Dirigible
Explorer
All:
Mere moments later
Snarling, squealing and snapping, the rats herd you through the hovels, towards a roughly circular entrance that looks like a collapsed sewer tunnel. Every time you try to pull out of the ring of furry bodies, the relentless nips and hisses force you back, despite the 'chief rat's', whom identifies himself as Gnawbone's assurances that you are not prisoners and will not be harmed.
The trip is short, and doesn't give you much time to think about brekaing free. Jagged bricks jut into the ring-shaped entrance, which proximity reveals to be small alcove, bringing to Eyvind's mind the reliquary cubbey-holes and icon displays they have in Khadoran-style churches. The chamber is small and dark, with enough room for the four humans to squeeze in shoulder to shoulder with Kneecap squashed awkwardly between them. In the back of the chamber, illuminated by a lantern that glows with an eldritch green light and swings slowly back and forth as if just struck, is a crude wooden throne, made of broken barrels and sewer driftwood.
Crouched on the throne is a repellent figure. A hunched, wrinkled old woman with gnarled, nut-brown skin seems to be naked except for a tattered fur coat. Except that, as you look closer, the coat is squirming, alive. It is in fact hundreds of albino sewer rats, clambering over each other, wriggling, clinging to the hag in a seething carpet. As you enter, she turns her hook-nosed head towards you, pale blue eyes glinting with a sharp intelligence that seems to pierce your thoughts, seeking out your true intentions and secrets.
Gnawbone scampers forward, his fat black body slithering up the hag's living garb of rats like a sooty raindrop in reverse. Perching on her shoulder, he whispers into her ear, paw raised to obscure his mouth in a ridiculously human gesture. The hag listens expressionlessly to the rat for a moment, then riases her hand up to him. Gnawbone crawls on, and she lowers him to her waist-level, and begins stroking his lusturous fur.
"Welcome..." she growls in cracked, reedy voice. "My dear tells me you come into my home, bearing no good account of yourself, intimidate my subjects. Tell me, why should I not just let my dearies feast on you this moment?
Mere moments later
Snarling, squealing and snapping, the rats herd you through the hovels, towards a roughly circular entrance that looks like a collapsed sewer tunnel. Every time you try to pull out of the ring of furry bodies, the relentless nips and hisses force you back, despite the 'chief rat's', whom identifies himself as Gnawbone's assurances that you are not prisoners and will not be harmed.
The trip is short, and doesn't give you much time to think about brekaing free. Jagged bricks jut into the ring-shaped entrance, which proximity reveals to be small alcove, bringing to Eyvind's mind the reliquary cubbey-holes and icon displays they have in Khadoran-style churches. The chamber is small and dark, with enough room for the four humans to squeeze in shoulder to shoulder with Kneecap squashed awkwardly between them. In the back of the chamber, illuminated by a lantern that glows with an eldritch green light and swings slowly back and forth as if just struck, is a crude wooden throne, made of broken barrels and sewer driftwood.
Crouched on the throne is a repellent figure. A hunched, wrinkled old woman with gnarled, nut-brown skin seems to be naked except for a tattered fur coat. Except that, as you look closer, the coat is squirming, alive. It is in fact hundreds of albino sewer rats, clambering over each other, wriggling, clinging to the hag in a seething carpet. As you enter, she turns her hook-nosed head towards you, pale blue eyes glinting with a sharp intelligence that seems to pierce your thoughts, seeking out your true intentions and secrets.
Gnawbone scampers forward, his fat black body slithering up the hag's living garb of rats like a sooty raindrop in reverse. Perching on her shoulder, he whispers into her ear, paw raised to obscure his mouth in a ridiculously human gesture. The hag listens expressionlessly to the rat for a moment, then riases her hand up to him. Gnawbone crawls on, and she lowers him to her waist-level, and begins stroking his lusturous fur.
"Welcome..." she growls in cracked, reedy voice. "My dear tells me you come into my home, bearing no good account of yourself, intimidate my subjects. Tell me, why should I not just let my dearies feast on you this moment?
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