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As Thorgrim enters the once-great ballroom, his mouth perks up in a ghost of a smile. He remembers the last time he was in so sumptuous a room, when he and everyone got to play visiting nobles. It was all an illusion, of course, and was over far, faaar, too quickly. O, he would have given much to have a full glass of time in that sweet place. At the same time, is this place more real than that one? Though it is one donkey and a dung pile away from being a stable, the memories that linger here are actually -real-.
"What say you?" he says to the air, to no one and everyone. "Would it take more gold to build your own castle, or to re-build this place back to its former glory?
I suppose were one looking for their own keep, away from prying eyes and all the political entanglements that went with a populated court, one could do worse than this place.
If we ever see our windfall from all those baubles we have on consignment, I might but in a question to a stone mason and see what he says.
Of course the orc threat would have to be eliminated first, but one thing at at time."
Turning back to Ingold he says, "What ho, a trap you say? In this place? Set by orcs? That is something new. Would it be easier to just trigger the thing and toss in more stones in the space thus opened?"
Ingold kneels carefully on the step above the troublesome spot. Directing his lantern light beyond the cracked area the scholar judges the steps beyond to be as stable as anything within this long ruined place. Still, the leap across is not without danger should one misstep in the slightest.
”Let us work together to disable this trap silently,” suggests Ingold.
Ingold will help someone else, or accept someone else’s help…
Ingold and Thorgrim take their time and quietly remove the most troublesome stones. Although this leaves a rough gap in the stairway, it is still navigable with a little caution and care. With the danger eliminated all are able to reach the floor of this once ornate hall of kings. Once a place filled with laughter, intrigues, royalty, and passions, it is now a silent shadow filled barrow filled with little but rubble, broken art, lost dreams, and the faint scent of orc.
Cereidh crouches near the pool, peering into it. Uneasy of any beauty left to rot in this place, she does not announce the treasure for fear that her more brash companions might brave the unhealthy pool for it.
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"Careful my friends," Thorgrim states, letting his hunter-sharp senses sniff the air and take its measure. "I'd say our orc friends are to the East, if their stink doesn't lead us wrong."
"OH ho there Cereidh, what is it you are peering at so intently? Ah!" Thorgrim needed no urging to keep the elf in sight, and to have her crouch in pause near the pool was opportunity enough to steal over and see what had caught her attention.
"My, methinks this trip might not be all for naught then! Perhaps this is some long lost king-treasure with which I might restore this grand manse and so secure a proper kingdom? If so, then let us see what secrets this bauble can reveal to us."
Thorgrim had no fear of getting dirty, or even very dirty, but he saw no need to get stuck in the muck if such a thing could be avoided.
Trying to gauge the distance, he takes out two handaxes that he kept for just such a king of situation, and, crouching himself, dipped them into the water, seeing if he could dig the shiny thing out of the muck and still stay dry.
"If you could keep me steady by wrapping your arms around my middle, that might increase our chances," he mutters coyly to Cereidh.
Cereidh bounces an eyebrow at Thorgrim. "And so both of us land in the mud? - If you start to fall, I'll catch you."
She does take up position next to him to make good on her word, however.
Spotting the gleam of potential treasure, Thorgrim, with a bit of help from Cereidh, leans out into the murky pool and begins digging at the spot with his simple hand axe. His initial tries meet with little success as the bottom of the pool is little but thick, smelly goo that instantly clouds the water when disturbed and clings mercilessly to the metallic prize. Not one to be thwarted by simple algae, Thorgrim presses on and after a bit more splashing about and more than one or two vocal curses against murky pools in general, the Beorning is rewarded as he feels the axe hook on something. Another forceful tug and a long, ornate silver chain is revealed on the end of the thick blade. A necklace in truth, for an enameled double eagle pendant starts to slowly slip from the gloomy mud.
It is Cereidh who sees the danger first. Her keen elven eyes see the ripples upon the surface of the pool and the glimpse of movement swirling in the cloudy water. She cries a warning just as a skeletal hand emerges from the depths of the pool. The slime digits of the hand are quickly followed by the rest of the ancient remains that still wear the chain wrapped about it's bony neck. Cold blue witch fire gleams within the skeletal eye sockets while a gurgling, mournful, moan slips from its algae dripping jaws. As it lurches upward from the pool, it grabs at Thorgrim's axe attempting to rip the weapon and necklace free of the big man's grip. The slimy surface actually works in Thorgrim's favor as the skeletal hand simply slips free.
