Metal-Eater carcasses, again?

Round, and round and round…

Our escapade tonight starts with our adventurers stretching, putting their belongings back into their rucksacks, before wandering the vast cavern, no one daring to attempt the climb up the rough walls to see what lay beyond the small gaps in the soaring ceiling above.

After spending considerable time trying to pry open the entry door, which has sealed so completely even the outline has disappeared into the rock - surely a master artisan hewed this access! Their search comes to an end when Morgan, of all people (while kicking the monsters in anger), his eyes bleary from the half-bottle of rum he assisted Ooma to consume over the past couple of hours while they commiserated the loss of their very expensive metal weapons and armour, discovers the exit door about thirty feet south of the entrance hallway on the west wall.

Easily finding the latch, Wik asks Morgan to pull it open after he, (Wik), pops the lock. “It is a exceedingly heavy stone contraption,” he nods to Morgan.

Morgan gladly pulls it open, and wisely decides to listen before pulling it too far. They hear nothing more than the wind and our party exits the sun-dappled room down a serpentine corridor until they come to an intersection of paths.

The paths right, left and straight ahead appear pretty much the same: dark, twisting corridors. After considerable discussion the group chooses to go straight, or, west. Morgan wisely chisels an arrow in the floor pointing west at Wik's suggestion. Ooma sniffs in each of the corridors, smelling only damp mustiness. Wik listens, and can only hear what sounds like water dripping, or wind pulling down; nothing too unusual. They continue along.

After about thirty or forty minutes the ceiling height begins to drop and by the time they reach a sharp right-hand turn ten-minutes further along, it is only about a foot above their heads. (Farther from some, closer to others.) They continue around the sharp bend and find themselves on a sloping incline.

A further ten to fifteen minutes and they come to a ‘T’ intersection, with a path snaking into the darkness straight ahead, or off to their left. They decide to go straight, or north. They are acutely listening and moving at a reduced speed. Coming to a sharp sloping curve to the right, they continue along without much excitement until they begin to hear loud non-sensical mutterings. They listen and nod, it sounds very similar to the mutterings they heard from the deranged creature earlier.

Wik hands Ichabod the lantern, and moving cautiously forward, rounds a curve and, about twenty foot in front of him stands a small, stocky dwarf-like creature in studded leather armour. His pale blue skin is slightly visible as his arms rise and fall while he argues with the stalactite in front of him. His hair is unkempt, coarse and white.

Wik immediately uses his sneaky knack and fires an arrow from his longbow. Unfortunately, in his eagerness he fails to account for the low ceiling and the shaft flies into the wall beside the creature, clattering noisily to the floor, alerting the Derro, who spins quickly, steps toward the party waving his sharp short sword, and lets out a thunderous howl!

Wik drops his bow and covers his ears; Ichabod drops the lantern, (which manages not to break or tip over), as she clasps her ears; Morgan, backs against the wall, his large hands covering his ears as this noise shakes and rattles the cavern corridor. Ooma, on the other hand, steps forward, a tear in her eye for her axe as she wields her mace pressing the heavy spikes deep into the creature’s stomach, pushing him backward.

The creature screeches in pain, and, holding his bloodied stomach, he staggers (NOT charging!) toward Ooma, his short sword hilt gripped tightly in his twisted fingers, he lunges at her, missing when he stumbles on some pebbles, his sharp blade swishing past Ooma’s chest.

Ooma notices the party is not moving; they appear stunned. Not wasting time to think, she turns back to the creature swinging her mace with the creature avoiding her blow as he lurches backward. Ichabod, lowering her hands, shakes her head to clear the noise, quickly grabs for a dagger at her waist and throws it, still off-kilter from the echoes, her blade clatters to the floor at the Derro’s feet.

Wik shakes off the effects of the shout, too, and he picks his bow up, nocks an arrow, pulls the string and lets it fly before steadying himself and his arrow sails over his opponent, falling to the ground somewhere behind him.

Morgan takes a moment to size-up the situation before he charges the creature, (using his Discover card with a 50% discount...), his scimitar slashing a wide gash intersecting the many holes perforated by Ooma’s astounding swing into his stomach.

Ooma, standing close to the creature, next to Morgan, delivers the killing blow as her mace soundly smashes into his face, his nose crushing in, his teeth cracking and bloody, his eyes popping and hitting the floor as he stands for a second, an animated cadaver before dropping to the ground, an audible hiss escaping his carcass.

Cooly, Ooma says, “We search the body.”

After searching the body, they discover, and divide among themselves, six-hundred coins in various pouches, three-hundred coppers and three-hundred platinum coins. Wik also takes the Derro’s short sword, which to Wik, is merely a dagger.

(At this point a laser sound is heard (but unseen) LOUDLY, and the party ducks, turns and stares at Morgan...)

Ichabod retrieves the lantern and, stepping over the body, they begin walking along the path for a few more minutes before they arrive at a four-way intersection. They do notice, upon examination, the path to their left, (north), the floor seems to be gone. Wik investigates further and notes the floor is, “Not there for sure.”

Morgan puts a mark on the floor, and they discuss their next direction, choosing to continue east, walking for about a half hour, curving sharply to their right, continuing along for another twenty minutes when Ooma stops and stares at the solid wall to her left, “There’s a doorway here!”

Wik examines the surface and locates a latch quite easily, and the door pops inward, moving smoothly, as if recently oiled. Staring down the new corridor, they see it curving and nothing but darkness, sharply hewn walls, ceiling and floor.

They discuss entering and do so cautiously, their same marching order. Morgan is about twenty-foot in when the door swings shut with a loud bang! Morgan returns to examine the door, finding that it is so perfectly flush to the wall and you have to ask yourself, “Why can’t I find the door I know is here? I hate this place.” Morgan mutters under his breath.

Our group suddenly finds themselves in the cavern with the metal-eaters, their carcasses beginning to stink. Frustrated, our assemblage wanders around, re-searching for the exit and finding it, they once again exit this area, going along the corridor and popping open the door, finding themselves at a right angle, they can go to the north or to the west (right). They find no marks on the wall.

They walk north, and about twenty minutes later, Ooma, walking along, glances at the wall, “Hey! There’s another doorway here!”

Wik looks for the handle, finding a ring with a small chain, which he pulls and the door pops open inward. The door moves very smoothly, and ahead of him he can see a dark corridor, which he leads them into, and again, when Morgan moves ten to twenty foot in, the door bangs shut.

They shrug and move down the passageway. Wik steps into the room at the end of the hallway and those in the rear can hear his disgust as he shouts, “Are you EFFNG sh*tting me?” The group hustles to stare at what he is. They groan. To their right they see those metal-eating carcasses.

Ooma decisively announces, “Okay, we’re going to go down that hallway and not open any more doors!”

They exit the room again, choosing to go right, (north). They walk along a further twenty-minutes or so when Ooma exclaims, “There’s a doorway here.” In the same breath she announces, “Keep walking!”

They bypass the door, continuing north, rounding the sharp corner until they are walking west and they come to an four-way intersection. A quick search reveals a ‘T’ mark on the floor and they recognise it as their mark.

