appreciate a friendly prank at my own expense every now and again, some of these other folks take themselves a might serious. If this isn't on the level, Bridger, then the worst lickin' you've ever took from your pa wil seem like Ciderfest morning compared to what they'll do to you."
Rolling the map up and tucking it into his cleric's vestments, he turns and winks over his shoulder at Tosh.
"Have a seat and order us a coupl'a ciders, Tosh, on me. I have to see a dwarf about a horse."
With that, he walks across the tavern toward Therurt.
"Evenin', Therurt," Bufer says, as he sidles up to Therut's table. "Sorry to interrupt yer quaffing time, but can I ask you somethin'?"
"Looks like luck is smiling on you tonight, Fib, though only Lothian knows why," Tucker growls. "Now come along -- I was charged to keep you in my sight until I put you in your father's, and the night is dark enough already."
With everybody else already gone or going, Tucker leads Fibber out the door and returns the barkeeper's nod as he exits. He lifts a torch from the wall near the door to light the way back to Fibber's house, and leads the boy back without incident.
Fibber sputters a bit in protest, but lets himself be led to the smithy through the muddy snow. His sister spots him as he approaches, and runs screaming to get their father, anticipating some fun seeing her brother get dressed-down.
His task finished, Tucker reports back to Constable Bridger. Since it's not illegal to go into the barrow, the constable can't stop anyone from doing so. However, he puts Tucker in charge of the party -- since he failed to convince them not to go, then he was to join them to make sure no one got hurt.
Back in The Cat & The Fiddle, Therurt pauses, his thick calloused fingers pressed closely together, describing the edge of a blade. He blinks at the gnome's interruption.
"What's yer question?"
"Actually, it's more of a favor, one that stands to benefit us both," Bufer says, leaning in closely to Therurt and lowering his voice, so that only the dwarf can hear him.
"Call on Mother Bridger tomorrow morning, and let her know that Fibber's ... 'borrowed' something from the smithy again, and that you overheard Fibber bragging to some of us tonight that he had it hid in his bed. Tell her you don't want to cause no trouble for the boy, but you need it back, on account that you've already done sold it to someone.
"She oughta bring you a helm -- a right fancy-lookin' helm, what with feathers and such engraved on 'er -- but older'n sin. You're welcome to keep it ... clean it up and sell it as you like ... but I wonder if you'd mind takin' a look at it for me, lemme know what you think it is, and where you think Fibber mighta gotten his hands on it, that sort of thing. I'll drop by the smithy tomorrow 'round 'bout half past nine.
"And, uh ... this is kind of a hush-hush type'a thing, if you catch my meanin' ... so if you could keep this strictly 'tween us, there might even be an ale in for ya."
Therurt scratches his nose, assembling what you said in his brain. His finger leaves a black streak of soot on his skin. Then he nods.
The morning of Birth 3 is gray, damp and cold. The sky is a lightless gray, the sun invisible behind layers and layers of cloud. A weak light filters down from the sky and the world below is cold. A sticky wet mist clings to everything. The weather isn't quite cold enough to snow, but instead seems intent on merely being cold enough to threaten snow.
Despite this, Maidensbridge is busy. The sound of hammering comes from the smithy, carts create muddy tracks through the snow as they follow the Baron's Road to Foxton on Moss and Middleborough with more cider, passing carts coming from Foxton carrying supplies of heavy woolen blankets and clothing. On a morning like this, the whole world smells like wet wool.
The center of town smells like the dregs of the pots poured out of The Cat & The Fiddle, which were all summarily licked up by stray dogs. A few small children, too small to work but too large to be kept cooped up inside, race after the dogs, spattering mud and slush as they go, the sound of their laughter (and sneezing) a counterpoint to the burbling of the Moss River, which is unfrozen except for icy margins on each shore.
It's a quarter past nine when Renraw Kem crankily arrives in front of the pub. He'd wanted to be there for nine in order to have a full hour to gear up for this much social interaction, but he'd had to evade his young cousin Rando's questions and assure him that he wasn't doing anything interesting. And make sure the little twerp didn't follow.
He alternates between frantic pacing and huddling among some old casks to try to keep himself warm while he thinks of things to say.
Anyone watching could easily mistake him for a mumbling lunatic. It's not something Bridgers find hard to think about his family: The Kem family has been the bookkeepers for the Maidensbridge bailiffs for more than a century, but have never been fully trusted. Things got worse when Khenemet-Apep, a true Kemite, moved to Green Mountain a decade ago, becoming known simply as the Wizard of Green Mountain. The first time someone pointed the family out to the dark-skinned man from the south, he sniffed derisively, and that was all the townsfolk needed to know: The Kems were not from Kem and their vague threats of magical powers were even less real. Renraw's father, Rogren, vanished soon thereafter, leaving behind him only unbalanced books.
Despite that, Rogren's brother Ronco took over, and soon righted things, or so it seemed. Renraw was sent off to St. Feldin's College of Abjuration in Tarsis, the happiest day of his young life. Six months ago, though, Ronco and his wife Priscilla were brutally murdered, only their young son Rando escaping. In the course of the investigation into the as-yet unsolved murder, Constable Ward Bridger uncovered that Ronco, too, was dipping into the baron's apple profits, using them to send Renraw to St. Feldin's. He was recalled from Tarsis, but given his uncle's otherwise stellar reputation, the bailiff saw fit to give the Kems one last chance: Renraw was to pay off his family's debt to the baron by serving as the bookkeeper.
Renraw is not grateful, however, and loathes bookkeeping, Maidensbridge and the baron. All he wants is to return to his aborted studies as an abjurer. The thought of the treasures of the Tulgey Barrow means only freedom to him.
Having awoken at dawn, and spent a quiet hour in quiet "conversation" with Garl Glittergold, as is his custom, Bufer wanders toward Maidensbridge through the forest from the hidden gnome estate of Wit's End, carrying his father's mace on his hip. He arrives in Maidensbridge at a half-past nine.
Ebuferpaly Whitethatch Malpractice Potentloins is the youngest male of a truly enormous family of gnomes, and has eschewed a life on the open road in favor of service to his faith, and to a somewhat optimistic agenda of forging a peace between the Green Mountain Kobolds and the new gnomish community of the Tulgey Wood.
The senior cleric of Wit's End, the anti-Lothianite "seditionist criminal" Boddynok Barennackle, has charged Bufer with keeping tabs on the Church of Lothian in the barony. Despite its sinister origins, the young gnome has struck up a genuine friendship with the paladin Emmerson Grant.
Nodding genially at the townspeople who pass him by, ignoring their questioning stares at his mace and shield, he makes his way towards the smithy, where he finds Therurt to be hard at work.
"Morning, Therurt," Bufer calls out loudly, straining to be heard over the sound of Therurt's hammering. "Did you have a chance to call on Mother Bridger, yet?"
Hazel Sawyer strides up to The Cat & The Fiddle with her hood lying slack over her backpack and her cloak pushed back to reveal the axes hanging at her hips. She's warm despite the cold; two hours spent splitting logs for firewood has already heated her blood this morning.
The plain-faced lumberjack's daughter has followed in her father's footsteps, leaving more girlish pursuits to her younger sister, Aspen.
Hazel's licking the fingers of her right hand and rolling her head from side to side when she catches sight of Renraw near the tavern. He's never been particularly friendly, but then Hazel's never been the personable sort herself. So long as they're going exploring together, though, she figures it's best to at least try. She hastily wipes her fingers on the edge of her cloak and raises her hand in greeting.
"Crick in m'neck," she calls out to him. "Want some applecake? Mum baked it fresh this morning. Still warm." She holds the bundle up and waggles it. "Bit o' honey drizzled over the top, too."
At the mention of "applecake," Tosh Bergin slips up to the group out of the concealing mist.
"Morning." Tosh could almost be Bufer's shadow, dark where the other gnome is light, quiet where the other is boisterous, shy where the other is gregarious. And unlike the Potentloins clan, the Bergins' trading post clings to the side of Green Mountain, and the gnomes are outsiders in the barony, watched by shopkeepers and the Watch alike. "Barrows, huh? I hear they're haunted."
Emmerson Grant wakes after sleeping the sleep of the just. Before dawn, he's about his chores, ignoring the cold and preparing himself for the day. Having left his family's brewery in Middleborough when he joined the church, he's currently living with the Stone family in Maidensbridge, whose tithe this year takes the form of room and board for the young paladin.
He prays in the rundown Maidensbridge Chapel, the building open to the elements and the pale light of the winter sun. At twenty to ten, he rises and makes his way to The Cat & The Fiddle.
"Good morrow, friends. Ah, I see fair Hazel has brought applecake. May I take one slice?"
Over at the smithy, Therurt Glangirn glances back over his shoulder at Bufer a second before continuing to hammer on the horseshoe. Once finished with it, the smith puts it aside, puts down his hammer and tongs, and turns back to the gnome.
"Aye, I did." He pulls the helmet down off a dwarf-height shelf. "That boy's not going to be very happy with you."
He turns the helmet around in his grimy hands.
"This helmet is old."
He looks up, squinting at Bufer.
"Men were here, long before dwarves came from the north. They were wizards, refugees from the Wars of Fire. And like their forefathers, wizardry was their downfall."
Therurt gives the helmet to Bufer.
"The only place I know to get something like this is the Tulgey Barrow, although that boy's lucky to get this and come out alive."
Bufer narrows his eyes at the mention of the Barrow, and nods.
"Yeah, I was afraid of that. I guess the boy was actually telling the truth, for once," he says. "Hopefully the lickin' he takes for this will finally convince him once and for all not to poke his fool nose into where it don't belong ... though, as Garl is my witness, I tend to doubt it."
Bufer sighs and shakes his head, then looks up at Therurt and smiles.
"Oh well...at least without the helm, he won't be able to inspire any other idiots to go poking around in there. Speaking of which, I have an appointment to keep.
"Listen, Therurt, I've only got a few minutes here ... but I'd appreciate it if'n you could share with me any other insights you might have about the barrow, and what's in it. It could be important."
At the same moment, the distinct sound of vomiting escapes echoes around the side of The Cat & The Fiddle, causing a slight stir among some of the townsfolk. Some turn, some rush their children away, others try to ignore it completely and go about their business.
Ragglus Chaplin steps out moments later a tad off-balance, but with grim resolve steadying him as he approaches the group, wiping his mouth with his forearm. Abandoned by his parents, thrown out of the church before he could take his vows as a paladin, Ragglus is used to disappointing those around him. Sometimes, he responds with violence, this morning, it's with studied indifference.
Despite his disheveled appearance, he appears to be suitably armed, protected, and fully prepared for their journey, if a bit off-color. He foregoes any verbal greetings and gives a general nod, occasionally wincing and rubbing his temples as he joins the others.
Hazel unknots her bundle and shares out slices of applecake.
"Might as well take two, Emmerson. Mum made more'n enough, and it won't keep long."
The gangly paladin's size is a bit intimidating, and Hazel doesn't know him all that well, but he certainly makes a better impression than Ragglus. She eyes the fighter skeptically, and can't quite bring herself to approach him and offer cake.
Renraw takes a break from his hurried pacing.
"Applecake?" His face lights up for a moment. The smile is surprising and unsettling to the group. "Oh, yes, I'd love some applecake. And then I'll wash it down with a nice flagon of apple cider, won't I? For lunch we'll have apple sandwiches, apple chips, and applesauce! But we'd better make sure to save room for the delicious cobbler I've heard The Cat & The Fiddle is famous for! What flavor is it again? Raspberry, right? I do SO love a good raspberry cobbler! Oh, that's right, where's me head at ... it's not raspberry, is it? No, it is not.
"IT.
"IS.
"APPLE."
Renraw takes a breath and realizes he may have been slightly out of line, and so begins frantically digging in his sack pretending to look for something while muttering about everyone making sure they're ready. His other hand white-knuckles a crude club his cousin Rando had found in the woods.
"You don't like the crop, Kem, you're free to abstain," deputy Tucker Gallaway drawls. He approaches the group from the south end of town, obviously struggling slightly as the mud sucked at his boots. "You get that debt of yours set right, you can eat whatever you want -- until then you should probably count yourself lucky the baron doesn't have you out picking apples as well as counting them."
Tucker's shield is slung across his shoulders, pressing his backpack close to his body, and the handle of his flail was just visible. The studs on his leather armor -- standard issue for the town watch -- are slightly dull with age, but the gently clanking manacles that hang near his waist seem particularly bright on this cold morning.
"So Fibber had enough sense to stay home this morning, I take it. Don't suppose I can convince the rest of you to ignore this little errand? That boy's probably just waiting for you all to hike out of town so he can nick a few choice items from your homes while you're gone."
Tock Chandler comes strolling up, surprisingly eager to get on the road. The bard has always felt that he's smarter than everyone else in Maidensbridge, but more than that, he's always been terribly bored. He can recite every song he's ever heard -- he's actually taught himself to retch convincing when someone requests "The Town Where Heroes are Born" -- and has a knack for making more up on the spot, but he's always felt stifled in the hamlet, a feeling he's tried to douse by bedding every available female -- and even a few unavailable ones -- within 10 miles. He knows that plunging into the Tulgey Barrow is a foolish thing to do, but at least it won't be boring.
