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...

~*~*~*~

I summon potatoes!

The party is knee-deep in cold water; Ooma is thigh-deep... in a dark corridor with horizontal stalactites jutting from the rough walls and a floor crumbling behind them; the corridor turns east, and the party hustles down the hall, the force of the water flowing around their legs causing Ooma, Amaril, Morgan and Ichabod to be buffeted into the spikes, bloodying their arms before up-righting themselves.

Wik’s light passes across a hole in the wall roughly three-feet wide, a scant foot-high kerb at the floor. The water is rushing down into the opening, and, as Wik glances down he sees a swift flowing vortex funnelling the water and decides that is not a safe place to be. “Let’s keep moving before we become part of that!” The assumption that Benji may have jumped through this exit is confirmed as a tuft of his fur is spotted caught on the rough stones; they hope he is safe.

As they persist down the hall and nearly reach the end, a very LOUD CRUNCH assails their ears, and they unexpectedly find themselves off balance, and, as the floor tips and wobbles, only Wik is able to prevent himself from slamming into the spikes and avoiding injury. Struggling to the end of the corridor, they leap the one-foot gap onto a platform that opens into a dark cavernous room with a soaring ceiling beyond torch or lamplight range. As they enter, the door SLAMS shut.

The uneven stone floor crunches underfoot as they step across the rubble, stone dust and debris littering the horizontal surface. Tiny giggles can be 'heard' along with the distinct sound of flapping wings and air movement. They can see nothing save what the lantern reveals. Wik revolves it about.

As the lantern moves over the walls, carvings, describing various colourful scenes of an epic battle, are noticed. It tells an heroic story, if one should care to study the various glyphs and find the beginning. Attempts to unravel this mystery fail, at first.

An unheard voice booms into the room as the heroes try to puzzle out their next moves. While they do so, and as they are listening, the giggles become more pronounced and the heroes feel brushes that tickle various parts of their exposed flesh; air moving and wings flapping startling them abruptly.

A suggestion they run resolves itself as Ooma tries to open the sealed door, Amaril does not trust her attempt, and looks for a lock, unsuccessfully. The mirth the group hears, grows.

Ooma shouts, “What do you want from us?” Her words met with gleeful giggles. “Fu*k you too!” She mutters aloud. More laughter greets her.

Amaril questions, “Do we have the ingredients to blow the door up, opening it?”

As they discuss this possibility, Wik feels something brush the back of his neck. He swings the lantern around, looking into the shadows, spotting a flying dragon-like creature about a foot-and-a-half long.

“Oh sh*t! Dragon!” he shouts. Gales of laughter follow him.

Amaril pulls out his longbow, and nocks a poisoned arrow. He searches about, peering in the dark.

Ooma pulls out the pink potion she received from the Crayol’s. A prickling sensation accompanies the strong smell of mint as she spreads it over her exposed skin. Her body tingles, and she feels a soft, wet tongue flick over the back of her arm and she reflexively swings her axe widely, hitting air.

Morgan gawks, spying the flapping creature and staring in wonder. “What is that?” he questions.

Wik swings his short sword, hitting the amused creature, slashing a gash on its side. Immediately, as it draws back, the party hears in their head, “No more fun: attack!” and Wik feels a sting on his arm.

Ooma is aware of wings brushing against her. Amaril feels a pinprick on his shoulder, causing a small tear in his skin. Ooma swings her axe again, catching one of the creature’s wings, injuring it. Amaril, his bow nocked, lets his arrow loose, clattering it against the wall, falling to the floor. Ichabod swings her staff wildly, unable to see or hit anything.

Morgan, his wits fuzzy, attacks the creature that attacked Ooma, his scimitar swinging, hitting the dragon. Wik swings his short sword again, hurting the dragon badly.

The dragon, angry with Wik, strikes him, causing a sting on his arm. Another aims at Ooma and one at Morgan, and at Ichabod, missing them as they duck and wriggle. One swings its tail toward Amaril, catching his cheek, the poison sinking deeply, causing him to crumple to the floor in a slumber.

The group hears reverberating in their heads, “We were just PLAYING!”

Ooma takes a step back and says, “Haw-haw-haw!” She hears the whinny response, “You started it.”

Ichabod swings her staff blindly about, missing narrowly again.

