Crimvale Keep

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[imga]http://oi61.tinypic.com/34xhn2t.jpg[/imga] Her eyes lingered around the members of the room, for a while she had been stood quietly, unnoticed by the others really. After hearing this woman refer to their group as Devil spawn she didn't necessarily retaliate as expected. A laugh escaped her lips from the levels of irony in her words.

However, being told that Torrim was not allowed home, curiosity cut a chord with her. "Then what do you suppose we do, exactly? Surely you have a vague idea how we can put things in order..." She practically spoke directly over the oracle, addressing the lady in a stern manner.

Awaiting her response, her arms came to a fold over her chest. Still cautiously aware of her surroundings whilst engaged in her question.
 
"None." Relka answered simply. She looked back over her shoulder at the Tiefling. If there was vindication here - a sense of her fears confirmed by the sight of the half-devil travelling with her friends - she showed it only in a lingering stare. Then she looked again to Torrim.

"If you come to the surface you will be hunted, and you will be killed. The day you left Alaistor Torm proclaimed himself Lord of Westyard. He rules there, with Garret, Ventilas, Daleron, Eli, Fulchard, Wittari. Everyone you knew."

"All the Holy Rollers," Lorn's gums rolled back from her teeth as she thought of the ex-Guild members.

"No..." Relka murmured. "There is no holiness left. They are knights in service to something else. Something that whispers from..."

"...from thah River of God?" Torrim finished what Relka could not.

It was the last time Alaistor and the Guild clerics were seen: investigating the River of God - a fabled underground channel that cut through the deeper parts of Crimvale. They had departed to explore it, and returned the next month with shadows in their eyes, declaring Lorn the mother of abomination, declaring Torrim the cradler of evil.

Lorn and Torrim had fled that very night.

Relka rebuttoned the clasps of her robe. "Alaistor and his knights have drawn a shadow over Westyard. That shadow is our home now. All the lights went out when you left."

"Relka... ah can fix this. Ah know ah can..."

She looked back one last time. "Send no more dreams. Nightmares are jealous things."

A glance to Lorn. A glance to Siege. And then she was walking away into the darkness.
 
Devil spawn? Does anyone even see the tiefling? But perhaps that was a little harsh and maybe even a little racist. He shook his head, as the thought. Just because someone is something, it doesn't mean they come with all the same baggage as the others. Zhi's question was deferred to Torrim, as he had as much previous information as the others that were not leading this band.

When beards are grabbed, the general procedure is to stop what you are doing and listen. He quickly scribbled a note and quietly put things away. Standing just behind the dwarf, the golden eyes blinked. It seems this was another old friend of theirs. Surely, when he gets the chance, a lot more notes would need to be taken. Listening and committing to memory, the thought of them not being able to return home smacked against his metaphorical heart. It hurt him, a little, to hear.

Feeling a bit heavy, in the pocket, he goes over the fast-talking oracle and put a hand on her shoulder. As Garrick spoke, he nodded to him. "The half-a-man is right, we do have to return this amulet. I have no problem with continuing to investigate this peculiar situation, but my first priority--" He pats his pocket. "Is right here. The less those mercenaries have the better. After that, sounds like something I will need to inform of the head of my current outfit. Even then, he may something for me to do. I can't guarantee much more than outside support. Iomedae is a hard-nosed goddess and prefers her followers to be so as well. That said, I think we should get moving."
 
"[drop]L[/drop]ook, dis is getting very confusing." Ina-Oster did not have a well placed accent. In fact, it sounded like he was trying to switch between high-Elf and gutter-Dwarf, but that was entirely due to terrible parenting.

"I appreciate that the cleric needs to drop off the amulet."

"But I thought we were going to seek out treasures. And artifacts."

"...And dangerous curses." Oster shuffled his feet, embarrassed.
 