Emus Graymullet wakes up a few minutes before 10 a.m., half-covered in the straw from the stable of The Cat & The Fiddle. While he was grateful for warmth from the fire, last night, he just doesn't feel comfortable sleeping on no fancy common room floor.
He takes a piss in the corner of an empty stall, and then straps on his scratched, hide armor. Next, he picks up a huge, metal-banded club that's nearly as tall as he is. Swinging it up to its usual resting spot on his shoulder, he walks out from behind the inn to join the others, the heavy encumbrance of his gear apparently not seeming to slow him down one bit.
"Ooo-wee! It's colder than a hag's nipple out here! You kids best be careful. If there's any ice on the roads, it's like to be slicker than otter snot."
The half-wild dwarf -- a complete mystery to nearly every other Grailwarden dwarf -- sniffs the air.
"Is that applecake I'm smellin'?"
Back at the smithy, Therurt shrugs as he picks the tongs back up.
"My people, your people, men, all keep fooling about there." He grabs a malformed horseshoe with the tongs and plunges it into the forge, and the horseshoe begins to glow orange. "It's about like throwing rocks at a bee hive. You ever do that, gnome? Sometimes ..."
He pulls out the blazing horseshoe. The heat makes Bufer's eyes water.
"Sometimes you get stung something fierce."
He begins to hammer the horseshoe fiercely.
Bufer watches silently as Therurt hammers on the horseshoe, waiting for him to elaborate. When it becomes clear that he's not about to, Bufer glances down at the ancient helmet in his hands and sighs. Then he walks behind Therurt and, standing on his toes, places it back up on the shelf.
"Thanks, Therurt!" he says loudly, fighting to be heard over the ring of metal striking metal. "Much obliged! I appreciate the trouble you've gone to!"
Without stopping, Therurt merely glances partway over his shoulder, nods curtly, and returns his attention to the horseshoe, flipping it over with the tongs to hammer on the other side. Bufer watches him for a moment longer, then nods to himself and heads back out into the chill of the morning, heading for The Cat & The Fiddle.
"All right then," he mutters to himself. "Let's go pitch rocks at a beehive."
Last edited by Whizbang Dustyboots; 13th December 2006 at 03:44 AM..
Fibber's map leads the group through wet scrub and heavy undergrowth -- disturbing a boar along the way -- before Hazel finds the parallel deer track to follow, which Fibber apparently drifted on and off of during his wandering.
It eventually winds its way towards a dark hill, covered in thorny bushes and trees with jagged bark, painful to the touch. If the group hadn't known there was a cave at the end of the track, they wouldn't know what to look for, but they soon are able to pull aside the brush that Fibber has apparently placed in the mouth of the entrance.
Long ago, this was a sealed up entrance of finished stone, with dirt piled around the outside, covering all but a single extrusion of stone. A shaft of rock, now too worn by the elements to discern much from, lays broken off to the side, only a trace of mortar showing that it once was anything other than natural stone.
This entrance has been opened for years, to judge from the wet rotting leaves visible at the tunnel's mouth. The bushes on the barrow hill shielded the entrance from the snow. Sunlight is likewise mostly blocked, if there were any direct sunlight today. All the group can see from here is dark worked stone, with a black layer of dead moss coating it. The tunnel appears to go straight into the darkness.
It is quiet all around the barrow mound.
"Interesting," says Tosh. Throwing caution to the wind, he takes one, two, three steps into the opening and begins scanning the walls and floor and ceiling for anything interesting. But he's careful to occasionally glance further into the depths with his low light vision while searching, of course.
Emus squints into the gloom. The tunnel is 15 feet wide and 10 feet high.
At least three clusters of four slim columns are visible with darkvision. To either side of the columns are 15-foot wide tunnels going left and right. How far they extend, and what's inside, he can't say.
His darkvision doesn't see a far end of the passageway, just more gloom.
Tosh's boots squish on wet, rotting black leaves. The darkness within is almost total, and he does not see anything more than Emus can.
Hazel shifts her backpack higher on her shoulders and peers futilely into the tunnel entrance.
"Welp, I can light a torch, unless anyone's got some magical powers to make us all see in the dark like Emus, here."
"YOOOOO-HOOOOOO!!" Bufer yells into the darkness suddenly, startling his companions. "Boogidy-boogidies! Glittergold's Witness calling! Have you accepted Garl as your personal lord and savior?"
He listens carefully, straining to hear any reaction in the blackness beyond the threshold.
"I have pamphlets!" he adds.
Emmerson tries to stifle a laugh, but fails. His deep, booming laughter echoes inside the tunnel.
"Good one, Bufer. I would have gone with 'would you join the Legionnaires of Lothian?' speech. My father and I knew a cleric that liked to start any speech with that piece."
He takes a careful step inside and keeps his hand right over the hilt of his short sword. He looks down a bit, trying to find Hans's footprints.
"But guessing by the sound of our voices, this place must be enormous."
As the echoes from Bufer's yelling die away, very quietly, just at the edge of hearing, there's a soft sound, too quiet to properly identify.
Emmerson looks up from the ground and peers at the vast nothingness in front of him.
"Did anyone else hear that?"
Hazel, in the midst of lighting a torch, stops to tilt her head and listen.
"Your god protects y'against rats, right, paladin?" Ragglus says with a sneer, hefting his shield and unsheathing his longsword. "I didn't trudge all this way just ta be balked at the entrance by what may or may not have been a sound. Sooner we get in, sooner we get rich."
"Or dead, Ragglus." Emmerson says, his hand still on the grip of his sheathed sword. "A little caution can be the difference between a grand reward or an unmourned death. We may be nine, but this place can hold numbers that would swallow us whole in seconds. Now, like in every other circumstance in life, we need light to guide us."
Renraw, barely leaning forward, making sure to keep both feet firmly planted outside the barrow, clears his throat.
"I think we ought discuss how we're to divide this potential treasure before you lot go in. More specifically, my cut in particular for standing guard out here. Standing guard being, in the main, the most essential, and not to mention the most dangerous, responsibility in endeavors such as these. Let's all keep these facts in mind before we poo-poo the idea ..."
"Son, if you ain't in there to help carry the loot out, then I don't see how you think you can claim yer fair share of it," Emus snaps. "Git in there!"
Hazel shrugs.
"I don't hear anything. Let's get a move on before we waste the whole day."
She finishes lighting the torch and tucks the flint and steel back into her pack. With the light held aloft in her left hand, she hefts her battleaxe in her right and steps up next to Emmerson.
"After you."
Grateful for the light, Emmerson is able to see more of the passageway.
He walks in, alert. His feet sink a bit in the accumulation of rotten leaves. His step is slow, but sure.
As the group walks further down the tunnel, the leaves end and they find themselves walking on dirty, and then merely dusty worked stone floor.
The flickering torch light shows a wide alcove to either side of the group, just as wide as the 15 foot tunnel they're walking down, but only 20 feet deep. To each side, a pair of steps go up to a slightly curved platform. Atop each platform is a carved sarcophagus. Behind each stands a statue holding a sword, point down, into the floor. The statues depict massive bare-chested muscular men with the heads of fierce owls. Their eyes glittery ominously, and after a second, they group realizes the statues have mirrors for eyes.
Before the group in the tunnel are a cluster of four small columns, then what appears to be another set of alcoves. How far this series extends, no one cannot tell, either by torchlight or darkvision, although darkvision shows at least two more sets of alcoves.
"Ah, this must be the creepy room," Bufer says as he glances up and around. "And here I was worried they wouldn't have one. My mistake."
Smiling at his own joke, Bufer drops his eyes and begins to scan the dusty stone floor in the flickering light of Hazel's torch.
"Can anybody make out Fibber's footprints anywhere?" he asks. "It might give us a good idea of where to start."
Hazel glances dubiously back at the gnome.
"If Fibber's feet are leaving imprints in stone these days, I'd like to know where he got his boots." She drops to a crouch. "But I'll see if I can track him in the dust. This place looks mighty big, though: Why don't one of you keep some chalk handy?"
Tosh moves around slowly searching the floor and walls for anything seemingly out of the ordinary, when a thought occurs to him.
"I'm not sure what to look for, I mean, what would be considered unusual in this place?"
Nonetheless, he continues on with his search.
"In this place with statues of hawk-men? We are what is unusual," Emmerson replies. "Burial grounds, sacred room, I have no idea what this place is. But we should be on guard for traps."
Renraw examines the sarcophagi very closely, seemingly fascinated with the almost non-existent details in the carving.
"Yeeeeeeeees," he drawls, "I know the people that left these very well."
He pats one sarcophagus very sullenly.
"Oh, weary pilgrims, at last you have your peace."
He then turns to face the group, explaining.
"This structure is definitely elven. It's non-traditional, I know. But the Hounds of Paelelon were a well-known nomadic sect, and it's not uncommon to find these sorts of burial tombs where they've adapted what looks to be -- I don't know -- maybe human or something -- symbolism for their own purposes. Now, ordinarily, I'd agree with you when you said, 'But Renraw, Midwood is well outside the Hounds' usual stomping grounds!' So I don't know if we might be seeing an offshoot of that group or perhaps something altogether unknown, possibly not elvish at all."
Renraw notices that the group seems unimpressed.
"The swords pointing downward would seem to indicate that whoever is entombed here is at rest. We may have an easy time of this, after all. The owl heads, on the other hand, tell me that they are a vigilant guard. If you listen closely, you can almost hear them: 'Whooooooooo goes there? Whoooo? Whoooooooo?' No, I wouldn't want to mess with these fellows, not at all. Would you, Chandler? The mirrored eyes, those are more difficult to interpret. The Hounds of Paelelon were a very introspective people, I think -- very vain, perhaps. Yes, we are clearly dealing with a bunch of dead sissies. All the same, everyone stay close."
Emmerson points at the sarcophagi.
"Whatever lies inside them, rotting flesh or priceless gem alike, we will not touch. We are not grave-robbers." In a low voice, Emmerson says a prayer to Lothian for the souls of the departed.
"Grave robbers are among the filthiest scum world could ever imagine," Tock agrees. "Mirrored eyes, hmmmm. To look is to be looked upon, to look upon is to see oneself. Very elven, yes."
Tosh looks up from his search and eyes the two warily.
"Principles," he mutters under his breath.
"You know, my third cousin's great uncle by marriage was a grave robber," Bufer says conversationally, as he continues to search for Fibber's footprints in the dust. "Well, not so much a robber, really. More like a grave borrower. He'd always put back what he took, albeit not always in the right graves. Hell of a necromancer he was, by all accounts, but his memory was for crap."
Bufer glances up and around at the assembly.
"Well, unless Hazel can turn something up, I vote we let our resident expert lead the way. Obviously Renraw knows the most about these 'Hounds of Paelelon,' was it? If anyone's like to lead us safely through this mess, it's him."
He smiles up at Renraw, the flickering light of Hazel's torch making it seem almost like an evil leer.
"Sound good, lad?"
"Would these Hound-folk by any chance leave gnome-sized tracks with their clawed feet?" Hazel gestures at the dust. "Because that's what I'm finding here, and I don't think Fibber can magic himself into a claw-footed gnome."
She stands and brushes the dust from her trousers.
"Something was here, and it went in but didn't come out. Can't say how many, but ..." Hazel trails off uncertainly. "My knowledge is, of course, no match for our esteemed wizard's. If he wants to lead, by all means, let's get our expert out in front."
Having nothing to add to the conversation, Ragglus yawns loudly and surveys the room out of boredom.
Renraw suddenly flushes.
"I -- I hardly think ... I'm just an academician. If these halls have been disturbed, if there ARE disgusting gnome things down here ... We really ... Let Chaplin go on ahead."
"Renraw, a man as educated as yourself should know that 'disgusting gnome' is repetitive," Tock corrects him. "Come on, Rag. Let's head on down there and see if there's anything worth liberating. Those too scared can just stay here."
"No offense, girly, but that's nuttier than a squirrel turd," says Emus. "Put brainy here up front? A stiff breeze would knock him over! Footprints like them's like to be kobold tracks. Everyone knows that they're all over the place in Midwood. I'll go first. Any of you armed with something longer than a gnome's attention span is welcome to join me, but we need someone to bring up the rear in case Brainy gits cold feet, again."
Emmerson follows Tock and Regglus.
"Stay close to me" he says to Renraw. "I'll make sure you're safe."
"'Disgusting,' eh?" Tosh drops in behind the leading group. "Say Tock, exactly how many times did you have to visit the clergy in the last year or so to get rid that annoying 'drip' you seem to pick up so easily from the local doxies? You can use your toes if your fingers don't go high enough."
"Thirty five," Tock says almost proudly. "If there was cleaner to be found here, I'd visit them."
"By the by," Tosh continues, ignoring the bard, "It seems that we shouldn't be too worried about being grave robbers, unless we're happy with sloppy seconds. Seems a couple of these sarcophagi have been opened and closed back up recently."
"Not by the folks occupying them, I hope," Bufer says as he gives the sarcophagi a last wary glance. Turning to look at his departing party, he shakes his head. "Right, heading off in a random direction with no plan whatsoever it is, then," he sighs as he falls into step behind them. "Rocks at a beehive, indeed."
Hazel falls in line just behind the front ranks, holding the torch high so those in front of her can see down the passageway. She keeps alert, hoping to spot any enemies lurking in their path.
