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Message: <blockquote data-quote="soanso" data-source="post: 6169970" data-attributes="member: 6684655">Foul Water and Bad PortentsThe haunted stone walls howled in mourning, like a far-off hound baying in the fog-shrouded night. Though at the edge of perception, tis real enough. Vohoi has noted the magic aura of this room seems to shift and pulse, as if some ancient magic preserves this place. We quickly searched the room beneath the scaffolding, finding iron pins and hooks in the walls that were once used to hold prisoners in chains, but little else. Back up to the scaffolding and to the door, which Shaiira opened with ease.  The next room was some sort of torture chamber. Its archaic apparatuses were in poor shape; though whole, they looked as if they’d crumble with the slightest touch. Again, the walls were in good repair; it was obvious that the architect of this place cared more for the bones than the organs. Another door, another entrance.  This room had a vaulted ceiling, and was fairly rectangular, opening lengthwise to our position. The floor was marked by what seemed to be circular wicker or wooden disks, about five feet in diameter. At the far end of the room stood a goblin, but at the same time, a not-a-goblin. Hands moved to weapons.  Though his melon-head, pointy ears, sickly grey skin and nasty breath were certainly goblin, he was easily twice his kin’s usual size, standing nearly as tall as Vohoi. A third arm branched from the right shoulder, ending in a normal hand, holding an ornate longsword. And a fourth arm, though it was shriveled and seemed useless. His other hands wielded a fine dagger, likely silver, and a well-made hand axe. I sang “Verses of Honor”, an uplifting hymn from old Taldor. Vohoi enchanted Mundin’s axe with an electric charge; this baddie was in for a surprise, should the dwarf hit.  Mundin led the charge, and the beast immediately vomited a string of gore and puss I wish to never see again, stopping the dwarf in his tracks. As he retched, I remembered Grandy Vin’s Forever’thing Recipe, and quickly flashed a magic pulse at the dwarf, who immediately recovered from the vomit-spray and struck the too-big goblin with a vicious hack from his axe, following with an electric charge that scorched the scant hair it had on its back. Shaiira, as always, was in perfect position to strike the enemy; his retaliation missed. Mundin dropped his axe again for the kill.  We stood over the horror, wondering what, exactly, it was. I remembered Shalelu’s assessment of the goblin tribes as my eyes fell to the ornate longsword. Koruvus, the Seventooth champion who disappeared, wielded such a weapon. Shelelu said he was considered a ghost or worse; such details matter little as a foul champion is gone. Mundin now has an enchanted hand axe and a silver dagger, his jagged grin wearing the sum of the battle. The ornate longsword called to me, but my rapier is quicker. We decided to keep the blade until it serves a purpose in battle or on the market.  C and Vohoi consulted for a few minutes, and told us of a powerful mutagen known as “Waters of Lamashtu.” This unholy potable purportedly imbues one with supernatural mutations, such as extra limbs or a larger size, should one survive the ritual. It originates from an uncommon spell of the same name; was this was a deliberate action by some foul soul? Nualia? This might explain Koruvus’ disappearance and transformation- perhaps the Mother of Monsters called him to service, and he imbibed these waters and became an abomination. We should tell Shalelu of Koruvus’ fate, should we meet the elf again. Finding Koruvus here, then, made sense; Lamashtu is revered by the goblins because she freed them from the diabolical machinations of the Prince of Hell, Asmodeus.    Back to the wicker carpets. We braced ourselves as C tipped one over with his walking stick-a pit in the ground about eight feet deep and under five across, with a zombie shuffling hungrily within. Perhaps once a macabre garbage disposal, now an afterthought. We shuddered and moved on to the door.  The door opened onto a weird, circular room. The floor was checkerboard, and in it several items floated in midair. The walls were plated in red metal, and embossed with strange runes. Vohoi identified them as Thassilonian, and interpreted them to be those of anger, rage, and wrath. Suspended in midair were a dead raven, a scroll, an iron bar with a forked metal tip, a book, and a glass bottle filled with liquid.  None were brave enough to step into the room. The angry runes and the hatred exuded by the red metal gave us all pause. C went back to the previous room and purloined a zombie lid, attached it to the end of his quarterstaff, and batted the items our way.  With a simple game of rebound and deft hands, Caramour was able to position the items towards us. We recovered a scroll ensorcelled with burning hands, a wand of shocking grasp,  a holy book dedicated to Lamashtu, and a bottle of Magnimarian wine- the same style and vintage we found on Tsuto’s desk. The raven was left in orbit; if only we could speak with the dead or see its last moments.   Two bottles of wine with the same vintage and vintner- I should drop in on my friend Aldern Foxglove; perhaps he can shed some light on this coincidence, being a nobleman of Magnimar. I am haunted by the raven, a portent unheralded and undisclosed.  The next room was small, and presented three doors, each marked with the seven-pointed star of wicked blades; PopPop and I once encountered the symbol as we trekked across Varisia. His blood ran cold and we hurried from the obelisk bearing its mark. The brave man spoke no words. I recalled the same symbol emblazoned on the book held by the statue holding the ranseur. I would need to ask Vohoi about the history of this mark.  The room itself was a graveyard of crumbled furniture; though a sheet of paper discovered on the floor held a flaming sphere spell. We opened the three doors in succession; each contained the mutated skeleton of some sort of humanoid. I guessed Waters of Lamashtu gone wrong. I closed the doors on the grim remains, wishing them to never again see light. Perhaps these were to be the meals for the pit-zombies we encountered.   “Vohoi,” I said, closing the third and final door. “You seem to know much of this mark. I have seen it, too, in my days. What of it? I know it is a terrible portent for travelers.”  Vohoi thought a moment, and said, “The Sihedron, as it is known to history, is the mark of the Runelords. We must be in some sort of ancient temple or stronghold, for it to be so freely displayed. The seven points of the mark represent the seven schools of arcane magic practiced during the time of the Thassilonian Empire.”  “Divination was not a school then,” C added.  “Correct,” said Vohoi. “But now is not the time for a history lesson. We must proceed- the correlations in Tsuto’s journal to the foul fiends beneath the glassworks gives us great cause for concern for Sandpoint.”  “Aye,” Mundin said, shadowed in the darkened room. “We must rid this place of evil.”  “Follow me,” Shaiira said, setting off deeper into the complex. The tunnel brayed with energy. At first I thought it sad mourning, now I am almost convinced it is the maddened howls of the hateful spirits spawned, trapped, and killed here; the spirits of spite, evil, and wrath.</blockquote>

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