Morgan peers around, unable to see anything, going into a defence position, ready to deflect.

Wik, sword ready, head weaving as the lantern light shifts violently, “Why didn’t you help us if you were just playing?”

“Help you?! You attacked us!”

“Yeh, you TOUCHED me, I don’t like being touched,” Wik grouses.

“Did we HURT you? Nooooo...” the dragon Farf mocks.

Ooma agrees. “Yah, nobody licks me without my permission.”

A giddy-voice happily exclaims, “You tasted good! It’s mint!”

Morgan tilts his head in bewilderment. “It’s not nice to taste someone without their permission.” His eyes narrow slightly.

“We’re a group of people who are used to people attacking us around every corner, and it’s dark in here and you guys are... I mean, c’mon!” Ooma cranes her head about. A voice enters her head, “It’s not dark to us, what’s your problem? Can’t you see? Are you blind?”

A second voice forces its way into Oomas mind, “And besides, you still attacked us; we didn’t hurt you.”

“You scared the crap out of us!” In her head she is mocked, “Wear a diaper!”

Ichabod pipes in, “I’m, we’re, sorry. You startled us and scared us.”

Morgan nods, “I have a pretty bad scratch here. It’s painful.” He pouts.

Ooma concurs, “You put one of our friends to sleep here, so, uhh, can we call a truce?”

“Ooooo-kay,” a long-suffering sigh concedes. From the air, oiled-paper packets fall to the ground, one landing on Amaril’s forehead and bursting open, oozing a smooth, red paste on his skin.

The group looks at Amaril, and Morgan shakes him to see if he will awaken, but he slumbers on. A voice clatters in Morgan’s head, “Squeeze one in his mouth, he’ll be ok.”

Morgan nods, following orders slightly; he stuffs an entire packet, paper container and all, inside of Amaril’s mouth. The long suffering voice groans in his mind, “No, empty the contents out, silly!” Morgan withdraws the packet, squishing the contents into Amaril’s mouth, clamping his jaw shut and pinching his nose until he sees him swallow.

Ooma gathers the packets from the ground. Noticing, some of the packets have “heal poison” stamped on them in cursive, flowing handwriting. Some have "McCrunchie". Some have both.

“What does this one do, if I might ask?” Ooma boldly holds a packet up in the air. The voice reverberates in her mind, “It will heal him. It will give all of you healing.”

Amaril wakes sits up and looks around confused. He smacks his lips. “Tasty. Not bad.” He asks “What happened? Why am I on the ground?” coming to his feet.

“You got knocked the fu*k out,” Ooma answers pragmatically.

Ichabod adds, “Yah, one of those dragon-things stung you and you dropped like a kobold!” The voice corrects her, “Get it right. Pseudodragons!”

She looks around. “Fine, Pseudodragons,” she snips.

(Morgan sassily sneaks in, “McCrunch to the forehead; He’s lovin’ it!”)

The packets they retrieve are distributed among the heroes, Ichabod declines to take any.

Amaril, peering around in the shadows, spies a black leather pouch sitting tightly against the wall. Picking it up and looking inside, he discovers hundreds of the little packets, all stamped with 'McCrunchie', ‘heal poison’, or both.” He distributes them among his friends.

Morgan, regaining a little of his senses, is still disturbed by the voice inside his head, “Read the walls, dummy’s!” Ooma and Amaril also hear the voice and they walk closer to the carved glyphs and, Amaril, a light dawning, circles until he finds the beginning glyph, examining and deciphering their meaning and intent.

Tracing it along the four walls, the still brilliant, colourful carvings depict a mighty, epic battle.

A dragon clan fought and drove off invaders (depicted as large coiled reptiles with glowing red-eyes and forked tongues), though the clash was not without its toll and many dragons were felled.

A intricately carved glyph shows many dragons lying, rents in their shimmering scales, a fluid oozing from the holes; some with broken wings; some with fangs still piercing their hides.

The story continues, as Wik brings the lantern near. Amaril translates aloud. “Great fires, fanned by dragon breath, heating clay cauldrons into which oblong-shaped tubers, (“that grow in the upper caverns, supposedly,” he adds as a glyph shows a tunnel leading to the tubers and back to the hospital room), “are plunged. Spears at the end of the dragon tails retrieve the softened tuber. They are cooled then sliced into strips.”