"Well, if Emus is right and the tracks are kobold, and Tosh says the sarcophagi have been opened," she pauses, thinking it through, "Maybe they aren't tombs at all. Maybe they're tunnels and the kobolds use 'em to travel in. The tracks show up in the dust near the alcove and head inward ... doesn't mean they couldn't double back on a parallel passage."
She peers back over her shoulder.
"Maybe we should have a strong rear guard, just in case."
"There's always the possibility that that's as far as Fibber got, y'know," Tosh says. "I bet if we opened one of the unopened ones we'd find a helm much the same as he.
"Oh, and on the topic of kobolds... don't expect a stand-up fight. Sneaky little buggers, they is. Murder holes and what-not. Swarmers. Um, sorry, thought it best that you know."
"Good point, young gnome," Tock says. "Maybe we should pop open these other baskets and see what beauties might be hiding. Less, off course, some of you'n're scared, in which case we'll split the boot betwixt ourselves alone."
"Eh?" Bufer cocks an eyebrow as he looks up at Tock. "Weren't you just the one who said 'grave robbers, bleah?' Granted, all you tall folk tend to look alike from this angle, but I'm pretty sure that was you. And where I come from, prying open a sarcophagus with the intent of stealing its crunchy center pretty much fits the definition of 'grave robbing.'"
"Grave robbing would be a horrible sin against Lothian or whatever it is you things worship, Buffy," Tock snaps. "But as has been pointed out already, and, as I'm sure, the learned Renraw can confirm, this is not a grave. This once was a grave, but the other little devils are using it for storage and as a drop-off point now. Probably in some dark deal with even worse devils. As a musician, I've heard tales like these."
Emmerson mulls over the information.
"We will not steal anything from the sarcophagi, if that is what they really are. But if they are, as Hazel mentions, concealed entrances of tunnels, then they most certainly are not sacred ground. And whatever treasure is in there, would not qualify as gifts to the entombed," he says, stroking his chin. "I propose we return there for a more adequate examination of the sarcophagi and statues and see if it is convenient -- or folly -- to keep going into the unknown".
"So if we're disturbin' what others've been disturbin', it's OK?" Ragglus asks. "Sounds fair to me."
Bufer narrows his eyes at Tock, his lips turning up into a lopsided grin.
"Any occupants of them sarcophagi might not agree with that there assessment, Rags," he says. "But please, be my guest. Just don't expect me to do much more than point and laugh if somethin' comes lurchin' out at ya."
As the majority of the group hovers around the tombs and argues semantics, Tucker eyes the statues. Using the handle of his flail, he tries to poke gently at one of the mirrors, but finds them too far from reach without climbing atop a sarcophagus.
"Does it look to anyone else like these eyes are supposed to move?"
"Seems like a bad idea to go on without making sure we have a clear path out when we do run into our claw-footed friends," Hazel says. "If the sarcophagi really are what they seem to be, we close 'em back up and keep moving. If not, well, we all have weapons to hand, right? And there's the door," she waves her torch toward the entrance, "If we need to run. So how 'bout some strapping lads step up and get these things open afore we all die of indecision?"
"Friend Tosh, would you point us to the sarcophagus that has been disturbed or moved the most?" Emmerson asks. "Tucker, would you lend me a hand opening the casket? Ragglus, Tock, if something leaps at us from it, you'll be free to skewer it as you see fit."
Ragglus grins, long sword and shield at the ready.
"These two." Tosh gestures and steps back a bit further into shadow and draws his rapier.
Emmerson pushes the sarcophagus lid.
As Emmerson begins to push the sarcophagus lid away, he feels it moving with him from beneath. Before he can react, a sword is swinging at his arm, glinting in the torchlight and narrowly missing.
A skeleton, clad in pitted chainmail armor and an owl-face helm, hops to its feet inside the sarcophagus and attacks.
From the west and north come the scraping sounds of more lids being pushed off of more sarcophagi. Skeletal figures stalk their way into the circle of light towards the group, swords at the ready.
Last edited by Whizbang Dustyboots; 13th December 2006 at 03:44 AM..
Tosh backs against a wall and goes onto the defensive. Realizing that his thrusting blade would be of little use, he prepares to block the first attack coming his way and use slashing attacks to counter, looking for any openings to attack. The skeleton from across the passageway lunges at Tosh, but the blade comes nowhere near the nimble gnome. His return jab misses as well.
Emus roars and charges a skeleton, swinging his massive club.
"NNNNYYAAARRHH!"
The club whistles through the air, but the skeletons from down the passageway had approached more slowly than they had initially, appearing to size up the situation. They now turn towards the dwarf berserker, three in the first rank, and at least two more skeletons behind them.
Ragglus attacks the skeleton that came out at Emmerson, but misses.
"St. Daris guide my hand," Tucker says quietly, eyeing the approaching skeletons. He adjusts his grip on his shield, kisses the handle of his flail and moves between the creatures and the healers. "Attack their legs! Even an enchanted skeleton can't swing a sword if it's face-down in the dirt!"
Tucker's flail swings in a wide arc, the iron chain and iron smashing into the hip of one of the skeletons turning on Emus. The skeleton goes down with a clatter and does not rise again.
In response, one of the skeletons bearing down on Emus turns towards Tucker.
Emmerson thanks Lothian for whatever reason He decided to spare him from the first skeleton strike. He takes out his warhammer and will attack the closest skeleton at the earliest available opportunity, but it glances harmlessly off the skeleton's chainmail, sending out a puff of rust.
Figuring the wizard only needs one hand free, Hazel thrusts the torch at Renraw.
"Hold this."
Then she raises her battleaxe in both hands - hoping to overcome a slashing weapon's disadvantage by adding power to her blows - and steps into the melee. If possible, she'll attack the nearest skeleton from a flanking position to deal more damage. Hazel's axe slams into the side of the skeleton that attacked Tosh and her blow shatters it.
"Oh, for the love of--the exit!" Bufer cries out, shouting to be heard over the din of battle. "Watch the exit! Don't let them get between us and our only escape route!"
That being said, Bufer grabs hold of the gold nugget fetish hanging around his neck, holds it aloft, and uses it to channel the energy necessary to turn the undead assailants away.
The skeleton in the sarcophagus cowers, trying to hide behind the statue of the owl-headed man. The four skeletons north of the party in the corridor turn and shuffle quickly away, their bones clanking, their armor jingling.
Renraw quickly checks his pants to ensure they're still dry, and gets very angry that he even had to check.
He opens his palm and glowing orb of acid appears, casting a green glow up at his scowling face. He sends it towards the skeletons fleeing from the doors, hoping to hit one before it can change its mind and come back to block the exit again. The acid orb strikes one skeleton in the back, sizzling exposed bone. The skeleton does not stop fleeing.
Tosh watches the undead bag of bones drop in front of him. He looks up to Hazel with a wry grin on his face and brings his rapier up to his face in a quick salute. He then slips up to the middle of the passageway, keeping his back to the exit and his eyes on the retreating skeletons. He reaches out a short left arm to his fellow gnome and slaps him on the back.
"Nice goin', Buffer. How soon you think they'll figure out to turn around and come back?"
"A moment or two, at most," Bufer replies, watching intently after the retreating skeletons. "Of course, they might wind up bringin' some friends back with 'em. Garl only knows what else is in here."
Relaxing his grip on his gold nugget fetish, Bufer turns and fixes the rest of the party with a disparaging gaze.
"Well? Can we leave now, whilst we still have all our parts about us?" he asks sharply. "Or was that not enough of an object lesson for you idiots?"
It's not enough for Emus, for one.
"NNNNYYAAARRHH!"
He charges after the retreating skeletons, swinging his club, Ragglus barely jumping out of the way in time. The greatclub hits the cowering skeleton, and it explodes into unmoving chips of bone encased in chainmail. The helmet rolls free.
Tock and Renraw follow the dwarf, bearing their quarterstaffs.
"Wizards," Emmerson mutters under his breath, amused. Grabbing his warhammer and shield, he runs after Renraw, hoping to keep him out of trouble.
Hazel sighs and likewise follows after the wizard.
"He's got my torch now, and he's like to get himself killed, so ..."
Renraw chases after the retreating backs of the skeletons and takes a swing at the one with the faint scent of acid still lingering about it. The club swishes harmlessly through the air. The skeletons continue in their retreat.
Panting, Emus picks up the helmet from the destroyed skeleton and plops it on his head, and follow the party's lead.
"We don't want these critters to leave the Barrow and start choppin' up the woods outside," he drawls.
Renraw is now between the second set of alcoves. To the west, is another statue and sarcophagus (opened, which one of the skeletons apparently came out of). To the east, something has smashed the sarcophagus that once laid there at the feet of the owl-headed statue. Something shines among the rubble in the torchlight.
The skeletons are disappearing through another set of columns and moving between what appear to be a third pair of alcoves.
Hazel catches up to Renraw and snatches the torch back from the wizard.
"Hold up, Ren. We don't know what all's in this barrow."
Satisfied that the skeletons are still retreating, she turns to the alcove and searches with her eyes only, wary of touching anything.
"You see that shine?" She nods towards the glimmer in the ruins of the sarcophagus.
"All I see," Bufer says as he comes running up behind Hazel, "Is an idiot would-be wizard who apparently left his brain back at college! You're lucky I'm not tall enough to smack you upside the head, Kem. Didn't it occur to you that maybe I made the skeletons run away for a reason?"
Bufer glances up and around at the party and scowls as he brandishes his mace at them.
"Listen to me, all of you: The next one of you to touch anything earns himself a mace-sized poop chute for his trouble, you understand me?"
"Whatever we're doin', let's decide it quick," Ragglus grumbles. "Who knows what they'll bring back with 'em? I'd rather them skeletons were dead at our feet than runnin' away."
He pauses.
"Er, more dead."
As he says this, the skeletons shuffle out of sight. With darkvision, Emus can see them parting around something on the floor between the fourth set of alcoves. It might be a dead body or bodies.
"I did not come here to cower at the presence of a few undead," Emmerson says. "Especially not when we outnumber them. They shall be back a few seconds from now. We can take them, two fighters per skeleton. One misses, the other connects. They are not smart enough to fight on two fronts. And now that I'm convinced that those are not tombs for the dearly departed, but traps for the unwary, I most certainly think we are entitled to whatever treasure we can find."
"Yeah, we outnumber 'em all right, lotta good it did us, too," Ragglus retorts, rolling his eyes. "Alls I was sayin' is we best be ready for them t'come back, and hope the lil' feller din't send them off with invitations fer their friends."
"Well, we did come here to investigate something, didn't we?" Tosh asks. "I say we investigate a bit."
"Now jes' wait a second! Bufer already said they's comin' back, afore too long. If we don't deal wit' 'em, they might catch us unawares or leave the Barrow. We take 'em down, and then we go about our business," Emus says. "'Sides, there's something interestin' up ahead."
"They'd better return, gnome," Renraw admonishes. "Accursed bone man. I'll have his pelvis as a hat. How dare he make me look foolish?"
As the others look eastward toward the shiny object, the wizard thinks of nothing but revenge.
The tunnel is silent as the last scraping, shuffling footsteps of the skeletons fade away.
Last edited by Whizbang Dustyboots; 16th January 2007 at 12:28 AM..
"Shiny object here and what appears to be fallen bodies over there. All the while the skeletons flee for a few seconds more," Emmerson mulls. "I say we find out what the shiny object is, then go towards the fallen bodies. Over there we can fight the skeletons when they return."
Curiosity piqued, Ragglus steps to the ruined sarcophagus to look at the mysterious shiny object.
This sarcophagus has seemingly been smashed long ago. The bones of the skeleton are rotten splinters. The chainmail shirt the skeleton presumably once wore is now little more than disconnected chunks of rusted metal. There is no owl-faced helmet visible.
Tucked in amidst the debris appear to be broken pieces of mirror.
"Bah, nothing," Ragglus mutters, brushing aside the aged armor and debris to get a better glimpse at the broken pieces.
"Seems likely that whoever built this place wouldn't have left the valuables right out in the entry hall," Hazel says, as she takes two steps further into the passageway. "We should keep moving, dispatch those skeletons before they run into some friends."
She listens for any hint of returning foes.
"Might be a good idea to check out that heap they ran 'round, first," Bufer says, squinting in the flickering torchlight at the prone shape on the floor. "If it's bodies like Emus suspects, it'd be good to know what made 'em. There might be fouler things afoot'n ambulatory corpses."
Bufer glances over at the party's other gnome, and chews his lip thoughtfully.
"I'm still all for leavin' post haste," he says after a moment, "but if we're set on continuing this fool's errand, 'less he objects, I'm gonna suggest we send Tosh up ahead to get the lay of the land, as it were."
"I can do that, just keep the torch back about 30 feet or so." Tosh moves quickly and silently up to the heaps on the floor, hoping the darkvision kicks in before he gets jumped by anything in the dark.
There is no sign of the skeletons as Tosh reaches the third set of pillars.
A group of small reptilian humanoids lay huddled between the pillars, three close together, a fourth further off. All have been hacked to death, long ago. The bodies look to have frozen sometime after death.
Just beyond the pillars is the fourth and final set of alcoves. Beyond it, stairs ascend into the barrow mound.