A lengthy discussion ensues as to which direction the party needs to follow. (The DM enjoyed it immensely.)

The decision to go south, or to their left, is made, (and Ooma insists a marker be placed, noting the party is going south), and they start down the lengthy passage. After an hour or so they arrive at another four-way intersection platform. A quick search reveals the arrow 'carving', pointing west, Morgan placed to keep them from getting lost. A quick discussion and they march southward still.

Wik, eager, and in the lead, does not notice the transparent cube of living Jell-O… Ooma, following close on his heels trips when Wik startles her by falling forward, his body suddenly encased in clear fluid, also falls into the mass.

Ichabod, thinking fast, sets the lantern down, shouts to Morgan, “Staff, please. Now man!” she encourages urgently.

Morgan smiles as he breathes deeply in, sighs, then passes the intricately carved shaft to Ichabod.

Instantly the staff flares, the neon-blue pulsing as the animal eyes light. Raising the staff, her lips move as she quickly incants a spell. The animals heads seem to push out from the staff in a 3-D type effect, before bringing the carved stick down heavily on the massive wall-to-wall cube of plasma, rending a large slice halfway through, clean to the floor, narrowly missing Ooma and Wik. Morgan follows with a slashing smash of his own, completely slicing the creature in half along the length of the corridor, separating Ooma and Wik as the halves fall to either side. Muttering foul-words against the plasmatic beast, he notes that there appears to be another, nearly dissolved creature and a whole bunch of metallic bits.

Ichabod raises her staff again, chanting and the animals poke their heads out, animated. Ichabod’s eyes close and, telepathically, the animals speak to her. To Morgan she appears to have turned to stone, she is so still. He raises his eyebrows and shake his head. He steps around her, raising his scimitar, swashing a sideways slice the shape of an ‘M’, through the creature, skimming both Ooma and Wik, releasing them, the plasma gushing out, covering the floor in about a ton of goop that quickly spreads down the corridors leaving a thin, slimy trail in its wave-like wake.

Ooma and Wik gasp; coughing, hacking out fluids while Morgan rounds up the coins, estimating about five-hundred platinum bits and four, roughly the same-sized red stones that he asks first Ooma, who is still spewing the wretched gunk, then Wik, to appraise.

The stones are estimated to be uncut rubies, worth approximately fifty gold pieces.

Morgan drops each hero’s loot next to them. “For you; for you,” his sing-song voice chants, as they continue hacking their lungs and nasal passages clear.

Wik gathers the short sword that has not dissolved from the floor. Ooma is wringing out her hair.

Morgan suddenly spins – “Run people!” He nudges Ichabod, who gives him a dirty stare before her eyes bulge as she shifts them to the disappearing floor and nudges Ooma.

“Let’s go people, floor’s disappearing again.”

Ooma hollers, “Double-time folks!” As the group hustles forward, down the hall, now hurrying to avoid falling into the deep-blackness. They reach the end of the hall. Faced with an obvious door, Morgan entertains visions of gathering everyone into a bundle and ramming the door battering-ram style.

Instead Wik easily spies the non-hidden knob and turns it. The door opens inward, and they rush in. The floor stops crumbling at the threshold. They slam the door behind them, moving away from it.

Their lamp flickers out, its oil needing replacing, but not before they stare around the vast cave in front of them. The light does not penetrate to the walls or the ceiling. Spinning around they note that if the last room was immense, this one is gigantic, with a high-domed ceiling sporting long stalactites, and a floor sprouting stalagmites. A cold breeze floats and carries both, a fine mist with a tang of sea water, and stench of rotting fish. To the right about fifty-yards, a polished brass sconce, its wick burning low, is set beside a thick and smooth, dark purple obsidian wall.

A small globe of glowing essence hangs over a podium in the centre of the glass-room, and a golden object sits atop that, beckoning.

Morgan looks to Wik, “You’re the treasure guy.” The he stares and snatches the staff from Ichabod, (who, surprising everyone, allows him to take it). “I’m the staff man!” Shrugging to Wik he says, “Sorry, man, nothing I can do about it.”

Wik rolls his eyes, “Yeh, yeh, what do you want.”

“You see that treasure on top of that podium that’s an obvious trap?” He points to the glow.

“Yeh, yeh, I’m on it.” Wik sighs, like this is a big chore. “Trap sensing. I’m on it.”

Ooma walks around in the room, keeping an eye on the centre of the area she can see.

Ichabod hides her wide grin when she hears Morgan talking under his breath at her staff as he shakes it slightly and chants some more.

Wik fails to notice a brass lever set into the stone on the west wall at the north end of the Obsidian-glass wall. Ooma pulls a long drink from her wine skin as Morgan scowls at Ichabod, his brows furrowed when she waves off his attempt to return her staff to her, “Keep it, a time will come you will need to use it.”

Morgan mutters, “Just being sure she’s not going to turn me into a Derro.” He then searches the area near the wall, spotting the lever, “Are you kidding me? You guys couldn’t see this? How could you not see this?” and, before anyone can speak, he pulls the lever down, the obsidian wall gliding south into a space in the rock, opening the room.

Wispy tendrils of smoke seep from the stone dais under the podium and the group notes no ill effects from breathing in the sweet odour as they approach the podium, although Morgan is sure Ichabod falls asleep and he immediately rummages in her belongings, (with a confused and grinning Ichabod allowing him this delusion.) The party can hear him muttering, “Empty? EMPTY?” as he runs his hand along the inside of her rucksack. “No, wait! Potatoes?”

Abruptly, Morgan shivers and asks, “Does anyone else feel a draft?” The glass wall slides shut and closes with a click.

“Of course,” Ooma sighs, bored.

Wisely they examine the stand and the golden object upon it before touching anything, and Wik, cleverly versed in the Draconic language reads the message posted:

I have fingers and thumbs and palms of my own...

Yet I have not flesh or feathers, nor scales, nor bone...

What am I?

A quick chat ensues as they toss out clock and Palm trees before settling on, “Gloves!” Wik speaks aloud and instantly, from openings in the ceiling, drop four, sturdy pairs of natural-leather gloves with long shafts.

Each of our adventurers gathers a pair and slips their hands inside, feeling the masterwork hide form to their hands as if, well, gloves! Wik ponders before removing his own gloves and pulling on the new ones, stuffing his old into his rucksack.

Ooma decides she wants to touch the glowing orb above the podium, and Morgan deftly steps up and boosts her onto the podium, nearly tumbling her off the other side! With the sharp jolts, Ooma manages to knock the golden plaque off the podium. Wik dives to catch it, being dropped to the ground by the sheer weight of the solid gold plaque.

A noise behind them captures their attention, and, turning to look at the north wall, they spot a doorway in the stone opening, and, before Ooma can jump down, six skeletons, little more than animated-bones of Obsidian glass, march into the room.