“Nurse dragons, (They’re wearing hats with a red cross on them, that’s how I know,” Amaril retorts to the question how he knows they are nurses,) “carry trays of the strips, breathe fire onto them, while another nurse squeezes a packet of the red paste down the golden strips. Still another nurse carries them to the stricken dragons.”

Amaril exclaims, “Oh, sometimes they mix the red paste into a liquid they heat first, giving it to smaller dragons; and, others get it spread directly onto an open wound.” He goes on, “It looks like they are healed completely after eating five or six of those strips, but it seems to take longer if it is drunk or eaten straight. Maybe the tubers have healing powers too?”

“Apparently the red paste leaves a stain that needs to be washed off using a strong soap,” he laughs and points to a particularly unhappy blue dragon with a red stain on his forehead.

“It seems to be a healing potion. What do you all think about that?”

Morgan wonders, aloud, “I think you all might want to hold off on any more of that McCrunchie stuff.” Morgan’s memory seems to be improving, knowing who he is, just not what-the-hell he’s doing in a dungeon, “I’m a Buccaneer for gawds sake!” McAcid; McCocaine; McHeroin; McEcstasy...

Ichabod grins, “Meddle not in the affairs of Dragons; for thou art crunchy and taste good with ketchup...” She moves off toward the exit. Knocking her staff against the face of the door forcing it to spring open with a screech.

The group moves out of the dragon room and file down the next corridor. Ichabod halts Morgan and in a low voice, knowing his memory is only just returning, she utters, "I sense a shift in the planes. Please, you have been chosen, though you don't trust me. Please keep this safe. Your life may depend on it." She hands Morgan her staff, the aura from it dimming as he takes it.

Morgan curiously wonders why he wouldn’t trust her. She smiles, “Keep it safe.”

The group next enters a room, and are about halfway across the floor, when the ground starts to mist, and a familiar whirring sound alerts that something is happening: four Obsidian skeletons pop up, Ooma immediately leaping and striking the first, collapsing its glass like frame, turning and striking a second, breaking its hip and shoulder.

Another flies at Ooma, his dagger plunging into her armour, cutting her and leaving a trickle of blood.

Wik steps up his short sword chopping off its other arm and other hip. Morgan puts his scimitar back in its scabbard and attempts to hit one of the creatures, swinging wildly. About this time the party notices that the roof of this room is rapidly lowering...

Amaril brandishes his scimitar, slicing the leg off one of the undamaged skeletons. The nearly-gone skeleton sends a slice into Ooma’s shoulder, and the one with only one leg hops to Amaril, dragging its dagger down his neck, doing minor damage just below his ear. The final one, (not being too bright) tries to kick Wik, falling and shattering his body into pieces.

Ooma swings and removes an arm from the final whole one. Morgan swings at the standing skeleton, slicing from the top of his head straight through his body, and it topples, glass shards flying everywhere, sticking in leather armour and slicing uncovered skin.

Wik lifts his leather covered boot and stomps on the remaining head; crushing the skull.

Looking around, Wik notices a glitter in the centre of the skeleton who still has most of a ribcage. He pulls the ribcage apart with his gloved hands and pulls out a gold-coloured key. Glancing at the ceiling and hustling over to the door, he quickly finds the keyhole. Inserting the key, he turns it and the door swings open. Wik removes the key, sliding it into one of his many pockets, before exiting the room.

The rest follow Wik out of the room, into another corridor, going south. They notice the floor is not crumbling behind them.

Suddenly a noise behind them garners their attention and they turn, Wik spinning the light revealing bouncing shadows. Morgan and Amaril spy a creature with mottled-grey flesh that blends seamlessly with the dark ceiling. Its arms, extremely long, wrap twice about Ichabod, and still it clings to the ceiling.

Morgan jumps, trying to haul either the creature or Ichabod back, missing and falling into Amaril. The creature attempts to scurry down the hall-ceiling with Ichabod.

Wik, drops the lantern, and his short sword, drawing his long bow, carefully aiming, his arrow nicking the creature slicing into its shoulder, forcing it to drop Ichabod, as it yelps and crawls back down the hall ceiling.