Back at the second set of alcoves, the broken mirror pieces seem to, indeed, be just broken pieces of mirror.
Tosh turns and signals for the others to move up to the dead kobolds on the floor, then slips a bit further down the passage to the fourth alcove, glancing occasionally up the stairs for movement.
"Guys, if you don't mind," Tock says, "I'd like to stick with these poor kobolds for a bit. Maybe say a few words. I met a kobold fiddler once who taught me about their religious beliefs."
"I kin respect what yer trying to do, son, but it's more than they woulda done fer you," says Emus. "But go ahead; I'll wait with ya."
Tock kneels over the bodies, straightening their clothes and muttering quietly.
"A broken mirror?" Emmerson ponders. "Who would put ... or why would a mirror be placed in the sarcophagus? Say, are any of the statues missing one of it's mirror eyes?"
Ragglus looks to see if any of the statues missing any of their mirrored eyes as he makes his way back to the majority of the group, but none of the statues in the alcoves seem to be missing their mirrored eyes.
"Yes, well, these elves I was educating you all about," Renraw says. "What did I call them? These Hounds are clearly very reverential of mirrors, so how fascinating that we should find one here, broken. Mightn't it be possible that the broken mirror was what put the verve in those ossified wretches to begin with? I understand disruption of the sarcophagus would be the most obvious cause for necrotic ambulation, but perhaps there is an underlying enchantment. I am a wizard, after all. I do know what I'm talking about. How much magic do the rest of you know? Not much, between you. What is it? Stop looking at me that way. I've been to university."
Meanwhile, Tosh moves ahead of the rest of the party. The stairs ascend 40 feet to a landing. What is up there, Tosh cannot see.
Tosh briefly searches the final alcoves and the first few steps for anything out of the ordinary: The alcoves are like all the others: Two statues of owl-headed men with swords, two sarcophagi, both open, the skeletons that had been inside them somewhere north of the party in the darkness.
Tosh moves cautiously up the stairs with the intent of getting to the point where his eyes are at floor level of the passage or room at the top, so he can get the lay of the area without being within reach of anyone or anything standing at the top.
The next room is an octagon, 45 feet wide and 45 feet deep. There are 15-foot wide staircases on the northwest, north and northeast walls, rising further into the mound.
There are four columns in the middle of the room, along with what look like rotting, well-chewed animal carcasses. There is also the faint air of old feces.
Tosh turns and gives a whisper down the stairs that the rest should come on up. Then while there's still no torchlight to interfere, he moves quickly to the base of the northeast stair and looks up, then the north stair, and then the northwest, doing the same thing, before returning to the top of the south stair and waiting for the rest to join him.
Emmerson catches what Renraw says, and it strikes him as odd.
"Renraw," Emmerson looks the wizard in the eye, his expression clearly readable on the flickering torch-light. "This party is based completely on trust. I trust their blades, their senses and their abilities."
He points at Renraw.
"I trust your knowledge and your power. And I trust your sense not to get us into more trouble than we can handle.
"So, why are you lying to us?"
The wizard's face becomes flushed.
"Er, that is ... uh ... did you say 'lying?' 'Lying' is a very strong word, wouldn't you say? Maybe just 'guessing incorrectly?' I'm just spit-balling, here. The Hounds, it's not that they don't exist, per se. They could exist, I mean, theoretically. It's not as though I'm just trying to appear smart to everyone to justify my place in the party, it really isn't that. Why would I do that? I mean, honestly, and what place do YOU have questioning MY motives, anyway? Aren't you the one that let loose those calamitous calcium contestants on us back there? And then FAILED to dispatch them?"
"If that trap wasn't triggered on the way in, I am very sure that it would have sprung on the way out," Emmerson responds. "And we may have been injured or weakened and thus, unable to fight past it. My hit wasn't effective? Sure. And so it was your attack. Nothing is certain in combat.
"You have a place of value in this group, do not question that. But if you do not know what the markings or runes say, do not attempt to weave a tale just to amuse us. That sort of game could very well end with us being the old hacked up corpses the next party of unwary adventurers find."
From the top of the stairs, Tosh clears his throat quietly.
"Mind your voice, I may have heard something. No point in announcing our presence unnecessarily."
With a final glare at Renraw, Emmerson moves quietly up the stairs, followed by the rest of the party.
Hazel follows Tosh's warning to keep the torch back, waiting to follow until after the gnome has disappeared into the darkness. She pauses at the kobolds' bodies, expecting to feel satisfaction -- after all, Da always called 'em "thieving vermin" -- but finds herself instead eyeing the bodies with a more pragmatic concern.
"Can anyone tell what kind of weapons killed 'em? Or how long ago they died?" She glances ahead, hoping Tosh hasn't found trouble, adding quietly, "Or if their killer's looking for more prey?"
"Schmothing schmis schmertain schmin schmombat," the wizard mutters under his breath. "This isn't over between us, Grant," he whispers, very careful not to be heard by anyone in the group as he sulks up the stairs.
Tucker sticks with the group, but his mind is still on the bodies.
"Is it really cold enough in here for those bodies to have frozen?" he asks, quietly. "Yes, it's winter, but a barrow like this would be insulated from the weather like a root cellar. There could be snow piled high outside and a warm body would still decay before it froze. And if it did get cold enough in here at some point, we'd still feel the cold now. There's a chill in the air, but I'd hardly call it freezing."
"Actually, Gallaway, it's right around freezing," Renraw lectures the deputy. "Remember there's an open tunnel mouth and if it's hovering around freezing this far in during the day, it's significantly colder at night. Maybe it would be better if you kept your mouth shut like the gnome suggested and leave the theorizing to those of us more equipped."
"Watch yourself, seed counter, lest a stone in the ceiling gets loose and bonks you on the head," Tucker snaps back.
Ignoring the admonition, Renraw is struck with a sudden inspiration. Stepping over to Emus, the wizard pulls him aside.
"Look here, dwarf," he whispers in Dwarven. "These stairs are very high, 30 feet or so. If we have to make an expeditious retreat, a spot of grease at the top of the stairs would have a good chance at incapacitating anyone following. Do you catch my meaning?"
The dwarf strokes his chin whiskers, blinking.
"If we're forced to run, stay behind with me a short moment so I can lay the trap. Then we'll hightail it for the exit. Is this acceptable?"
"Heh heh! Sure I kin help with that."
Turning back to the pile of kobold bodies, Emus mumbles something to Tock and grabs his arm to push him forward. Tock, having completed his business, and not wanting the dwarf to tell the others what he was up to, complies.
"Lemme take a looksee," Bufer says as he draws up beside Hazel. "If there's one thing a Potentloins knows his way around, it's a gash."
He glances up at Hazel with a mischievous grin.
"On account of all the time we've spent in battle, I mean," he adds innocently.
Chuckling to himself, Bufer kneels down to inspect the corpse of the nearest kobold.
Hazel smiles at Bufer, holding back a laugh.
"Be my guest - looks like sword damage to me, but this one," she gestures with the torch toward the body away from the main group, "seems to be missing an organ or something."
Bufer pauses and looks over at Tock, his expression suddenly dour and pensive.
"This isn't apt to disturb anything you're doing, is it lad? My people generally don't hold with kobolds, but far be it from me to befoul anybody's death rites."
"The kobolds are a pious people in their own way, but they believe the have no use for their bodies after their deaths, finally able to rest from their ceaseless toil," Tock says. "Examine away, and mayhap we can bring some justice to these poor fallen souls."
Bufer watches Tock for a moment, thoughtfully, as if seeing him for the first time. He nods once, then turns his attention to the kobolds.
"Hmm. And the prize goes to the lady who guessed sword damage," he says as he examines the corpses. "These poor buggers were all hacked to death, like by the swords those skeletons were carryin', or ones just like 'em. If I were a bettin' gnome, I'd say they're our culprits."
Bufer frowns deeply as his eyes dart from one corpse to another, then leans in closer to the one closest to him, squinting as he prods at it gently with his fingertips.
"Now that's odd. You see this? These three here, the ones in the leather, they've all got some sort of odd cyst growin' in their torsos." He shakes his head, the creases of his knotted brow deepening. "In, not on, mind you. It's like somethin' is growin' right inside of 'em."
Bufer sighs heavily, and looks up gravely at Hazel and Tock as he gets to his feet.
"If this is some kind of affliction," he says, "it's like none I ever seen afore. Which means I got absolutely no idea how catching it might be."
He glances back down at the corpses, pressing his lips into a tight, thin line.
"In fact, we might all well be comin' down with it right now."
Hazel takes a quick step back.
"Very reassuring, Bufer. Let's catch up with the others. If we're lucky, we can all die at swordpoint before the chest-worms get us."
She gives the gnome a wry gin and sets off toward the stairs.
Whatever purpose this room might have once served, it was now filled with long-rotting animal carcasses, along with very large (and dry) droppings and the faint smell of urine. Brown fur could be found on four columns near the center of the room, which look as though something large rubbed up against them.
The four columns here were carved with strange patterns and were hollow near the top, and had cut-out sections letting one see in.
"Wonnerful," Ragglus growls, breathing out his nose more heavily than in. "It's a big-arsed demon's earth-closet. I'll kill that Fibber ..."
His curiosity getting the better from him, Emmerson approaches the closest column and examines it, peering inside the column through the openings. Renraw attempts to jostle the larger man out of the way, but has to satisfy himself by examining the column from the far side. Tosh stands on tip-toe, peeking inside the open portions of the column.
It appears to have some sort of smooth cup formed just below the cut-out area. A long-dried -- ancient, even -- residue stains the inside of the cup.
"Blood, maybe?" Tosh ventures. "A place of ritual or some such. I suppose we could fill them up and see what happens... "
Bufer shoots the other gnome a withering look.
"... or not."
Meanwhile, Hazel examines the fur and the droppings, hoping to identify the creatures that left them behind - and whether the carcasses were supper for the beasts, or the beasts themselves.
"Smell's not that bad, Rags," she says. "Least it isn't fresh."
"I'm betting Fibber never made it this far," says Tosh. "He grabbed the helm from the broken casket and ran. Might have been the smart move, but then nobody ever accused me of being real smart."
"Maybe a bear," Hazel muses softly. "No ... not a bear ... something like a bear. And big. Real big."
"I'd like to find out what it is. We don't need something unnatural running around these woods," Emus responds quietly. "And we still ain't found those dang skeletons. They's bad news for this area, also."
"Word to the wise," Bufer says to the others. "If something big and bear-like do decide to turn up, I'm not gonna be able to make it turn the way I did those skeletons."
He glances over at Emus as the dwarf opens his mouth to protest.
"Not arguin' the point, Emus. Just wanna make sure everyone knows what they're gettin' into. Undead soldiers I'm good for, but big hairy beasty things, not so much. We pick a fight with somethin' like that, we're committed to finish it, one way or the other.
"Now, that having been said, Hazel, you think you might be able to track it?"
"Hmm, gimme a bit o' time to look. This isn't exactly my natural habitat." Hazel brings the torch near the floor and begins a sweeping search for tracks in the octagonal chamber. She briefly raises her head to look at the dwarf. "Any chance you've some special underground know-how that could help, Emus?"
"Eh, if the bear knows how to set up traps involving moving blocks of stone, I might be able to help out. Otherwise, I ain't spent enough time worryin' 'bout such things," Emus replies. "'Sides, I'm all fer just raising the biggest ruckus you ever did hear, and drawin' that critter out to us. If it's a natural type of beast, it will just run further away, and then we can get back to takin' care of them skeletons."
"I might have heard something up there," Tosh points toward the northwest stairway. "If we're finished here, and no one objects, I'll give it a look see?"
"That noise yeh heard is probably them skeletons. Once Bufer's spell on 'em wears off, they's like to be heading back this way," Emus says. "I don't wanna fight them on the stairs where they'll have the higher ground. We should either wait for them here, or head up soon and find a good place to take 'em on. We might find that bear, too."
"Whoever chiseled these pillars was a miserable sculptor," Renraw whines as he turns away from the column he was studying. "There is not a single trace of anything even remotely identifiable here. The only thing I can figure is that they were carved with eyes closed. Or that the sculptor had no hands. Or was otherwise touched in the head, or a dwarf."
He notices that people seem to have stopped paying attention to him.
"We should move up the stairs, gnome first."
"Blood or not, I would wager that it had dried long before either men or dwarf walked around here."
Emmerson flexes his fingers, wiping the traces off his fingertips.
"Up the stairs makes best sense, Emus. I'll follow our scout."
The sound of jingling chain shirts and bone toes clicking on stone flooring echoes down the north stairway, and grows steadily louder.
Last edited by Whizbang Dustyboots; 29th December 2006 at 12:23 AM..
"Incoming skeletons. Might I suggest standing them off from the south so our exit is handy?" Tosh hurries over to the top of the south stairs, with his rapier at hand.
Ragglus takes a position near the columns, shield up and gripping his flail tight.
"Help me find the one I've burned," Renraw bellows. "We're going to pulverize it!"
Emus stands off to the left of Ragglus, preparing to charge the first bag of bones that reaches the fighter and those that stand with him.
