Caves Suck...

Dwarven Warrior Princesses, raised by humans, really HATE caves... 

The short version: Our Heroes tiredly struggle and emerge victorious, (though bloody, muddy and cranky), against two tough-vermin critters before Amaril is sucked away via a whirlpool trap, after locating a hidden doorway. Wik locates another hidden door and Ooma, followed by Wik, Adrie, Fequr, Racelette, Ichabod, and Morgan, with Benji bringing up the rear, go through this door, emerge in an even larger cave, (chilly, cold cave), where they dispatch one foul reptilian creature and another one rounds the bend. "I really hate caves," Ooma sighs. 

The longer, picturesque route...

As you will recall, if you were paying attention last week, we begin this week at the ready in a granite-sided tunnel with a soaring ceiling and a rubble strewn, muddy, floor with about six to eight inches of water trickling along. The scratching noises are growing and the lighted sword that Jahlo magically imbued, sputters and blinks out just as an enormous form rounds the slight curve to the south...

Alert, even though blind momentarily from the disappearance of the light, Morgan, in the lead, calmly searches his pack, listening as the noises grow, finding a torch and lighting it.

As the torch sparks to life the group gasps in shock, then fright, then horror as they perceive two monstrous centipedes, approximately 15-18-feet long, their pinkish-white scale-like skin reflecting the torchlight. Our group haven’t time to do anything further as the lead centipede lunges for Morgan, its maw wide showing the many rows of sharp needle-like teeth.

Morgan, startled, quickly transfers the torch to his offhand and draws his weapon. Wik moves forward and plunges his short sword deep into the creature’s neck, the wide gash spewing a foul yellow bile, the creature screaming and twisting, moving closer. Adrie shifts toward the creature nervously, raising the dagger given her by Wik, throwing it, but, in her nervousness, she over compensates and the party hears the knife clatter well beyond the beast.

Ooma can smell this creature, and she swings wildly with her axe, nearly decapitating Adrie and Wik. “Hey hey hey! Wait; wait! You’re not anywhere near the creature! Jeeez!” They pant as Ooma, knocked nearly off-balance from her twirl, stumbles to a stop, her axe handle gripped tightly within her hand.

Ooma mutters, “Well, I need help. Point me to the bad guy next time! Sheesh!”

The creature rears up and lunges again for Morgan, misjudging the distance, due to the yellowy-pus oozing from its neck and eats a mouthful of rubble on the ground in front of Morgan. The second beast meanwhile is crawling along the far wall, it’s length nearly as long as the line of adventurers. It remains about ten-feet up on the side of the rough, damp wall, endeavouring to come up behind his meal.

Fequr throws her dagger at the creature as it slithers along and succeeds in hitting the wall just under the beast, her blade clattering to the watery-rocks below. Amaril considers sending a flaming arrow into the side of this beast, pulling a flask of oil from his pack, and preparing the ends of two arrows, glancing at the creature often as he does this. Racelette raises her arm, throws her dagger hard and strikes the wall in front of the creature, gaining its attention as sparks flicker, but losing her dagger in the watery muck below.

Ichabod steps forward, her mighty staff swings and crushes into the second beast’s skull, the heavy jewelled top of her staff wounding the creature, leaving it with a rather bloody grin.

Morgan, meanwhile, swings his weapon at the first creature who manages to roll, avoiding the sharp blade. Morgan then moves to deftly step around the creature, turning his body so as to flank the creature between Wik and himself, circling to the right and behind, keeping both beasts in his line of vision. While Morgan does this, Wik steps forward and again tries to plunge his blade deep into this hungry creature, but, in the slimy, sloppy trail of its bile, Wik slips and the blade glances off the stone just in front of the beast.

Ooma, hearing the muttered curses and clangs upon the stones, readies her axe and shouts, “Don’t you come near me!” Warning all and sundry that she will swing at the first thing that brushes against her!