A chill chases up our heroes spines as they realise these aren’t the same type of skeleton they’ve already encountered several times in this labyrinth. These bones are thicker, taller and their long fingers are sharpened to needle like precision, the teeth in their sockets gnashing with ferocity. Pinpoints of red glow in their eye sockets as they march forward, arms raised...

o0o

XP: 1600XP (400 EACH) – EXTRA-XP for those who write a story (with the Tavern at its centre...); journal entry (of usefulness); or an insight into their character’s backstory... 50xp x character level, for one entry per week...

IT WAS DECIDED WE WILL CONTINUE THE GAME (YEA!) ONE HOUR LATER START TIME AND RUN FOR ONE-AND-A-HALF TO TWO HOURS ON THE SAME NIGHT. (WEDNESDAY!) (With Martinous joining us next week...)

OH! One final request: Will whomever was playing Candy Crush or one of the King games last week turn the volume down during our game time...? Thank you...

o0o

enjoying the cartographer’s vision...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

Iron rusts...

“May our rolls be high and the DM merciful,” Ooma’s voice rings out...

Our heroes, cranky at their trek through the labyrinth of obsidian, granite, limestone, agate and other stone lined walls and floors, rise once again, their rest, uninterrupted, feeling stronger, full and healthy from their meal of tubers and ketchup.

Wik finally remembers to use the ointment the Alchemist offered him to help turn his colouring back to a more normal shade of skin-tone. It is difficult to say whether it will work as it has not been used according to directions, but, we shall see... Morgan’s memory has mostly returned and he vaguely remembers everything that has happened up to this point.

They gather themselves up and prepare to move onward, when a sudden violent shaking occurs, tossing them to the ground, prone. The intersecting corridors rattle with a small shower of dust and pebbles. It settles after a moment.

When no further rumblings occur, Wik lights his lantern, and leads the way. They clamour to their feet and begin again to seek the exit from this sarcophagus-feeling maze.

Winding along the uneven stone floors, trying to avoid the spikes jutting from the wall, they serpentine through the dark tunnel, never once questioning who, or what, has made these fissures large enough for them to walk, upright, through...

Turning a corner, Wik, in the lead, spies a dark circular shadow on the wall, about waist height. Upon closer inspection he sees it is a hole. He warns everyone, “I have an uneasy feeling about this.” He directs the team to file past while he elects to stay at the rear, watching the hole intently.

All pass without incident and he warily lifts his lantern and slides past, glancing ahead for a moment to steer himself safely. In that pause of inattention a creature lunges from the hole and grabs hold of Wik!

The tentacles of this six-foot long worm-like monster are a little longer than an average human's forearms, and are located on its head, two to either side of its beaklike jaw. With its dark colouration and pale underbelly it is camouflaged in the darkness. Un-camouflaged it is a weak-jawed hungry critter.

Wrestling with the creature as it grapples him, Wik wriggles, and out manoeuvres the creature, freeing himself from its clutches and smashes it with his short sword, slicing off one of his tentacles, causing the creature to shriek in pain, backing him up.

“Keep moving, I got this!” he shouts to Amaril, who has turned, as well as the others, “Go!” Then it lunges again, missing Wik and flopping to the ground, before sucking back into the hole, moaning, a sickly wet blood oozing from his injuries.

 Wik takes advantage of this and hustles back to the front of the line, the party ducking between the spikes to allow him to pass. Amaril takes a few lesions as Wik brushes past him.

With Wik back in the lead, the party continues along the corridor, carefully attempting to avoid being scratched or poked, the floor disappearing behind them until they come to a cross-roads with the corridor continuing in a twisting pattern forward, another to the east and another to the west. After a quick debate, the corridor behind them disintegrating leaving them with a few feet of stone before inky depth, they choose to go east.

These corridors are wider and the spikes protrude less and are smoother, not so much of a danger to our heroes. They step cautiously along the rubble strewn floor.

 

As they pass the first curve Wik spots a creature about fifteen feet in front of them, muttering and jabbering away to himself. In the lantern’s glow, he appears to be a small, stocky dwarf-like creature in studded leather armour. His skin is a pale blue colour and his bulbous white eyes have no irises or pupils. His hair is coarse and white and a long moustache droops past his chin. His laughter is eerie and his voice scratchy and high-pitched. He carries in his hands, a wicked looking short sword, the hilt of wrapped leather and the blade obsidian.

Wik asks Ooma if she can, “Make him out?”

Ooma quizzically shakes her head, “No man, he ain’t speaking no language I’ve ever heard!”

The creature looks up, his eyes glitter and he moves his arms and, suddenly, coming from the creature a darkness rises. It is like standing in a barrel of black ink. The darkness wraps so completely, blocking all manner of vision, obscuring the creature, Wik, Ooma and Ichabod.

Amaril and Morgan are not included in the darkness as they stand a few feet back, their eyes wide. As the others stand there in the blackness, the sound of galloping horses assails their ears. The hooves clopping on the uneven cobblestone floor is loud and reverberates in the stone area. Whinnies and snorts are heard as the horses huff and puff, their shoes ringing loudly.

Wik shouts for them all to flatten against the walls. “Get out of the way!”

Morgan shakes his head in disbelief and then wisely flattens against the wall, ‘just in case’. He reaches in to the darkness trying to pull his companions out. He fails three attempts, his hands grasping the darkness.

This crazed dwarf moves in the darkness, able to sense, he swings at Wik, the battered short-sword clipping his leg, offering a nasty scratch. Ichabod leaps forward, forgetting she doesn’t have her staff and steps back her mind slightly confused.

The creature spies something else that excites him in the darkness and he swings toward Ooma, who feels the swish of the blade as it whooshes past her nose.

Ichabod raises her hands, her thinking cleared, and commands, “Light dispel.” Immediately the dark gloom lifts and a brightness shines like the noonday sun, momentarily blinding everyone, including the creature who shakes his head, his squawking growing in volume.

Ooma, the creature standing in front of her, her blade ready, swings, the light shifting her aim, the creature jumps backward, Ooma’s weapon tearing at his tattered clothing. Morgan tries to flank while Ooma is engaged, and the creature swings at him as Morgan passes, winding between the spikes avoiding the creature’s short-sword.

Morgan turns, swinging his scimitar, missing as he wobbles on his feet, engaging the creature, who spins and slices upward, missing Morgan, his teeth gnashing.

 Ichabod spins her arms, weaving an intricate barrage of words, drawing mist from the dampness imbedded in the stone, and heating the air creating a fog-like mist, the light reflecting against its whiteness creating murky shadows, concealing forms and actions.

Ooma is not blinded in this gloom, “Get against the wall!” and she swings her axe carving a deep gash through his middle, right through his backbone slicing him in two. Wik insists on leaning forward and slicing his throat, ear-to-ear, “Never turn your back on a kill until you’re sure it’s dead,” as Ichabod dispels the mist.

Ooma, foot on its chest, examining her fingernails, raises an eyebrow. “Dude? I sliced him in two. I think he’s dead.”

Morgan looks to Ichabod, “Hey? Do you know what that creature was?”

She looks, and considers. “Looks like a Derro to me. A completely mad creature. Been driven mad by a sorceress, lich, wizard or...?” Morgan stares at her, his eyes blinking slowly in disdain. Ichabod stares back, a smile forming on her lips, “You have yet a mighty role to play young Sir.”