"All right, boys and boylike females, I happen to know a tune that'll really get your blood going," Tock says, dropping to his knees and raises his arms. A beautiful banjo appears, glowing faintly with magical power. Tock adjusts the tuning and does a couple of runs up the scale. "THOSE KOBOLDS WILL BE AVENGED!"
The bard begins a rousing claw-hammered banjo tune entitled "Bone Smashing Breakdown" from behind the combatants.
"About time those sacks of bone returned," Emmerson mutters as he equips his shield and warhammer and stands to the right of Ragglus, preparing for the fight, his foot tapping to the beat of Tock's playing.
Hazel takes a position to Emmerson's right, hoping to outflank any skeletons moving in that direction. She slides the torch on the floor behind her and grips her battleaxe in both hands.
Jumping up and down behind the melee combatants, Renraw tries to identify the skeleton he splashed with acid, his club in his hand.
The skeletons step down into the room, initially three abreast as they leave the north stairs, but then spreading out to four across as they shuffle across the room towards the intruders, swords at the ready, the torchlight flickering off the ornamental gold accenting the feather designs on their helmets.
They shoulder through the columns and cross the space toward the adventurers. With a scream, Emus bursts from the group of adventurers, his greatclub clutched in both fists. There is an explosion of bone and armor as he destroys the skeleton he charges.
Tucker takes a small step to the left, so his flail won't catch on a column, and swings at the center of the skeletons' line. It's a solid hit, scattering the skeletons bones across the floor in a clatter.
Emmerson swings at a skeleton with all his strength, but his blow glances off the skeleton's armor, sounding out a puff of rust.
"Renraw will never let me live this down," Emmerson mutters.
The skeleton lashes back at him, its sword bouncing off his scale mail.
"At least we're on equal footing, hellspawn!"
Ragglus does no better than the paladin, his flail whistling through empty air.
Hazel swings her axe with both hands at the nearest skeleton, but misses. It turns towards her in response, lashing out with its pitted long sword, slashing her cruelly. The sword digs in deeply.
Hazel bites back a scream when the blade cuts into her. She's felt this blazing pain once before, when childish inattention buried an axe blade in her calf, but Da's not here to carry her to Mother Bridger's this time.
With a scream, Renraw swings his club at the skeleton attacking Hazel. Unfortunately, his eyes were closed, and the club swings through empty air.
Emus looks back on the others, shattered bones all around him, one of his feet on the skeleton's chainmail shirt. The helmet rolls until it hits the base of a column, where it stops, with a protracted ringing.
"More misses here than a gnome at a swing party!" Tock yells, strumming furiously. "Get on it, people! FOR THE KOBOLDS!"
Ignoring the skeleton that just struck him, Emmerson swings his warhammer at the one that hit Hazel.
"Third time's the charm."
Renraw breathes heavily through his nose, the smell of Hazel's blood sickening him. He stumbles away from the fight, preparing to cast a spell to cover the party's retreat if the battle goes against them.
"HAZEL!" Bufer races past the wizard, praying frantically to his god, while clutching his gold nugget amulet and reaching out with a hand toward the ranger. The healing energy pours into Hazel's body, and there is the painful, yet wonderful feeling of feeling her wound knitting back together instantly.
"You wanted noise for the bear and blood for the pillars?" Tucker snaps. "Seems this fight is providing both. Now let's finish off these rattle-traps. Hey, Seed-counter! I think this one's got your acid on it."
Tucker turns slightly, lashing out with his shield, and striking the skeleton with a clatter of bones.
The skeleton's jaw works with a silent scream of pain, and it turns back from Emmerson to launch a vicious cut at Tucker's head. The slash slips past the top of Tucker's shield, drawing blood from a cut delivered to unprotected skin on his neck.
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAAA!"
Emus crashes back into the midst of the group, into the other skeleton, his greatclub coming down on the skeleton's helmet and slamming down through the body, arms and legs and ribs scattering everywhere. When he's done, the dented helmet bounces down the staircase behind them and the rusty armor at his feet contain a handful of unbroken ribs and vertebrae.
"Thanks awfully!" Hazel gasps to Bufer, pulling the gnome cleric and herself away from the fray, even as she double-checks and find her wound has closed.
Ragglus tests the handle of his flail by tapping it on his head to make sure it's a real weapon, and not some phantom weapon he's just imagining he's holding that doesn't actually work. Satisfied, he swings once more. The flail connects with a clatter and the last skeleton collapses, its bones scattering into the shadows of the octagonal room.
"Great job, everyone," Renraw brays. "What a team! Just a superb, superb effort! Now to find the treasure and bugger out of this abominable inhumation."
He motions to a still somewhat shell-shocked Tosh to move up the stairs.
"Quickly, now, get to it. We'll follow."
"Very nicely done, large people," the gnome says quietly, moving toward the northwest stairwell. He listens carefully. Satisfied the noise of battle has not brought any other inhabitants of the cairn, he returns to the octagonal room, ignoring Renraw's glare.
"Might I assume that since the dearly departed were so recently trying to relieve our gizzards from our guts that searching the remains may not fall into the category of grave-robbery?" He asks, looking up at Emmerson.
"Search away, Tosh," the paladin says, putting away his weapon. "Traps are not considered 'dearly departed.'"
He picks up one of the owl-faced helmets.
The seven formerly animated skeletons each possessed in unlife a decorated half-helm, an antique long sword and antique chain shirt. While none of them is in exemplary condition, they have held up surprisingly well over the course of, at least, centuries.
"Seems that most of this stuff might fetch a few silver if we were to lug it back with us," Tosh says, finishing his examination of the skeletons.
Therurt Glangirn in Maidensbridge is forbidden to make new weapons and armor -- the baron has rented that exclusive right to a smithy in Middleborough -- but the dwarf does a good business in restoring and reselling older gear.
"If we're going to continue on, I suggest just leaving it here at the top of the stairs and picking it up on our way out," Tosh continues. "No sense having it drag us down, and it's not like it's the crown jewels or anything. We also might think of checking to make sure everyone's OK? Need a bandage, Tucker?"
Before the deputy can answer, Renraw claps his hands together, attempting to take command of the situation once more.
"Er, yes, quite. Everyone all right, then? Good, good," Renraw says. "Might I suggest we send someone to pile the booty at the bottom of the main stairs? If we leave it here, it may be forfeit if we find ourselves in a hurry to leave. With the goods at the bottom, I'll have a chance to lay my quite ingenious grease trap, which could buy us enough time to gather the stuff and escape. The trap could utilize these other stairs, but they do not appear tall enough to do sufficient damage to the kind of powerful assailant or assailants from which we would find ourselves fleeing.
"It would be a mistake not to listen to me. I assure you I've thought it through."
"So if, say, a bear the size of an outhouse is chasing us, it would be better that we pick up the booty at the foot of these stairs so the bear can slip in the grease and fall 30 feet down the stairs upon us as we're gathering things?" Tosh asks. "For what it's worth, you may be right. But that would be more up to you big folk, seeing as how one of those pig-stickers would be enough to slow me down to a crawl."
"Really, gnome, if you'll just slow down and think it out, you'll realize the truth," Renraw replies. "Leaving it down there, we have a better chance of collecting it on the fly than we would up here. I'm not suggesting we leave it directly at the foot of the stairs so the creature falls atop us. But we've a better shot at grabbing it and running from a wounded bear than one at full health.
"I'm only considering the good of the party. It would truly be a shame to leave here with absolutely nothing."
Renraw delivers a harsh glare in Tock's direction.
"As far as I'm concerned, the noble kobolds were avenged," Tock says piously. "Were we to find further monstrosities, of course, I would do my best to help, but I feel my mission here is done. We should just distribute the wealth of the bones evenly, except for my small performer's fee."
As the others argue about the booty, Bufer examines Hazel's leg to make sure it has healed properly, muttering and shaking his head to himself about his own foolish impulsiveness. Satisfied she is unharmed, he looks up to give her a reassuring smile, then turns to the bleeding Tucker.
"Hey, Gallaway, kneel down here a second, would you? Lemme get a look at that wound." He unwinds a spool of linen from a leather satchel, preparing a bandage for the deputy.
Last edited by Whizbang Dustyboots; 2nd January 2007 at 05:18 AM..
"What, this? It's merely a flesh wound! Barely a scratch; why, I've had worse while shaving and I," Tucker takes his hand away from the gash on his neck and, seeing his palm completely red, kneels. "Yeah, OK, why don't I just do that?"
Tosh carefully mounts the stairs, which rise another thirty feet into the barrow mound.
The room at the top is 25 feet wide and 45 feet long and smells heavily of urine and musk. A hole has been visibly clawed through the rocks on the northwest wall of the room by something with massive claws.
Two statues face each other in this hall, one of an owl-headed man kneeling in fealty before the other figure. All that remains of the other figure are sandaled feet and a hint of a robe on the floor. The rest has been broken off ages ago and the rest of the statue is gone, with no hint as to its whereabouts.
The hindbrain kicks in and Tosh's first instinct is to leave, gooseflesh and all. But, it would be remiss of him to leave a potential threat behind without any investigation at all. Summoning up all his courage and skill, he moves to the right wall, hoping the shadows are deeper there to hide him, and moves as silently as he can toward the opposite end of the room and the gouged-out hole.
The tunnel is narrow, and has clearly been clawed into existence, first through stone walls, then through soft soil beyond. But the earth does not smell wet here: This is not a recent dig, and the earth is dry as it winds out of sight, lightless.
But what it does smell like, to the sensitive gnomish nose, is fur and musk and sweat and feces and urine.
There is a low groaning noise somewhere down the tunnel and the sound of something large shifting followed by the unmistakable sound -- and smell -- of something very large releasing a loud blast of flatulence.
Tosh is satisfied that his stealth is successful enough to give the area in the room a decent search by darkvision, avoiding the mouth of the excavation as much as possible.
Meanwhile, the others consider the spoils of war.
"I'd like to keep one of the long swords, if that's all right with you folks," Emmerson says. "I figure Therurt would be delighted to put it back in shape. In the meantime, I think Renraw's idea is a good one. I'll move the gear out of here and place it over the second alcove's casket lids. Easy to grab if we have to run past them."
"It is?" Renraw blurts. "I mean, of course it is!"
"By the by, would it make sense to find and light a torch here?" Emmerson ignores the wizard and continues. "Because I'll need either a torch bearer to help me get to the second alcove or else the heavy lifting has to be done by someone with darkvision."
"Hmm, all right," Bufer murmurs. "Let's see, here."
The gnome priest casts about on the floor around him, and finally picks up a long, splintered femur bone from one of the fallen skeletons. He turns it from side to side, examining it, then nods to himself and digs into his spell pouch, withdrawing a small piece of phosphorescent moss.
Holding it and the femur up in front of him, he closes his eyes, breathes in deeply through his nose, and quietly offers up the prayer to Garl Glittergold.
Magical light from the bone illuminates the room about as well as another torch would. There is something strange about the way the shadows from the magical light and Hazel's torch jump around the room, but what exactly it is, none of the group can say.
"That's an easy spell," Renraw huffs.
"Probably not as fancy as them taught at your fancy college, I'll concede, but it'll do in a pinch," Bufer says as he hands the glowing femur up to Renraw. "Here you go, torch-bearer. You've got about 10 minutes before it goes dark again. Best you and Emmerson get a move-on."
"Light's with us, Renraw," the paladin says. "Could you take the swords while I carry the armor? I figure we can carry two each on every trip."
"Huh." Emus leans his greatclub against the nearest wall. He spreads his feet slightly and squats as though he's lifting something heavy and thrusts his arms out in front of him. "'Kay. Load me up."
Renraw looks at the glowing bone in his hand as though it's composed of live bees.
"How DARE you, sir!" he scoffs. "I'm no one's beast of burden! And ... and besides, I believe you'll find my hands are quite full with my staff here and my sack. I really couldn't trust the rest of you with my -- my sack and my things. I've food in here, for pity's sake! I'd leave you lot for a few moments and the dwarf would have done with it! No, find someone more able-bodied, anyway. I've a cold in my bones. It's the season, you know. I'm no good to the--"
As the wizard speaks, Bufer gently pries his sack and his club from his hand while Emus loads him up with swords.
"Well, all right," he concedes as he starts towards the stairs, "But I'm only going because it's so vital to my plan. A plan I daresay could be the critical, life-saving factor in..."
He trails off as the trio lumber down the steps.
"Why, Renraw, we may have found your calling!" Tock calls after him. "You're an excellent mule!"
Bufer waits until Renraw is out of sight, then opens the wizard's sack and begins rummaging around in it.
"He did say he had food in here, didn't he?" He looks up and around at the others. "Anyone else hungry?"
Everything is quiet as Bufer rifles through Renraw's pack and the others drop off the last of the chain mail, swords and helmets in a pile below the stairs.
"Nothin' in here but some stale bread and moldy cheese," Bufer mutters, wrinkling his nose at the offerings in Renraw's pack. He pulls out a stick of butter, turns it this way and that as he examines it, then shrugs and takes a bite.
He glances up and around at the others as they watch him with amusement, disgust, or some combination of the two. Oblivious, he offers the stick of butter out to them.
"Anybody want some?" he asks. "Plenty to go around!"