The creature, frustrated that it can smell a meal but can’t seem to latch on, slithers speedily towards the party, its jaws opening and clamping around Racelette, who screams, pushing at it, pain radiating as the beast drops off, leaving a circle of tiny pin-holes on her leg, the poison the beast injects as it bites, trying to subdue her, fails, as she has become immune to various poisons over the years. Still blood droplets drip slowly from the piercings. She backs away, limping.

The other beast, leaps toward Wik, who jumps back, avoiding the gaping orifice. Amaril, hustles to the torch, lighting his oil-dipped arrow turning and firing before he finishes his spin causing the arrow to sail over the creature’s head landing in the shallow water with a sizzling splash fading to nothing.

Racelette, Fequr and Adrie, now weapon-less, move to stand near Ooma, their backs to the wall as Ooma shouts at them to, “Just stay put! The wolf will protect you! Protect them Benji.”

 Ichabod steps forward and with an oath, swings her staff and connects with... air, as the beast ducks. Morgan, moves into position and elevates his scimitar above his head, then down on the creature’s back, neatly drawing a line, intersecting with Wik’s earlier cut, enabling the escape of more yellowish-bile and causing the creature to rear up in fearful pain.

Amaril drops his crossbow and tries to haul out his scimitar, getting it caught in his armour and manages to twist himself about, while Ichabod swings her staff downward, and, as the beast tries to clamp onto the top, and she manages only to break one of its many teeth while pulling the staff back.

Morgan, eyeing the beast in front of him, hoping it keeps its attention focussed on Wik, swings his weapon and slices a mighty gash along its back crossing the earlier one, and splashes of ooze leaks forth. As Morgan’s blade is pulled back, Wik’s sinks in deeply, causing the creature to shriek an un-holy sound, its pain voluble.

Ooma, her eyes finally adjusting from the flash of brilliant light, wishes she couldn’t see! The large centipedes with their growling rumble and putrid scent spur her to charge the one near Wik and Morgan, her feet slipping and sliding in the slimy mass stumbling and nearly toppling arse over head. As she comes to a stop, righting herself, Morgan sardonically mumbles, “You really didn’t grow up in a cave, did you Dwarf?”

Causing Ooma to lift the hem of her dress and emphatically reply, “No, I did NOT!”

Ichabod, smiles at this exchange before swinging her staff at the beast, missing completely. While Morgan takes another swing at the one in front of him, slashing a large slice out of the beast’s side.

Wik follows, shoving his blade, again into the side, cutting upward. Ooma once more swings her axe, and cleaves a boulder in two, as the centipede manages to duck and roll out of the way of the oncoming death blow! Ooma shouts at the beast in frustration!

Amaril swing his scimitar and it connects with... air. The monsters rear up; their fear palpable. The one near Wik flips up and weakly attempts to bite Wik, but as he is so frail he is barely able to mount a splash, sliding backward, his feet sinking in the sludge. The other creature leaps for Ooma, his aim, off, the pain of losing a tooth bothering him, it instead grapples the rock Ooma cleaved into earlier.

Morgan jumps, his frustration evident, “How can we be mighty Heroes we can’t even down another of these creatures! I am going to slay you!” He thrusts his scimitar deftly inside the creature piercing straight through. The creature rears up, in a dramatic fashion, quivering and shaking before straightening and flopping down, dead. Morgan calmly steps on the centipede as he withdraws his scimitar, wiping the muck off along the creature’s side. His leather boots becoming slick with the pus and bile flowing from this dead critter. He then speedily walks toward the other beast, “Make yourself useful,” he shoves the torch into Adrie’s hands as he passes, while Ooma mutters that the ladies should find their daggers.

Adrie holds out her arm, waving it, the flickering light creating shadows, bright flashes and back to shadows again. Wik sneaks up and stabs the creature in the bum, ending its constipation problem, but earning Wik a roar of displeasure! While Ooma swings her axe as the torch light flickers, startling her and she steps back lowering her weapon in uncertainty.

With this the beast lunges at her and, as she steps back again, soars over her to the left and slithers to a stop on square one, square two, square... Ooma, taking advantage of his near miss, swings her axe, chopping a gash in its scaly hide. Wik, ever watchful, sees the creature sliding to a stop beside him quickly stabs with his shortsword, rendering a mighty twelve-inch gash before hauling the sticky blade out of the centipede’s side.