Morgan stiffens, petulantly muttering, “I’m older than you.”

Ichabod giggles girlishly at that, “You keep right on believing that.” As the others attempt to command the ‘eldest’ honour, Wik proudly intoning he is over one-hundred-thirty winters on this planet. Ichabod smiles, “At a thousand your race withers, now imagine thrice as long...”

Morgan insolently asks Ichabod, “How many Derros have you made in your time?”

Ichabod smiles, shakes her head, “I am not into the black magicks.” Following, under her breath she mutters, “Unless it suits my purposes.” A wide grin lighting her face.

Morgan and Wik insist on her proving she is not thwarting their attempts to find the Lady, which Ichabod soundly verifies, (her Charm Person spell so subtle none feel its presence envelop them.)

The group moves forward, the winding corridor turning south. Suddenly Ooma stops, looking at the solid wall of stone, exclaims, “There’s a secret door hidden here.”

Wik does a search, looking for a handle or lock mechanism. He locates a slight indentation, and the hinges opposite it pressing it, hearing a hissing sound, and a ‘POP!’

The thick stone door opens inward revealing a dark, low-ceilinged, narrow passage with smooth walls and a downward sloping floor. As soon as the last person passes through the opening, the doorway swings shut reverberating loudly.

Following the tunnel they come to a room of enormous proportions in which they can barely see the north or south ends, and the east wall appears to be about a football pitch away. Small patches of sunlight filter down into the area (sporting light brown piles of dusty debris). The walls in here sparkle with iron deposits, as well as copper, and other metals embedded in the stone. Our heroes enter, and it is not long, maybe a minute before they hear a noisy clopping sound coming closer and within a few seconds they spot two, charging, insectoid horses galloping at them from the left and right.

As they prepare for battle, they size up these creatures in horror. Appearing as a small pony with insect-like legs, a squat, humped body protected by a sticky, lumpy hide. Its tail is covered in armour plates and ending in a bony projection resembling a double beaver-tail or paddle. Two large feathery antennae project, one beneath each of its beady eyes, and these antennae are cautiously flitting closer to the heroes.

The creatures are slowly pushing forward, caution and intense curiosity propelling them. Wik swings his short sword at the left creature, the blade bouncing off, barely cutting into his hide. Wik watches in horror as his blade suddenly disintegrates into rust, the monster licking at the rusty powder.

Morgan stares, “What the hell?” He moves forward, swinging his scimitar, toward the left, creature, his blade hitting hard, a tingle running up his arm dissipating as he steps back, his blade still intact.

Ooma, wearing plate mail and carrying a wooden shield, steps forward and swings her weapon, hitting and carving a neat gouge from the creature, her axe blade turning to instant dust.

The creature’s eye Ooma and Morgan, their metal armour calling to the creatures like a dinner-gong. One drops to enjoy the axe dust while Morgan watches in amused disgust as his mithril chain shirt falls from his body, the creature enjoying the rust it has become.

Amaril nocks and shoots a flaming, poisoned arrow over the backs of the creatures, landing it just beyond where they stand. Ichabod mutters, “I do not like these creatures.” Choosing to slam them with fire, she aims her blast, singeing their hides.

Wik moves back into the hall entrance, nocking an arrow, pinning the left, the arrow jutting from its shoulder.

Morgan, suddenly realising he has a bare chest, jumps to the left critter, his now immune weapon crashing down and the scabbard following behind, annoying the heck out of the hungry monster.

Ooma pulls one of her Molotov cocktails from her pack, lighting the wick and throws it, landing the flask on the ground behind the creatures the oil erupting into a puddle of flame, illuminating the darkened room.

The creatures, ravenous, move forward, the metal in Ooma’s armour calling to them like the baron of beef at a buffet, missing it as she deftly slides to the side. The other, wanting more from Morgan, shies when confronted by a naked chest.

Amaril nocks another arrow, firing it well over their heads. Ichabod raises her hands, muttering, her lips moving silently, fire crisping the one, the creature’s death screams echoing in the chamber. Morgan roars and charges, raising his scimitar, crushing the remaining creature, staggering it.

Ooma pulls another cocktail out, lighting the twig, hitting the side of the creature, and searing a blackened strip, the oil holding the heat and flame as it drips down, the beast charging Ooma, missing her, then turning and fleeing, his injuries too intense.

Morgan, quick to move, jumps, swinging his scimitar down on the creature, slicing his leg nearly through the bone. Amaril nocks an arrow, and snaps it off speedily, the arrow bouncing past again. Ichabod sends flames along the trail of oil, crisping his hide further.

Wik’s arrow flies into his jaw. Morgan charges, tripping over the rubble, skinning his knees.

Amaril has another arrow soar into the inky blackness beyond the creature. Ichabo chants, her incantation landing missiles in its flesh, the creature drops, his squeal echoing.

Ooma wipes a tear for losing her axe. Morgan opens his rucksack, carefully considering, holding up one, then another bottle. “Rum. This is definitely a rum occasion.” He passes the near empty bottle to Ooma. “Here, this might take the sting out of your loss.”

Ooma, swallowing a large mouthful, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, “Effin’ caves!” she shouts. “Nuthin’ good ever happens in a cave!” She drinks another mouthful.

Sitting down on the various available mounds, our group settles for a short rest, indulging in some spirits, hardtack and other nibbles, searching the room as they finish and decide to continue moving forward... if they can just figure out how to get out of here...

o0o

XP: Awarded during game time this week. EXTRA-XP for those who write a story (with the Tavern at its centre...); journal entry (of usefulness); or an insight into their character’s backstory... 50xp x character level, for one entry per week...

PLEASE REMEMBER TO VOICE YOUR CHOICE WHETHER THE GAME CONTINUES (with a later start time); IS SHELVED, OR IS CANCELLED. Thx...

o0o

treading close to the edge...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

I summon potatoes!

The party is knee-deep in cold water; Ooma is thigh-deep... in a dark corridor with horizontal stalactites jutting from the rough walls and a floor crumbling behind them; the corridor turns east, and the party hustles down the hall, the force of the water flowing around their legs causing Ooma, Amaril, Morgan and Ichabod to be buffeted into the spikes, bloodying their arms before up-righting themselves.

Wik’s light passes across a hole in the wall roughly three-feet wide, a scant foot-high kerb at the floor. The water is rushing down into the opening, and, as Wik glances down he sees a swift flowing vortex funnelling the water and decides that is not a safe place to be. “Let’s keep moving before we become part of that!” The assumption that Benji may have jumped through this exit is confirmed as a tuft of his fur is spotted caught on the rough stones; they hope he is safe.

As they persist down the hall and nearly reach the end, a very LOUD CRUNCH assails their ears, and they unexpectedly find themselves off balance, and, as the floor tips and wobbles, only Wik is able to prevent himself from slamming into the spikes and avoiding injury. Struggling to the end of the corridor, they leap the one-foot gap onto a platform that opens into a dark cavernous room with a soaring ceiling beyond torch or lamplight range. As they enter, the door SLAMS shut.

