Coldeven 6, CY 593
87—Lost in the Caverns of Tsojcanth
If the Liberators are a reliable gauge, the “Lost” part of “Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth” refers to getting lost within a confusing labyrinth of natural caverns and spatial conundrums. Luckily, Prisantha enjoys puzzles, a trait not widely present in modern-day adventurers, but very useful when called upon. And it is particularly needed when exploring the ruins from Greyhawk’s by-gone era; tricks, riddles and traps abound, and while more modern-thinking Despots of Evil Intent may have left such quaint delaying tactics by the wayside in favor of the TPK-inducing behemoths now the rage, you just never know when you’re going to have to work your way through a hundred-year-old maze. And when you do, you’re glad to have Prisantha.
As the Enchantress of Verbobonc leads her friends through the caverns and tunnels of Tsojcanth, the heroes discover the remains of many creatures—several score of some strange bulbous-headed goblinoid off-shoot, gleefully massacred and left wide-eyed with rictus. Ogres, trolls and giants likewise lie where they fell, hacked to pieces or destroyed with magical flame. A smashed stone golem decorates one cavern, and in another, Lucius laughingly points out the corpse of a large six-legged dragon-kin, impaled upon the stalactites thirty feet above the floor.
“Now, how the hell . . .” Heydricus wonders to himself.
Iuzians have been here.
Forewarned is forearmed, so when the group reaches an ominous-looking pair of double-doors, they prepare themselves for battle. If the Iuzians are still here, they are dangerous foes; a cruel and brutally efficient adventuring group, judging by the bodies left behind. Prisantha is convinced that she has seen the tell-tale signs of the horrid wilting spell—not a reassuring thought.
But the double doors are themselves a teleportation trap, positioning the group elsewhere within the caverns. They make their way back to an identical set of doors, and when the scenario repeats itself, Jespo sighs with exasperation.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it all figured out,” Prisantha reassures him. And so she does. After another five teleportations, and a half-hour of tedious searching, the party approaches a set of double doors and are not transported elsewhere. Rather, the doors open onto a recessed niche cut into the horizontal axis of a spherical room. Eight identical landings ring the perimeter of the sphere, each one festooned with brass railings and velvet curtains, every inch the nobleman’s seats from a crown-theatre. The sphere itself is a vivid turquoise at its uppermost apex, fading gradually to a deep emerald at its base—the effect is achieved by a clever fresco of carved stones set into the wall.
The bottom fifth of the sphere is level ground, forming a twenty foot circular area covered with sumptuous curtains, cushions and tables containing all manner of finery, from expensive fabrics to gold chains. On one luxuriously enameled rare-wood table, a bowl the size of an ogre’s head is filled to the brim with precious gemstones. Another table contains stacks of lacquered ivory plates, cunningly carved to represent the flower of some ancient king’s chivalry. The whole scene is lit by several elaborately decorated stone braziers that give off both a soft, reddish light as well as a gently scented smoke.
A single large platinum chain descends from the center of the ceiling, a surprisingly plain unlit iron lantern at its end. Directly beneath the lantern sits a low, flat bier, covered with draperies of rich crimson and purple—beneath these fabrics brief glimpses of green and white marble can be seen. Resting upon the bier is a beautiful young woman, her raven-black hair a stark contrast to her pale skin. Her features seem to glow and hover in space, the only object in the scene untouched by the red light of the braziers. She is adorned in elaborate plate armor—its fluting and enamel-work betray an ancient elven craftsman’s hand. She clasps a brilliantly reflective greatsword to her chest, in the burial-pose of the Perrenlands.
“Iggwilv?” Gwendolyn asks. Just then, the lantern above the woman flashes briefly and Gwendolyn is gone.
Dabus immediately enacts a true seeing, and while the more mercenary Liberators are grateful to hear that the wealth spread before them is no illusion, the divination reveals no immediate clues as to the nature of the threat before them. Prisantha and Jespo begin furiously re-casting their protective spells, but even as they begin, the lantern flashes and Heydricus disappears.
“Goddamnit,” Lucius curses, as he vaults over the railing. He leaps onto the foot of the bier, and gazes within the lantern. Even as he jumps, the lantern flashes at him, but the wily rogue is too quick. The almost imperceptible beam of light flashes wide, a near miss. Inside, Lucius can see tiny wavering figures of his missing companions. “They’re in here,” he yells, as he takes off his cloak.
