As we should recall our party was immersed in darkness when
we left last week, the lights being extinguished as the puzzle was correctly
answered...
“Oh shit!” The battle cry emerges as the lights wink out and our party
is plunged into inky-blackness, the dark so deep it takes even Ooma a moment to
adjust her keen eyesight!
The golden glow above the podium is no longer glowing. Wik
dropping to his knees, fills his lantern, strikes his flint and steel sparking the
wick, bringing a small amount of light to the room again.
The light reveals a light haze, or fog, puffing out from
under the dais, its odour a pleasant, sweet smell. The red ooze, released when
the glowing red key was turned sits slightly over ten-foot from Wik, sparkling
on the floor, about a cubic-foot, or a large pumpkin-size, puddle. Martonis
manages to elude the penalty of the sleeping gas; our other team members
already entertain immunity to its consequences.
- DM SHTUFFS: A discussion ensued, clearing up a minor rule
function. Ie: Up to level FOUR, you may receive your character’s FULL hit-die
points, beyond level four you must ROLL to see how many more hit points you
add. A roll of ‘one’ is a ‘botch’ and you can roll again.
- When you (the party) takes a full, eight hour, (Elves, four)
rest, you recover 1-point, per (your) level PLUS your constitution modifier.
Wik finally shows his party members the keys he’s found.
Martonis is indignant. “You found keys? And didn’t tell anyone? You just turned
them? I know I’m the new guy, but, really?”
Wik describes his discovery behind the sliding panel, to the
group.
A series of six glowing coloured keys set in keyholes in a
horizontal row behind a sliding panel of stone. From left to right the keys are
Green, Red, Blue, Yellow, White and Black. They are unmarked in any other way.
Ooma returns to the podium, rechecking to see if a new
riddle has been written. She is disappointed.
A deep sigh and Ooma looks around.
The door on the west wall, with a cave-in a few metres down
the corridor; a lever on the north wall, next to a faintly discernible
rectangle, which the skeletons appear with far too much regularity; the
Obsidian glass wall being the whole eastern wall of this sinister room. A panel
of keys on the south wall, near the western door, and the podium, sitting on
the dais, with the gold plaque atop it, in the centre of the room.
She looks up and down a slight puzzled look creasing her
brow. The walls are solid black rock, jagged in places, smooth in others, the
ceiling, or what she can see of it, appears to be the same material.
Wik strolls close to the Obsidian wall, attempting to peer
through the opaque, polished glass-like rock, noticing the absence of a glowing
sconce that lit the entry into this “tomb.”
Martonis repeatedly asks if anyone has a torch, to which Wik
replies, “I’ve just lit a lantern.”
Martonis acknowledges this but has a different use in mind
as he again asks for a torch.
Ooma and Wik return to examine the ooze intently. Ooma
kneels next to the puddle, peering closely, waving her hand, attempting to have
catch a whiff of the ooze’s aroma. Although her hand brings nothing of note to
her nostrils, she does feel a cold wetness slithering about her chainmail
armour-clad knees and calves, creeping along her armour.
As Ooma attempts to stand she discovers her legs glued to
the floor. She tries to hit the red glob, bringing her mace down on the sticky
substance coating her calves. Pieces chip off the main body, but as a whole, it
appears unfazed.
Wik calls everyone over and instructs them to pull. As they
lift Ooma from the floor, the substance forces her legs to remain in their
bent, kneeling position. Morgan attempts to use his crowbar to pry the stuff
loose from her legs as they lift her.
They set Ooma down again, all chip in and help untying her
leggings, dropping them to the floor. Martonis again asks someone for a torch,
explaining that the heat may burn away the glue.
Morgan lights a torch and fires the armour, watching as the
heat melts the red substance, and, getting a little too close with the flame, Morgan
touches the newly liquefied ooze, and it explodes the jelly-like substance,
which separates the mass into particles about two-to-five centimetres diameter.
Deftly our group manages to duck, dodge and evade the projectiles, which affix
themselves all over the room, harmless now. A small scream assails their ears
as this happens.
Ooma puts her armour back on after examining and discovering
no harm has come to it through the ooze. While Ooma redresses, Wik takes a
moment to discuss the panel of keys.