The uneven stone floor crunches underfoot as they step across the rubble, stone dust and debris littering the horizontal surface. Tiny giggles can be 'heard' along with the distinct sound of flapping wings and air movement. They can see nothing save what the lantern reveals. Wik revolves it about.

As the lantern moves over the walls, carvings, describing various colourful scenes of an epic battle, are noticed. It tells an heroic story, if one should care to study the various glyphs and find the beginning. Attempts to unravel this mystery fail, at first.

An unheard voice booms into the room as the heroes try to puzzle out their next moves. While they do so, and as they are listening, the giggles become more pronounced and the heroes feel brushes that tickle various parts of their exposed flesh; air moving and wings flapping startling them abruptly.

A suggestion they run resolves itself as Ooma tries to open the sealed door, Amaril does not trust her attempt, and looks for a lock, unsuccessfully. The mirth the group hears, grows.

Ooma shouts, “What do you want from us?” Her words met with gleeful giggles. “Fu*k you too!” She mutters aloud. More laughter greets her.

Amaril questions, “Do we have the ingredients to blow the door up, opening it?”

As they discuss this possibility, Wik feels something brush the back of his neck. He swings the lantern around, looking into the shadows, spotting a flying dragon-like creature about a foot-and-a-half long.

“Oh sh*t! Dragon!” he shouts. Gales of laughter follow him.

Amaril pulls out his longbow, and nocks a poisoned arrow. He searches about, peering in the dark.

Ooma pulls out the pink potion she received from the Crayol’s. A prickling sensation accompanies the strong smell of mint as she spreads it over her exposed skin. Her body tingles, and she feels a soft, wet tongue flick over the back of her arm and she reflexively swings her axe widely, hitting air.

Morgan gawks, spying the flapping creature and staring in wonder. “What is that?” he questions.

Wik swings his short sword, hitting the amused creature, slashing a gash on its side. Immediately, as it draws back, the party hears in their head, “No more fun: attack!” and Wik feels a sting on his arm.

Ooma is aware of wings brushing against her. Amaril feels a pinprick on his shoulder, causing a small tear in his skin. Ooma swings her axe again, catching one of the creature’s wings, injuring it. Amaril, his bow nocked, lets his arrow loose, clattering it against the wall, falling to the floor. Ichabod swings her staff wildly, unable to see or hit anything.

Morgan, his wits fuzzy, attacks the creature that attacked Ooma, his scimitar swinging, hitting the dragon. Wik swings his short sword again, hurting the dragon badly.

The dragon, angry with Wik, strikes him, causing a sting on his arm. Another aims at Ooma and one at Morgan, and at Ichabod, missing them as they duck and wriggle. One swings its tail toward Amaril, catching his cheek, the poison sinking deeply, causing him to crumple to the floor in a slumber.

The group hears reverberating in their heads, “We were just PLAYING!”

Ooma takes a step back and says, “Haw-haw-haw!” She hears the whinny response, “You started it.”

Ichabod swings her staff blindly about, missing narrowly again.

Morgan peers around, unable to see anything, going into a defence position, ready to deflect.

Wik, sword ready, head weaving as the lantern light shifts violently, “Why didn’t you help us if you were just playing?”

“Help you?! You attacked us!”

“Yeh, you TOUCHED me, I don’t like being touched,” Wik grouses.

“Did we HURT you? Nooooo...” the dragon Farf mocks.

Ooma agrees. “Yah, nobody licks me without my permission.”

A giddy-voice happily exclaims, “You tasted good! It’s mint!”

Morgan tilts his head in bewilderment. “It’s not nice to taste someone without their permission.” His eyes narrow slightly.

“We’re a group of people who are used to people attacking us around every corner, and it’s dark in here and you guys are... I mean, c’mon!” Ooma cranes her head about. A voice enters her head, “It’s not dark to us, what’s your problem? Can’t you see? Are you blind?”

A second voice forces its way into Oomas mind, “And besides, you still attacked us; we didn’t hurt you.”

“You scared the crap out of us!” In her head she is mocked, “Wear a diaper!”

Ichabod pipes in, “I’m, we’re, sorry. You startled us and scared us.”

Morgan nods, “I have a pretty bad scratch here. It’s painful.” He pouts.

Ooma concurs, “You put one of our friends to sleep here, so, uhh, can we call a truce?”

“Ooooo-kay,” a long-suffering sigh concedes. From the air, oiled-paper packets fall to the ground, one landing on Amaril’s forehead and bursting open, oozing a smooth, red paste on his skin.

The group looks at Amaril, and Morgan shakes him to see if he will awaken, but he slumbers on. A voice clatters in Morgan’s head, “Squeeze one in his mouth, he’ll be ok.”

Morgan nods, following orders slightly; he stuffs an entire packet, paper container and all, inside of Amaril’s mouth. The long suffering voice groans in his mind, “No, empty the contents out, silly!” Morgan withdraws the packet, squishing the contents into Amaril’s mouth, clamping his jaw shut and pinching his nose until he sees him swallow.

Ooma gathers the packets from the ground. Noticing, some of the packets have “heal poison” stamped on them in cursive, flowing handwriting. Some have "McCrunchie". Some have both.

“What does this one do, if I might ask?” Ooma boldly holds a packet up in the air. The voice reverberates in her mind, “It will heal him. It will give all of you healing.”

Amaril wakes sits up and looks around confused. He smacks his lips. “Tasty. Not bad.” He asks “What happened? Why am I on the ground?” coming to his feet.

“You got knocked the fu*k out,” Ooma answers pragmatically.

Ichabod adds, “Yah, one of those dragon-things stung you and you dropped like a kobold!” The voice corrects her, “Get it right. Pseudodragons!”

She looks around. “Fine, Pseudodragons,” she snips.

(Morgan sassily sneaks in, “McCrunch to the forehead; He’s lovin’ it!”)

The packets they retrieve are distributed among the heroes, Ichabod declines to take any.

Amaril, peering around in the shadows, spies a black leather pouch sitting tightly against the wall. Picking it up and looking inside, he discovers hundreds of the little packets, all stamped with 'McCrunchie', ‘heal poison’, or both.” He distributes them among his friends.

Morgan, regaining a little of his senses, is still disturbed by the voice inside his head, “Read the walls, dummy’s!” Ooma and Amaril also hear the voice and they walk closer to the carved glyphs and, Amaril, a light dawning, circles until he finds the beginning glyph, examining and deciphering their meaning and intent.

Tracing it along the four walls, the still brilliant, colourful carvings depict a mighty, epic battle.

A dragon clan fought and drove off invaders (depicted as large coiled reptiles with glowing red-eyes and forked tongues), though the clash was not without its toll and many dragons were felled.

A intricately carved glyph shows many dragons lying, rents in their shimmering scales, a fluid oozing from the holes; some with broken wings; some with fangs still piercing their hides.

