Ptolus: Midwood - "The Dark Waters of Moss Pond"

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

"The realm of Man is narrow and constrained; always the forces of Chaos press upon its borders."
Gideon Midwood, first Baron of Midwood​

Chapter 1: Into the Woods
Chapter 2: A Meeting in the Woods
Chapter 3: Little Hamlet in the Big Woods
Chapter 4: Once Upon a Time
Chapter 5: The Abbey in the Woods
Chapter 6: Beneath Blackberry Ridge
Chapter 7: The Shadows of Kem House
Chapter 8: The Dark Waters of Moss Pond
Chapter 9: The Shadow of the Great Tower
Chapter 10: Flavivirus the Black
Chapter 11: The Night Cliffs
Chapter 12: Night's Dark Terrors
Chapter 13: The Voyage of the Melann
Chapter 14: Vilustuminen the White
Chapter 15: Fiddler's Green
Chapter 16: Ra'ad the Blue

No comments in this thread, please. Questions or comments should go in the thread on the Talking the Talk board.

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

Chapter 1
Into the Woods​

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?"

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

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?"

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

"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."

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

"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.

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

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.

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

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.

"Aye, I can do that, I guess."

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

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."

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

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.

 

[Whizbang Dustyboots]

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.