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...

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