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[fieldbox="Neles, plum, dotted"] Neles had arrived a little late to the party. He had a drink in one hand and staggered across the hall taking breaks to kneel down and regain his balance as he made his way to the table. "Damn, my head... hurt..." The sounds of voices echoed a distorted tune in Neles' ears and he stopped looking up at the table, he took the moment to take a sip from his empty bottle. When he noticed he was consuming nothing, but air Neles sat against the towering table leg and stared up into a dark abyss. His vision became a blur, his mumbles into inaudible nothings, and he drifted asleep.

Neles dreamed the same dream he had for years. The same reoccurring freedom that he didn't have the courage to reach for himself. He dreamed of his death this time by a demon that would make the Grim Reaper himself hide in fear. The demon was cloaked in a cowl made from the souls of men, a robe sewn from man's blood, sweat, and dreams, a scythe made from the very marrow in his bones, and a call that would seduce any woman caught in its grasp. Neles calmly walked toward this demon and pierced himself with the blade. He woke up immediately after, his buzz gone and to the sound of distress. "Those loud-mouth fucks... I can here 'em from down 'ere." Neles stood to his feet and started climbing sinking his claw and dagger into slits on the table's leg. "Constant bickering... the whole lot of 'em... lucky they're still able to rest at night."

"If you come to the surface you will be hunted, and you will be killed. The day you left Alaistor Torm proclaimed himself Lord of Westyard. He rules there, with Garret, Ventilas, Daleron, Eli, Fulchard, Wittari. Everyone you knew."

Neles stopped, this was a voice foreign to him and he already despised it. Sounds female... can't be the old bitch... He gave an internal hiccup threatening to throw him off balance when he had already made it to the underside of the counter-piece. He scurried to the edge gripping on with his claw hand and swinging his dagger around to meet up with it. Neles sat hanging for a bit feeling slightest bit dizzy after two bottles. He pulled up on the table and shot a glare straight at the giant bottle of wine. "Found my share of the loot a'ready." Neles finished climbing up pulling his dagger and claw free from the table's grasp and falling back on his rump. Neles turned his neck to see the source of the disgusting comment out the corner of his eye. "So, Torrim that bad in bed..." Neles rolled backwards and onto his feet standing up in a manner that would make it seem as if he had been possessed by a demon. He glared at Relka as she passed. "Stupid woman... I hate women. Wolves aren't wrangled so easily, but the dogs are beckoned by their master." Neles walked towards the group with his sword drawn and his attention still on Relka, his tone lifted when he spoke again almost laughing. "A dead man told me that once! I doubt even he knew what he spoke of... even still I like to think me a wolf... one that awaits his foe; the hunter." Neles stopped still with his focus on Relka waiting for her to exit before he could rest. "Ive had too much to drink..." Neles sheathed his sword and faced Torrim pointing his head toward Ina-Oster. "Boy's getting bored 'bout time we get going."[/fieldbox]
 
“Half-a-man?” Garrick repeated with a grin, “Y'cheeky bastard, ye. Fortunately I've learned t'rise above such put-downs an' insults, bein' the noble soul that I am.” The smile held for a second, but quickly fell back to the furtive look of concentration as the halfling pondered Relka's words. “Alaistor was one'a Torrim an' Lorn's original travellin' companions. Good man an' all--”
“--For a god-botherer.”
“Thank'ye kindly fe' that most profound of insights, Baldilocks. But aye, man was a Paladin. One'a the Heironeous types, if m'memory is servin' me correctly.” Garrick was looking to the newer members of the group now as he spoke, “But if whit Relka's sayin' is on the level, he's no bowin' te Heironeous anymere. Means yer contact,” he nodded to Darath, “en't likely t'be found in Westyard. An' I'm not overly inclined t'go kickin' some unholy fookin' hornet's nest when mercenaries're also out fe' our blood. Bitin' aff more'n we can chew, an' all that.”

The thief's ponderings were interrupted, however, by the arrival of another member of the group on the vast, gloomy table. The smell of stale alcohol wafted through the air, and Garrick's right eyebrow arched ever higher as Neles spoke.