Hazel pulls out her water skin and takes a swig before tucking it back in her pack. She stretches her legs a bit, pleased to discover not even a scratch where the sword struck, just a rip in the leg of her breeches, easily mended at home. The gnome's a fine cleric, but watching him chew on a stick of butter is enough to make her queasy. Hazel shifts to lean against one of the pillars in the room to watch for Tosh's return -- and block out the sight of Bufer's repast.
Emus, Renraw and Emerson return from downstairs just in time to stop Bufer from finishing off the last of the butter.
"What? What, I brought this with me! Wait, wai--ah!"
Bufer grunts as the wizard and the paladin pry the remains of the butter away from him, and wipes the back of his hand across his lips. He spies Hazel leaning against the pillar on the opposite side of the room, pointedly facing away from him, and cocks an eyebrow.
"Oh, don't you look all disgusted over there, miss," he chuckles, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "If you think I'm bad, I don't envy you the first time you catch a glimpse of the dwarf chowin' down."
Renraw wonders how many times he could stab the gnome before the others stopped him. Eight or nine? Then he stops to wonder what types of objects he could stab him with, and which would be the easiest to use repeatedly. He also thinks about the blood and the pleasing splatters it would make. Would it be like his young cousin's finger paints? Do gnomes even bleed normally? he wonders.
Then he forgets which gnome he was angry with and begins daydreaming about the bear disemboweling Tosh, about the party leaving his body in the barrow, and about how he would have to practice faking sadness back in town.
Meanwhile, Tosh's inspection of the room finds nothing beyond the two statues -- one ruined, one otherwise -- the feces, dried urine and hair. Carefully peeking into the tunnel mouth, he sees it meanders too far, and twists too much, to see what the cave at the far end -- if there is, indeed a cave at the far end -- looks like, or what it contains.
Tosh decides that it's time to rejoin the others and recount his findings. After all, there are two more stairwells to consider. When Tosh returns from the upper chamber, Renraw meets him with a crazed grin.
Last edited by Whizbang Dustyboots; 2nd January 2007 at 05:19 AM..
"OK, listen up, there's something big up there, in a tunnel out of the room," Tosh says, recounting his findings. "I figure it's a big animal of sorts. If it's a meat eater, I don't particularly like the idea of having something like that roaming around these parts free. On the other hand, we have two more stairways to check out. So, what's your pleasure, folks?"
"We cain't look for more busted-up helmets if'n we're cowering over some bear," Emus drawls. "Plus, there might be other critters like these skeletons about. We should see if this bear's riled up or not before we take on anythin' else."
"Judging by the animal carcasses in this room, I'd say it's a meat-eater," Hazel says, "But that doesn't necessarily make it a threat to us. The bear's not 'riled up' right now. It hasn't shown any inclination to come after us, and we did just make a fair bit of noise dispatching these skeletons. Could be in hibernation. And I think we'd all be mighty riled if someone came along and tossed us outta our warm beds in midwinter.
"We best check the other staircases first. I have no issue with killing skeletons that attack us, but if you folks wanna go about killing a dumb animal that hasn't posed any threat to us, I'm gonna have to part company here. You show me it's evil and a threat to the town, that's one thing, but I'm not about to kill an animal just for it maybe being in the way of our profit."
"I'm with the lass," Bufer says. "Judging by the mess it left in the other room, it's been here awhile. If it was apt to make a nuisance of itself, I reckon it woulda done so long before now. Heck, it didn't even come far enough out of its den to eat those poor kob--"
Bufer breaks off suddenly, frowns, and looks thoughtfully over his shoulder as he remembers the odd cysts growing in the torsos of the kobold corpses.
"On second thought," he amends after a moment, "It might not be such a bad idea to take a peek at the beastie, after all."
"Now jes' hold on a second, girly!" Emus says, shouldering past Bufer to face Hazel. "I ain't saying that we should kill it! I'm jes' saying that we should check it out! I don't aim to go killin' somethin' jes because it snuffled at Tosh, here.
"Hell, I like a lot of them animals. They don't judge a dwarf or tell him where ta go, or what's right and what's wrong. They's got the same basic needs as the rest of us. Huntin'. Screwin'. Sleepin'. And a lot of 'em are furry and fuzzy and, well, jus' plain cute. Heh. The way they look at ya with big, brown eyes, why, it jes' makes ya wanna ... Ahem. That's all I'm sayin'."
Emus picks up his club and goes to wait for the others at the bottom of the stairway. He intently studies the path ahead, the stairs, the walls, his fingernails, anything but his fellow adventurers.
Renraw scrunches up his face in deep contemplation. After a long, overly-theatrical sigh, he speaks.
"Our path is clear to me, gentlemen. There is possibly a very large bear in that direction." He points to the stairs Tosh just descended.
"In this direction," he turns and gestures towards the other staircases, "There is possibly no bear."
He pauses for a moment and clears his throat.
"I generally try to choose whichever path affords me the least bear interaction possible."
Ragglus snorts and spits to the side.
"No profit in bear killin', if it is what that is."
"We know there is a bear there," Emmerson points. "That is, if there is only one bear. And we have no idea what is beyond those two stairways. I say we let the sleeping bear lie and go inspect the other places."
"Did anything look valuable in there with the beastie?" Tock asks. "Otherwise, I say we move to somewhere that might have something valuable. On the other hand, the bear might not be so big. Big to a gnome's eyes is often small to a real person's."
"You may want to retract that slur lest you find yourself with a steel enema, 'big man,'" Tosh says quietly. Everyone always agreed that the Bergins were a little creepy, and Tosh was no exception. "Accidents do occasionally happen in the dark. Besides, your mother wasn't complaining about any lack of 'reality' last night."
Tosh pointedly turns his back on the brash bard.
"So, I figure we go for one of the remaining stairs, aye?"
He eyes the two stairwells thoughtfully, and rather than go for the center one, he decides to go a bit further right and check out the northeast stairwell. Once again, the quiet gnome slips up into the darkness, just far enough to get a floor's level view of the area.
The staircase rises 20 feet before emptying out in a long, straight corridor, extending beyond the 60 feet Tosh's darkvision allows him to see.
There is a dampness on the walls, floor and ceiling of this corridor -- not enough to actually make the corridor slippery, but it reflects slightly in the torchlight glimmering up the staircase from below. A soft watery echo periodically pings from the northeast.
Moving at a safe quiet quarter speed, the gnome slips up into the corridor and moves forward. Tosh only has to move a few feet further before he can see that the tunnel opens into a room. From his distant vantage point, he can see something low laying across the middle of the room, perhaps a dias, perhaps a large basin. From this angle, nothing else is visible.
Not seeing any light, nor hearing any sound but an occasional drip, Tosh slips up to the mouth of the next room, peering around with darkvision.
It is a strangely shaped room, with the tunnel entrance being on the right side of the longest wall, of which there are five. The walls to the left and right are the shortest, and then two long walls on the north and east sides complete the sloppy pentagon.
In the center of the room is a raised stone rim. A pool of liquid is held within the large pentagonal basin, still rippling slightly from the last drip to hit its surface. The liquid is dark and a little fetid, but it is an almost perfect reflective surface, like a grimy liquid mirror.
Water drips from above here, from a carved bas-relief of storm clouds above. It appears that, once, the drips would come at a steady rate of flow, but now, whatever mechanism powered this reverse fountain have all but worn down, and drops only come fitfully from one or two nozzles.
There are no signs of life and the room appears to be empty of anything else.
Satisfied for the moment that the odd room is safe, Tosh turns on his heel and heads back to the others to report his findings.
"I think the room bears exploration. But how about I go ahead and see what is at the top of the center stair before we set out?"
"Go right ahead, friend Tosh," Emmerson says.
The gnome slips up the stairs, finding the largest room within this cairn at the top.
This room is massive, a 65-foot wide semicircle with the tunnel mouth angling out to meet the diameter of the semicircle. The room likewise arches upwards, the ribbed ceiling reaching a height of 30 feet in the middle of the room.
Debris at the top of the stairs suggests a great stone seal once stood here, locking off this room, but it was long ago shattered inwards.
Five alcoves, the size of the ones lining the Hall of Guardians, are equally spaced along the edge of the semicircular wall. Each statue depicts a robed figure holding a different mask to its face.
In the middle of the room, atop a tall stepped dais, rests a single ornate sarcophagus carved in the shape of an enormous nesting owl of singularly sinister aspect.
Tosh returns to the group and gives them their options.
"I believe that the big semi-circular room would likely be the place we're looking for, if indeed we're actually looking for something. I also think that, considering the previous sarcophagi, it's likely we'll find another bag of bones there.
"So, eaten by an animal, killed by the undead, or one from the mystery room? Personally, I'd like to go check out the room to the northeast with some light. Might be something interesting that darkvision doesn't reveal."
"I still think that we should head down the first tunnel, so's that we at least know what's down there instead of turning our backs to it," Emus says. "But we don't wanna split up, so if we decide to go down one of the other two tunnels, I don't care which one."
With a wordless whine, Renraw makes it known rather loudly that he'd like to go up the stairs with no bears, skeletons, or anything that might hurt him.
"As long as the bear's not a threat to the town or us, then we might as well let the damn thing sleep," Tucker agrees. "Or at least, have the sense not to expect to win when we're fighting it in its own bedroom. And despite what this gash on my neck might say, the skeletons we've seen so far haven't been too tough to take apart. I say we check out the storm room, then return for the larger semicircle."
"I'm not altogether convinced that bear-thingy isn't a threat, though," Bufer says. He quickly explains to the others about the weird cysts he found growing in the bodies of the three dead kobolds, and the organ that appeared to be missing from the body of the fourth. "Now that mighta been caused by some kinda malady they'd come down with, albeit one I done never seen before, in which case, I hope it isn't catching. Or, it mighta been the result of somethin' been done to 'em."
He nods towards the stairs that lead to the creature's den.
"Yonder animal might be the cause. Or, on the other hand, it might be the effect, if you catch my meanin'. Either way, I find it mighty odd that it done left those bodies alone long as it has, and I reckon it bears investigation."
"The bear does NOT bear investigation, gnome," Renraw snaps. "Not barely, not at all. If it IS spreading some type of disease, shouldn't we do what we can to avoid catching it? It only makes good sense to me."
Hazel shrugs.
"You all know how I feel about the bear. What say we check out the other two rooms first? If the bear does wake up, we'll hear it coming. Doesn't much matter to me which room we start with."
"We've got a bunch of sharp, pointy swords, now," Tucker says. "Why don't we hold off on the hallways for a bit and -- being entirely respectful of the fallen, of course -- take one of our newly won swords and go see what's inside those lumps on the kobolds' bodies?
"We cut one open and find nothing but tissue and water, then we leave the rest alone. But we give it a nick and some kind of crazy egg-laying bear-baby falls out, then maybe we'll have a better idea of what's waiting down the end of that burrow.
"In fact, while everyone grumbles back and forth about which door to take, I think I'll go do that. Either of you torch-bearers care to come with me?"
"So, you want to go back and possibly create a new threat between us and the running-away door?" Hazel firmly shakes her head. "That sounds like a bad idea to me."
"Cut open the cysts? What?" Tock goggles at Tucker and Bufer. "Are either of you a trained physic? Because I don't recall you going on at length about it at any point. I refuse to be a part of cutting open any innocent, fallen kobolds. Medical examination by Glittergoldian 'priest' is one thing, but hacking and slashing by way of bloodthirsty redneck deputies is another!
"I'm with Renraw on this one. Even if there is some sort of MAGICAL BEAR that GIVES PEOPLE DISEASES, that's not what we're here for. There's no treasure in that, right, Ragglus? Let's leave the living and the dead as they are, and see what, you know, inanimate objects we might find."
"Tock, I understand how you feel, but we could be looking at the beginnings of some kind of plague, here," Bufer says. "Even if it only affects kobold-kind, I should think it's worth lookin' at.
"Now, I'm not one 'a your fancy human physics, but my grandfather's sister's niece was the best gnomish healer ever did live, and I spent a goodly part of my childhood helpin' her tend to the sick and the dyin', so I know a thing or two about it.
"And while a rusty sword ain't exactly the right tool for the job," Bufer says, glancing up at Tucker, "if somebody thought to pack a knife, or a dagger, or the like, I could certainly take a look."
"Count me out. You want to play doctor and get your little head diseased, do it on your own time with other folks more suited to the task," the bard replies. "I'm going to go search that room. You folks can either come with me or let me take whatever's in there myself. You want to stay with Doc Asshigh, feel free. I'll be getting rich."
"I'm going the disease-free route, thank you," Renraw says, appearing by Tock's side as if by magic.
Ragglus nods at Tock's comments.
"Come back with'a set of priests n' magisters n' whatever some other time. They's ain't goin' nowhere."
Bufer's nostrils flare at "Doc Asshigh", but he quickly relaxes and lets a smile spread across his lips as he looks from Tock to Ragglus, and back again.
"Typical humans," he says, shaking his head, "always thinking with your purse or your pud. Fine, I can examine the corpses later. Let's go get rich, and return to town, and infect our friends and neighbors with the plague we may be carrying now, for all we know, but are so anxious to remain ignorant of. I'm sure they won't mind all the sickness and death, long as we come back with a shiny bauble, or two.
"Oh, and bard, if any of your innards happen to get spilled in the next few minutes, I hope for your sake you can manage to hold 'em in 'til we get back to Maidensbridge. Y'know, when you can get a real doctor to look at you."