Still the woken wight is not completely thwarted as it's other hand lashes out wickedly and slashes a set of filth filled scratches along Thorgrim's arm.
Cereidh strikes down at the wight, hoping to slit the wight's skull while it's still in a vulnerable position below her.
Ingold considers what he knows of such creatures and offers any relevant advice. He moves closer—but not quite into reach of the battle—and raises his lantern so the warriors can clearly see their new foe. The scholar prepares to grab an ally in case the slimy wight attempts to pull one of them into the murky pool.
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"Oh yes!" Thorgrim growls as the undead monstrosity rises and strikes. "Ever have I heard tales of such things, men long dead who are still curses to walk this world through restlessness of spirit or held fettered by foul works. But never had I met one and never had I thought I shall!
This is better than mere gold or treasures of man. Oh, Cereidh, you always bring me on the best dates."
Without thought he drops the handaxes, they were but tools, not real weapons in his eyes. Moving faster than one so big drawing a sword so great, Thorgrim pulls out Noctocide, taking it in a two-handed grip and grinning like a child at Winterfest.
"If ever I had doubted that I am destined to be hero in long-remembered song and verse, let this remove all doubt. Greatly will the Shadow feel the loss of so fell a servant!"
The moment having been commemorated with enough talk, Thorgrim rises high his blade and wades into BATTLE singing a song of the ancient kings!
Even Thorgrim is taken aback at the utter ZEAL with which Noctocide leaps to dismember this new threat. Like iron filings to a loadstone his massive blade seems drawn by unearthly forces to strike deeply into the undead thing.
Her reflexes are the quickest, but Cereidh's foot slips on the slick surface near the edge of the pool. Elven agility keeps her foot from sliding into the pool, but her blow flies wide and misses the emerging wight.
At the first tug upon his axe and Cereidh's warning scream, Thorgrim lets go and draws forth Noctocide. The steel rings hungrily as the Beorning slides it free of his scabbard. Meaning to gorge itself upon the shadow creature, Thorgrim's blade strike with snake like quickest and bull like strength. Steel shatters bone. One of the creature's arms explodes in a mist of slime and shards. The return strike removes a smattering of ribs as it passes through the skeletal midsection. The very fury of the blows temporarily knock the creature backward a step before it can recover.
But recover it does, for the dead feel no pain. Only hunger for living flesh. For the moment though, the creature is doomed to starve as Thorgrim slips away from the bony hand as it lashes out a second time.
Taladil draws his blade and moves to Thorgrim's side. The lashes out with his own sword but it seems much less effective against the nightmarish wight than Thorgrim's shining steel.
Wight: 53/100 HP
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Does he hold the sword or does the sword hold him? All but by its own volition Noctocide is drawn, no, is pulled toward this creature. He is but a counterweight, to reel the blade back so it has room to again LUNGE toward the skeletal attacker.
Could this be its real purpose? Could this very moment be why it was forged?
Thorgrim may never know. He only knows that in this moment he and the blade are as one. There is no point where he stops and weapon begins, they are as one, moving with such a swiftness and power that no other armed warrior has, or might again ever attain.
He takes a moment's thought to pity the creature. To have lain in sleep for so long only to prove the greatest trophy in a career. Perhaps that is not pity, but honor.
He will need to remember this time.
Cereidh's first arrows glances off the hardened bone of the deathless spirit, but her second strikes true and bursts with a flash of cleansing light that sears away some of the dripping algae and cracks bone.
Talandil tries to get a clean angle at the horror. He manages a solid blow with his first swing, but his blade does little damage. His return sweep is even less effective as it simply deflects away off the undead's hard bones.
For just a moment in time, it is as if the mighty champion of Valinor, Tulkus himself, stands at the edge of the foul pool wielding a blade from ages long ago. A beam of sunlight seeps through the broken ruins above to alight upon Thorgrim's steel blade. The Beorning sweeps the blade around and with a flash of light shatters an undead leg. The creature starts to tip. Noctocide reacts with quick hunger. The blade cleaves upward sending bones and pond muck flying in a great cacophony of destruction until at the very last the skull bursts apart as the bright steel passes through. The blow is enough to finally extinguish whatever dark magic held the spirit to this mortal realm and with a quiet whisper of release the remaining bones collapse back into the muck .