The story continues, as Wik brings the lantern near. Amaril translates aloud. “Great fires, fanned by dragon breath, heating clay cauldrons into which oblong-shaped tubers, (“that grow in the upper caverns, supposedly,” he adds as a glyph shows a tunnel leading to the tubers and back to the hospital room), “are plunged. Spears at the end of the dragon tails retrieve the softened tuber. They are cooled then sliced into strips.”

“Nurse dragons, (They’re wearing hats with a red cross on them, that’s how I know,” Amaril retorts to the question how he knows they are nurses,) “carry trays of the strips, breathe fire onto them, while another nurse squeezes a packet of the red paste down the golden strips. Still another nurse carries them to the stricken dragons.”

Amaril exclaims, “Oh, sometimes they mix the red paste into a liquid they heat first, giving it to smaller dragons; and, others get it spread directly onto an open wound.” He goes on, “It looks like they are healed completely after eating five or six of those strips, but it seems to take longer if it is drunk or eaten straight. Maybe the tubers have healing powers too?”

“Apparently the red paste leaves a stain that needs to be washed off using a strong soap,” he laughs and points to a particularly unhappy blue dragon with a red stain on his forehead.

“It seems to be a healing potion. What do you all think about that?”

Morgan wonders, aloud, “I think you all might want to hold off on any more of that McCrunchie stuff.” Morgan’s memory seems to be improving, knowing who he is, just not what-the-hell he’s doing in a dungeon, “I’m a Buccaneer for gawds sake!” McAcid; McCocaine; McHeroin; McEcstasy...

Ichabod grins, “Meddle not in the affairs of Dragons; for thou art crunchy and taste good with ketchup...” She moves off toward the exit. Knocking her staff against the face of the door forcing it to spring open with a screech.

The group moves out of the dragon room and file down the next corridor. Ichabod halts Morgan and in a low voice, knowing his memory is only just returning, she utters, "I sense a shift in the planes. Please, you have been chosen, though you don't trust me. Please keep this safe. Your life may depend on it." She hands Morgan her staff, the aura from it dimming as he takes it.

Morgan curiously wonders why he wouldn’t trust her. She smiles, “Keep it safe.”

The group next enters a room, and are about halfway across the floor, when the ground starts to mist, and a familiar whirring sound alerts that something is happening: four Obsidian skeletons pop up, Ooma immediately leaping and striking the first, collapsing its glass like frame, turning and striking a second, breaking its hip and shoulder.

Another flies at Ooma, his dagger plunging into her armour, cutting her and leaving a trickle of blood.

Wik steps up his short sword chopping off its other arm and other hip. Morgan puts his scimitar back in its scabbard and attempts to hit one of the creatures, swinging wildly. About this time the party notices that the roof of this room is rapidly lowering...

Amaril brandishes his scimitar, slicing the leg off one of the undamaged skeletons. The nearly-gone skeleton sends a slice into Ooma’s shoulder, and the one with only one leg hops to Amaril, dragging its dagger down his neck, doing minor damage just below his ear. The final one, (not being too bright) tries to kick Wik, falling and shattering his body into pieces.

Ooma swings and removes an arm from the final whole one. Morgan swings at the standing skeleton, slicing from the top of his head straight through his body, and it topples, glass shards flying everywhere, sticking in leather armour and slicing uncovered skin.

Wik lifts his leather covered boot and stomps on the remaining head; crushing the skull.

Looking around, Wik notices a glitter in the centre of the skeleton who still has most of a ribcage. He pulls the ribcage apart with his gloved hands and pulls out a gold-coloured key. Glancing at the ceiling and hustling over to the door, he quickly finds the keyhole. Inserting the key, he turns it and the door swings open. Wik removes the key, sliding it into one of his many pockets, before exiting the room.

The rest follow Wik out of the room, into another corridor, going south. They notice the floor is not crumbling behind them.

Suddenly a noise behind them garners their attention and they turn, Wik spinning the light revealing bouncing shadows. Morgan and Amaril spy a creature with mottled-grey flesh that blends seamlessly with the dark ceiling. Its arms, extremely long, wrap twice about Ichabod, and still it clings to the ceiling.

Morgan jumps, trying to haul either the creature or Ichabod back, missing and falling into Amaril. The creature attempts to scurry down the hall-ceiling with Ichabod.

Wik, drops the lantern, and his short sword, drawing his long bow, carefully aiming, his arrow nicking the creature slicing into its shoulder, forcing it to drop Ichabod, as it yelps and crawls back down the hall ceiling.

Ichabod is lifted by Morgan and Ooma, and set into the middle of the line. She seems shaken, but unhurt. Amaril takes up the rear. The creature scuttles further down the corridor, away from the party.

Advancing, the party enters a large, maybe 15x15 foot, junction with a hallway turning at right-angles to the one they are in. As they arrive, Wik, in the lead, spots something out of a nightmare; an oily black humanoid shape without features, flesh or face bristling with madness flits around. From the waist down it trails away into wisp, with a faint dirty-fog slinking along in its wake. It is floating toward the party.

An attempt to converse with it by Wik, in six different languages, “Listen, we just want to pass.” results in the creature babbling incoherently and agitatedly.

This babble infects the mind’s of the party as they stare unable to gather the brain power to budge, attack or move! Finally Ooma and Wik shake their heads as if to clear the cobwebs from their brains. They notice that the rest are still staring uncomprehending.

Wik turns to Ooma, “Let’s pull them this way; maybe it will snap them out of it.” He takes Amaril’s hand and hauls him aside. Ooma takes Morgan and Ichabod. The creature’s form continues to reach for them; the black wisps brushing threateningly near them, continuing its mutterings.

It touches Wik, who feels a drain of his abilities and can’t remember things he ought to.

Ooma sees the touch, pulls out her axe, and swings at the creature, who watches the blade float beneath it, the wisps of dirty-fog swirling as it blathers louder and, if possible, with less coherency!

Morgan, Amaril and Ooma again fall under the creature’s spell, ‘luvin’ it.

Wik decides to stab it with his short sword just above its waist, ripping a painful rent in its stomach. Wik pulls back, stabbing it yet again. The creature touches Wik, draining more of his thinking process. Wik mindlessly stabs again, his blade ripping another hole in the already decrepit featureless-body.

Amaril, coming out of his stupor, swings at the creature his scimitar hitting directly into the empty head. The oily black humanoid shape dissipates into a fine mist and falls to the ground, looking like peppered-ash.

The party, hungry, injured and exhausted, decides to rest in the large junction.

Ichabod, her hands raised as she concentrates, the group watches as she conjures a spell. “I summon potatoes.”

Several tubers drop unceremoniously to the tunnel floor. Recalling the colourful carvings, she reminds them, “Cooked strips of these will restore much of our health.”

They ponder how to cook them in this dark dungeon with dangers lurking around every corner. A thought is heard inside their heads, “You have oil and a lantern, you’ll figure it out...”

o0o

XP: 200XP each for Ooma, Wik, Morgan and Amaril, (and Ichabod). EXTRA-XP for those who write a story (with the Tavern at its centre...); journal entry (of usefulness) or an insight into their character’s backstory... 50xp x character level, for one entry per week...

o0o

mclovin’ it...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

BOOM!

