Four Sides
With Jeovanna stepping back from a westwards scouting, Dain has his moment to focus more closely on what lies ahead. In the distance his torch and the floor’s searing red pockmarks dimly illuminate the space. Cobwebs, some old and abandoned, sticky threads locked with once floating particles of ash and stoot. Others would appear fresh to him, spun not so very long ago. Watching, all is quiet except for the occasional splitting of a heated coal. Nothing moves here. He has no doubt though, that any arachnids that could handle such heat and form such sizes of nest, would be both large and ugly to behold.
The harsher the home, the harsher the welcome, as the old song goes. The barbarian would know a fair bit about that way of thinking too…
Abruptly, Jeovanna and Dain’s ears perk up to the sounds of deep, foreign, and ominous words resonating from behind….
Metea’s fingers have warmed against the stone as an area around her hand begins to glow red! The magical energy causes the Tiefling no pain, but a growing sense that she is being observed, and perhaps an extra dash of anxiety creeps into the back of the Warlock’s senses. The priest would notice too, that there is air movement to their flank, like an isolated pocket of heat and pressure arisen from nowhere. It drifts off, down the passage a way.
An almost human voice speaks out then, but with accents like flames and mockery in it's low aggressive tone.
Wma uw zmuw, sma iozyr wa dalq kiryw quozw za afr piwzyrw ao mydd?
Qfuyz szudc, zmyh vory laz oar yizulq hyz. Pizuylty pih wyrjy fw sydd myry. Sa? Wmiz vyduqmzw mijy haf krafqmz oar fw? Oy, mffr cyaqx, wf wfanpl je yihoqace, jic efi haxyc jp wodpl epc!
Infernal! Luckily a few of you know this language, as difficult to read as it is to speak...
Translation: Who is this, who after so long bares gifts to our masters of hell?
Quiet Stilk, they are not for eating yet. Patience may serve us well here.
So? What delights have you brought for us? Oh, poor thing, so soiled by humanity, but you might be saved yet!
“What’s going on? Who said that goobledeegook?” Annit calls out, quickly dropping her torch to the ground and drawing out a shortbow, while Otiroth rushes past to his “friend’s” aid.
A horrid shiver runs down the priest’s spine.
Metea finds that her hand will not budge from the rockface. It's stuck there, as though flesh and stone is now magically conjoined.
<Spell-casters may make an Arcana check to recognize a few facts of interest (Metea may make this roll with Advantage). Her speed has been reduced to 0 whilst the stone has her locked in position, but as one hand is free she can still cast spells and threaten the surrounding 5ft area should melee break out.
Any acts of aggression and we move to initiative. What would you like to do?>
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