Amaril jumps and brings his arm down, his scimitar gashing a huge hole in its belly, spilling a glistening, round, egg-like sac, the slime-coated pearls sinking into the murky water. Bothered by the creature’s apparent state of motherhood, Ichabod’s staff swishes above the centipede, merely fanning it.

Morgan pulls his scabbard out and flails at the centipede, the scabbard causing the creature to vomit and spew bile in his direction before dropping like a stone, dead, laying in its own fetid excrement.

The party takes a short break, resting their weary bodies, Ooma vocally objecting to continuing further into these caves, “I tell you, I smell a trap!” The ladies shake their heads sadly.

“No wonder you don’t live underground, this place sucks!” Morgan agrees with Ooma, then offers the ladies a swig from one of the bottles of liquor he filched from the bar and raises an eyebrow when they shake their heads.

“No, thanks, we don’t drink.”

Ooma’s ears perk and she turns to them, “A Dwarf that doesn’t drink?” She shakes her head, “Now I’m certain we’re going into a trap.”

“It’s not so bad living underground,” the youngest, sister, Racelette, murmurs.

Ooma petulantly snipes at the serving ladies, “Fine, if you like it, you can find your own way from here. Fuck this shit! I’m out! If you can handle this shit what do you need us for? Ruined my new dress.”

Afraid they might have offended their benefactors, Adrie reaches for the bottle, and, grimacing slightly she swallows a mouthful, and hands the bottle to her sister Fequr who gulps a mouthful, shuddering as she passes the bottle to Racelette, who sees Morgan watching her intently. She lets him see the liquid spill into her mouth, raising the bottle high and pouring, before she swallows and hands the bottle back to Morgan, shuddering. “Vile stuff, that is.”

“My faith has been restored!” He gulps a few mouthfuls of the ‘fire-water’.

“Don’t worry, we’ll clean and repair your dress. We wouldn’t have asked but this way to our home is one we’ve travelled only once before. We don’t know what to expect.”

“And, as you see, we’re not battle maidens,” one adds softly.

As they sense animosity from the Dwarf in the group, the three move off, locating two of their three daggers, and moving to harvest the feet.

Morgan staggers over and asks, “Why didn’t t’ch’all make your home closer to the entrance?” As he swallows more of clear liquid in the bottle.

As they are resting, wiping their tools, drinking, nibbling some food they’d managed to pocket as they left the party grounds, Wik and Amaril feel a tingle in their noodles. Ooma would have too, if her heart had been less hardened against being underground, the other ladies should have been aware of the hidden door, but their minds are focussed elsewhere.

Amaril, peering about suddenly exclaims, “Hey ya’ll, see this?” He points to the solid block of granite. Wik grins, nodding. Amaril locates the tiniest hairline fracture darkening a rectangular block of granite and notices a small finger-hold along the left-hand edge, and he warns the party, “Ya’ll need to move to the front of the cave here, I think I’ve found a trap.”

Wik nudges one of the servants, “Do you know anything about this?”

Glancing, “No, would you like us to take a look?” At his nod, they pile the feet they have gathered into the makeshift bag, with the others from the previous kill, stand, walk toward the spot Amaril has indicated.

Amaril walks in front of the ladies, his thoughts focussed on distinguishing any traps, and, although he does, before he can speak, the floor around him opens up and he is drawn in the wink-of-an-eye into a smooth, deep-purple almost black, glass-like tube about five-feet in diameter, immersing him in arctic-cold rushing-water propelling him downward at an amazing rate of speed prior to branching to a 45-degree slide, enabling Amaril to lift his head and gasp a lungful of air before the 30-second ride culminates in a fifteen-foot freefall-plunge into a shockingly-cold naturally-carved stone bowl.