Ichabod is lifted by Morgan and Ooma, and set into the middle of the line. She seems shaken, but unhurt. Amaril takes up the rear. The creature scuttles further down the corridor, away from the party.

Advancing, the party enters a large, maybe 15x15 foot, junction with a hallway turning at right-angles to the one they are in. As they arrive, Wik, in the lead, spots something out of a nightmare; an oily black humanoid shape without features, flesh or face bristling with madness flits around. From the waist down it trails away into wisp, with a faint dirty-fog slinking along in its wake. It is floating toward the party.

An attempt to converse with it by Wik, in six different languages, “Listen, we just want to pass.” results in the creature babbling incoherently and agitatedly.

This babble infects the mind’s of the party as they stare unable to gather the brain power to budge, attack or move! Finally Ooma and Wik shake their heads as if to clear the cobwebs from their brains. They notice that the rest are still staring uncomprehending.

Wik turns to Ooma, “Let’s pull them this way; maybe it will snap them out of it.” He takes Amaril’s hand and hauls him aside. Ooma takes Morgan and Ichabod. The creature’s form continues to reach for them; the black wisps brushing threateningly near them, continuing its mutterings.

It touches Wik, who feels a drain of his abilities and can’t remember things he ought to.

Ooma sees the touch, pulls out her axe, and swings at the creature, who watches the blade float beneath it, the wisps of dirty-fog swirling as it blathers louder and, if possible, with less coherency!

Morgan, Amaril and Ooma again fall under the creature’s spell, ‘luvin’ it.

Wik decides to stab it with his short sword just above its waist, ripping a painful rent in its stomach. Wik pulls back, stabbing it yet again. The creature touches Wik, draining more of his thinking process. Wik mindlessly stabs again, his blade ripping another hole in the already decrepit featureless-body.

Amaril, coming out of his stupor, swings at the creature his scimitar hitting directly into the empty head. The oily black humanoid shape dissipates into a fine mist and falls to the ground, looking like peppered-ash.

The party, hungry, injured and exhausted, decides to rest in the large junction.

Ichabod, her hands raised as she concentrates, the group watches as she conjures a spell. “I summon potatoes.”

Several tubers drop unceremoniously to the tunnel floor. Recalling the colourful carvings, she reminds them, “Cooked strips of these will restore much of our health.”

They ponder how to cook them in this dark dungeon with dangers lurking around every corner. A thought is heard inside their heads, “You have oil and a lantern, you’ll figure it out...”

o0o

XP: 200XP each for Ooma, Wik, Morgan and Amaril, (and Ichabod). EXTRA-XP for those who write a story (with the Tavern at its centre...); journal entry (of usefulness) or an insight into their character’s backstory... 50xp x character level, for one entry per week...

o0o

mclovin’ it...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

Knoll...

The quick recap – the party is in a smallish cavern with a low ceiling, rough stone walls and stone debris on the floor. The only exit appears to be the tunnel from which they entered (after killing the young Cryohydra) and echoing from that direction is the mournful cries of something in pain, or anguish, accompanied by the sounds of ice being crushed and flung like monkey poop. The noise is creating small stone and debris avalanches in the cave.

A quick discussion ensues as to what to do. Determining the noise is most likely larger versions of Cryohydra, they check their equipment, leaving the searching of the cave to the Dwarves, Benji and Jahlo.

Benji scratches at an area and the serving ladies note that the rock wall he is investigating doesn’t line up. “This looks like a doorway!”

Initial examination shows a slightly offset rectangular shape about twice as tall as wide. Ooma saunters over attempting to pull, then push the shape, seeing if it will give. Wik checks for secret handles or locks, and finds nothing, so he lends his strength to Ooma, the two pushing at the wall of rock until it gives, opening about a foot exposing a sliver of a pastoral scene.

Green grass spreads in all directions a tall trees grow abundantly. The sounds of birds chirping and water flowing in the distance floats through the opening. Also heard, faintly, is someone, a female, calling worriedly.

Wik pushes the stone-door back giving full access to a woodland knoll. He walks out and looking upward he almost embraces the sky as he wanders farther, pulling his bow and nocking it in preparation.

Ooma follows quickly, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun and the gentle breezes. Turning back she enquires of the serving ladies, “Where are we?”

