Dreams In The Deep

[Lazlow]

Placing the crowbar in the small gap between the two doors you notice that the latch isn't fastned, and indeed swings open a hair from the pressure. Seeing the chest inside, secured with a formidible-looking padlock, you figure there really isn't a need to lock the armoire as well.

The secret compartment is a simple affair, a sliding panel that reveals a small wooden box, about three inches wide by seven inches long by maybe two inches thick.

As you reach for it, you are startled by a pounding noise that rises above the sound of the now pouring rain. You hear a muffled yell somewhere outside and... Above? The pounding noise seems to be coming from the direction of the rooms where you came in.

 

[Gray Shade]

Pollock takes a quick look at the contents of the small, locked box with his ring of X-Ray vision. Before shutting the secret compartment and armoire.

Cadmus, old boy, what's your status downstairs? Our jig is about up.

 

[Lazlow]

Listening just a split second more, you hear no one in the stairway, and feel that the pounding coming from above is faint enough that no one downstairs could hear it, much less over the sound of the chanting. You turn your attention back to the secret compartment, and as your eyes try to fix on the contents of the small box, the box seems to disappear entirely, and you see only the wall beyond it. A vague feeling of unease creeps into your limbs as you look through it, yet you feel compelled to investigate further... You reach forward almost involuntarily and extend your finger...

All is we- PollockPollockPollockPoll

Like ebony quicksilver a mass of black tendrils surge forth, seeping through the edges of the box, bursting the lock and reducing the box to splinters, cracking the sides of the armoire as it writhes with an otherworldly pulse, throbbing and churning and twisting towards your finger, and though you are horrified, petrified in place, this unholy shadow fills you with loathing and longing, dread and desire, revulsion and rapture... It smoothly wraps around your extended finger, the cold, numbing pain a revolting delight, and you watch, eyes wide and mouth agape in a silent scream, the tendrils working their way into your flesh, pooling under the nail and pulsing, throbbing their way up towards your hand...

You finally manage to scream.

As your eyes try to fix on the contents of the small box, you can make out a small jumble of a fine chain, not completely obscuring a medallion of some kind - a stylized eye with... Unusually wavy lashes...? A vague feeling of unease creeps into your limbs as you look at it, yet you feel compelled to investigate further... You reach forward almost involuntarily and extend your fing-

All is well, my friend. I'm not certain but I feel the ceremony here is coming to an end. Might I inquire as to your plan for egress?

You snap your hand back and immediately rub it for warmth - your index finger is cold, painfully cold. The panel to the secret compartment is still open, the box still sitting there intact.

You replace the panel and close the armoire, and in doing so notice that the nail of your right index finger has turned black, the skin around it unnaturally dark.

Disoriented, shaken, and somewhat short of breath, you dash out of the office.

Pollock? You there?

 

[Gray Shade]

Oh, man, I SAW that X-Files episode! Oh, crap!

Egress . . . ? What? There's trouble here, friend. I . . . a moment, please.

In the bunkroom, just outside the office, Pollock takes three long breaths, stretching his fingers and toes, closing his eyes tight then opening them: refocusing his concentration. He has much to say to Romanna, but first they need to escape their current situation, and as Cadmus points out, egress first.

Something horrible's just happened to me. I'll give you the details soon. For now, know that I'm on my way.

Pollocks peeks into the hall and seeing no one, steps across into the small barrack room. There, he dons some vestments (hopefully with a hood, taking them from a footlocker if need be).

He then glares at his finger and decides that whatever dark forces have entered it must be expelled as quickly possible. He takes a sheet off a bed, squats, wads the sheet on the ground in front of him. Then, he focuses himself, so that he will not cry out and tries to keep his hand steady while using a "cold iron" kama to chop off his index finger after the first knuckle. With his teeth gritted, he then focuses to heal himself to stop the bleeding and seal the wound shut.

He takes the bloody sheet, with his finger wadded inside it, stuffs it in his bag, and heads calmly downstairs.

On his way to the stairs, he drops the red flag he had taken from the priest on the roof.

* * * * *

OOC: He'll cut off his finger one knuckle up from where-ever he can see the blackness. He'll then use his Wholeness of Body to heal the damage. Hope that works.

 

[Lazlow]

Horrible...? Hm. Alright, well, it seems you have a scant few more minutes. The ceremony is over, but the priest is blessing each worshipper as they leave. Be careful.