Martonis’s request that they take an eight-hour rest is
heeded and they bed down for the night, Wik massaging the crème he has into his
skin to try to return his natural colour. The pink is fading from his hair, and
if you look closely you can see the yellow skin slowly easing to a pink-flesh
tone, but only on close examination, from afar, these slight changes are hardly
noticeable.
Their sleep goes uninterrupted and they awaken refreshed.
The corner of the tunnel, near the cave-in is beginning to have a privy-kind of
smell, if you catch its drift. Immediately upon waking, they resume tackling
the keys, discussing the ramifications of turning them. Wik relights the
lantern during his watch, so it still burns brightly.
“Alright, there’s six keys. We’ve turned one, the red one,
there’s green, blue, yellow, black and white left,” Wik informs the party.
Ooma, after pondering for a few moments, “I recommend we
don’t turn the black one, black signifies something bad; even worse than red.”
Wik pipes in, “So, you guys want to turn white then?”
The discussion ensuing results in the white key being turned
by Wik while everyone else stands near the podium, about thirty-foot back,
Martonis moves a few feet further. Wik turns it, then turns it back, hearing a
click both ways. Confused, he tries again, leaving the key turned for a few
seconds before turning it back.
Floating down from the ceiling come big, white fluffy flakes
of snow! It lands on our party, melting and dripping to the floor. The room
also seems to drop a degree or two in temperature.
A sigh and they turn back to the keys, Morgan commenting, “I’m
worried about turning that yellow key, I just have this feeling it’s going to
be urine; a stream of urine!” (After much giggles...)
“The green one could be acid,” Wik reflects. The discussion
continues until a consensus is reached.
“Green? Okay.” Wik turns the green key and the faraway tinkling
sounds of a musical tune fills the room, and he switches the key off. Looking around
they see nothing of note.
Twisting the yellow key, Ooma holds her shield above her
head, but instead of the expected deluge of urine, a panel slides smoothly open
at the opposite end of the wall, closer to the Obsidian partition.
Ooma runs over to the alcove, a stone niche of about
two-foot wide, high and deep, finding a clear glass vase about eighteen inches
in height, and about ten inches in girth. The vase is filled with gold coins,
glittering gems, gold chains, silver bars, rings, and such. Ooma looks for any
kind of pressure plate before she grabs the vase speedily backing away
hurriedly. The vase is surprisingly heavy, and Ooma instantly feels a drain on
her energy. She sets the vase down on the floor.
She tries to reach in to extract a coin, finding a glass
cover on the top of the vase, impeding her fingers. “Hey guys, look at this,”
she calls to the others, Wik’s eyes bulging as he moves swiftly to the
riches-filled glass container.
They all approach, and Ooma waves her hands telling them what
she’s found. Martonis suggests breaking it. Wik examines it closely, his eyes
glittering as his mind whirls at the riches inside. He sees a crystal clear
vase, or urn with wealth nearly spilling out. Ooma suggests turning the green
key to see if the music will crack the glass and Wik, greedily enthralled with
the vase nods, “Go ahead, I’m not setting this down.”
Ooma tells Wik to bring the vase over and set it next to the
keys. He turns the green key, starting the pleasant musical tune, which they
leave playing for over a minute, watching the vase intently to see if any
changes occur and are disappointed. Nothing appears to happen.
Wik lifts the vase above his head and, in a moment of
misplaced frustration, drops it hard, to the stone floor and is not only
surprised, but stupefied when the vase does not shatter. Wik grabs it,
examining it closely, not ascertaining the deception, and so, determinedly
tries to place it in his backpack.
Ooma objects, her mind starting to wrap around the clues
they are discovering and trying to make sense of them. “So we have snow, we’ve
got this red ooze that likes to envelop things, and we’ve got this music, and
I’m wondering if we put this out, and the red ooze envelops it, let it snow and
then the music comes on... and...,” she pauses, “let’s find out what the other
keys do! ‘Cause there might be like a sequence of events here.”
Wik agrees to this suggestion, yet still puts the vase in
his backpack before turning the blue key.
As the key turns a sudden snapping, crackling sound comes
from over head and shooting out from the southeast corner of the soaring
ceiling, comes a jagged lightning bolt, it’s blue flame-like sizzle rapidly
bouncing off the hard surfaces of the room hungrily until it finds its point,
zapping Martonis’s plate-mail suit, stumbling him backward as it dissipates.