Shaking their heads, they seem extremely perplexed. “This tunnel used to be a through tunnel. I’ve,” she turns to her sisters, “We’ve, never seen this area before.”

Jahlo senses a small bit of magic that seems to be dissipating from around the doorway as he steps through muttering about condiments... “Let’s find those voices and see if we can obtain a meal.” Tessalia seems weak, and leans on Jahlo as they exit the cave.

They discuss blocking the door open with the remaining pitons before they move forward into grotto. Morgan peers about, seeming relieved he hasn’t spied any red feathers, he turns to the serving ladies as he steps through the door, “Looks like you’re sh*t outta luck.”

The serving ladies shrug and scurry to follow, preferring this over the alternative, as the Cryohydra shrieks and wails.

The party hears the voice calling, much closer this time. The words are muffled but it sounds like, “Merrrrccccyyyy; Merrrrrccccyyyy!” 

As it comes closers still, “LLLLuuuuucccccyyyyy; LLLLuuuuucccccyyyyy!”

Some of the group moves toward the voice, while Morgan hammers the pitons in.

As Wik and Amaril move forward, they hear a small child crying and alter their course towards the sound, to their right. At the edge of a stream a small yard-ape sits holding her ankle. Wik calls to her, learning she has hurt herself, and cautiously makes his way down the embankment to where the child sits.

Benji comes bounding up, quickly assesses the situation, nuzzling the teary-eyed girl eliciting a giggle. “What a pretty doggie,” she chortles.

Ooma moves toward the woman heralding, and leads the woman towards Wik, and the child.

Jahlo touches the child’s ankle to heal her wounds. The lady watches curiously, reaching down picking up her daughter. She smiles at Jahlo. “Are you an alchemist?” Learning that he is a Druid, she brightens. “If you like, I have a shop over yonder. I have some interesting wares you may be interested in? You all may be interested in.”

Ooma asks where they are. The lady replies, “In the Knoll.” Ooma speaks of Triton. “Tri-ton? Nooo, I’ve not heard of Triton. I’ve lived here all my life.”

Puzzled, the group glances at each other. “I’m Ooma, this is Wik, Morgan, Tessalia, Jahlo, Amaril, Ichabod, Adrie, Fequr, Racelette, and that big beast is Benji,” she introduces the group.

“Pleased to meet you.” The lady offers no name.

Jahlo bears down upon her, “What we’re in real need of is a decent hot meal, jah?

She smiles as he takes her youngster, tossing her upon his shoulder, while Tessalia leans heavily upon his arm. “I’m sure I have plenty to share. Simple food, but good and hot. Come with me.”

As they continue walking with the lady, Wik hangs back and hisses at Ichabod, “What did you get from the Cryohydra?”

She smiles, “A few shingles of scale and about ten yards of hide.”

They come to a long house with a door about mid-way along the wooden structure, with windows, evenly spaced on either side. The lady invites them in and sends one of her older children to get some wine from a cellar store house.

She sets a large cauldron filled with steamy meat-and-vegetable stew on the long, hardwood table, while her older daughter sets plates and spoons alongside baskets of still warm biscuits and water goblets. She puts a wine glass in front of each plate as well.

The young child is set in a rocker by the low fire to rest her ankle.

Morgan takes a bottle of the wine, popping the cork and guzzling from the neck, a happy smile brightening his face. The others pour glassfuls from the other bottles for themselves and the young boy returns to the cellar to retrieve more bottles.

While they eat, the lady brings forward a large branch of Holly and shows it to Jahlo, whose eyes brighten as he examines this near perfect specimen. Jahlo teases the woman, “Druid-nip!”

Morgan asks about eye-of-newt and mandrake plants when she mentions she has a shop through the opening. While she goes to search for the requested material, Morgan eyes the eldest boy, “You there! Boy! Go and bring me another bottle of this wine!” he waves the half finished bottle about, sloshing it, as he gives his orders, before tucking it inside his jacket when a new bottle is set before him.

The children continue to stare like only kids will, listening to the wild story that Ooma embellishes as the kids eyes grow huge. The party enjoys hamming it up for the youngsters, winning their trust and approval.

Ooma reaches into her pouch and withdraws a tiny gem for each of the kids, whose eyes grow even bigger as they clutch their own shiny stone in their hands. Oooo and ahhhing, showing the gems to each other.

