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...

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