Martonis feels the heat and is very grateful for the suit which protects him
from serious damage.
Morgan, spying the smoke wafting from Martonis’s face
shield, knocks on his armour, “You okay in there?” he laughs faintly.
“Yeh, I’m alive,” Martonis barks, trying to clear his head.
“Wow! That was better than a fifth of...” his voice trails off.
Wik immediately turns back to the key bank, “Only black to
go! Shall we spread out a little bit?”
As the group returns to their positions near the podium, Morgan
holding his breath and closing his eyes, peeking from under his lashes as Wik
turns the black key.
Martonis prays, “I may see you soon Lawrd,” he half-jokes. Leaving
the key turned for a few seconds before turning it back, they look about the
room, trying to determine what, if anything, has happened. They hear something
flowing; gushing and Martonis finally notices a thick black trickle slowly
oozing down the north wall, a couple of gallons or so spills forth before the key is
turned back.
Martonis comments, “Uh-oh, we’ve got problems.”
Morgan relights a torch and sets it against the substance,
hesitatingly. It seems to make the substance liquidier, and grows darker in
colour. The smell reminds our party of ...clovers?
As Morgan finishes flaming the sticky, clover-smelling
substance, Wik determinedly moves to examine the lever, sensing that it has a
trap attached to it, but is unable to discover the purpose. He does discover
that it will open, or close, a door, but not which door.
Wik shrugs, “It’s the only thing we haven’t tried.”
They discussed the purposes, as Morgan puzzles over what
made the skeleton door open, if they haven’t yet pulled the lever? Wik astutely
tells him that moving the gold tablet caused the door to open.
“The lever is the last thing we can try. Shall I pull it?”
Wik queries the party. “Just make sure we’re all prepared for a fight.” He
looks to each.
“Ahh, sure,” Morgan shrugs.
“Yeh, I guess,” Ooma decides, unenthusiastically.
“Martonis? You’re the one that’s probably going to get the
heaviest workout,” Wik reminds him.
“Probably,” Martonis nods. “Go ahead.”
Wik pulls the lever and the party hears a large stone
scraping along other stones and it rumbles in the room; a slight shaking and
small dust particles floating downward. The noise seems to come from beyond the
Obsidian wall. It rumbles for about ten to thirty seconds before ceasing.
Morgan exits and looks down the tunnel where the collapse,
or cave-in, happened. He sees nothing that sets off alarm bells and decides to
stroll the length, to the rubble, turning and retreating back to the room when
there appears to be no changes to the corridor.
Wik, in the meantime, peers at the glass wall carefully, attempting
to see if there is anything they may have missed.
He sees very little in the cavern beyond the wall, the dark
purplish-smoky colour of the Obsidian making clear visibility difficult. He
does note that the sconce, that burned on the wall next to the lever that released
the door’s catch allowing them to enter the room, has burned out.
The wall is set into a groove in the floor and along the
ceiling, and pushes tightly into slots at the north and south ends of the
mostly square room. He is unable to determine how deep the glass sinks into the
groove or how far it is inset into the stone slots.
Martonis tilts his head. Walking up to the wall, he knocks
on it with his fist. “Open up,” he commands. He is not truly surprised when
nothing happens. He next swings his morning star at the wall, Wik moving
swiftly away to avoid being hit by the weapon and the flying chips of glass
that are sure to fly about.
The wall resists his efforts.
Ooma shakes her head, “I still think it has something to do
with these coloured keys.”
“Oh, probably,” Martonis sighs.
Wik suggests they turn the non-damaging keys. The yellow and
green and leave the others unturned.
Ooma stands next to Wik and suggests the others stand in the
doorway to the tunnel on the west wall. “Let’s do the red one again, plus then
make it snow.”
Wik pipes up, “Were not doing the red one again! We’ll do
the yellow white and,” he pauses, thinking, “and green one.”
Omma reminds him that, “The red was non-damaging; it just
stuck to my armour.”
Martonis agrees, “It was just glue.”
Ooma continues, “So, I don’t know, like, maybe you should
put the red ooze, make it snow, play the music, I don’t know, a combination of
these things. Lightning; I dunno – it’s weird. Could these be like elementals?”
she ponders.
