Gendarmerie…

AWAKENING IN THE MORNING: 

Ooma:
I wake up very early to the smell of brewing coffee and cooking bacon... I smile as I stretch. I go to the water basin next to the mirror and check my face for stubble. I spot some, and a straight razor next to the basin. I give myself a quick shave, then a wash. Then I armour up, grab my gear and head down to the dining room for breakfast. I seem to be the first of our party here, so I'll grab a big table and order for the table some bread and cheese to start, and myself, a full breakfast, then I wait for my companions, sipping my, very strong, and smooth, coffee.
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Martonis:
Waking up, I feel thoroughly disgusted. Now I'm all for love and all, but whoever was put in the room next to mine just has no manners. Obviously the couple were, uhm, vigorous, and had plenty of energy to burn, but for the love of Pelor's Divine Radiance, MOVE the headboard of the bed away from the wall! All night long... bump... bump... whack... whack... "Ohhh baby!" ...and then again; and yet again! Oh well, might as well get up and pray.

"Oh, Divine... Pelor!” (Damned headache!) “By your radiance, let, uhm... Oh yeah, let the land be replenished, the unnatural be exposed to the Light for all to see. Let your ...ahem, Illumination awaken all to the Good that is about us. Let your Blessings, er... hmm, ahh... provide us with the skills needed to prosper, the intelligence to know that we never know all that is needed to be known, and the wisdom to realize the need continually seek for those answers. Oh blast, can't think, too tired, yadaa, yadaa. You know what's in my heart, oh Divine Radiance, please forgive this servant's poor attempt at your due!”

I then gather up my belongings and traipse sleepily down to the dining room. Spotting Ooma already at the table and I join her, requesting a cup of tea from the serving girl.
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Morgan:
I will drop the pouch and broach in the wash basin and soak them both to get the itching powder off. I tear up the Turkish robe and make a sling and lash the broach to my side. I will place four silver bands and a garnet in the pouch and have it delivered to Lucy if I can. Then I go in search of the pleasant young woman to give her my thanks (and invite her to my room for a drink or two).

Unable to locate the girl from the opera, I am pleased to make the acquaintance of a pretty young lady with large green eyes and straight midnight-black hair on my way back to the hotel. She is affable to joining me in my room and we spend a happy evening enjoying each other’s company. Deniz, (her name) didn’t drink too much, but she was wise in the ways of pleasure, plus she did volunteer to take the package to Lucy. 

I wake just before dawn, finding Deniz, and the package, gone, so I set out to find a general store. I hope to purchase about ten identical belt pouches from the shop. I’d like to place few bands, charms, coins and cheap gems into each. I’ll likely get strange looks; I’ll tell them I’ve been burning the candle at both ends with the lady folk. I also need to look for replacement armour for my destroyed mithril chain shirt; preferably magic over mithril if possible. 
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Wik:
I rise, perform my morning rituals gathers my belongings and head down for breakfast.
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The large bed and breakfast, teeming with guests, awakes early, the crow of the rooster ensuring everyone knows the sun is rising. The proprietors bank the fires in the kitchens and dining hall, swiftly moving through a routine they have danced for several decades now.

The cook shakes her head as she fries thick rashers of bacon knowing the tantalizing odour will soon bring guests down, hungry. She sets the percolator on the flat top of the iron stove and slices thick chunks of fresh bread, (baked the afternoon before) as she punches down a new batch and sets it to proof, ready to be baked after the morning rush.

A few guests straggle in and she watches as the strange guest from last night, the queen’s acquaintances, makes his way down the oak staircase and, instead of turning to the dining room, he heads out into the street. She shakes her head, wondering whatever is he up to? Nothing is open so early. Shrugging she supposes he has a meeting, possibly with that lovely lady who joined him last night and left before the sun rose this morning. The owner thinks no more of it as she moves about the dining room, setting tables with cutlery and condiments.

Ooma takes a seat and orders The young girl who comes in to help with the breakfast fills her order and, when she is joined by Martonis and Wik a few minutes later, the serving girl cheerfully fills their orders.

Morgan, meanwhile, has found the streets fairly deserted, only a few ragged urchins, pulling tin wagons are around poking into trash bins and gathering up the bits of treasures left or tossed by the well-to-do. It appears this city stays up late, and sleeps in. After attempting the doors to the Bastille Armoury, he turns to retreat down the stairs, muttering about “lazy, good for nothing…” He is not so caught up in his mutterings that he fails to notice several large uniformed men approaching…

The scrabblers, nearing the opposite end of the block, mind their business, intent on their goals. Morgan astutely turns and retreats toward the urchins attempting to avoid contact with the uniformed men. He tosses a handful of coins to the ground in an endeavour to create a distraction allowing him to put more distance between him and them.