Morgan, in his drunken stupor, hands the older three children each a rusty dagger from his ample supply. He spews some malarkey about needing to learn to defend their valuables, before turning his attention back to his glass of wine.

The children, in their excitement, completely forget Jahlo’s rule of not running with sharp things in their hands, and run off to show their mum. Jahlo bets that one of the children is going to put an eye out before they leave. Wik takes that bet.

Ooma asks about a washroom and is told there is an outhouse out back. She reemphasises what she is actually looking for is a wash basin, and is led to a small room with an ewer and a porcelain bowl on a dresser with a framed mirror hanging above it. Morgan rifles through his pockets and hands Ooma a sharp dagger, which she uses to shave and make herself presentable.

Wik and Amaril browse the shop.

The lady comes up to Wik and shows him a finely made longbow. “Only two thousand gold coins. I’ll throw in twenty arrows as well.” A little dickering, spending his gems, and Wik has a finely crafted longbow, made by elves for elves. He can feel the power just by holding it.

She turns to Amaril, “Would you like a bow as well, or a suit of leather armour? Or both? Only two thousand gold coins. I can exchange gems, if you have them.”

Amaril barters his gold necklaces and gems, and borrows the final two hundred from Wik, obtaining a sturdy leather, intricately tooled and tanned, suit of armour.

For Tessalia, who upon entering the fresh air and bright-light, fell ill again. The trek across the forest proving too much for her. Jahlo assists her, at the insistence of Edith, on top of a feather bed in a small alcove at the back of the hearth. Edith presents Jahlo with a wand, explaining, "This wand will allow your sorceress to cast Magic Missiles for thirty uses. I’m sure she will be thrilled to have it, only a thousand gold."

For Jahlo, she lifts up a bronze censer, "This is a special construct," she says, "It's called a Censer of Jeffrey's Aid. Place it on a flat surface, recite the words, “Fire and Water, Sand and Air, Steel Our Hearts, Hear Our Prayer,” and all within ten-feet of the censer receive a boost to their combat morale and their fear saves!" She looks at Jahlo. "The best part is it offers a temporary cover, allowing each member who stays within the ten-foot radius while the spell is burns, a bonus to their HP of 1d8+3! Only twenty-five hundred gold coins.”

Jhalo tries to bluff his way around the expense, which the savvy shop keep is wise to, but, knowing her profit is safe, she does lower the cost, and tries to offer him more Holly, for a price.

For Ooma, (happy now that she's been able to scrape the ungainly hairs from her chin), is doubly-pleased to trade in her dulled battle axe for a sharp shiny new Dwarven Battle axe, with an etched pattern on the face of the blade, that seems to be built for her alone! Offering a plus two to attacks has her eager to find something to test it on. Ooma barters a deal, trading her old axe, the cost drops by two thousand gold coins.

Morgan squints at the lady, leaning in, whispering, “I need something that will protect me from magic.” He pointedly stares at Ichabod.

She thinks, “I don’t know if this will protect you from magic, but will this help?” She offers a finely woven shirt of very strong, lightweight chain. "Mithiral, should help stop those scars when you get into battle." He hands her a bunch of gems and she picks through taking the required amount.

Ooma asks if she sells clothing or cloth and is told sadly, no. She receives the same answer when she requests the whereabouts of an Inn.

The shop keep tells them there’s the sealed entrance to a Tavern over by Green Lake when they press for details of an Inn or Tavern. “Weird things used to come out of that doorway,” the little boy mentions.

Morgan, suddenly interested, asks their names. “Lucy, the youngest, Lance, is the eldest, Matthew, is next and then Brenda.” She pats her stomach, “And one on the way.” The lady smiles and says, “I go by Mama, but if you insist, you can call me Edith.”

Jahlo offers Edith five Goodberries, to celebrate her expecting condition, explaining the berries value.

She reciprocates. “For your troubles let me tell you the Tavern door is not sealed tight. We just tell the kids that so they won’t go playing down there. Ever since the weird things started coming through the door, we closed it tight. Remarkable Meade or not!”