Before any of that can happen, Morgan determinedly moves to
the podium and touches the tablet. Ooma sees him, “Oh, gawd damn it!”
His finger resting on the tablet, he stares at the
skeleton’s entry door. When nothing occurs, he picks the tablet up, dropping it
back into place immediately, but, the damage is done, from the north wall, a
door slides open and three obsidian skeletons with glowing red-eyes march out,
going to the podium.
Morgan looks past the marching glass-undead into the room
they have emerged from, attempting to discover if anything looks different from
his earlier glimpse. From his vantage point he sees nothing that causes him to
think the lever pulled moved anything in that room. He then scoops up a few of
the glowing eyes strewn about the floor and throws them at the marching
skeletons, before running to the tunnel in the west wall.
Martonis casts a spell, his arms raising and in a very deep
voice, he intones, “By the glory and reign of Pelor, be gone!!” And, by the
glory of Pelor, the Obsidian bones of the skeleton’s dissolves to fine
particles and disappears!
Morgan looks at him and grins, “You’re getting better at
this.”
Ooma smiles and shouts, “Nice one, Holy man!”
Wik turns immediately back to the keys. “Okay, I’m turning
on the snow and the music and what was the other one?”
Ooma suggest the yellow one, “To see if another panel opens
up.”
Wik turns the keys. As the white one is left turn, large
fluffy flakes drift downward and the room’s temperature drops noticeably. As
the green key is left turned, the music plays, echoing off the hard surfaces,
its sound pleasant. When the yellow key is turned, the panel the vase was in
formerly, rises again, revealing an empty niche.
Wik begins to feel very tired, quickly discovering the vase
to be the cause and sets the vase on the ground. “Okay, anyone want to try to
smash that?”
Morgan steps up and deftly brings Ichabod’s staff down hard
on the glass. Wik raises an eyebrow, “You know if you shatter that she’s going
to kill you, right?”
“She has to unkill herself first.” He laughs, the stick
hitting the vase, the reverberations tingling up his arms from the ineffective
strike.
Wik instructs Ooma and Martonis to try. Ooma shakes her
head, “Sweetie, let’s work on getting out of here first, then we’ll look at the
vase. One problem at a time.”
Wik looks at her, “Okay, whose going to carry it, and feel
exhausted?”
Martonis, thinking, asks, “Are there any other keys you
might have found?”
A short discussion and the answer appears to be an abrupt,
“No, we didn’t find nothing. What you see is what we’ve found.”
The snow is piling up, about two-feet deep, before Wik
re-turns the keys, shutting them off.
Ooma has an idea, warning everyone to get into the hall
where the cave-in occurred. “I want to try something. Set the vase in the
centre of the room first, Wik.” When everyone is safely peeking around the
stone door of the corridor, she turns the blue key, emitting the lightning
shaped blast that bounces around the room, unfortunately it chooses to dispel
on Ooma’s scale armour, missing as Ooma lifts her wooden shield feeling the
shudder of the blast, pushing her against the wall solidly, a second blast of
lightning pops out just before Ooma can switch the key off, bouncing around the
room in unleashed glory, dissipating against the wall.
“Well, that didn’t work.” Ooma walks forward and smashes the
vase with her gold-plated mace, which recoils so violently in her hand it
almost pulls it from her grip. Yet the vase remains, unbroken.
Martonis also decides to smash it, swinging his morning star
soundly against the side, knocking it over and causing it to roll about five-foot.
Wik tries the simple route, walking over to where it stops
and commanding, “Open.” He shrugs a sheepish grin on his face. While Ooma ambles
over and proceeds to rub it with her new gloves, succeeding in obtaining a
classic shine, but zilch-else transpires.
“Okay, this thing is – I mean, let’s just figure this out
later; let’s just try and get out of here first,” Ooma comments, proceeding to question
Morgan about the skeletons, learning that the skeletons in the room seemed to
be immobile. She once again requests everyone to get back in the corridor. She
wants to turn all the keys.
Martonis seems a little worried about this decision, but, as
he has just joined this group, he bends to their choices, his unholy-like
remarks filtering under his breath.
When they are all in the corridor, Ooma begins turning keys.
Black, then red, then white, green, yellow and lastly blue. She crouches down
and holds her shield above her head.