Dangling from the end of Noctocide is the silver necklace. It hangs there after being caught upon the tip of the blade as it ripped through the wight. A prize to reward the brave and strong. Or a curse seeking a new victim to torment through the passing lifetimes?
Standing down from his readiness to pull any of the combatants from falling or being pulled into the murky water, Ingold looks toward the pool for a long moment, assessing the possibility of more such unnatural abominations rising from the silt.
Somewhat in awe of his companions' prowess, Ingold manages, "Well-fought, one and all. We have met many a strange creature and encountered much in the way of long-lost treasure, both fair and foul. Let us make a study of this piece before we allow it to stay overlong in our possession."
(Elven Lore Specialty, if it applies)
You realize this is possibly a much older find than you originally suspected and might have been a treasured heirloom among the kin of whoever first brought it forth from the lost island. What you do not know is how either the Downfall of Numenor or the Witch Kings curse may have affect whatever power might lurk within such and ancient treasure of a doomed land and people.
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Thorgrim followed his normal post-battle ritual, taking an oiled cloth he kept for such occasions and wiping down his sword. It had but a wee bit of muck and bony-stuff on it and after a trice was as good as new. He spent a moment to admire it before sheathing it again.
"What have we there, good Ingold? I would give much to know the history of something so rare found in a place so old. It is valuable, aye, but how valuable? Worth enough to restore this place to glory? Or just enough to keep us in drink from one tavern to another? And has it a touch of magicks or curses upon it? Methinks not, but one can never be too careful when dealing with...well that.
Of greatest import, does it tell us aught of who this most worthy of unfortunates was? Methinks whoever they were they deserve remembering since they expended, O, much effort to be noteworthy after death."
Thorgrim bends down and examines the remains. Aye, it was a job well done. Hither and yon lay bones and bone shards, most old and brittle and they crackle understep.
The skull though appears somewhat intact. It had shattered, aye, for the jaw was gone and there was a great opening in the crown, but for the foremost it remained recognizable. He picks it up and admires it.
"This is my greatest accomplishment. I shall make a fine drinking goblet. Gold if I can, silver if I cannot. And all will know of the Battle in the Forgotten Palace."
He stuffs it in a pouch.
Thorgrim can see Ingold concentrating with unusual intensity upon the necklace. He can see realization dawning in the Dunedain’s eyes, and he finally speaks softly.
”I have never seen the likes of a piece so ancient. This is not the work of my people, or even the Elves. I have seen these eagles once before, in a tome among Rivendell’s most ancient works. They are the the Witnesses of Manwe, the two watchful Eagles whose eerie rested near the Hallowed Mountain at the center of the island of fabled Numenor and who stood as vigilant guardians until the Downfall,” relates Ingold reverently.
Handing the necklace gingerly to Thorgrim, Ingold says, ”I know not what power this ancient relic may hold, or if it has been corrupted by the Witchking or his servants,” referencing the barrow wight with a sweeping gesture, ”but this must have been a treasured heirloom of the Numenorean remnant who escaped the Downfall.”
The smell of orc still drifts ominously from the dark passages leading further east. Nothing stirs beyond the door to the north.
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"Hrmmm. Sounds more an object of art than actual treasure. When we report our findings to the long-beards I'll have to have them look at it to put a value on't.
Well, no amount of heraldry slew a warband of orcs, so we best be about it.
Still, I'd rather be assured of quiet lands to our backs before such an undertaking, rather than leaving the unknown to possibly surprise us at a bad time. Let's see to the North first before the Cleansing begins."
Thorgrim heads to the silent egress to the North. Already wary of traps, he gives the door a good once-over before opening it.
Ingold replies, ”Fair enough. I will keep watch behind us for any orcs who think to catch us from behind,” as he follows at the end of the group, watching for any foes who might try to sneak up behind them.
Thorgrim leads the way across the long, broken hall to the narrow northern door. Pausing at the threshold the Beorning carefully looks for anything that might cause harm or sound and alarm. He finds none. Judging the way clear, the big warrior steps through the doorway and into the room beyond.