She goes on to tell them that the city of Montgomery, in the East, is the direction of the Tavern door. “I heard tell there’s an Obsidian Forest up that way, my husband may know, but he won't be returning for a month or longer.” Only Wik, with his local knowledge skills fleetingly wonders why the children are allowed to roam to the Tavern so far from their home? The thought is ephemeral as they continue chatting.

The party spends the remainder of the afternoon, playing with the children, teaching the children all sorts of fun/naughty tricks. While all the party is outside, Morgan shows Edith the broach.

“Oh my gawds! I’ve seen this before. Look here, have you noticed this? The Venetian Man symbol. Do you see this?” He voice trembles as it rises. “This is a replica of the Wheel of Time! Where did you find this? The value is nearly immeasurable!”

Morgan queries if the broach will protect him from magic. “Where did I see this before?” she keeps trying to remember. “Yes, yes, this will protect the whole world if used correctly. Where did I see this?”

Morgan grows impatient, uninterested in anything but the value of the trinket. “Who would know the value?”

“The lady, she would know.” Edith looks at him, “This is worth a king’s Ransom. At least fifty, possibly a hundred thousand gold coins. Used improperly it could spell the end of the existence. It could release the night creatures.”

Morgan, only hearing the woman with half an ear, is disappointed when trying to resupply his rucksack, especially with climbing gear. He does receive three Tinder Twigs, which Edith clearly explains to him how to use. Almost finished, Morgan asks her if she has a pouch filled with an emulsion of itching powder, which, after a few moments of pondering and discussion, is produced. Morgan promptly drops the broach into the powder and puts the package in his rucksack.

Watching that, Edith laughs, “What a clever plan! Lance, go get me another bottle from the basement.” With which she toasts his ingenuity.

Edith volunteers to return the Dwarven ladies to their families when Ooma explains their plight. She seems quite happy to offer this service, and the others seem exuberantly excited at this news.

Ooma points to Wik and asks Edith, “Do you have anything that will turn him back to normal?”

She smiles and shakes her head, “I’ll need to analyse the original ingredients. It will take me a few days, if you’d like to wait or return later, I can see what I can do.”

“No, that’s okay. I won’t take any more of your time.”

Edith offer the group bottles of wine to fill their packs before they set out on their way.

As a final thought for the evening she responds to Morgan’s question regarding the weird things coming from the Tavern door. “Weird flying rats; no, not bats, I know what bat’s are,” she say indignantly. “These were rats with wings.” She shudders, “Unnatural.”

Deciding to remain for the night, they locate suitable spots to bed down for the night. The group finds its restful evening slumber, Amaril, staring at his ring, swears the lady is moving inside the top stone; or are his eyes playing tricks? He drifts off to sleep...

ZzzzZzzzZzz...

o0o

As you have been gifted with an abundance of powerful weapons, spells and the such, there was to be no XP awarded this week... rest, relax, enjoy your storybook peace...

o0o

she was so nice... 

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~*~

Rations...

The illness that holds Ooma in its grip, has reached out and nabbed the group with many succumbing to its symptoms. Drowsiness being the unifying factor as each group is forced to build a fire with the materials at hand and hope they can remain vigilant to allow this disease to pass.

They wonder, “Was it possibly the rations?”

The sound of a whistle kettle after the liquid has cooled to wafting through the bellows; a hiss, seems to ricochet off the hard surfaced walls. Ooma, Morgan, Racelette, Adrie and Fequr fight to remain awake, failing miserably. Morgan, who has slurped down a fair bit of mead, has a little more protection than those who’ve not imbibed. However, his eyes are heavy.

Ichabod and Wik are faring the best of all as Icahbod produces vials of pink and blue liquid. She drinks the blue and hands the pink to Wik, who, suspiciously sniffs, then drinks the cherry-flavoured liquid. Minutes later he is asleep. “I’ll take first watch,” Ichabod yawns, facing the direction she can hear noises that evoke a vision of a waterfall rushing over a cliff.

Jhalo, Tessalia, Amaril and Benji are at the bottom of the slide when they are overcome suddenly. Their groans cause Benji to whine, as he snuggles close to Jhalo. The group huddles close, as the sleepiness overcomes them and they rest their weary eyes. They are oblivious to any noises, except the scratching of some moles digging...

The party has taken ill, we shall return next week...

o0o

did NOT eat the rations...

Fledgling DM,

khrys...

o0o