"You speak like we have friends in the town," Tock says placatingly, "And don't worry, Doc, I know you're a real healer. I just don't think the rest of us have any business examining diseased corpses. Ragglus is right. Bring in other people better-suited to the task. I haven't learned a song yet that could cure disease."
Ragglus scowls a bit at being scolded.
"Whatever we're doin', let's do it. Sittin' here arguin' about pokin' dead folk while waitin' for bears or more o' them other dead folk that fights to come up on us ain't doin' no good. Someone decide." He sneers suddenly. "My pud has spoken."
"Seems to me that the most are in favor of going to the northeast," Tosh says quietly. "Anyone with a big scary sharp object and a torch want to lead the way?"
"If the kobolds are contagious, we are already infected," Emmerson says, unsheathing his warhammer and equipping his shield. "I see no reason to backtrack all the way there just to make sure. Let us go exploring up there. Afterwards, we can let the corpse examining to Ebuferpaly and decide if we are fit to return to town.
"Let's go upstairs."
Bufer exchanges glances with Tosh and Emus, mutters something in Gnomish under his breath, and follows the party up the northeast stairs, chuckling and shaking his head all the while.
"What was that, Doc?" Tock calls back in perfect Gnomish.
The torchlight and magical illumination shine on the damp floor. Black mildew coats the cracks between the stones in the walls, floor and ceilings. The room is just as Tosh described it. Even with the light sources, the group cannot see what, if anything, is beneath the water in the large basin.
Renraw pokes the end of his club in the water, half from being idle, half to see if he disturbs anything.
The club doesn't have to be dipped in far before it touches bottom. When it comes up, it is covered in a dusty film. The muck on the surface of the water is briefly disturbed as the club is removed, giving a glimpse of a basin bottom that is also carved in a bas-relief. Swirling shapes carved in the stone, perhaps of waves or of strange sea creatures, are visible in the flickering torchlight before the murk closes over the clear space once more.
The spell on the bone finally expires soundlessly, the light contracting to a single bright point a second before vanishing.
Tosh looks about in the brighter illumination of the torch.
"Nothing? This simply will not do," he sighs. And with that, he begins a thorough search of the room. But in the lengthened shadows of the room, Tosh finds little, not even rat droppings, just ancient dust and layer upon layer of black mildew.
"Huh," says Bufer, as he looks up and around in the flickering torchlight, "my mistake. Now I can see why it was so damn pressing to come up here, rather than investigate the potential plague."
"Well, I'm sure that something dangerous will turn up, here," Emus grins. "And then we can take care of it when that bear decides to tear into us from behind!"
"Hey, Fancypants, I'll give you half a copper if you drink all that water," Tucker says, nudging Bufer with his elbow.
"Nobody here's got keener eyes than Tosh, right?" says Hazel. "If he says there's nothing here, then it's pointless to stand around and gab about it." Hazel starts heading back down the stairs, carrying her torch. "Might as well check out the next room."
The group mounts the stairs to the semi-circular room. By torchlight, they can see a few more details, specifically regarding the five statues. Each is 9 feet tall, and while they were painted centuries -- or more -- ago, the darkness has meant that most of the paint has remained intact.
Going from left to right, the five statues depict a robed man holding a screaming owl mask over his face, followed by a statue of a woman holding a two-handed curved sword before her face. The blade is so wide, it totally conceals her face. Then comes a statue of a robed man holding a perfectly smooth mirrored mask over his face. After that is a statue of a robed man holding both his hands over his face, concealing it entirely except for a pair of yellow eyes visible through the cracks in his fingers. The eyes appear to be some sort of precious or semi-precious stones. Finally, there is a statue of a robed woman holds an owl chick’s mask over her face.
Renraw awkwardly attempts to climb the fourth statue and knock the jeweled eyes out with the end of his club.
"Two coppers say the statue blasts him" Emmerson mutters to Ragglus.
Ragglus grunts in agreement.
"I bet the bear'll enjoy a cooked meal fer a change."
After a few clumsy taps, Renraw squeezes his legs tightly around the statue, grasps onto its fingers, and looks down on the rest of them, breathing heavily.
"That's fine then, I'll just take these gems for myself ... when I can ... pry them loose."
The gem eyes suddenly flash an icy blue and unearthly cold rips through Renraw, knocking him to the floor, convulsing in pain. His hands are encased in a thin layer of frost.
All around the group, nasty laughter booms, as though from the five unmoving statues.
"Cuh-cuh-curse you all, DO something!" Renraw spits, clutching at his wrists and rubbing his hands, unsuccessfully sloughing off the frost. "Wuh-whatever it is is luh-laughing at us. You'll be next if you don't do something!"
Seeing Renraw fall to the ground, Emus springs into action and walks past him. Greatclub at the ready, the dwarf looks for something that poses a danger, using his native knowledge of stonecraft. But there is nothing that Emus can spot that looks any odder than the rest of the statue.
"Well, when yer wrong yer wrong," Ragglus mutters as he spares a glance at Renraw trying to rub away the cold. Holding up his shield, flail still in hand, he prepares for whatever may come. "Oi! Wha'so funny?"
The statues lapse into silence as the echoes of the laughter die away.
"Renraw, if you want to survive this trip, you have to stop thinking with your wand," Emmerson scolds. "You are very lucky that that strange basin you poked a while ago did not zap you with something worse than this frost bolt."
Hazel glances around the mostly empty room.
"Seems there's nothing here to loot but the statues. Might be we should gather the swords and helms and head on home. Ought to have known any idea of Fibber's was bound to come to little profit." She shakes her head, already anticipating objections. "I know, I know, y'all want to go kill a bear, on the off chance it's got a bellyful of rare gems, and you," she waves her torch toward Bufer, "Want to go cut open some kobolds, in case we've all got a lungful of plague.
"I have a feeling we're missing something from this room," Emmerson says, nodding meaningfully toward the sarcophagus
"I thought we decided we weren't grave robbers," Hazel says, looking at the owl-shaped container. "And that one seems different from the ones near the entrance. Might be a real grave, might not, but if it is, that's grave robbing, and if it ain't, might be someone pretty angry about losing his skeleton guards."
"S-so ... cold ..."
"If we're openin' it, should w'cover our mugs?" Ragglus asks, glancing over his shoulder at the alcoves. "Far be it fer me not t'trust gigglin' statues, 'specially ones that know when they's gotta wizard crawlin' up their noses."
Tosh wanders over to the statue that did a job on Renraw. Something had to trigger that response, he thinks. Maybe if he searched it over real good, there might be a trigger in evidence. The flickering torchlight moves subtle shadows across the upper surfaces of the statue. Tosh can just barely see runes very lightly carved into its surface. It might be possible to carefully -- very carefully -- fill the runes in with grit from the statue and perhaps temporarily disable the trap. Maybe.
"Gnome!" Renraw, his teeth chattering, plead with Bufer. "I beseech thee, gnome. Heal me. Return my strength so that I may retain my usefulness to the group. Minister my wounds and you have my sacred troth that you will not regret it."
Bufer raises an eyebrow at the injured young wizard, then sighs and begins to dig his healer's kit out of his pack.
"If I'm to heal you, human," he says pointedly to Renraw, "It'll be on condition that, before you touch, poke, prod, examine or even look at anything else, you will ask my permission. Do we have an understanding, Kem?"
Bufer pauses as he opens his healer's kit, looks up at Renraw thoughtfully, and raises one index finger at him.
"Oh, one more thing," Bufer says with a wry grin. "From now on, you're to call me 'sir.'"
"Ah, just poke him with the torch, he'll be fine," Tucker says, rolling his eyes. "Any of you mystic types want to scan the sarcophagus, or should we just open it and get ambushed again?"
"That's it! I cuh-couldn't place it until now. When my young cousin was but an infant ... you, gnome, your cuh-countenance ... it bears a striking ruh-resemblance ... to what he used to ... evacuate when he'd got some bad applesauce in him." Renraw adjusts himself so that he's sitting more upright and winces when he tries to put a bit of weight on his arms. "But that's neither here nor there, is it? No, the r-real issue at hand is that we've now uncovered the party has a 'healer' who only does so on his own terms. Many of us here are aware of the patronizing t-teachings of your so-called divinity, gnome, but we 'foolish humans' n-never imagined they might actually impact us in this way. Leave me in pain, if you will, servant of Glittergold, but I'll not be made to bow and scrape to an asshigh. I'm not sure it's b-bodily possible to get that low."
The wizard turns his head to the group.
"The rest of you ... are you capable of learning from your own lapses? Or will you wait for this baseborn mongrel to decide when you've been foolish? Of course I'll be c-cautious when clambering up any forthcoming statuary, does anyone here doubt this? I prithee, do not s-sustain injury in this gnome's company ... those injuries will find themselves compounded with threats to thine own dignity."
And with that Renraw feebly makes his way to his feet.
"Here, give me the torch - I'LL poke him with it," Tucker says, thrusting his hand at Hazel.
"It seems we have a statue covered with runes of some sort," Tosh says as he begins gathering up loose statue detritus. "Probably the magical sort that protects the statue from being climbed upon by human wizards, I can't be sure. I can probably cover them temporarily. Hazel, would you happen to have any of that sticky applecake left? I can probably make up some goop from the erosion off the statue that'll stick in the runes. Provided, of course, it doesn't blast me too."
Hazel digs into a pocket and pulls out the crumpled cloth.
"About half a slice left, I expect. Probably more honey clinging to the cloth than the cake at this point." She hands the bundle over to the gnome, giving him a broad smile. "If this works, maybe mum can sell her cake as protection against magical traps."
"Ah, a healer that refuses to heal and an unthinking murderer as muscle. It's a wonder the rest of us have lasted this long," Tock says as he puts himself between Renraw and Tucker. "I've long known the Gallaways to be craven gluttons, from my experiences with their women. But sadists? We'll, even in the shallow end of a pool there can be dangers, I suppose.
Tock switches to Gnomish.
"How's the trap dismantling going? I'd have for your kinsman to refuse to heal another of us."
"Aye, and if ever there was a Chandler born who could carry a tune, you wouldn't have to rifle through dead bodies' pockets under the pretext of prayer," Tucker shoots back.
"I find your lack of taste ... disturbing," Tock says in a monotone. "Still, were my music to be appreciated by a redneck fool, that is when I'd worry. And worry not about kobold traditions. They are a pious people and their monies are to be given back to the tribe. With so many kobold-haters around, I feared for the sanctity of the belief."
Tosh seems oblivious to the row going on behind him as he graciously takes the remainder of the pastry from Hazel.
"It'll have to do," he says. He begins mixing the honey with a bit of water and some grit, creating a sticky paste of sorts
"I have no idea," Tosh replies to Tock. "I find the thought of testing it to be slightly less disturbing than the implications of 'us' and 'them,' however."
Tosh carefully begins applying the paste to fill in the eroded runes. Mutters a prayer to the 53 Gods of Chance. But the gems glow suddenly once more, and there's a sizzling noise before the nasty laughter booms through the room again. Tosh snatches his hand away quickly, uncoated in frost, but pale with cold.
"Well, that puts end to that. Unless you folk were spoiling to open the sarcophagus there? Might be some kobolds in need of looting, er, last rites or something."
Tosh sits with his back to a statue-free wall and pulls out some linen to bandage his damaged hand.
"This bickering is pointless." Emmerson approaches Renraw. "I would heal you if I could, friend, but I'd have to admonish you the same way. We cannot afford to lose our collective strength, not this deep inside the barrow.
"I think trying to open this sarcophagus would be the height of folly, considering we have one injured wizard and one zapped rogue."
The paladin turns toward the sarcophagus, clutching his crucifix and prays for guidance.
Bufer looks from Renraw to Tock, and back again, then shrugs nonchalantly.
"No skin off my back if you value your Garl-damned 'dignity' more than your very life, Kem," he says. "I'll be sure to tell your loved -- well, any mildly interested parties, at any rate -- that you went to your grave with your pride intact. If you do happen to change your mind, though, me and my patronizing teachings will be over there. Let's hope nothin' breathes on you in the meantime."
Bufer glances up at Tock.
"And I guarantee you, Chandler, that if you ever had attempted to had congress with my mother as it were, she would have taken one good look at your 'instrument,' such as it be, and collapsed into giggles. It's true what they say about gnomes, after all: We're built like tripods."
With that, Bufer turns his back on them and walks over to crouch next to Tosh, and examine his frost-covered hands.
"Tsk," he says in Gnomish, as he takes over the bandage from Tosh. "Listen, lad, I know this looks bad, but I figure I've only got one good heal left in me. It's yours if you insist to me you need it, but we're a long way from this being done, and that boy's on death's door already. All things bein' equal, I'd like ta hold it in reserve, if you're apt to humor me."
"It's all right, Bufer," Tosh says. "I figure even with a bit of frostbite I have a better chance of getting out of here then the big'uns when the spit hits the fan. I'm not likely to try disarming any more traps, though, and you know what they say about hungry bears and th' like. All's I got to do is run faster than the other guy. Help the young'un."