We shall recall a quiet rest interrupted as it appears two of the party are suffering amnesia from ‘Firefly’ arrows. The morning light is growing, beginning to pierce the shadowy veil of overhanging branches. The fire is crackling; the embers still glowing reddish-grey. Birds chirping and bugs buzzing aimlessly along with a great roll of thunder, followed by a loud splash and, even deep in the knoll where you have spent the night, a fine mist slinks through the leaves and brush, a huge wind propelling it; followed by two more loud and thunderous cracks, and a breeze that bends the branches, snapping twigs. The birds in the area are silent; then begin squawking at once.

The party looks about, leaning into the wind as it slams through the forest, Amaril, standing in a less sheltered area is lifted up and knocked to his knees, slicing through his outer layer bloodying them.

The birds resume squawking noisily, and the party looks around, and at each other, Ooma suggesting that they “get the hell out of here!”

A discussion as to where to go and what to do ensues. Morgan, when asked and given a chance to respond, replies that, “Yes, he will follow the group.”

Jahlo and Tessalia have wandered off into the trees as Jhalo tries to figure out what is wrong with Tessalia. Benji, returns to the camp and is pacing about, eager to get on with his breakfast hunt. A noise catches his attention, and Jhalo waves him on, and he runs off toward the lake.

Ooma suggests they continue the way they were going, but Ichabod informs them she is curious about the booming noise; concerned, and starts toward the lake.

The group shrugs, packs up and follows along the trail behind Ichabod.

As they draw closer to the lake, they see that something isn’t right. It still shimmers an ordinary bluish colour from reflecting the sky’s colour, it appears to have something layered across the surface. Near the centre you see what appear to be fishing boats? The same ones as before?

Benji, being exuberant and excited runs out on the top of the water, going a long way chasing a bird, before stopping suddenly. All attempts to call him back fail. It also fails to sink in to any of them – Benji is not sinking...

The group stands at the edge of the lake, their perception not quite awake yet as suddenly, behind them, another thunderous noise and a loud CLANK! As they turn their heads their eyes perceive a tall, smooth Obsidian glass wall that has erected around the lake. It is about fifteen foot high, objects seen through its purplish-black colour appear blurry.

“What the hell?” Ooma mutters. She irreverently suggests that they “Jesus” the lake, which the others, laughing, agree there doesn’t seem to be much choice. So, one at a time, a ten foot distance separating each, they file onto the lake.

Wik decides to examine the smooth surface. He taps it, touches it and peers at it. “It’s Obsidian,” he exclaims, tapping his dagger against the surface. No hollow sounds can be heard.

Those who are watching Benji see him begin to sniff, his head down as he tracks something, barking excitedly, he begins to paw at the smooth glass surface.

Wik draws closer to Benji and Ooma shouts, “What is it boy?”

As Wik leans over to look he can see a pale golden glow below the surface, similar to the Firefly creatures, maybe a little smaller.

Benji refuses to cease his interest.

Ooma suggests to Ichabod that she check for magic.

Ichabod nods and begins to concentrate, her senses picking up a faint aura of conjuration blended with touches of illusion; a faint golden glow hovers across the surface of the lake rising into the wall.

Ooma enquires, “Is there is any way to break Obsidian?”

Ichabod, a puzzled crease furrowing her brow, “My staff may be able to, but I’m concerned it may crack the entire surface, I don’t know what will happen.”

Ooma gives her the go-ahead, and Wik tries to call Benji back, but whatever has Benji’s attention is obsessing him and he doesn’t even glance at Wik.

Ichabod raises her staff, pauses looking at Benji, “Benji? Please back up.”

Benji looks at her sullenly. The eyes of the animals on her staff glow an electric-blue startling him and, with a whine, Benji backs away.

Ichabod pounds the staff down. For a second, nothing happens. Then the distinct crackling sounds of dropping an dry-ice cube into a beaker of water filters to their ears. Spider cracks; fine lines begin to creep outward, slowly at first, then with an increase in speed until BAM! The glass shatters and they are vortex’d downward, plunged into the frigid waters; swirling like the modern flush systems on a toilet.

The water, grabs at them, pushing. Forcing their lungs to hold past bursting; dashing them onto jagged rocks nearly a mile below the surface, the cushion of water protecting them from being gutted by the tall spires that rise from the floor and jut from the walls of this bowl. (No one questions why there is no fish flopping about...? Curious... especially with those fishermen above – and where did they go?)

The water continues to escape, flowing off to an unknown holding tank or ocean.

Our heroes cling, gasping, to the jagged spires, receiving cuts and bruises. Benji lands in a bowl still filled with water, protecting him well. He climbs out, shaking his body, water droplets flinging wildly.

As the excitement calms and our heroes draw their breath, they beginning to notice they are in a pyramid shaped room to the side of the main container for the lake. Water drips from the slimy Obsidian walls. The golden glow that captured Benji’s attention is now overhead. It appears to be increasing in size and as Wik steps over to examine why this is, he shouts suddenly, “RUN!” As fine glass dust begins to sprinkle downward, and he notices the walls are closing in.

There is one door to the south, and they tumble through it finding themselves in a dark hall, jagged spires sticking from between six-inches and three-feet making passage down the five-foot narrow hallway treacherous.

Rummaging through their equipment, Wik swiftly lights a lantern, momentarily blinding everyone. As the light flickers, the pyramid-room shatters, blasting glass-dust in its final collapse. Those nearest the door feel the sting of fine particles embedding themselves in exposed skin.

Shaking themselves Wik checks the lantern, closing three hoods and allowing one to shine forward; Benji has taken the lead and is out of sight. The gather themselves and begin to move forward when a noise behind Amaril, who is last in the line causes Wik to turn the lantern and they see the hallway floor crumbling away.

Wik, “Let’s move this way, fast.” Small rents in their armour and skin appear as they rub against the serrated, glass, ‘oriented’ stalactites, the floor continuing to crumble. The hall turns west, then north, then west before slopping downward south, and continuing downward for a short distance, east, opening to a large room with a rubble strewn floor, jutting spires from the walls, and, at the far end, four figures.

Training the light on the figures, our group spies four Kobolds that scramble for cover behind some large stalagmites. Wik continues into the room going toward the four Kobolds, his intention to speak with them thwarted as one of the Kobolds slings a stone at him, followed by another.

He holds up his hands. “Hey, I just want to talk!” he shouts in Kobold. Another stone is flung in his direction, missing again.

“Dirty humans; don’t care!” one hisses at Wik, another projectile flies at Wik, clattering to the floor.

Wik changes tactics, switching to Draconic, “I’m an Elf, not a bloody short-lived human!”

While the fourth Kobold jumps out and shouts, “Ha! Gotcha!” in Kobold, as his sharp-edged stone slices across Wik’s cheek, leaving a bloodied cut. The Kobold’s laugh uproariously.

Ooma reminds Wik, “You’ve got some flasks of oil; jus’ sayin’”

A voice from the walls reminds them of the folly of tossing a Molotov cocktail toward their only exit in a room with a crumbling floor...

