"Dosn't matter where we go, just that we go!"Copper's voice would sound increacingly worried. "I'll cover the rear."
OOC:
Copper is going to follow the team and close the grate/door as best he can, preferibly jamming both if he has enough time. Someone else is going to have to move the cart or the oxes and the door or grate out of the way first though.
"We go, then." said the Drow, and he dropped low, going under an ox. He had grabbed a poor-quality crowbar (used to open barrels in the supply piles) and used it to get the grate up, which made a clanging noise which disturbed the oxen. One tried to kick at him, but he was quick enough to twist away, and he dropped into the tunnel below with a light splash.
Shouts and the light of torches came from the room to the south, as a group of cultists and mercenaries arrived led by Siobhan. She yelled at the cult fanatics, "Get that portcullis open!"
With the winch broken, they had to lift it, and with fanatical fervor, in spite of not being particularly strong men, they succeeded in lifting it just long enough for one of them (Lorent's most hated elf) to slide underneath, before it came crashing back down. "Help them!" she commanded the others.
In the mean time, Getan took Rowlow's crossbow from him once more, and he loaded it while the veteran mercenary went to the cell and told the cultist inside, "Let's see about getting you out of there."
He produced a set of thieves' tools, seeing as Copper held the key, and he began to work the lock.
OOC:
No violence this round. The oxen are a bit worked up about the grate open under them. They'd be easy to drive out of the way, if someone wants to do that, otherwise they might take opportunity attacks on anyone who climbs under them.
"I can, but they won't like it. Might get more aggressive if I hit them, but it will move them immediately. Or I could just create an illusion of hay, but we don't have time for that. Step away from them. Sorry, big guys."
Lorent creates an illusion of fire springing from the grate, licking up the wall in front of the oxen. With some luck, they will go with more space rather than rampage in the narrow space where Copper and Lorent are.
If that doesn't work, he blasts them with pushing blast back toward the cultist that's with them in the space.
AC 18 Pass Perc 14
HP 33/40 HD 3/4
SSdc13 1/3
Chan Div 1/2 Divine Smite 0/1 Lay 0/20 Insp 0/1
(Catching up)
Shamal saw Merrick's strange reaction and heard what he said about his face. Shamal was filled with bewilderment. Did I get more food in my teeth than my belly?
But seeing the serious concern in the voices of the others, Shamal looked into the waters and saw what was now marked upon him. He did not recognize the symbol, as he was not familiar with the runes and sigils of this area, but it did not please him. Hmm. This does not appear to be a gift of hospitality to a weary traveler. Somehow, Shamal felt a little different as he looked upon the mark. A little less like reaching for the khirkash, and little more like reaching for his curved blades. The feeling unsettled him, but it passed quickly, while leaving a lingering darkness.
He paused for a moment, looking at the group. Shway shway habibi. Now that we have heard the sad tale of the last palm of the oasis, we cannot in good faith just leave him. My heart breaks for his loss. Shamal looks imploringly at the group.
I do not know what can be done for him, but it is not the way of the Faisan to leave any without hope! Shamal thinks deeply, trying to recall the myths of his people.
Perhaps ... my people say that in moments of need, the djinn will come to provide succor. I know that this is not mere legend, for the Lords of the Elements came unto me. It has been told in our myths that their aid could be summoned with devotion and sacrifice, and I pledge my will, my strength, and the saif al-bedawi to the cause of the last palm, for his pain is our pain!
Shamal thinks he remembers a story of how the Faisan once called upon the Rabb al-Wahah, Lord of the Waters, to provide an oasis when they were wandering through the sun-scorched desert. Shamal pulls out the long, cuved horn of the oryx and blows a mournful tune on it, and then begins a slow rhythmic dance with the khikhash and mirwas, chanting the story of the greatness of Rabb al-Wahah. Over several minutes, he begins dancing and chanting more quickly, faster and faster, whirling about, using his passion and his energy and channelling it into a final howl into the heavens ...
Rabb al-Wahah, hear you believer! The last palm of the oasis cries forth for your blessings! Take what I have, Lord of the Waters, and provide your gifts that this last palm shall forever be blessed by your greatness and your munificence, and that its aching heart be salved your presence!
Shamal collapses with those words, hoping that the djinn have heard him.
As the others made ready to ascend the steep slope to the dig-site, Shamal had decided that he could not leave the old Treant to his fate, not for a moment longer. He danced, beseeching Rabb al-Wahah to intervene. As he danced, a hot wind blew through the chamber. At first, Shamal feared that his efforts would make things worse for Ironbark, as the wind was dry as the desert, and it dried out his earlier effort with the Dance of Rain.
But the wind showed that he had the attention of the Djinn, and it would be dangerous to stop without appeasement. So he danced and played until at last he shouted his request and collapsed, exhausted.
He looked at the Treant, which was dry, cracked, and still. He sighed and picked himself up, feeling somewhat defeated. It appeared that Rabb al-Wahah had answered with the Mercy of Death. It was a just decision, he decided, but morose. But then he saw it - at first a lump on one of the tree's old roots. Then it sprouted, and the dry root split apart with a cracking noise, and out came a small Acacia, walking on its roots.
"Ironbark is dead - gone with his brothers." declared the thorny desert shrub, "But I am Ironthorn, and I am free."
The Djinn worked in mysterious ways, often giving you what you wish, but almost never how you intend it.