This is a smaller chamber, slightly better preserved than the hall it is connected to. The western wall contains a partial remnant of a large mosaic depicting the western ocean and what might have been the ancient island of Numenor, or at least that is Ingold's first guess because of the central mountain which can be made out despite the destruction of much of the remaining portion of the piece. The wall opposite is buried by rubble and debris from above. To the north is another arched opening, this one partially buried and filled with dirt or rubble.
Clearing away some dust off the northern archway, Ingold reveals some ancient engraving. He attempts to puzzle out its meaning…
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"Well this is rather underwhelming," Thorgrim muses as he absent-mindedly digs a hand through the detritus falling in on the wall.
He idly tossed a few stones about to make sure nothing untoward lay in wait and was about to turn back and be about the orcs when he notices Ingold staring intently at the avalanche that caved in the arch.
"What ho? Hast thou found some secrets buried in this dirt pile? I would be away from here before the rest of the room collapses upon our heads!"
Both Ingold and Cereidh recognize the writing as Sindarin. It reads, “This way rest the Stones of Far Seeing, may their watch be ever-vigilant against the Shadow.”
The tunnel beyond the arch is passable, but not easily. Even Doderic would be forced onto his hands and knees, meaning the like of Thorgrim and Ingold would be reduce to sliding long like snakes upon their bellies.
"This way rest the Stones of Far Seeing, may their watch be ever-vigilant against the Shadow," Cereidh muses aloud. "Those sound dangerous - and like something to behold. It would be quite the squeeze. though."
”The Stones of Seeing…Hmm, sounds like an Elven artifact given the writing used here,” muses Ingold.
plus ???
Well, a squeeze for you, may be but a small crawl for me. Heheh. I could go take a look if you want and be back quickly. Hopefully without being spotted by anything.. uh, should anything be in a spot to be seeing me.
Doderic crawls into the opening and works his way down the narrow tunnel for thirty feet before he drops out of sight into whatever chamber is beyond.
Much like the hall this must have once been a magnificent awe inspiring place. But where the main hall was once filled with pageantry and the heroic deeds of the Dunedain warriors, this is a place of solemn contemplation and serenity. The dome of the chamber still holds some of the ancient, elaborate mosaic that once depicted the night sky. The stars are depicted in a variety of precious stones, some of which are scattered in the rubble lining the floor. Intricate gold wire work once linked the constellations while the scroll work labeling each astrological formation can only be mithril inlay.
Tall pillars over twenty fee high in the form of meditative seers stand in a circle supporting the great dome. Solemn figures whose stone gazes look upon two marble plinths rising from the center of the room. Each topped with a mithril cradle that once must have held something of remarkable value. Dust and grit is all that is cradled in their elaborate bowls now.
The alcoves between each pair of statues must have once held treasures of their own. Each alcove was once lined with its own artistic masterpiece, but is now nothing but cracked and broken remnants. All appear to be empty now. Whatever treasures they once held lost with the king or stolen long, long ago. All but one. That one is covered in a thick curtain of webbing. A trio of long, thick cocoons hang within the curtain. A dried, gnarled foot pokes out the end of one of the webbed masses.
Doderic takes a gulp trying to decide if he should go and take the treasure, or play it safe and return to the others. A Eventually, after several longs minutes that seemed days, he returns through the space.
I, well, I can't properly describe the remnants of awe I saw in the room properly. Not without a quill and ink, paper, and a week of time to make rhyme. But, I also saw a treasure, sitting covered in thick webs. I considered going to try and get it, however I saw cocoons hanging from the ceiling.. and I feared whatever made them may still be near... would you have me go back and attempt to retrieve the item? It may be I can move quietly enough to grab it and get out before any threat finds me.
Doderic seems only half assured in his assessment that he could make it in and out unscathed.
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Thorgrim nods at Doderic's report. He is silent a moment, taking it in, and gazing at the small tunnel that is the only passage to the room the hobbit describes. Suddenly his jaw clenches and his fist close as if searching for an enemy to rend. "Ah! Truly the Valar have sport with me! On the day of my greatest triumph I am warded from capping the day with recovering a great prize."
