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.
__________

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.
_________________

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. 
_________________

Wik:
I rise, perform my morning rituals gathers my belongings and head down for breakfast.
_________________


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...

o0o

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...

~*~*~*~ 

Mousicians… and deceit...

Our party finds itself in a Turkish bath house. Large natural stone-bowls of steaming, clear, bluish-green water dot this underground grotto, with heewn stone floors, walls and ceilings. Lichen line the walls, offering a soft glow throughout the stone maze.

Our party stares dumbfounded as several ladies approach. Too shocked to protest, they soon find themselves being expertly bathed by these exotic beauties, the dust, dirt and grime whisked away before they are rinsed in cool, clear water and then led to either the massage tables, the steam room or the soaking pools. Wine is offered freely, as are small dates and figs on salvers.

Being unfamiliar with the surprises the party has found, Martonis chooses to dress and not lounge about. He is followed by Amaril, Morgan and finally Ooma and Wik. All are pleasantly surprised to discover their belongings have been cleaned, polished, sharpened, repaired, oiled, refined, and restocked. Amaril learns the secret to the glass vase as he sees the lady pour the contents back into the vase and retop it while he is being dressed and chooses to keep this information to himself, sharing it with Wik later.

They are led from the bathing pools to a foyer, or lobby with thick carpeting, festive walls, and large wall sconces burning fragrant candles. Several ornate benches with thick, plush pillows are arranged artfully around the large space, and a few people, with khol-lined eyes, sit, awaiting the giggling-ladies to show them into the pools. The window openings to the outside are heavily draped with brilliant scarves and thick rugs.

Morgan is determined to talk to these people but is thwarted as their language resembles nothing he knows, and yet he has a sense he should.

“The Moors were Muslim inhabitants of the Maghreb, the Iberian Peninsula, Sicily, and Malta during the Middle Ages. The Moors were initially of Berber and Arab descent, though the term was later applied to Africans, Iberian Christian converts to Islam, and people of mixed ancestry. Who in modern times are found sailing the high seas as pirates...”

Opposite the doors into the bathing pools are sixteen-foot high Moorish doors, their ornamentation bright and gaudy. As the party moves towards the doors, smiling and inclining their heads politely as they pass couples, families and individuals, two large, elaborately outfitted men pull back the heavy doors, salaaming our heroes as they exit ...into a wide lobby with a red carpet with tiny gold fleur de leis woven into the deep-red carpeting, flowing luxuriously throughout the space. Turning back, the Moorish doors are already fading into blackness...

Given mere moments to absorb their new surroundings, they are whisked up a wide marble staircase by an animated young lady who is positively glowing with excitement.

“Here you are! Isn’t it exciting? Come now, we’ll have to get you seated before it begins, follow me; follow me.” She turns. “Here you are!” She holds back the curtain to a private balcony with six wide, upholstered seats. She waits for you to enter and settle yourselves before murmuring that, “The Mousicians are already entering the stage!”

As they drink from crystal goblets filled with liquid refreshments the curtain rises, and the orchestra, tiny mice, softly begins their show. Nearly asleep as our heroes wonder when they can leave without attracting unwanted attention, they fidget and peer about the large amphitheatre. Morgan and Ooma, notice mice scurrying along dropping into balconies, unnoticed by the patrons. Morgan notes that the mice have red eyes. Wik sees them racing along the rafters.

A cache of tiny trinkets is found and collected by Martonis, as Morgan points out the trail he sees leading to it. The party then make their way down the stairs and begins filing toward the exit. Wik excuses himself to visit the private loo, returning a few minutes later. “Where is Morgan?” he asks.

Morgan, seeking a different exit, leaves and then locates the party outside, on the long avenue. Undecided as to direction they peer up and down the miles long, straight boulevard.

Wik spots a sign in the distance that only brings more questions. “What’s an Eiffel Tower? Or an Arc de Triomphe?”

