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Message: <blockquote data-quote="BoldItalic" data-source="post: 6789646" data-attributes="member: 6777052">They found themselves in an underground chamber that seemed too square and regular to be anything but artificial. The low flat ceiling was supported at regular intervals by square columns that were all of a bland, light-coloured and featureless stone that was rough and gritty to the touch. The floor was of the same substance but it was worn smooth in places, as if many hard boots had marched over it. Behind the entrance was a large stone block on rollers that seemed as if it was designed to be moved into place to close off the chamber from the world above.The red light from the morning sun penetrated only weakly into the chamber and BoldItalic made to bring forth a yellow light from his staff. He tried twice, and was puzzled to find that his staff gave out only the feeblest of glimers. Something felt wrong. While he was pondering this strange turn of events, he spied a light approaching from deep in the chamber. It gradually resolved itself into a lantern being carried by a dwarven watchman."Best roll the gate shut," said the watchman jovially, "Don't want those druids coming down here tut-tuting all over the place.""Druids?" asked Clotbert, as Rylnethaz and the two elven soldiers pushed the stone door along on its rollers until the entrance was sealed and the daylight entirely blocked."Crazy old men dressed in animal skins. Always chanting. Weird. You must have seen them, surely?""Oh, we saw then alright," said BoldItalic, "They tried to set some flying lizards on us.""Flying lizards? You mean the pteranodons? There's a nest of them up in the cliffs. Eat the occasional druid, and welcome to it, if you ask me. The druids think it's an honour to be chosen. A reward for a lifetime of chanting. I said they were crazy.""We haven't introduced ourselves, I am Coronal Sir Rylnethaz Redshield, this is my vizier BoldItalic, my ArchPriest Clotbert The Pathetic, and Fingers, our factotum. These two soldiers are our escort."The watchman raised his lantern to look at their faces, then grunted in apparent satisfaction. "I'm the watchman. You can call me Brottor, if you like. I've come to guide you to the next step."Rylnethaz was astonished by what the dwarf had just said. "The next step?" he asked."Yes, you'll never find the right staircase in all these columns if I don't show you. Just follow me," and he led the way deep into the chamber, counting pillars as he went."Pardon my asking, Brottor," began BoldItalic as they walked along behind him, "But is there something peculiar about the stonework down here?""Nineteen, twenty, ... Yes, dwarven composite. Secret formula. Has anti-magic properties. This place was built as a bunker in the spell-wars years ago. Never needed to be used, I'm glad to say. Twenty-one, ..."Brottor stopped and, reaching up, pulled down a circle of the roof surrounding one of the pillars. It dropped squeakily to the ground, unfolding an iron staircase that ascended into the hole that was revealed in the ceiling. "There you go, this one is for you," he announced."Er, thank you," said Rylnethaz. "Fingers, it is customary to tip the watchman. I believe you have a few coins of ours about you, do you not?"Fingers coughed. He did, but he wondered how Rylnethaz knew. He handed over some gold anyway, with best grace he could muster. He thought he would try to get something in exchange, though, just on principle, even if it was only information that might one day prove useful. "Do all the pillars have staircases like this one?" he asked innocently.Brottor laughed, while adroitly pocketing the coins. "Only when they need to. You wouldn't believe the people who have come through here, all looking for something. Each staircase is for someone different. It takes them where they want to go. But it's personal to them. Doesn't work for anyone else.""And this one is mine?" asked Rylnethaz, "I had no idea. Thank you, Brottor, perhaps we will meet again in another place.""I doubt it. But thank you anyway, Sir Rylnethaz. Now up you go, and may good fortune snap at your heels like a terrier dog.""A quaint expression," mused Clotbert as they climbed the iron stairs, "But apt, somehow, very apt."</blockquote>

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