It works, slightly. As the men push passed the homeless, gruffly but without rancour, Morgan turns and peers at them. Deciding they maybe aren’t a threat, he pauses, waiting for them to catch up.

They do, and promptly arrest him. The gendarmerie try speaking with him, but the language is insurmountable and Morgan, after a small struggle, goes peacefully. The seven police officers march him through the street to the police station, a few streets along.

They enter the compound and are greeted with angry shouts and bitter comments. “Thief,” is the one word Morgan is able to understand as he is hauled up and into the marble floored, mahogany panelled station, through the public area into the property room where the guards take his visible equipment, handing it to another clerk who takes and places it in a small room behind him, locking the windowless door securely.

Morgan is then hauled through the other door into a long room with maybe twenty cells down either side, their doors opening into the common corridor. A few lights hang down the centre illuminating the depressing area. Small windows, with closely-set bars, positioned into the walls near the ten-foot ceiling allow gusts of fresh air (and, often rain or snow) to invade the area. There are three other prisoners lounging inside the cells and Morgan is thrust into an empty one. The conversation he attempts receives blank stares. He sits and thinks to while his time.

Back in the hotel dining room, our rogue, fighter and cleric are enjoying the tasty foods set before them, helping themselves from the a la carte as their plates empty; croissants, hot chocolate, a sideboard loaded with bacon, eggs – omelettes, scrambled, coddled, poached – toast, potato hash, sausage, ham, scalding bitter coffee and watered wine…

The owner cheerfully brings in the morning’s newspapers, placing one on every table. Before our party has time to peruse it, a commotion in the lobby has everyone rubber-necking to discover the source. Wik lifts the paper and his eyes grow wide as he reads an alert on the front page, he relays the information quickly to his friends. 

Moments later a squad of Gendarmerie enter the dining room, their eyes roaming over the guests. Wik, attempting to avoid their attention, scrambles under the table, dismayed when he realises the table cloth is only a few inches long and doesn’t hide him at all. The movement catches their attention and they make their way to the table hosting our heroes and an arrest is made. The language barrier causes much confusion; the proprietress shakes her head, “Bad. Thieves.”

Wik struggles briefly and is placed in irons.

The officers check their rooms, returning with an empty vase, confirming it does not belong to the hotel. The party is escorted to the station where more disgruntled patrons have arrived from the bath house and are shaking their fists, demanding justice.

The party is taken through, their belongings rucksacks and other possessions placed in the locked storage before they join Morgan, albeit in separate cells. Morgan has attempted speech with the three other prisoners without success, and is happy to have his friends join him, although, when they later transmit the reason they are being held, he is outraged.

As soon as the guards exit the cell-room, Wik begins to pick at the manacles using his thieves tools. “So glad they didn’t search me before they tossed me in here!” he sniggers to himself.

The rest of the party soon hear the metal clang on the hewn rock floor. “Now, how to get out of here.” He fiddles with his lock picks unsuccessfully at the iron grate. Frustrated until he remembers a gold skeleton-key he picked up deep in the caverns.

Fitting the key, previously hidden on his body, to the lock, he is pleased to find it opens!

“There are keys on the hook by the door,” Morgan points out. Wik goes to the hook and takes the large metal ring, returns to the cell doors and quickly releases the rest of the group, including the other prisoners. Martonis makes a point of thanking him.

A plan is quickly hatched and not one of the team feels remorse at using the three criminals, but assuage their guilt by reasoning that the three probably are guilty of their crimes. Morgan hands each two daggers, and by pantomiming is able to have the three understand, (or, at least understand their part) in the diabolical idea. He also reaches in his pouches and extracts several rings and gems that he found, stolen by the mice, and hands it to the criminals, whose eyes glitter as they laugh coarsely.

The party, plus three, cautiously moves into the storage room hatching their plan. They unlock the door to the outer room, shoving the three criminals through, hollering and causing a commotion as Morgan slams and Martonis locks the door behind them, effectively tossing the three to the wolves. Our heroes then enter the lockers and retrieve their belongings, or, at least the stuff they can readily spot, go back into the cell room and head for the emergency exit, although, why it’s called ‘sortie’ they cannot fathom.

Now, to keep the officers from simply entering and subduing them, Martonis puts the key in the lock, turns it then brings his morning star’s head heavily upon the key, snapping it, making it impossible for a key to be used from the other side.