As he pops back above the surface, “What the heck!?!” he chokes, coughing mouthfuls of water out. His teeth are chattering and he hastily forces his frozen limbs to the shore of the large body of water he has just splashed into. Grasping onto the rock that serves as the shore, coughing and shaking, he pulls his body from the crystal-clear water. A soft glow radiates from lime green organic, rectangular-ish blobs, both, on the walls of the cave and under the water. Along with the evenly spaced glowing-blobs, the bottom of the Rock Bowl is encrusted with vibrant, colourful gems entrenched deep in the rough stony surface.

As Amaril stares, a slow, rhythmic thrum begins to emanate from somewhere, vibrating the level-surface of the placid water in concentric circles.

To the east, on the shore, a small, unattended, fire crackles. A structure, resembling a three-sided tent, sits behind the fire. From his location Amaril can see various items in and around the tent. His teeth chattering and mind numb, he, at first thinks it best to stay put, but as his fingertips begin to deaden, he makes the connection between fire and warmth; mincing his way around the narrow, five-foot ledge, to the larger circle where the fire snaps, his toes frozen.

A stack of wood, or roots? lay waiting as fuel for the fire, and beside that is a hollowed out log, containing ten tinder dry twigs. A roll and blanket are tucked in the back of the tent, the awning re-directing much of the heat inside, a bulls-eye lantern sits next to the bedroll with two flasks, presumably of oil, sit nearby. Three small, sealed wooden boxes sit by themselves on a low bench, as Amaril peers into them, he finds a leather pouch tied with a red bit of string in each.

As he continues to explore this bounty, he unearths a leather bag with a drawstring that, when lifted, feels oddly heavy and squishy. An assortment of tools: a grappling hook attached to a long hemp rope, a small, rusty miner’s pick, a pure silver signal whistle, a three-inch round mirror, a leather tube with a tightly fitted lid, that, when opened reveals a parchment written in Elven, (but it makes little sense to him), a long, thin vial of inky-black liquid, a pen, and three, foot-long metal rods with golden tips. In a leather rucksack Amaril discovers three clear-glass vials containing a pinkish liquid, a clear vial with a light blue liquid, a heap of trail rations and a small pouch that appears to be a Healer’s kit, mostly intact.

He sits down in his wet clothes to think, his breath puffing little clouds in the frigid air, staying near the fire, both warming and drying himself. 

Above him, back in the tunnel, the ladies scream as Amaril is flushed. The group stars open mouthed. “He... he just ...disappeared!”

Ooma comments, with dry humour, “I think there’s a trap over there.”

The group begins to hear a thrum vibrate its rhythmic, mesmerising beat causing them to glance at each other in concern. When the party turns to look at the serving girls they discern fear. The ladies are clutching each other’s hands, wide-eyed, their mouths open.

“That shu’na be hap’en’n,” Fequr’s shaky voice expels. “Nuthin’ any good ever come from that thrummin’.” The other two nod in agreement. “We’ve long since sought the source, but we naught know from whence it comes.” They look at each other as if passing a secret between them, that goes unnoticed by our Heroes.

Their speech has thickened, the party doesn’t seem to have noticed this either.

Ooma suddenly asks “What do you do with the feet you remove from the centipedes?”

Looking at her, questioningly. “The feet contain the poison. We gather them and use them as weapons; poisonous darts,” she explains.

Wik begins to search the cave, and his eyes notice another dark outline in the cave wall. He searches for traps, carefully examining the long wide corridor. He only is concerned about the whirlpool and the two apparent doors, and he wanders back to the apparent door after considering trying to disable the whirlpool trap and sensing something about the swirling water that isn’t normal, he changes his mind.

The door is almost exactly as the other, and Wik, cautiously, orders one of the Dwarf servants to open it. Fequr obliges, examining the doorway, puzzling, “There’s a finger hold lock-mechanism here.” As she speaks, she presses her finger in the opening, drawing it back with a yelp, sucking on it to staunch the trickle of blood. “Has anyone a small round instrument?”

A quick(ish) search of the area turns up nothing. Wik thinks of his glove and hands it to her with a warning, “Don’t wreck it.”

She looks at him, “It pierced me finger. Do you expect me to put that glove on, and not tear it? Are ya daft, man?”