Undecided still, the Paige pokes her head out of the Theatre. “Are you lost? I thought you would be at the hotel. They are waiting for you.”

Martonis asks, “Why would they be waiting for us?”

The Paige goes red and stammers, begging them to forget she has said this. Martonis is adamant and wishes to know who is waiting for them.

Reluctantly she murmurs in a low voice, “You saved the child.”

“Lucy?” Ooma asks surprised.

The girls nods, “Please, I do not wish to spoil the surprise.”

“Who is Lucy? Are you sure it is the same one?”

“Oui, Lucy, heir to the throne. She is to be crowned queen.”

A silence envelops our heroes as they digest this information, and then, seemingly all at once deny that they did the deed for gain. “We do this sort of stuff. It’s kinda what we do.”

“Please don’t tell them I mentioned anything,” the Paige pleads.

“Of course not,” the party agrees.

“Your hotel is at the end of this avenue,

As they enter the bed and breakfast, they are greeted cordially, and, because of the late hour they rush the party up the stairs and into individual bedrooms, well appointed with everything royalty would expect! On a sideboard in the sitting room each hero will locate several bottles of fortifications. Morgan, being fond of rum is overjoyed to find three large bottles of the Captain’s stuff sitting beside a large cut-glass tumbler.

Thinking swiftly, he saunters across the hall to Martonis’s room, and, on the pretence of admiring the luxuries afforded them, he eyes the liquor cabinet greedily. Martonis waves his hand, “Help yourself, friend.”

Morgan wastes no time in relieving the board of its stash of three more bottles of rum. Ooma wanders in, “We should get Wik and Amaril and divide that treasure up. Maybe take another look at that vase, ‘eh?”

With Martonis and Morgan in agreement, Ooma knocks on their doors, finding Amaril in Wik’s room. “Come to Martonis’s room, and bring the vase,” she hollers.

When they arrive, Amaril is confronted about the vase. “I don’t have it any more, maybe those bath ladies took it?” he offers weakly.

Martonis challenges him. “I don’t believe you.”

An argument ensues, with Wik being dragged in as Amaril flounders on open sea. Martonis, Ooma and Morgan all disbelieving the tales regarding the loss of the vase and its treasure. “Well, I tell you, I can’t abide those who won’t tell the truth!” Martonis emphatically growls. “I remove my spell of protection from you both and don’t expect any further healing from me in the future!”

Wik laughs, “Don’t expect my help when you need a trap examined.”

Then the party does the worst thing possible. They go to bed angry. This does not seem to bother some, but Martonis is bitter at the fibs and struggles throughout the night listening to an annoying tapping sound, awakening fatigued. Others are perturbed by the wails of some ethereal form or other. Others sleep like dead-fall logs...

Hoping day break brings softer attitudes and clearer reasonings…

o0o

XP: 150 each. (Decided by subtracting, multiplying and dividing all of the choices made...) 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

(Click for Video Version)

o0o

anger and greed make poor comforts...

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...

~*~*~*~

Caves Suck...

Dwarven Warrior Princesses, raised by humans, really HATE caves... 

The short version: Our Heroes tiredly struggle and emerge victorious, (though bloody, muddy and cranky), against two tough-vermin critters before Amaril is sucked away via a whirlpool trap, after locating a hidden doorway. Wik locates another hidden door and Ooma, followed by Wik, Adrie, Fequr, Racelette, Ichabod, and Morgan, with Benji bringing up the rear, go through this door, emerge in an even larger cave, (chilly, cold cave), where they dispatch one foul reptilian creature and another one rounds the bend. "I really hate caves," Ooma sighs. 

The longer, picturesque route...

As you will recall, if you were paying attention last week, we begin this week at the ready in a granite-sided tunnel with a soaring ceiling and a rubble strewn, muddy, floor with about six to eight inches of water trickling along. The scratching noises are growing and the lighted sword that Jahlo magically imbued, sputters and blinks out just as an enormous form rounds the slight curve to the south...