“Duck!” Prisantha suggests, as she unleashes a meteor swarm at the lantern. Lucius hits the ground literally on top of the sword-maiden, and evades the strike as six meteors slam into the lantern without effect; whump whumpwhump whumpwhumpwhump.
“Prisantha!” Lucius screams.
“We might not want to destroy the lantern, dear,” Jespo observes from the railing. “Our friends are within.”
“It’s not a literal space, Jespo,” Prisantha counters. “They haven’t been shrunk, they are elsewhere.”
“We shall see,” Dabus states, and he makes himself ethereal, but is disappointed to note that the lantern extends fully into the ghostly plane. In fact, its radiance is brighter here, and within seconds, Dabus is also gone.
Lucius stands up and covers the lantern with his cloak. This done, he straightens and smirks at his companions just before his face goes slack. He turns immediately and removes the cloak.
“Prisantha, ‘ware Lucius!” Jespo yells, even as he wastes a greater dispelling on the lantern. Lucius is staring into the lantern blankly, and nodding from time to time as if in some slack and half-felt agreement.
Pris quickly dominates the rogue, and to her surprise, immediately looses connection with his mind. But whatever the cause, Lucius slips to the ground, lying still at the feet of the dead swordswoman. Prisantha turns to Jespo for assistance, but he is gone.
“Oh, bother,” she says, recalling even in her distress the Viscountess Trill’s admonition against using un-ladylike language.
“Um, a word miss?” Hastur asks before he, too disappears.
Prisantha crosses her arms and glares at Daoud’s Wondrous Lanthorn. “Well?” she snaps. “Get it over with. I’m not going to wait here all day.”
-----
One moment Gwendolyn is preparing spells next to Prisantha, and the next she is within a strange, colorless place. Her stomach tumbles in the same way it might should she have plane shifted, and she surmises immediately that she is within a demi-plane. “Neither here nor neither there, a place between all your anywheres.”
There is no sky here, just a lighter shade of grey above the charcoal horizon. The dim place has no apparent light-source, and she notices that she casts no shadow. This disrupts her depth perception, and a faint throbbing behind her eyes tells her that she will have a headache soon.
The expanse she stands upon is completely flat, and seems to extend forever in all directions. She is in the center of a ring of huge stones, seven in all, each of them as black as night in this dim grey place. Black-robed bodies lie among them, indistinct even at such a short distance. Directly before her is a bulbous and menacing statue of a grotesquely fat woman lying on her back, the fleshy girth of her massive legs spread wide as she gives agonizingly violent birth to a full-sized elderly human male. The ancient is tearing free of her womb, his face cruelly expressionless. Most disturbingly, she realizes, the statue of the Old One is casting two shadows—a perfect ‘V’ elongating to either side of her.
Gwendolyn does not need a divine oracle or a blind soothsayer to know what happens next. Next, the statues will animate or even become that which they represent. She doesn’t know where she is, or how she got here, but she does know that she doesn’t want any piece of either Iggwilv or Iuz.
“Well, I wish you weren’t here.” She says to the statues.
She is sure that her spell has some effect. The whole demi-plane ripples for a moment, and then goes still. Gwendolyn tenses, waiting for the gloating cackle or stony fist that comes next, but neither arrives. She smiles to herself, satisfied.
Then the standing stones begin to grow.
-----
Lucius lies at the feet of a corpse. Not surprisingly, this isn’t the first time he has done so, although it might be the last. Towering over him is a naked mountain of flesh; layers of fat given a vaguely woman-like shape. A pair of stubby arms protrude feebly just below a hairless round nub that hides eyes and a mouth within fleshy overhangs, and just above a pair of horribly bloated breasts. The bottom half of the creature is given over to legs—eight in total, spaced equidistantly around the main mass, each one dimpled and rolled. What lies between each pair of legs is best not contemplated by those who would remain sane.
Iggwilv skittles over to Lucius, and regards him with an unfathomable expression. “Oooh . . .wookit you, precious,” she coos with a voice altogether too rumbling for its words. “Do you need a mommy, yesyoudo. Yesyoudo!”
The dialouge is actual, although I've just edited out the two hours of *unintersting* role-playing in there, so we wind up looking much more clever than we actually are.