There was a pause as the man's blade was finally sheathed again, a somewhat confused silence that Garrick took it upon himself to break.

“An' here was me thinkin' I'd never be meetin' anyone with a poorer grasp of social etiquette than Lorn. Truly, m'friends, the world's fulla marvels.”
 
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Keen ears caught the words "river" and "God" causing Sasami to twitch and stare at Torrim in an odd and bemused manner. Head tilted and mouth agape, the oracle was about to ask Torrim what was in the river when a gauntleted hand was placed on her shoulder. Sasami glanced up at Darath, eyes roving down towards the pocket that held the amulet.

Instinctively the woman cast a spell, her attention centered upon the trinket that lay in the pocket. There was an aura of mystery around that item, a sort of allure that caused the the oracle to lean in closer. What was it that was so captivating about this thing? There was a hint of hostility in the trinket, reminding her of the tinny taste of blood in one's mouth. Sasami leaned in closer, hand lifted with a finger outstretched to nick the item out of Darath's pocket...

Her head snapped towards Neles. Being only a few feet away from the man she had no trouble smelling the alcohol permeating from his clothes. Her nose wrinkled from the stench. Baa didn't like this man, and neither did she. And from what he was spewing from the hole in his head Sasami had little reason to continue to like him.

Her finger snapped and words were muttered. A second later ten gallons of ice cold water drenched Neles from where he stood. Sasami hmped, nose held high; Baa seemed to emulate her expression. He definitely didn't like this man.

"Very well, Darath. Let us return that trinket of yours."

Sasami stalked away from Neles, walking simply to place distance between herself and the drunkard. For all she knew, she might have been going the right way.
 
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[imga]http://oi61.tinypic.com/34xhn2t.jpg[/imga] The anger begun boiling within her veins as a light sheen went across her eye. She hadn't quite been following the conversation up until this point, but she knew when somebody was starting to tug on a rope they would regret. Attempting to hold back her anger, she turned away from the group momentarily.

This isn't what you are, that misogynistic bastard will get what's coming to him. I am no dog, and I certainly do not answer to any 'master'

Veptoria turned around once more, addressing the group with the initial struggle she first had. "I'm not quite following... What exactly are we doing? Taking this 'trinket' you say back?"
 
Erastian had held his tongue when the dwarf corrected him. Perhaps he had been mistaken in regard to giants, but his point was no less germane; terribly powerful creatures had walked the earth and threatened the well-being of the mortal races with their very existence. To be sure, many still did. The senior watchman had come to fancy a few of them were among this very party. The... thing called Lorn and her daughter in particular gave him pause.

Narrowly avoiding injury twice due to their diminutive leader's antics with the time-worn giant's fork, Erastian retreated a bit from the others to survey what he could of the rest of the Table and, indeed, what lay beyond. He cared less and little for the past exploits and tangled associations of this group — the bickering, the tales of bygone days, the treacheries, that insufferable little goblin! His mind was preoccupied wholly with the wealth and eminence he was after. Passing mention of a vengeful sahuagin named Harker and the arrival of the strange woman Relka were largely distractions he wished to move past in pursuit of a cache of neglected riches or a denizen of the Keep whose conquest would reap the first of many honors.

Though it seemed such things would be hard to come by, if Westyard was forbidden to them. Confrontation would just mean more wasted time, and possibly worse. Erastian was uncertain of just what moves could be made that would secure his own ambitions. But whatever they were, if opportunity presented itself, he would answer.

One of the other new recruits had begun to babble about something, tossing out a few invectives sure to cause some minor squabble. Erastian thought to voice his impatience before things became heated.

"Yes, yes, might we press on somewise, then? I did not come all this way for the company and lively banter, nor to help clean up any messes you may have made heretofore. I came to win spoils enough to purchase myself a title. Or, at the least, a castle. A nice one, sequestered off in the hills. With a moat. And a pack of surly dogs."
 