Alert, even though blind momentarily from the disappearance of the light, Morgan, in the lead, calmly searches his pack, listening as the noises grow, finding a torch and lighting it.

As the torch sparks to life the group gasps in shock, then fright, then horror as they perceive two monstrous centipedes, approximately 15-18-feet long, their pinkish-white scale-like skin reflecting the torchlight. Our group haven’t time to do anything further as the lead centipede lunges for Morgan, its maw wide showing the many rows of sharp needle-like teeth.

Morgan, startled, quickly transfers the torch to his offhand and draws his weapon. Wik moves forward and plunges his short sword deep into the creature’s neck, the wide gash spewing a foul yellow bile, the creature screaming and twisting, moving closer. Adrie shifts toward the creature nervously, raising the dagger given her by Wik, throwing it, but, in her nervousness, she over compensates and the party hears the knife clatter well beyond the beast.

Ooma can smell this creature, and she swings wildly with her axe, nearly decapitating Adrie and Wik. “Hey hey hey! Wait; wait! You’re not anywhere near the creature! Jeeez!” They pant as Ooma, knocked nearly off-balance from her twirl, stumbles to a stop, her axe handle gripped tightly within her hand.

Ooma mutters, “Well, I need help. Point me to the bad guy next time! Sheesh!”

The creature rears up and lunges again for Morgan, misjudging the distance, due to the yellowy-pus oozing from its neck and eats a mouthful of rubble on the ground in front of Morgan. The second beast meanwhile is crawling along the far wall, it’s length nearly as long as the line of adventurers. It remains about ten-feet up on the side of the rough, damp wall, endeavouring to come up behind his meal.

Fequr throws her dagger at the creature as it slithers along and succeeds in hitting the wall just under the beast, her blade clattering to the watery-rocks below. Amaril considers sending a flaming arrow into the side of this beast, pulling a flask of oil from his pack, and preparing the ends of two arrows, glancing at the creature often as he does this. Racelette raises her arm, throws her dagger hard and strikes the wall in front of the creature, gaining its attention as sparks flicker, but losing her dagger in the watery muck below.

Ichabod steps forward, her mighty staff swings and crushes into the second beast’s skull, the heavy jewelled top of her staff wounding the creature, leaving it with a rather bloody grin.

Morgan, meanwhile, swings his weapon at the first creature who manages to roll, avoiding the sharp blade. Morgan then moves to deftly step around the creature, turning his body so as to flank the creature between Wik and himself, circling to the right and behind, keeping both beasts in his line of vision. While Morgan does this, Wik steps forward and again tries to plunge his blade deep into this hungry creature, but, in the slimy, sloppy trail of its bile, Wik slips and the blade glances off the stone just in front of the beast.

Ooma, hearing the muttered curses and clangs upon the stones, readies her axe and shouts, “Don’t you come near me!” Warning all and sundry that she will swing at the first thing that brushes against her!

The creature, frustrated that it can smell a meal but can’t seem to latch on, slithers speedily towards the party, its jaws opening and clamping around Racelette, who screams, pushing at it, pain radiating as the beast drops off, leaving a circle of tiny pin-holes on her leg, the poison the beast injects as it bites, trying to subdue her, fails, as she has become immune to various poisons over the years. Still blood droplets drip slowly from the piercings. She backs away, limping.

The other beast, leaps toward Wik, who jumps back, avoiding the gaping orifice. Amaril, hustles to the torch, lighting his oil-dipped arrow turning and firing before he finishes his spin causing the arrow to sail over the creature’s head landing in the shallow water with a sizzling splash fading to nothing.

Racelette, Fequr and Adrie, now weapon-less, move to stand near Ooma, their backs to the wall as Ooma shouts at them to, “Just stay put! The wolf will protect you! Protect them Benji.”

