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...

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