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The jackal tracked the retreating form of her old companion. She was much changed from the frightened, dying girl they had found on this table. The years had made her brave, for she had put herself at great risk by coming here to warn them.

"See you around, Screamy McGetUsAllKilled." It wasn't really a fitting nickname, anymore.

There was no answer from Relka until her body was completely wreathed by shadow. "Take a bath, Lorn."

Lorn felt a pang of pride. She had taught Relka to jackal like that, long ago.

She turned and there was Siege, young as Relka was, watching intently the promise of violence about to be inflicted upon Neles, who had carelessly insulted half the party, and an old friend. He was also very drunk and gods how she envied that. In a party where an Aasimar, a Tiefling, and a Barghest managed to keep it civil, he was shaping up to be bad news.

Lorn saw Torrim's hand twitch, imperceptibly, on the handle of his axe.


Just how many of these whelps was she going to have whip and nurse?

The jackal stepped into the middle of it, as if unaware of what had transpired.

"So we're all in agreement that getting murdered by a bunch of brain-washed holy rollers is horse cock." Truth be told, Lorn was relieved. There were too many bad memories in Westyard, ones that she didn't see the need in confronting. She had everything that mattered to her, already. A rogue with everything to lose. "If we're going to take padre's jewelry back and become stinking rich, we'll need to find a tunnel to take us to the northern chambers." The surface would have to wait a little longer.

Lorn set off ahead of the group, following scent and memory to find the entrance to the Sun's Chamber, a gaping, broken serpent's maw, on the other end of the table. She let out a shrill canine howl to signal the others. Then waited for them to come.



The others winced at Lorn's shrill calls in the distance, at first not wanting to follow that terrible sound, yet their eagerness to breech the surface eventually won over. It was no surprise that much of the party kept Neles at a distance as they traversed the giant's table. Except for one: the saturnine silent girl, said to be the jackal's daughter. Neles didn't see the resemblance.

"I've heard about wolves, though I've never seen one." Siege was swallowed by a tatty, gray overcoat, only her fingertips, smudged with spent mana and spell components, peaked through the sleeves. She moved with confidence in the dark.

For his part, Neles was bemused, this was the most the girl had ever spoken to him. But he was also too drunk to make small talk with cursed children. Neles tried to widen the distance between them.

"I've heard about their strength and cunning." She followed him like a little shadow with shining eyes. "And what becomes of a lone wolf, separated from its pack."
Neles stopped, made a half turn towards Siege, then felt the dart kiss his neck. His slumped forward on numb limbs, tongue heavy as lead, vision fading.

Siege held him steady with an embrace. There was the odor of burnt bread around her. In his delirium, Neles saw reflected in her black eyes the void gnashing its teeth.

They didn't exist for a moment. In the next they did, within one of the empty wine bottles. "It's sad." Siege left the unconscious Neles sheltered within the glass, before Jaunting again, back to the others.

Erastian had witnessed it. He was watching her, an eyebrow raised, dubious, disdainful.

Siege shrugged, keeping silent as they left the table for the abandoned serpent tunnels. Lorn rejoined them later, her bandolier short one Drow Poison vial.

"Hmph, the signal was to leave him in the wine bottle that was still full, brat."

"The light must be affecting my eyes."
 
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The Sun Chamber

A table runner, mildewed and trailing down one leg, gave them passage to the floor. The party descended according to their styles - some grabbing handholds in the cloth; some jamming a blade in and sliding with the tear; some conjuring magic to dismiss the matter entirely. Once down, the grouted trenches between each flagstone formed a straight path to the doorway of the Gigas Hall. They turned right angles till they reached it, and then ducked low to roll beneath the gargantuan oak.

Lorn said there might be traps. No one touched the wood as they passed.