 Ichabod steps forward and with an oath, swings her staff and connects with... air, as the beast ducks. Morgan, moves into position and elevates his scimitar above his head, then down on the creature’s back, neatly drawing a line, intersecting with Wik’s earlier cut, enabling the escape of more yellowish-bile and causing the creature to rear up in fearful pain.

Amaril drops his crossbow and tries to haul out his scimitar, getting it caught in his armour and manages to twist himself about, while Ichabod swings her staff downward, and, as the beast tries to clamp onto the top, and she manages only to break one of its many teeth while pulling the staff back.

Morgan, eyeing the beast in front of him, hoping it keeps its attention focussed on Wik, swings his weapon and slices a mighty gash along its back crossing the earlier one, and splashes of ooze leaks forth. As Morgan’s blade is pulled back, Wik’s sinks in deeply, causing the creature to shriek an un-holy sound, its pain voluble.

Ooma, her eyes finally adjusting from the flash of brilliant light, wishes she couldn’t see! The large centipedes with their growling rumble and putrid scent spur her to charge the one near Wik and Morgan, her feet slipping and sliding in the slimy mass stumbling and nearly toppling arse over head. As she comes to a stop, righting herself, Morgan sardonically mumbles, “You really didn’t grow up in a cave, did you Dwarf?”

Causing Ooma to lift the hem of her dress and emphatically reply, “No, I did NOT!”

Ichabod, smiles at this exchange before swinging her staff at the beast, missing completely. While Morgan takes another swing at the one in front of him, slashing a large slice out of the beast’s side.

Wik follows, shoving his blade, again into the side, cutting upward. Ooma once more swings her axe, and cleaves a boulder in two, as the centipede manages to duck and roll out of the way of the oncoming death blow! Ooma shouts at the beast in frustration!

Amaril swing his scimitar and it connects with... air. The monsters rear up; their fear palpable. The one near Wik flips up and weakly attempts to bite Wik, but as he is so frail he is barely able to mount a splash, sliding backward, his feet sinking in the sludge. The other creature leaps for Ooma, his aim, off, the pain of losing a tooth bothering him, it instead grapples the rock Ooma cleaved into earlier.

Morgan jumps, his frustration evident, “How can we be mighty Heroes we can’t even down another of these creatures! I am going to slay you!” He thrusts his scimitar deftly inside the creature piercing straight through. The creature rears up, in a dramatic fashion, quivering and shaking before straightening and flopping down, dead. Morgan calmly steps on the centipede as he withdraws his scimitar, wiping the muck off along the creature’s side. His leather boots becoming slick with the pus and bile flowing from this dead critter. He then speedily walks toward the other beast, “Make yourself useful,” he shoves the torch into Adrie’s hands as he passes, while Ooma mutters that the ladies should find their daggers.

Adrie holds out her arm, waving it, the flickering light creating shadows, bright flashes and back to shadows again. Wik sneaks up and stabs the creature in the bum, ending its constipation problem, but earning Wik a roar of displeasure! While Ooma swings her axe as the torch light flickers, startling her and she steps back lowering her weapon in uncertainty.

With this the beast lunges at her and, as she steps back again, soars over her to the left and slithers to a stop on square one, square two, square... Ooma, taking advantage of his near miss, swings her axe, chopping a gash in its scaly hide. Wik, ever watchful, sees the creature sliding to a stop beside him quickly stabs with his shortsword, rendering a mighty twelve-inch gash before hauling the sticky blade out of the centipede’s side.

Amaril jumps and brings his arm down, his scimitar gashing a huge hole in its belly, spilling a glistening, round, egg-like sac, the slime-coated pearls sinking into the murky water. Bothered by the creature’s apparent state of motherhood, Ichabod’s staff swishes above the centipede, merely fanning it.

Morgan pulls his scabbard out and flails at the centipede, the scabbard causing the creature to vomit and spew bile in his direction before dropping like a stone, dead, laying in its own fetid excrement.