The party expects the key in hand to open the door, but, two keys; one for the cells and one for the doors. They brainstorm quickly, Ooma suggesting they remove the hinges. This is tried successfully and Morgan catches the heavy door, leaning it to the side as they make their escape down a metal staircase and over to a high stone wall.

Morgan grabs his grappling hook and tosses it over the wall, the party scrambling up it, Martonis, using the Grace of Pelor, heaving Morgan over when he loses his grip on the rope and begins to struggle. They no sooner hit the ground when a battalion of officers round the corner at the end of the lane. They start to run, but slow when they realise Martonis cannot run he is exhausted.

Morgan, about to toss Martonis over his shoulder, thinks Wik’s idea of each taking Martonis by the arm and dragging him along is a better one. Martonis, understanding they may need to leave him behind, tosses a bag-load of marbles which, like a comedy routine, has the officers slipping, tripping and falling in their haste to recapture these hardened criminals!

Our heroes hasten their way along the lane, turning several times, losing the officers, and nearly colliding over a rabble group scrounging in the trash, similar to the urchins Morgan met earlier. Our group is almost passed them when Morgan gets a bright idea. He grabs one of the urchin’s trolley handles, puffs up, and stares the ragged waif down, effectively forcing him to release the trolley, where upon, Morgan unceremoniously lifts Martonis and drops his feet first into the trash barrel on wheels. The party is able to travel much quicker as they jog along the road moving through narrow lanes.

As they hustle along, they notice the roads widening; the yards growing larger, tidier. Forced into a narrow walkway between two high-walled gardens, Martonis spots, like a telescope, at the opposite end, what the party perceives to be the palace! “There, that way!”

Morgan, spying the hill, turns to Martonis and groans, “I’ll take you to the bottom, after that, you’re on your own.”

The palace guard smirk briefly as they spy Martonis, his armour-clad body clanging in the rubbish-cart. They point the way to the entrance politely, being quite oblivious that these people are wanted by the police.

Arriving at the entrance, the party observes little pomp and ceremony, asking to see Lucy.

“The Queen?” the neatly uniformed officer repeats, his practised eye inspecting this varied group. A smile creases his face, “Are you Ooma?” He turns at her nod. “And you must be Wik, and,” he glances to Morgan, “Morgan?” I must apologise, I do not know your friend?”

“This is Martonis, he wasn’t with us when we rescued Lucy.”

“Ahh, I see,” his accent strong. “Please, follow me, the queen is expecting you!”

After being led through a maze of hallways and rooms, they are led into the throne room. The guard, hardly reading their names before a loud squeal and a flying torso of limbs leaps from the enormous throne, and flies down the length of the room, and launches into Ooma’s arms.

“You’re here!” a small child’s voice sings gleefully!

The party reacquaints themselves to Lucy, Queen Lucy now, and Ooma introduces Martonis. Although schooled in courtly manners, she is still a child and she clings to Ooma, shyly peering around her to look at the metal man.

Martonis for his part, removes his helm and kneels, “My lady.”

Discussions ensue, although it seems strange to be chatting about such adult ideals with a young child, she is the one who can grant their freedom.

Looking to her they quickly tell their tale. Lucy speaks with her advisor, who nods and bows graciously, “It will be taken care of, your majesty.” His scowl is noticed only by the newcomer, Martonis, as he exits the grand room.

“Your highness, if I may. Your advisor is especially evil and should not be trusted.”

“Nonsense,” Lucy giggles. “He’s been here since my parents were killed.” She grows sombre, her voice quavering and a tear encroaching in her sparkling eyes. This nearly breaks Martonis’s heart as he holds his arms open for her. She presses closer to Ooma, a childish shyness creeping upon her.

“Who takes care of you?” they enquire and Martonis is appalled to discover the toad who is considered her advisor is the one who makes the decisions until Lucy comes of age. Martonis tries his best to tell her what he has been given a glimpse of, but it is just too much for her childish imagination to take in.

“Nana, my governess.”

“Can we meet her?”

A wide smile fills Lucy’s face, “Oh, yes!”

“What happened to Edith? Can we send for her? Can she come and look after you?”

“Yes. If she will. My advisor can arrange it.”

“Maybe we’ll stay until she arrives, would you like that? If we stay until Edith arrives?”

Typical of a little girl who has just been given a very coveted gift she squeals and jumps up and down. “Will you!? Yippee!!” She clings to Ooma’s arm and begins to drag her along the carpet. “Come, you must meet Madame, and she’ll arrange your rooms!”