In the corridor beyond, a mousehole crack took them northward. The cramped and winding passage had once borne fungus, all kinds of subterranean plants long wilted. They left their memories in wisping roots and crumbling stone. An insect carcass would provide occasional conversation. Crossing a fissure would demand occasional teamwork.

Torrim said little during the journey beside the odd comment on elevation or stonework. The thoughts of the party leader dwelt on Neles. They had tried to abandon the drunkard when he fell asleep by the table leg. His climb to pursue them had been impressive; his behaviour afterwards had not. There was a time when the Dwarf had seen the best in people - when he forgave and counseled the worst breed of folk. To remember how his hand had moved to his axe-hilt, and to feel so indifferent to what Lorn and Siege had done, was a true mark of his alteration.

The ends of the Flint and Steel Guild justified so many, many means.

The boy would be fine. Inside the bottle, he would be safe from dungeon vermin. He would have a chance to recover; a chance to think. And at the very least, he could still go home.

Torrim envied him for that.


As the fungus tunnel opened out, Torrim stirred from his thoughts. Looking up, he beheld the Sun Chamber: a massive hall with hundred-foot stone pillars, stretching as far as the eye could see. The ground was wrinkled and broken, as if the tiles had been slammed together by tectonic force. They formed ridges and trenches overgrown with moss. The chamber was more like a jungle floor than a flagstone masterpiece. Pieces of the ceiling had fallen here and there, and some of the pillars had collapsed entirely.

The air was thick and dark.

"Keep yer torches lit and yer eyes peeled," he told the others.

The party spread out and moved in a fan through the echoing chamber.
 
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He stayed fairly silent during those moments leading up to the hall itself. This was excluding any playful barbs between Garrick and/or Sift. And he may have had to lightly slap a certain bone oracle's hand from his pocket. Perhaps is he whipped it out and had them remember why some of them were still alive enough to complain about the riches that were supposed to be first on the agenda.

When they arrived in the hall, Darath's eyes widened at the amount of architecture that came into view. Sure, some of it was damaged and overgrown and it was still a wondrous sight. Moving quickly, his notes were taken out and some intense scribbling was taking place. Can you imagine how awe-inspiring this place would be if it was still intact? If there wasn't such a high risk of death right now, I just might sit and clap to those men and women who built this place. And right on cue, Torrim reminded them that they were not here for art admiration. Torches peeled, eyes lit. Got it.

With that in mind, a little ring appeared above his hood and began to glow. Slowly, the rest of him follow as the coined padre essentially became a night light. Well, everything except for the area around his pocket. That didn't actually take kindly to the energy and staved it off, making Darah look like swiss cheese. It was still metaphorically burning a hole in his pocket and intended to be released. Heavier and heavier it was becoming on his power. Soon, Darath, soon.

Making a quick note to finish later, he switched from writer to warrior by bringing out his earthbreaker. Holding it just under the actual part that breaks the earth, he did in fact keep his eyes peeled. They were peeled enough to spot drunkard who managed to catch up and even get ahead of the group. At least he isn't flapping his gums now.

"Protect us, Andoletta, for we are possibly hunted for things that are not our doing. Innocence rings true." He prayed softly to himself.
 
[drop]I[/drop]na-Oster stepped behind the rest of their party. They made so much noise, and it drowned out anything that his helmet did not already send into ringing resonance. It was comforting, this mild tinnitus, and it shut off the world around him.

Things scuttling out of sight, and things beyond the veil. He dipped his head a little lower, and the lip of his helmet dimmed his vision. The elf picked up Scrowfin, the little goblin, and held him against his chest. His hope was that the goblin's protests would drown out even more of the echoes in the chamber.

Nothing helped. His birthright far exceeded any of his clumsy attempts to smother it. Ears perked, drawn unbidden to furtive shuffles. Ina could tell they were barefeet, furtive little pygmies high up on the columns, their invisible cat's eyes staring down at them. Oster hated him for it.