"Well, not just yet," Bufer says, casting a sidelong glance at Renraw as he ties the bandage off at Tosh's right wrist, and begins tending to his other hand. "Boy needs some sense kicked into 'im, along with a strong dose of humility. That's Garl's will, I do believe. Whether it's by my hand or his own foolish stubbornness makes little difference."
Bufer cocks an eyebrow at Tosh.
"Besides," he says, "I think it's be really funny if I got him to call me 'sir', just once."
Curiosity gets the better of Tosh as he considers the other statues. Levering himself to his feet, he carefully inspects each one, avoiding touching them as he does so.
"It appears that our yellow-eyed adversary is the only one with the ability to defend itself," he says finally. "And apparently the only one with anything to defend. I've a feeling that if we leave them alone, they'll be inclined to do the same for us."
He eyes the sarcophagus critically.
"Of course, if another bag of bones hops out of there, I'm going to stay well out of its reach. I couldn't do it no harm anyways."
He moves off to the top of the stairwell and looks down into the darkness, flexing his injured hand a bit to get back the feeling, wincing all the while.
"Friends," Emmerson starts as he slowly backs away from the sarcophagus. "There is an evil presence inside the sarcophagus. Not only it still lives, but is keenly aware of our presence.
"I would not back away from a fight, but I do not know if we can face whatever is inside and survive. Also, I do not know if the 'guardian statue' will come to life to defend whatever dwells within the sarcophagus if we engage him in combat.
"What say you?"
"Did you happen to ask Lothian if the sarcophagus had anything valuable?" Renraw asks the paladin.
"Goll darnit! I told you kids that comin' in here was a right stupid thing to do!" Emus snaps. "Whatever's in this stone slab ain't hurtin' anyone as long as it's in there, an' it looks like it's jes' fine stayin' there. Sure it ain't natural, but we can't be responsible for lettin' it out if we can't keep it reined in."
"Emus has the right idea - best to leave well enough alone. We don't need to stir up a hornets' nest." Hazel glances at Renraw, then Tosh. "We've already seen they can sting."
She walks up to the statue, staying a respectful five feet back, and cranes her neck to look around it.
"If the magic uses the eyes to focus, then maybe a couple of us working together could topple the statue from behind while the others stay out of its line of sight. Of course, the statues might be part of whatever's keeping the evil trapped in its box, and then we'd feel mighty foolish the last few moments before we died."
"I would touch it, were I to do it over again," Tosh says loudly, startling the others. "How do you intend to topple it without touching it? With a rope, perhaps? You'll understand if I decide not to participate, won't you?"
"And what's to keep the entombed evil from opening its own sarcophagus the instant our backs are turned? Come on, leave the laughing statue alone. Luck and Lothian favor the bold." Tucker approaches the sarcophagus, unnerved by his own bravado. Being extra cautious, he comes upon it from the direction the owl isn't facing. Rather than push the lid off, leaving himself open to an easy attack from within, he attempts to pull it backwards, then pauses. "Lothian also favors the swift, so be ready to bolt."
Tucker feels a chill run down his spine as he realizes his back is to the now-silent statues. There is an air of waiting watchfulness in the darkened room.
"Evil as our host might be, he is still badly outnumbered, so we can hit him eight times to his one," Emmerson says, preparing his warhammer. "Renraw, I'd rather have you standing far from the sarcophagus and out of harm's way. Fire a spell, if you are able, but leave the hand-to-hand fighting to us.
"I am ready, Tucker."
"I'll protect the wizard, if no one else will," Tock announces, taking Renraw by the arm and walking with him toward the shattered seal, "If only to keep the asshighs from bringing up their mothers again."
"You needn't worry about me, Grant," Renraw coughs. "I'm this close to finding my own way out of here, anyway. Perhaps to find someone who'll heal me without requiring I service their ego."
Tosh draws his rapier as the two humans approach, Tock's remark about gnomish mothers clearly having stung.
"There's a very nice bit of shadow a bit down the stairs that should hide you both. Don't let me keep you, now, hurry along." He turns toward the group surrounding the sarcophagus, then turns back as though in an afterthought.
Tock puts Renraw behind him in the doorway and draws his bow and readies an arrow.
"Shadows can't hide this handsome face, rogue."
Hazel sighs and readies her battleaxe.
"Fools rush in ... "
Emus moves far enough away to charge if anything comes out of the sarcophagus.
Ragglus squints at the sarcophagus as he lifts his shield up just so that his eyes peek over the top, sticking with his theory from earlier.
Bufer grabs hold of the gold nugget hanging round his neck as he watches the Tucker intently as he makes to pop open the lid.
"Hey, anytime you feel the need to start servicing my ego there, Kem, you go right ahead," he tosses over his shoulder. "Just remember: Lots of spit, lots of tongue."
"Yes, you do the priesthood proud, don't you?" Renraw turns to Chandler, muttering. "I clearly just told him I would not be doing that. I'm not sure how I'm even to respond to that kind of 'banter.' Vulgarity for vulgarity' sake only. Crude even for a subhuman."
After a moment, Renraw realizes Tock is ignoring him as well.
"No offense, friend Tock, but I do hope you're not the only one to leave this place with something of value. I'd hate to think I wasted my time with these fools."
"Eyes front, ladies," Ragglus barks, still watching as Tucker opens the sarcophagus. "Cut the bickering; we've got somethin' evil to be ready for."
The stone lid scrapes back across the opening of the sarcophagus. By the flickering torchlight, Hazel notices that it appears to be filled with a large stone object and then the torch dims in her hand as the lid comes off, loudly slamming on the floor and Tucker grunts as he backs into solid stone.
The room is darker than it was, and colder, and then the darkness opens its eyes and screams, the sound like a dying child. The eyes are yellow and burning with anger. The creature spreads its wings, wider than a man is tall, still screaming through its black beak.
The other adventurers are dimly visible through the shadowy creature as it flies at Emmerson, black talons outstretched.
Through the shield, Emmerson feels his arm grow cold, but he jerks it back before any lasting harm is done. The return swing of his warhammer hits nothing -- it's difficult to see where the creature is in the dimmed light and given its translucency.
The sound of the creature's scream gets almost drowned out a moment as Emus races forward, howling, his greatclub whistling as it comes. The club strikes something, although the dwarf could not say what, exactly.
Hazel steps forward from her vantage point and swings her battleaxe at where she thinks the creature is, her blade striking home silently.
Tock lets an arrow fly, and it soars into one yellow eye of the beast, which screams even louder.
Ragglus lowers his shield and swings with his flail, the heads slamming one after another into the thing.
The thing's scream reaches an ear-splitting pitch and suddenly, at its loudest and highest point, stops altogether and the torchlight suddenly returns to its full brightness, seemingly almost blinding after the gloom of a moment before.
Tock's arrow drops to the ground with a clatter, the wood shaft pitted and ruined. Tosh is the first to notice that Emmerson's shield likewise bears the marks of the beast: Great black streaks where its claws scrabbled at the metal shield stain it now.
Of the beast itself, there is no sign. It's simply gone.
Hazel slowly turns in a circle, wondering if the creature has just slipped into one of the room's dark shadows. She peers up at the ceiling to check there, too, and conceals a shudder at the thought of the winged creature dropping down on them. Seeing nothing, she cautiously steps toward the open sarcophagus and look in without leaning over it, trying to catch a better glimpse of the object inside.
Muttering a blessing in Celestial, Emmerson drops his scarred shield to the ground.
"Well done, everyone," he says. "Father will be pleased to hear his son has a future as a meat-shield."
Bufer blinks in the sudden brightness and hesitantly looks around at the others.
"I'm sorry," he says, "But did we actually just win?"
"I'm not quite sure if holding a nugget in your little paw did much, but some of us at least seem to have won," Tock sneers.
"Tsk," Bufer mutters as he releases his hold on his fetish. "Unappreciated in my own time, that's what I am. Kem, you still with us? Haven't succumbed to your injuries or your own stubborn pride, yet?"
"I'm here," Renraw answers weakly. He pokes his head around the stairs and takes a few meek steps out into the room. "Pride still in tact, thank Io. If only one could say the same of your integrity. I'm still attempting to determine what kind of twisted morality could account for exposing someone so near death as I to the heinous evil to which we were just witness. Would you really rather I die than let me continue without calling you 'sir?' Or did you honestly expect me to prostrate myself before you?
"'Oh, wise gnome,'" the sarcasm drips through, "Truly you've taught me the folly of my ways.' I honestly only half-believed all the old stereotypes about you creatures. But you're teaching me to reexamine those doubts, aren't you?"
"Renraw, you may want to consider keeping an eye out on those stairs," Tosh says, looking up from inside of the sarcophagus. "That thing made enough noise to wake a bear."
In response, Tock fits a new arrow, watching down the hallway.
"Oh, yes, I'd love to watch the stairs for an angry bear," Renraw wheezes. "I'm in the perfect condition for that, or hadn't you noticed?"
He sees the brutes fooling about with the sarcophagus and once again cowers pathetically behind Tock.
Inside the sarcophagus is not a body or bodies, but a stone slab, carved with scenes of robed men served by larger, owl-headed warriors. As Hazel moves the torch, it becomes obvious that it's not one stone slab, but a series of them, stacked top each other, were kept inside an object that only appeared to be a coffin from the outside.
As Tosh peeks over the edge, he can see what appears to be a subtle hinge line around the edge of the top slab, and a small hole on the side that might be a keyhole.
Where the creature rested inside the "sarcophagus," they can't see -- it must have either laid very, very flat or somehow not taken up space with the lid on.
Tosh examines the inner lid and hinge line and keyhole, trying to discern whether or not he'll get another nasty surprise in meddling with it. The keyhole pulls him like an obsession, an itch that must be scratched, a challenge that must be met. But he's also quite aware that he's injured and a trap could well be the end of him. Patience and care is the order of the day here.
Feeling reasonably secure that there are no immediate threats to his safety, Tosh reaches into his backpack for a small folded leather case. He opens it carefully and looks critically at the "keyhole." He selects a couple of narrow implements with odd crooks and prongs and inserts them into the opening and probes about for resistance.
The ancient lock is built a little differently than modern ones, but once Tosh understands how, the lock scrapes open and the top slab is unlocked.
"There you go." The gnome thinks the shadow thing and lack of space for it to hide in and steps away from the slab, just in case. He slips his tools back into their case and draws his rapier. "If one of you folk wearing the tin cans would be so kind as to open that?"
"Want to do the honors, Tucker," Emmerson asks, picking up his scarred shield, "Or shall I?"
"Paladin, I think you should do it," Tock offers from the hallway. "The task requires someone literate."
Tucker nods to Emmerson.
"I'll do the lifting, you do the raining down of holy vengeance," Reassured that the Paladin's attempt to detect evil proved the box safe, Tucker begins to open the lid, then stops. "There were no traps on this thing, right?"
Tosh shrugs.
"I didn't see any."
Tucker finds the slab harder to open than he at first expected -- these stone hinges were shut before Aventus sank into the Southern Sea, before Lothian ascended to godhood, before the Tarsisian Empire was formed -- but with a grinding creak, the hinges turn and the slab opens, revealing a large antique mirror with a heavy decorative bronze frame inside.
Overcome by curiosity, Tock abandons Renraw to guard the hallway alone. The wizard whimpers before following a moment later.
"Hmmm. Many songs have been sung of magicians who use mirrors, or mirrors that are magical themselves," Tock says. "If one of the brutes could take that mirror out, we could all benefit from a closer study of it. I have a cousin that is very knowledgeable of these things. Between he, Renraw, and I, we should figure out what's going on here."
"Mirrored eyes in the entryway, a mirror mask on the statue over there and a big mirror in a box?" Tucker says. "Whoever built this place was more in love with their own reflection than even Tock."
"They probably had less reason, though," Tock replies. "kidding aside, Tucker, could you and Grant set it up here?"
"Wait. I imagine it'll take at least two to pull it out of there, and I think it might be wise to have a look in case whomever put it there didn't want it removed," Tosh says. "Hazel? The torch if you would."
"I'll proceed to the lifting after it's been checked," Emmerson says.
"Yes, well, as I said before, mirrors are often very important in the arcane," Renraw lectures, ignoring the physical labor going on. "Some wizards use them to scry. It requires powerful magic, but it's even possible to cast spells on different times and places viewed using a mirror."
Hazel stands behind Tosh to give him direct light for his search. Her gaze darts between the gnome's hands and the statue's eyes. Her axe is tucked back in its sheath so she has a free hand to grab the gnome if he springs a trap.
"There doesn't seem to be anything tricky about it," Tosh says. "But it's going to dreadfully heavy, with that frame. Go ahead and try to get it out of there."
"Ready when you are, Tucker," Emmerson puts away his warhammer and shield and grabs one end of the mirror. He gives it a small pull to size up how heavy it is.
The pair carefully lift the heavy mirror out of its stone box. The backing of the mirror is also solid bronze, and also decorated; it was clearly meant to be viewed both back and front.
Emmerson picks up the side that could be interpreted as the top, so lifts his side of the mirror higher and motions to Tucker to lower his.
"We can hold it upright with a bit of effort. Or do you folks want us to set it against the wall or on the floor?"
Ragglus' face falls as he looks on the mirror. Emus, coming down from his adrenaline rush, says what's on both their minds: "A looking glass? That ugly beast was guarding a looking glass? There's gotta be somethin' more interesting that that!"
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