The four adventurers follow the small waif through the splendid gallery and further; the magnificence of the palace inspiring new respect at every turn.

 The party follows blindly a six-year-old child...

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XP: 1150 each; surprising, ‘eh? 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 character level, for one entry per week…

o0o

(video version)

o0o

blindly following the child...
fledgling Dungeon Mistress,
khrys...

~*~*~*~ 

We have the key...

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...

( the verbal recount... )

o0o

so close... so darn close...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

A sweet odour begins to fill the room...

If we will remember, as we paused last week’s game, Ooma was jumping down from the podium after knocking the golden tablet to the floor, and they are faced with six creatures appearing to be nothing more than animated bones of Obsidian glass emerging from a sliding door in the north wall. Pinpoints of red glow in their eye sockets. The door behind the skeletons slides silently closed as the final one exits. They advance toward the party, their ‘bones’ jingling musically. Heard, echoing in the stone and glass cave, a gleeful laugh and a familiar chant in a raspy voice intones:

             

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum;

Slice these flesh-bags, make them run!

             

The coarse laughter grows and, of note, all of the skeleton’s jaws have animated and are jiggling up and down, the slight ‘tinkling’ of their delicate structures continues.

             

The golden glow above the podium grows in both size and wattage, burning very intensely – it almost seems to be sizzling...

             

The bright light reveals the entire sixty-to-seventy foot squarish room to the heroes, however they cannot take advantage of the view right now; right now they need to roll initiative... errr, deal with the glass skeletons.

Our group is staggered.

             

As they break their statue-like stances, before a skirmish begins, a blast of cool, fresh air whooshes in. A door in the west wall slides open and a large, armoured figure walks through.

At this same moment, the flapping of a long black-cloak hanging on the wall next to the door draws our group’s eyes when it catches the breeze, unfolding, its ray-like form evolving to dark wings and a bony, whip-like tail. As it animates, its glowing red-eyes demoralize those caught in its stare, a toothy mouth opens, a loud wail assails our team, weakening them, forcing them to clasp their ears.

An alert Ichabod leaps, placing herself between the strange newcomer and the gargantuan bat-like creature, becoming the prey as its wings envelop her. At the same time, the first skeleton, nearest a Ooma lunges their body forward, spikes of Obsidian teeth clashing...

Unable to follow Ichabod, our heroes turn their attention to the immediate danger to their health...

Tumbling, swinging, launching arrows and battling leaves our party tired and frustrated. They are relatively unimpressed with this shiny-plated soldier as repeatedly, his attempts to turn the creatures, fail. Their own attempts barely scratching the brittle bones. 

The tide finally begins to turn when the newcomer, at long last, pulls forth a spell, “By the power of Pelor!” and our party watches three of the six beasts disappear.

Continuing to battle they ultimately make glass dust of the final skeletons, a whirlwind of glass shards slicing bared skin as the skeleton falls the other two adding their residue to the whirls.

As soon as the last skeleton is crushed, the golden tablet that fell to the floor ‘liquefies’ into a puddle of molten gold; the globe’s light diminishes and a new tablet materialises on the podium.

Wik moves to take a look at the podium.

Morgan moves toward the Cloaker’s (the bat-like creature) exit, the west door, exiting through.

Ooma asks the newcomer, “Did you see where that thing took our friend?”

“Down the hall,” his deep voice rumbles as he turns and follows Morgan. Ooma follows him, in the hopes of saving Ichabod. A cave in, about thirty feet down the hall, frustrates this attempt. A mountain of rock and debris clogs the corridor.

Meanwhile, back in the other room, Wik stares, puzzled at the new tablet. The language an enigma to him.

In the hall, as they ponder their next move, his light bathing the area brightly, the newcomer notices the severe injuries to the party, and utters, “By the grace of Pelor.”

Both Ooma and Morgan notice their injuries disappear. “Thanks!” “Oh, wow, thank you!” they both utter, surprised and grateful for this kindness.

Morgan half-heartedly pokes at the pile of tumbled rock with Ichabod’s staff, then plants the staff in a crack, as a tribute to her, while Ooma wonders if they should go after her.

The newcomer looks at her, his face a big question. “Go through solid rock? I can’t see how.”

They nod, turn and return to the room they started in, Morgan taking one step before returning for the staff, the glow as he grabs it, pulling it from the crevice, missed by all. He shrugs, following the others, “Well, we did everything we could.”

Arriving in the room, Ooma, seeing the cooling gold, decides to gold-plate her mace, dipping it into the still liquid puddle, adding a unknown plating-strength to her future swings. She looks to the new comer, finally having time. “Hi, I’m Ooma. You are?”