The party takes a short break, resting their weary bodies, Ooma vocally objecting to continuing further into these caves, “I tell you, I smell a trap!” The ladies shake their heads sadly.

“No wonder you don’t live underground, this place sucks!” Morgan agrees with Ooma, then offers the ladies a swig from one of the bottles of liquor he filched from the bar and raises an eyebrow when they shake their heads.

“No, thanks, we don’t drink.”

Ooma’s ears perk and she turns to them, “A Dwarf that doesn’t drink?” She shakes her head, “Now I’m certain we’re going into a trap.”

“It’s not so bad living underground,” the youngest, sister, Racelette, murmurs.

Ooma petulantly snipes at the serving ladies, “Fine, if you like it, you can find your own way from here. Fuck this shit! I’m out! If you can handle this shit what do you need us for? Ruined my new dress.”

Afraid they might have offended their benefactors, Adrie reaches for the bottle, and, grimacing slightly she swallows a mouthful, and hands the bottle to her sister Fequr who gulps a mouthful, shuddering as she passes the bottle to Racelette, who sees Morgan watching her intently. She lets him see the liquid spill into her mouth, raising the bottle high and pouring, before she swallows and hands the bottle back to Morgan, shuddering. “Vile stuff, that is.”

“My faith has been restored!” He gulps a few mouthfuls of the ‘fire-water’.

“Don’t worry, we’ll clean and repair your dress. We wouldn’t have asked but this way to our home is one we’ve travelled only once before. We don’t know what to expect.”

“And, as you see, we’re not battle maidens,” one adds softly.

As they sense animosity from the Dwarf in the group, the three move off, locating two of their three daggers, and moving to harvest the feet.

Morgan staggers over and asks, “Why didn’t t’ch’all make your home closer to the entrance?” As he swallows more of clear liquid in the bottle.

As they are resting, wiping their tools, drinking, nibbling some food they’d managed to pocket as they left the party grounds, Wik and Amaril feel a tingle in their noodles. Ooma would have too, if her heart had been less hardened against being underground, the other ladies should have been aware of the hidden door, but their minds are focussed elsewhere.

Amaril, peering about suddenly exclaims, “Hey ya’ll, see this?” He points to the solid block of granite. Wik grins, nodding. Amaril locates the tiniest hairline fracture darkening a rectangular block of granite and notices a small finger-hold along the left-hand edge, and he warns the party, “Ya’ll need to move to the front of the cave here, I think I’ve found a trap.”

Wik nudges one of the servants, “Do you know anything about this?”

Glancing, “No, would you like us to take a look?” At his nod, they pile the feet they have gathered into the makeshift bag, with the others from the previous kill, stand, walk toward the spot Amaril has indicated.

Amaril walks in front of the ladies, his thoughts focussed on distinguishing any traps, and, although he does, before he can speak, the floor around him opens up and he is drawn in the wink-of-an-eye into a smooth, deep-purple almost black, glass-like tube about five-feet in diameter, immersing him in arctic-cold rushing-water propelling him downward at an amazing rate of speed prior to branching to a 45-degree slide, enabling Amaril to lift his head and gasp a lungful of air before the 30-second ride culminates in a fifteen-foot freefall-plunge into a shockingly-cold naturally-carved stone bowl.

As he pops back above the surface, “What the heck!?!” he chokes, coughing mouthfuls of water out. His teeth are chattering and he hastily forces his frozen limbs to the shore of the large body of water he has just splashed into. Grasping onto the rock that serves as the shore, coughing and shaking, he pulls his body from the crystal-clear water. A soft glow radiates from lime green organic, rectangular-ish blobs, both, on the walls of the cave and under the water. Along with the evenly spaced glowing-blobs, the bottom of the Rock Bowl is encrusted with vibrant, colourful gems entrenched deep in the rough stony surface.