 A voice from the discombobulated Morgan points out the folly of the distinct lack of oxygen in a cave...

Wik grumbles to his friends, “These guys don’t want to chat, shall we teach them the folly of their actions?” A stone slams against his butt.

“Now you die!” Wik snarls in Draconic, pulling out his short sword.

Ooma walks toward the Kobolds, swinging her axe, the Kobold’s head leaving his shoulders and joins the stones on the floor.

Amaril moves to the side, pulling his composite bow out shooting a poisoned arrow into the cave walls.

Wik moves close and stabs the closest Kobold, his lantern weaving wickedly, twisting his sword into the smiling Kobold’s gut muttering, “I just wanted to talk!”

“Talk! No!” the two living Kobold’s grunt, tossing stones and cutting Wik’s other cheek.

Ooma lunges, swinging her axe, dulling its blade as she clatters against the unforgiving stone, the Kobold side-stepping her blow, laughing and shoving her. She spits on him as she stumbles backward.

He runs his fingers through the saliva brings it to his lips, “Mmm, good!”

Amaril walks up to the Kobold nearest and slits his throat, blood spurting, the Kobold clutching his neck, gurgling and covering Amaril with hot, sticky blood before sliding to the floor, a surprised look on his face.

Wik moves forward, bloodied short-sword in hand and stabs the remaining Kobold, dropping him swiftly, the sling bullets in his bag clattering across the floor. Ooma swiftly moves to check the bodies along with Amaril, the others search for a doorway or exit, finding lots of rubble, but nothing else of interest. He does discover the exit beyond where the Kobold’s were.

Eight dirty copper coins and a handful of rusty metal pieces.

Wik tosses a stone down the exit hall, leading west, watching and listening as it clatters along the uneven surface. He takes a step, unsure if the floor is going to crumble – it doesn’t and they all head down the hall, Ooma suggesting that maybe Ichabod could do a check or something?

She does. Shaking her head, “Like I said before, just the faint aura of conjuration muddled and faintly mixed and swirling possibly an illusion aura as well; I’m sorry, it is muddled.”

“Okay,” Ooma says, “let’s go.”

Amaril brings up the rear, carefully checking the floor behind him. “Uhm, guys? Hurry up! The floor’s crumbling again!”

The group hurries its movement, taking scratches and scrapes as they do so, turning and following the hall as it turns and switches.

Suddenly Wik stops short, his eyes spying a thin string stretched across the hall about a foot off the ground. Unfortunately his sudden stop without warning causes Ooma to slam into his back, Ichabod catches Morgan’s shoulder and stops him in time. Amaril runs into Ichabod, but she holds her ground. Wik and Ooma tumble in a tangle as the rope is pulled out of the wall.

They scramble to their feet, the floor crumbling, hustling their movements. As they drag each other up from the floor, they snag their skin bloodying themselves.

A loud GONG reverberates through the hall, shaking the very rock. Ooma pushes Wik, “Keep moving! That floor ain’t slowing down!”

They run forward, entering a large dining hall, with a large chandelier swaying, unlit over a table with partially eaten rotting food upon the plates, cutlery dropped as if in a hurry. Chairs are overturned, and, as their light flickers about, a bunch of rats scuttle off into the cracks. A burning candle sits in an alcove on the south wall near an open door.

The group searches the room. As they near the centre of the room a cold mist seeps along the floor, rising and a strange whirring, digging noise reaches their ears. Abruptly, from out of the stone block floor rise four gleaming, Obsidian glass skeletons, their daggers raised. “Who dares disturb the night creatures?” a ghostly voice rumbles. (Ignore that wimpy one in the video...)

Ooma shouts to Morgan to pull out his sword and defend himself as she turns her attention to the skeletons.

Amaril pulls his scimitar out swinging it wildly, missing and spinning about. Wik pulls out from his rucksack a box of Alchemist’s Fire (128 – 3.5 PHB) and decides swiftly it will not harm them and chucks it back into his pack, choosing instead to shot at them with a longbow, his arrow flying into the chest cavity exploding the skeleton shooting glass shards outward narrowly missing the party.

The skeletons move forward, slicing at Wik, his thrown dagger missing. The second one tries to stab at Amaril, his dagger also clattering to the floor, as it bounces off Amaril’s armour. The third skeleton jumps for Ooma, his bony feet turning and tripping him to his knees, one of his fingers shattering.

Ooma swings her war axe, slicing the skeleton in half his upper half toppling to the ground shattering, his lower half remaining standing and she spins her axe smashing the third skeleton’s shoulders, sending shards of glass deeply into her armour and exposed skin.

Amaril swings his scimitar at the remaining Obsidian creature, chopping off an arm. Wik shoots his arrow, hitting and shattering his sternum, coating Amaril in glass, nicking his cheek.

The last skeleton tumbles to the ground, and a CRASH shakes the room. A large stone crosses the door they came in through. As they approach the door, they spy a lever.

Amaril and Wik begin to search for traps. Amaril senses and locates a trap along the north wall. The wall feels damp and spongy. The ‘oriented’ stalactites feel softish, and crumble when pressed.

They furrow their brow. The trap is connected to the lever. If the lever is pulled, the wall will come tumbling down. You reveal this to your party.

A plan is formed whereby the group will move to the hallway, and Ooma, using her shield will pull the lever, and Wik will step back into the room to see what occurs. Ichabod moves forward in the hall.

As the lever is pulled, the wall collapses so fast, Wik cannot re-enter the room, the wave of water floods out, pushing out the doorway, pushing the party down the hall in a tumble injuring them slightly. As they regain their footing, they feel the water rising and swirling. They quickly continue along the hall, twisting and curving, as the floor slopes downward.

They come to a domed room, as the last person enters; a gurgling sound alerts them to the water flooding the floor, swirling at their ankles rising at the rate of about a foot every twelve seconds.

A wall in front of them that they round, shows a dais in the centre of the room. Wik’s attempt to take the object fails, but he does note words written on the plaque upon the dais. He reads them aloud for everyone:

“What type of fish cannot swim?”

(The DM had a great chuckle here... as the first answer spouted was correct – and then they second guessed and made it far harder than it needed to be...)

Jelly fish; Seafood; (water rising); Starfish; Red Herring; Fish sticks; (water rising)

“Starfish, final answer!” (Although, not the answer rolled, I like it far better.)

“Red Herring, final answer.”

“Jelly fish, final answer.” Water rising...

“A dead fish, final answer!”

A doorway crumbles open and the water washes out into the hall, leaving only a foot or so about their ankles. Before they leave, they see water spouts spurting from a fist-sized hole in the wall, like a fountain.

Ooma pulls a piece of grey cloak to stuff the hole, but the water is freezing and pouring too swiftly to have anything stay. She decides to leave it, and suggests they exit. They move along the hall, and discover that the water is following them; and the floor is still disappearing...

The party is knee-deep in cold water, Ooma is thigh deep...

o0o

XP: Ooma 2000XP; Amaril 1200XP; Morgan and Wik 1000XP; Benji 250XP

o0o

drowning...?

fledgling dungeon mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~