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...

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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...

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