He did not tighten his grip around his bow, nor notch an arrow. The creak of wood would be deafening.
 
There was a carefully practised method to Garrick's movements as he picked his way through the ruins of the Sun Chamber, travelling at the head of the fan with Lorn to scan for signs of danger, to spot potential threats before one misplaced footstep triggered something left behind by this who built the place. No words were shared between the pair: none needed saying. Each could communicate with the other through a series of hand gestures, motions and meaningful looks developed over years of skulking through unknown tunnels alongside one another.

Nellie was no longer slung across his back but instead hung in the crook of the halfling's right arm, loaded and ready to fire. Amidst the oppressive blackness, Garrick knew all too well that danger could literally materialise before them.

This was not the time for humorous words and snarky one-liners.

This was the time to keep your eyes peeled and your ears open, to be ready to react if and when something came for them.




Further back in the group's line-up, protected by the eyes of the rogues and the armour of the warriors, Sift seemed to all but float past the eroded columns of the chamber; the purple fabric of her robes defied the air, trailing after her like a wisp. Her staff was held almost absently across her shoulders, a deliberately casual motion.

It was, of course, an act.

Sift's eyes were narrowed, peering about carefully.

Perched on the end of her staff, arms folded petulantly, sat a particularly sullen-looking fire imp. The conjurer had pulled it into this plane of existence as the tunnel light had begun to dim, an organic source of light that could, at least in theory, float above the party and light the way from them. The imp, it seemed, was having none of this, and instead sat on his master's staff with an irritated look etched into his face.

Yet its tiny frame was wreathed in frames, casting light about the chamber, so Sift was perfectly content to let the little bastard pout.
 
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"Ngyaaaah!"

"Ngyaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

"Ngyih! Ngyih! Ngyih!"


What's worse than holding a goblin against your chest? Holding a goblin against your chest while there's a fire imp in front of him. Scrowfin wriggled and thrashed as Ina-Oster held him. He was trying to get at the shiny Sift had summoned. The imp's indifference only quickened the goblin's frenzy.

"Catch the firebird for Little Mistress. Gobble it up! Warm belly! Ngyaaah!"

Each shriek and clang of armour echoed through the chamber, and whatever critters Ina-Oster had heard on the pillars retreated ever higher into the over-shadows.

"You really shouldn't carry him," Siege murmured to the elf-dwarf. Her eyes were fixed ahead, watching her mother's distant (distant mother's?) back. "The first and last time goblin children are carried is when they're dropped in the rearing pens. Most eat each other after that."

"Gyaaaah!" Scrote gave something between a snarl and a scream and tried to burrow inside Ina-Oster's armour.

Silhouettes gave strange half-seconds of alarm. There were statues in the chamber, man-sized and crumbling. Some lay on their sides, others were still mounted to the pillars. The fire imp's light threw shadows around them, and illuminated more of the graveyard alleys of the Sun Chamber.
 
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The mood of the party had changed significantly. Everyone was being quiet, cautious... Stealthy. Sasami took their cue and imitated their movements. One silk slipper was placed in front of the other. Her robes were hiked up into her palms. She held her breath involuntarily and made a point to avoid the bits of rock. All in all, Sasami cut a comical figure.

But then she got worried. Her toe flicked a pebble into the distance. There was the drip drop of water hitting a stone pillar. Her breathing sounded far too loud. Or was that her heart? It was definitely her heart, her breath would never make that much noise. Frustrated, she forced her heart beat to quiet for the sound would give them all away.

She was panting, wide eyed and afeared. One look towards their backsides. Another towards their front. The comical posture was gone. The oracle was all eyes and ears -- and nerves.

Sasami took a deep breath, crept towards Torrim and Darath, and poked the trinket wielder on the shoulder with a bony finger.

"D-Darath, I have to w-warn you. I'm not so good at keeping quiet. I tend to --"

"Ngyaaaah!"

"BAAAAAAAAAA!"

"Ngyaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

"BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"


. . .

The sound reverberated off the walls for several seconds. Sasami dearly wished she could have sunk into the ground. The party's searing gaze almost made her weep with embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry. He -- He does that sometimes, Baa. He doesn't like silence all that much. Or the tension. It makes him antsy." She plastered a nervous smile on her face. "No harm done. Um, a-are we going the right way, Torrim? Darath?"
 
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"Hell's beard, Lass! Yer wee haggis is gonna get us all killed!"

Torrim stalked past Sasami and bopped her head with the flat of his axe. Then he carried on to the (still) screeching goblin that Ina-Oster was trying to elfhandle. "Put 'im doon, Lad. Ye canneh carry a goblin!"

He tugged at one of his comrade's arms, and when dwarven strength met elven arm-kindling, Scrowfin wriggled free. The goblin plopped on the ground then immediately careered towards Sift. A few violent, sexual moments followed between the goblin and the mage's leg, before Sift tired of the foreplay and delivered a daze spell directly to Scrote's eyeballs.

"Geaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

The goblin fell. The mage reclaimed her robe..... and the fire imp flew free.

Up and up it went, spiralling around the nearest pillar, bearing flames and infernal light into the higher reaches of the chamber. And there, for an instant, as the others watched its ascent, something was illuminated.

A statue... like the ones in the corners of the chamber... with a face... looking right at them.... like the ones in the corners of the chamber.

Far ahead, where Lorn and Siege had hugged the shadows in the wake of Scrote's outburst, the lead scout barked a warning.


"Shitting beef!"*


Then the shadows fell. For a moment it seemed like a cave-in. The crunch of rock, the shower of masonry dust, the crashing thud of objects hitting the ground. But with the first harridan shrieks and murderous swoops, the party realized that what they had disturbed was more than rock.

It was, in fact, the creatures that had claimed the chamber their own.

Two dozen gargoyles fell upon the party, a frenzy of slashes, bites and goring horns.

*
 
Erastian flung back his cloak and unsheathed his sword, uncertain how the blade would fare against stone wings and talons despite its sturdy make. His stomach had gone light and cold, electricity seemed to dance across his skin and he could almost hear the blood thundering in his ears. A smirk cut across his face as he took a certain relish in the thrill of imminent battle. It was a feeling only unfavorable odds could unleash.

"A challenge at last!"

He raised his weapon into the air, eager for his steel to bite at one of the loathsomely petrified creatures.











 
Gormau thought he had grown accustom to his newest party's... quirks, only to find the elf with the identity issues the half-orc could little understand took a liking to carrying screaching goblins while wearing clanking armor not particularly fit for his (their?) build. It might not have been a problem if they weren't traipsing through hostile territory with said elf walking behind a mage and her perched fire imp, and each defeaning squeal answered by the bellowing beat of a sheep. A dead sheep. Nothing left of it but a skull that took happy residence on top of the bone orcale's head.

He was a half-orc minus a tongue. Suddenly he didn't seem so strange.

After a brief, awkward, slightly comical exchange between Torrim, Ina-Oster, Sift, and Scrowfin, things were about to quiet down - or so he had hoped - when something did not prove right. He had watched the fire imp's ascent when the light caught the wrong thing. A very wrong thing. There was a vulgar shout of warning that came a little too late, a harbinger to the ensuing hell that broke loose in the form of raining stone and lashing claws. Missing a tongue wasn't all that bad until you wanted to swear worse than a dwarf sent out to sea.

He swiped at the beasts with a thick arm while the other fished out the long sword he kept strapped to his back alongside his bow and swung at a diving gargoyle's wing in a wide arch. The monster maneuvered out of the way with a hiss and circled, its claws ready to sink into his green-grey flesh. Stone met steel and jerked back. The movement nearly took the sword straight from his grip and Gormau growled, wrestling the sword away and parrying yet another attempt to grab for it.
 
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