As Amaril stares, a slow, rhythmic thrum begins to emanate from somewhere, vibrating the level-surface of the placid water in concentric circles.

To the east, on the shore, a small, unattended, fire crackles. A structure, resembling a three-sided tent, sits behind the fire. From his location Amaril can see various items in and around the tent. His teeth chattering and mind numb, he, at first thinks it best to stay put, but as his fingertips begin to deaden, he makes the connection between fire and warmth; mincing his way around the narrow, five-foot ledge, to the larger circle where the fire snaps, his toes frozen.

A stack of wood, or roots? lay waiting as fuel for the fire, and beside that is a hollowed out log, containing ten tinder dry twigs. A roll and blanket are tucked in the back of the tent, the awning re-directing much of the heat inside, a bulls-eye lantern sits next to the bedroll with two flasks, presumably of oil, sit nearby. Three small, sealed wooden boxes sit by themselves on a low bench, as Amaril peers into them, he finds a leather pouch tied with a red bit of string in each.

As he continues to explore this bounty, he unearths a leather bag with a drawstring that, when lifted, feels oddly heavy and squishy. An assortment of tools: a grappling hook attached to a long hemp rope, a small, rusty miner’s pick, a pure silver signal whistle, a three-inch round mirror, a leather tube with a tightly fitted lid, that, when opened reveals a parchment written in Elven, (but it makes little sense to him), a long, thin vial of inky-black liquid, a pen, and three, foot-long metal rods with golden tips. In a leather rucksack Amaril discovers three clear-glass vials containing a pinkish liquid, a clear vial with a light blue liquid, a heap of trail rations and a small pouch that appears to be a Healer’s kit, mostly intact.

He sits down in his wet clothes to think, his breath puffing little clouds in the frigid air, staying near the fire, both warming and drying himself. 

Above him, back in the tunnel, the ladies scream as Amaril is flushed. The group stars open mouthed. “He... he just ...disappeared!”

Ooma comments, with dry humour, “I think there’s a trap over there.”

The group begins to hear a thrum vibrate its rhythmic, mesmerising beat causing them to glance at each other in concern. When the party turns to look at the serving girls they discern fear. The ladies are clutching each other’s hands, wide-eyed, their mouths open.

“That shu’na be hap’en’n,” Fequr’s shaky voice expels. “Nuthin’ any good ever come from that thrummin’.” The other two nod in agreement. “We’ve long since sought the source, but we naught know from whence it comes.” They look at each other as if passing a secret between them, that goes unnoticed by our Heroes.

Their speech has thickened, the party doesn’t seem to have noticed this either.

Ooma suddenly asks “What do you do with the feet you remove from the centipedes?”

Looking at her, questioningly. “The feet contain the poison. We gather them and use them as weapons; poisonous darts,” she explains.

Wik begins to search the cave, and his eyes notice another dark outline in the cave wall. He searches for traps, carefully examining the long wide corridor. He only is concerned about the whirlpool and the two apparent doors, and he wanders back to the apparent door after considering trying to disable the whirlpool trap and sensing something about the swirling water that isn’t normal, he changes his mind.

The door is almost exactly as the other, and Wik, cautiously, orders one of the Dwarf servants to open it. Fequr obliges, examining the doorway, puzzling, “There’s a finger hold lock-mechanism here.” As she speaks, she presses her finger in the opening, drawing it back with a yelp, sucking on it to staunch the trickle of blood. “Has anyone a small round instrument?”

A quick(ish) search of the area turns up nothing. Wik thinks of his glove and hands it to her with a warning, “Don’t wreck it.”

She looks at him, “It pierced me finger. Do you expect me to put that glove on, and not tear it? Are ya daft, man?”

Wik sighs, “Don’t you laugh at my hair.” he warns, as he removes his turban and hands it to her.

“Whatcha ex’pect me ta doo wit’ that?”

“Stuff it in, see if it will open,” Wik sarcastically mentions.