The tall newcomer, not removing his armour replies, “Hello, I am Martonis of Pelor.” He adds confusedly, “And I don’t have any idea where I am. I entered a tavern, used the privy and here I am.”

The snickers are soon joined by a chorus of, “Welcome to the club.”

Morgan ventures, “I don’t suppose you have any flasks of ale or drink?”

Martonis smiles, “I have rum.”

Morgan wraps his arm around Martonis’s shoulder, stuttering, “My new best friend.”

Martonis searches his bag, handing a bottle of the fine liquid refreshment to Morgan, whose eyes light up. “Enjoy.”

“I will. Thanks! And thanks for the heals!”

Wik eyes the contents eagerly. “And you, young man,” Martonis intones icily, “if I catch your paw in my belongings, I shall not hesitate to lop it off.” His eyes cold as he stares through the visor of his helmet.

Wik laughs the warning off, his eyes eagerly dancing over the newcomer’s belongings. "By the way, thanks for healing me."

The party chooses to take a few minutes and drink some of this fine rum. Wik reminds them about the new tablet on the podium. Ooma is looking around the room, Martonis following as she searches; Morgan collecting some of the glass shards.

Martonis locates a lever on the north wall; next to the sliding door the skeletons exited, or entered, from, and calls everyone over. Wik, hearing ‘lever’ looks up from the tablet, “Can someone read this?” he asks, as he hustles over to the lever to look for traps. In the meanwhile, Morgan moves to the tablet, scratching his head, unable to decipher it.

Morgan reaches forward and starts to turn the tablet upside down. As soon as his fingers touch it, an audible click sounds, and the door next to the lever Martonis is standing beside slides back and three Obsidian skeletons march out, their eyes glowing embers of red.

Morgan, though startled, resets the tablet and dashes through the door, only to become lodged in the sliding mechanism, the pressure nearly slicing him in two before he is able to extract himself falling back into the room with his companions (tearing his pant leg in the process), but not before getting an ominous view of the interior of the room: row upon row upon row upon row of Obsidian skeletons, their eyes black lumps of charcoal.

The heroes plunge into attack mode, Father Martonis turning two of the skeletons, making them easy fodder for our hero’s weapons and attacks. And, easy pickings they are. Quickly our group drop the animated glass cages, the whirling vortex of glass angrily spinning before petering out and dropping shards of glistening glass back onto the stone and sand surface.

Ooma, breathing hard, turns and looks at the tablet, giddy as she discovers it written in Dwarf! Wik moves about the room, his powers of observation enhanced by the near death experiences!

Ooma’s voice booms, speaking aloud the words written on the tablet:

             

            The larger I grow

            The less that you see.

            Squint all you wish,

            When surrounded by me.

            I am what?

Silence descends as the party pauses, puzzling.

Wik turns back to the stone walls, walking slowly.

Ooma breaks the silence and confers with the group about the answer to the riddle as Wik moves around. They ponder and rack their minds. "Sun?" "Sandstorm?"

Wik pauses before a panel in the south stone wall, near the west corner. Tilting his head he touches the raised panel and it slides sideways revealing a series of neon-glowing keys. The colours, aligned from left to right: green, red, blue, yellow, black and white. He mumbles that he's, "found something here."

Wik looks for tricks, traps, or instructions. Nothing appears. Without hesitation, or conferring with the others, he reaches forward and turns the key corresponding to his favourite colour; red.

Ooma calls, “Hey, hey, one riddle at a time here!”

“Too late,” Wik glances over his shoulder. A click from the key brings forward a red ooze slithering in through a tiny crevice between the floor and the stone wall. The party groans in horror, as the puddle, about a foot in diameter shimmers on the ground.

Ooma, still over at the podium shouts out the answer to the puzzle. “Darkness! I think the answer is darkness. Final answer. Darkness.”

As the word ‘darkness’ leaves Ooma’s lips, all light sources (candles; torches; lanterns; light spells) snuff out; the only illumination are the eerie radiant red lumps of skeleton eyes.

A sweet odour begins to fill the room...

Will our party be here next week? Will they be suffering some gaseous malady? The ooze? The radiant skeletal eyes? Maybe, next time, discussion before action...? Or not... :0)

o0o

XP: 2100 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 character level, for one entry per week...

(without artistic liscense, (you know, the way things REALLY went down): https://youtu.be/FsNumpA5dzw)

  

o0o

thinking about glow-in-the-dark moss...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

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...

~*~*~*~