You make your way without incident across the hall to the barracks room and don what looks to be a foul-weather cloak with a hood. Grabbing a sheet off of the nearest cot, you wad it up on the ground beside and, calming your mind for the coming pain, cleanly remove the tip of your finger just below the first knuckle. The pain, however, is much more intense than you expected it to be - you've had worse wounds, to that very hand, even, that didn't feel as such. A cold throbbing works its way up your arm to your elbow then suddenly stops.

Gritting your teeth and forcing the pain out of your mind and body you re-focus, and the bleeding stops. Indeed, the tip of your finger grows back slowly... But so does the black taint that now infects it. You realize that whatever it is is not entirely physical.

You grab the sheet with the finger and stuff it into your bag, drop the red flag, and calmly begin your descent down the stairs.

You emerge from the staircase at what seems to be a back corner of the main worship hall, fortunately very nearly hidden from the open area in front of the altar. You figure that by staying close to the wall you can dash from column to column to the main entry up front and have a decent chance of not being seen at all.

Ah! There you are. Let's get out of here.

You see Romanna, Cadmus in hand, hiding behind the farthest column in front of you, intently watching the priest. She doesn't seem to notice you yet.

 

[Gray Shade]

As stealthily as possible, Pollock makes his way down the row of columns to Romana's side, where he whispers her name to get her attention.

"Enjoying the show?"

Stay with her for a few moments more, old friend.

Risking a quick look, Pollock takes a glance at the lay of the land.

* * * *

OOC: Does it look possible for her to sneak out a door without being noticed, or are the departing whorshippers packing the only doorway?

 

[Lazlow]

The dark cloak easily allows you to meld in the shadows cast by the torches hanging on the other side of the wide, towering columns next to you. Likewise, the beat of the steady rain against the door and shuttered windows masks any sound your feet may have made. Within seconds you've traversed the length of the hall and stand next to Romanna, who, after the initial shock of having someone sneak up on her so quickly, realizes that it's you.

"Let's get out of here before we're seen!"

Thanks to the worshippers waiting for the post-service blessing from the priest, they are filing out in about 30-second intervals. You think you should have no problem sneaking out between them, and the somewhat darkened entryway might even help.

 

[Gray Shade]

In which Pollock and Romanna make good their escape

Using the cover of sound and shadows, our hero and his companion make good their escape.

Once outside, they duck into a nearby alley, where Pollock buries his "disguise" (the robe) in a refuse receptacle. Once a few blocks up the road on their way back to the Sturgeon to find the bar-maid, Molly, Pollock says:

"I found definite proof of something vile being tapped into in that temple. I've yet to decide exactly what, but our suspicions are well founded. Hopefully, we'll find some knowledge of your brother and his friends soo--AH, there you are!"

He then politely takes Cadmus from Romanna, and in his thoughts relays the entirety of the events which befell him while they were separated.

He rubs Romanna encouragingly on the shoulder as they walk and gives her a broad, if not slightly crooked, smile. "You were quite brave in there, Romanna. Did you see or sense anything of relevance?"

 

[Lazlow]

"Oh, yes," she says, handing the staff back over to you. She glances at you strangely as you take it, but smiles as you compliment her. Romanna blushes, but the look is soon replaced with one of concern and puzzlement. "Well... I don't know if it's worth mentioning or not, but... You see, some of the sailors at the temple there were discussing the recent raids on the town by what they call 'frogmen'. Now I know that the island is most certainly home to other aquatic communities - there is a good-sized triton outpost nearby, for example - but I'm not exactly sure what they are referring to here. Anyway, it seems that they've taken to daylight incursions in the town, especially at the docks where we just came from. I wonder if the same vile 'something' you discovered is related.

"Speaking of vile things," she says, the strange look returning, "let me see your hand."

 

[Gray Shade]

Pollock forced himself to smile and said, "Normally I'm insulted when a pretty girl includes any part of my person in the category of 'vile things', but in this case I believe you are justified." He held his hand out, letting her do as she would with it.

"There was a small box," he indicated the size with his hands, pulling the one out of her grasp, then held it back out again with a quiet apology. "As I reached for it, black tendrils seemed to seep through its cracks and reach for me. They connected with my finger, there, before I could withdraw it. However, they then vanished leaving me disoriented as if I'd just suffered a vision. Of course, no simple vision ever left behind such a curse. Can you make anything of it? Is it the type of ailment your god can cure?" As she opened her mouth to respond, Pollock continued. "I fear that it bodes no good, and worse yet, will make me easily identifiable to anyone afiliated with the temple, including our lovely dinner companion. If you cannot repair it, we'll have to find some way to disguise it. But I'm jabbering on, please, what is your opinion?"