Wik sighs, “Don’t you laugh at my hair.” he warns, as he removes his turban and hands it to her.

“Whatcha ex’pect me ta doo wit’ that?”

“Stuff it in, see if it will open,” Wik sarcastically mentions.

She looks at him, sure he is daft, but shrugs, “Okay.” After tearing it in the opening, he tells her she can keep it. She frowns and wraps her shoulders with it. “I need som’thin’ round. An’ stiff.”

Wik remember the poison spines he has and he offers Fequr one. She nods. “Aye. That’ll do. These come from Madame Quirry’s specimens, I’ll be thinkin’.”

She pushes the spine, needle-nose first, in, hearing a click as the gate/door pops open an inch or so. Several attempts at tugging the door open result in minor success. Morgan swaggers over, “Here, let me help you.” And they yanks several more times, until they all, mad as heck, yank the door which finally results in it grinding open, revealing a short corridor, ten-to-fifteen foot, with a sharp turn. The ceilings are about eight foot high, and the jagged stone carved tunnel is about five-foot wide. The stench that seeps out is foul. Luckily, it dissipates fairly quickly.

Morgan diligently pounds several pitons in the framework of the door’s mechanism, over-compensating in fear the door will slam close after they enter. “If you close after we enter,” he threatens the inanimate object, “I am going to haul you out of here take you back to the city and pulverise you into dust! Don’t you even THINK about closing!”

Ooma is very adamant that they ought to just abandon this decision and leave the cave, go back to the Inn get a room and call it a night. “I mean, c’mon guys, a bed, some food...”

Morgan reminds her of Amaril, who could be trapped somewhere.

“He could be dead,” she grouses, looking at her destroyed tunic in dismay.

“Well, if you want to go back, you go ahead,” Morgan encourages, “But I’m going to find our lost friend.”

“Oh, fine!” Ooma agrees, cranky because of lack of sleep and needing the comforts of a bath and clean clothes. “We’ll probably never get out of here.”

Ooma, her axe and shield out and ready, is elected to lead the party and vehemently opposes being followed by either of the serving girls. Wik enters behind her, followed by the rest of the party, cautiously with Wik holding his bow ready, above Ooma’s head.

Ichabod, the second to last one to go in the tunnel, pauses and shakes her head at Morgan, pounding pitons in all four sides, “I think it’ll stay open.” When he is satisfied, he nods to Ichabod, whom he follows into the tunnel.

The group walks down the narrow passageway, turn the corner and round a wide bend, for about forty metres. The ceiling begins to get much higher and the sides smoother. Looking around they get a sense the space they have entered is enormous although they can only see a high ceilinged tunnel.

“It’s getting cold,” Ooma complains, and the party notices a chill seeming to permeate the further in they go.

They continue forward, silently stopping short as a person suddenly materializes, with its back to them. Wik, keyed up and nervous, pulls the trigger on his crossbow and lands the stone tipped head deep within the creature’s back.

Stumbling, the monster, a lizard creature turns to face Ooma, and the rest, gasping and burping a foul cloud of stench that thankfully, is sucked away swiftly before it is able to incapacitate the party.

Unexpectedly Wik hears a loud, piercing whistle.

Before he can alert the group, Ooma charges the lizard creature cleaving the beast’s arm off and his head rolls He lets loose a tortured bellow. From off in the distance a loud shout, “Hey? You okay?” before the sound of wet feet slapping on the smooth rock reaches their ears.

Amaril hears a loud bellow, and, sitting up he tilts his head, listening as he hears another shout, the words fuzzy.

“Oh shit!” Ooma mutters tiredly.

o0o

PLEASE ADD

100 EXPERIENCE POINTS for July 1^st.

and

450 EXPERIENCE POINTS EACH FOR Amaril, Morgan, Ooma and Wik, for July 8^th. Also, Benji receives 450 points for sitting and staying while his Handler (Jahlo) had an emergency out-of-cave-experience.

For those who added to the Journal, or other story addition in the Mysterious Tavern community, remember to add 100 – XP. Once per week, sorry...

o0o

shivering in the arctic blast...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

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