As the keys are turned, the familiar patterns appear. Black
key: a brownish-black liquid seeps between the stones and down the north wall;
the red key brings forth about a cubic foot of red ooze from a crack in the
south wall, quite close to Ooma. The white key has snow falling at a steady
pace. Turning the green key brings the sound of music to the room and the yellow
one lifts and lowers the niche panel. The blue key sends forth its frightening
bolt of electricity, which eventually ploughs into Ooma’s shield, scorching the
wood nearly through. A second bolt flashes out, and every six-to-eight seconds
a new bolt flashes forth.
After the second bolt flashes, Ooma jumps and switches them
off, starting with the blue key.
The party returns to the room, deflated. “There has to be a
way out!”
Wik asks, “Shall we go clear that cave-in?”
Ooma has another suggestion, “Why don’t we pry open that
skeleton door and see if we can make our way through without disturbing them?”
Morgan warms to this, “Why don’t we try to kill them with
the lightning?”
Ooma points out, “I don’t know. They’re made of glass not
metal.”
Morgan asks if the keys are removable, and Wik reassures
him, “Nope, they’re fixed.”
Pondering their options, Wik again suggests they try
clearing out the hallway.
“Wait,” Morgan pipes up. “Did we try moving the podium?” He
walks up to it and lifts it, taking a half-step before the door slides open and
three more skeletons enter the room, going toward the podium and taking up
their stances. Morgan, ignoring the skeletons, continues his examination of the
wooden podium, peering at the bottom, hoping for a trigger; trip wires or a
pressure plate, and discovering a solid surface. He then runs to the corridor
door with the podium. As he tilts the podium the tablet falls onto the ground.
Martonis, ready, his arms held thusly, his holy symbol
raised, commands in an authoritative voice, “By divine radiance, I command
thee, be gone!” His efforts are two-thirds successful as two of the skeletons
turn and walk away from Martonis, bumping the Obsidian wall, their mindlessness
causing them to continue to try to walk through the wall.
The party then joins the fight, their weapons flying. Ooma,
an idea forming, turns the green key, causing the music to play and the
skeleton’s legs to imitate dancing. (The Undead Boogie or the Monster Mash.)
The party continues their battle until the last skeleton
drops and a vortex of glass shards spins the glass shards slicing our heroes,
as it whirls and disappears. (DM Note: The DM’s count of the death, or,
‘re-death’ order of the skeleton’s WAS correct; C, (Ooma) then A, (Morgan)
then, finally, B, (Morgan).)
As the vortex begins, the gold tablet on the ground melts
into a puddle of molten gold, a slight steam rising as the snow around it
melts. The glass vase, filled with treasures, sits on the dais where it was
placed many minutes before. The podium lays forgotten on its side on the ground,
a snow drift piled against it...
The party decides to take a long rest, recovering their
powers and healing their bodies... puzzling over the way to leave this room.
The DM will trust they set up their tents or at least wrap in their winter
blankets. The room is much colder and the snow is icing over...
o0o
XP: 1375 XP 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 back story... 50xp X (your) character level, for one entry per
week...
o0o
so close... so darn close...
fledgling Dungeon Mistress,
khrys...
~*~*~*~
They are led from
the bathing pools to a foyer, or lobby with thick carpeting, festive walls, and
large wall sconces burning fragrant candles. Several ornate benches with thick,
plush pillows are arranged artfully around the large space, and a few people,
with khol-lined eyes, sit, awaiting the giggling-ladies to show them into the
pools. The window openings to the outside are heavily draped with brilliant
scarves and thick rugs.
As they drink
from crystal goblets filled with liquid refreshments the curtain rises, and the
orchestra, tiny mice, softly begins their show. Nearly asleep as our heroes wonder
when they can leave without attracting unwanted attention, they fidget and peer
about the large amphitheatre. Morgan and Ooma, notice mice scurrying along
dropping into balconies, unnoticed by the patrons. Morgan notes that the mice
have red eyes. Wik sees them racing along the rafters.
As they enter the
bed and breakfast, they are greeted cordially, and, because of the late hour
they rush the party up the stairs and into individual bedrooms, well appointed
with everything royalty would expect! On a sideboard in
the sitting room each hero will locate several bottles of fortifications.
Morgan, being fond of rum is overjoyed to find three large bottles of the
Captain’s stuff sitting beside a large cut-glass tumbler.