She looks at him, sure he is daft, but shrugs, “Okay.” After tearing it in the opening, he tells her she can keep it. She frowns and wraps her shoulders with it. “I need som’thin’ round. An’ stiff.”

Wik remember the poison spines he has and he offers Fequr one. She nods. “Aye. That’ll do. These come from Madame Quirry’s specimens, I’ll be thinkin’.”

She pushes the spine, needle-nose first, in, hearing a click as the gate/door pops open an inch or so. Several attempts at tugging the door open result in minor success. Morgan swaggers over, “Here, let me help you.” And they yanks several more times, until they all, mad as heck, yank the door which finally results in it grinding open, revealing a short corridor, ten-to-fifteen foot, with a sharp turn. The ceilings are about eight foot high, and the jagged stone carved tunnel is about five-foot wide. The stench that seeps out is foul. Luckily, it dissipates fairly quickly.

Morgan diligently pounds several pitons in the framework of the door’s mechanism, over-compensating in fear the door will slam close after they enter. “If you close after we enter,” he threatens the inanimate object, “I am going to haul you out of here take you back to the city and pulverise you into dust! Don’t you even THINK about closing!”

Ooma is very adamant that they ought to just abandon this decision and leave the cave, go back to the Inn get a room and call it a night. “I mean, c’mon guys, a bed, some food...”

Morgan reminds her of Amaril, who could be trapped somewhere.

“He could be dead,” she grouses, looking at her destroyed tunic in dismay.

“Well, if you want to go back, you go ahead,” Morgan encourages, “But I’m going to find our lost friend.”

“Oh, fine!” Ooma agrees, cranky because of lack of sleep and needing the comforts of a bath and clean clothes. “We’ll probably never get out of here.”

Ooma, her axe and shield out and ready, is elected to lead the party and vehemently opposes being followed by either of the serving girls. Wik enters behind her, followed by the rest of the party, cautiously with Wik holding his bow ready, above Ooma’s head.

Ichabod, the second to last one to go in the tunnel, pauses and shakes her head at Morgan, pounding pitons in all four sides, “I think it’ll stay open.” When he is satisfied, he nods to Ichabod, whom he follows into the tunnel.

The group walks down the narrow passageway, turn the corner and round a wide bend, for about forty metres. The ceiling begins to get much higher and the sides smoother. Looking around they get a sense the space they have entered is enormous although they can only see a high ceilinged tunnel.

“It’s getting cold,” Ooma complains, and the party notices a chill seeming to permeate the further in they go.

They continue forward, silently stopping short as a person suddenly materializes, with its back to them. Wik, keyed up and nervous, pulls the trigger on his crossbow and lands the stone tipped head deep within the creature’s back.

Stumbling, the monster, a lizard creature turns to face Ooma, and the rest, gasping and burping a foul cloud of stench that thankfully, is sucked away swiftly before it is able to incapacitate the party.

Unexpectedly Wik hears a loud, piercing whistle.

Before he can alert the group, Ooma charges the lizard creature cleaving the beast’s arm off and his head rolls He lets loose a tortured bellow. From off in the distance a loud shout, “Hey? You okay?” before the sound of wet feet slapping on the smooth rock reaches their ears.

Amaril hears a loud bellow, and, sitting up he tilts his head, listening as he hears another shout, the words fuzzy.

“Oh shit!” Ooma mutters tiredly.

o0o

PLEASE ADD

100 EXPERIENCE POINTS for July 1^st.

and

450 EXPERIENCE POINTS EACH FOR Amaril, Morgan, Ooma and Wik, for July 8^th. Also, Benji receives 450 points for sitting and staying while his Handler (Jahlo) had an emergency out-of-cave-experience.

For those who added to the Journal, or other story addition in the Mysterious Tavern community, remember to add 100 – XP. Once per week, sorry...

o0o

shivering in the arctic blast...

Fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

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