Turning back to the hobbit he continues, "I would go with you, Doderic, and we would slice our way past whatever web-spinning thing might lay in wait, but nay! I have been looking at that tunnel, and methinks the very fortitude that hath brought us much victory might see me wedged and all our works would be for naught.
Still, from how Cereidh and Ingold are waxing for it, this seems a risk worth taking. I can only think that two would stand twice the chance of regaining so august a thing.
What say you, elf?" he says, turning to Cereidh. "Is your lithe form up for slinking along and aiding Doderic in his quest? He needs a strong hand, but also one able to keep up with his stealth. I can do one but not the other."
Cereidh eyes the tunnel suspiciously. "We never know what we are equal to until we try. I do not like the look of that tunnel - but neither did I the pond. Here is what says I, for now - Doderic goes first, and I follow close behind. Should a fight break out, I will be able to answer it quickly. And should a fight break out, hopefully you will hear and follow to us."
Doderic gives a nod before moving back to the small passageway.
He moves quietly, and pauses only to glance around the room once again, and to look back to see if Cereidh had been able to follow him. Then he moves in and begins approaching the webbed item.
Doderic leads the way back into the narrow tunnel, Ceredih crawling a foot or two behind. Reaching the narrowest point, Doderic squeezes through with a little effort, while the larger elf is forced to wiggle and squirm to find just the right position to slip forward.
While Cereidh works her way past through the opening, Doderic moves mouse quiet back into the ancient hall that once housed many treasures of the Dunedain. Like a shadow himself, the hobbit slips closer to the web warded alcove, his eyes always searching for any sign of danger.
With the alcove still fifteen feet away, Doderic's eyes spot the slightest of twinges upon one of the thicker strands of web. Just enough movement to cause one of the dangling cocoons to twist ever so slightly in the still chamber. Following the web up further into the darkness, the hobbit is able to barely make out a thicker, heavier blackness, within the dark of the room. A great bulbous body, as wide around as Thorgrim is tall. It hangs among more webs by eight thick, hairy legs thirty feet up along the base of the dome. Frozen and barely breathing to avoid alerting the creature, Doderic sees the glassy glimmer of multiple eye lenses reflecting from the trickle of light provided by his companions torches back up the tunnel. The tip of a leg twitches in anticipation, but it seems the hobbit remains undiscovered for the moment.
Cereidh is blissfully ignorant of the giant spider as she slowly and cautiously proceeds forward.
Doderic will reach out and grab the elven warriors wrist, before slowly pointing up to the large spider. Drawing his bow as he does so, as the spider was too far for a dagger throw. After a few moments of thought, he decides that even were he alone, the chances of cutting away the webbing and remaining unnoticed was nigh impossible, so, best to strike while he had the advantage against such a creature. He gives a nod to Cereidh before drawing the string and, after taking time to aim in the shadows, loose an arrow at the creature, striking it dead center in one of its largest eyes, before darting away and trying to blend back into the shadows.
Cereidh goes waxy and grim - to say that their opponent had the high ground! - but will see if she can shoot from the mouth of the tunnel before writhing herself back into it. If this thing really is comparable in dimensions to her Beorning friend, it can't follow her.
"Aaaaiiiiiieeeeeyyyyyyeeeee" The keening, high pitched scream echoes down from above as multiple feathered shafts pierce the spider. The worst being Doderic's shot that devastates and blinds one set of sparkling eyes.
"Nasty, wicked creature!" The beast says. It's voice pitched high, childlike and hissing at Cereidh standing in front of the tunnel. "Filthy child of Light. Your blood will fill my belly and your bones will line my larder."
For a creature of such bulk, it moves incredibly fast. Each step of its many legs click upon the ancient stone as is scurries around the base of the dome to loom over the tall elf. From its perch directly above the elf, the great spider unleashes a flurry of sticky webbing that engulfs Cereidh in its entangling mass. Blinded and barely able to move, only the top hand or two of Bregghar is visible outside of the sticky gray cocoon Cereidh suddenly finds herself in.
Spider: 91/150 HP
”So much for the stealthy approach,” says Ingold, preparing to follow through the narrow passage but allowing the fiercer warriors to go first.
It can talk!?
Seeing his companion entrapped, Doderic's expression changes to worry as he fires another shot at the spider creature before Moving to defend his friend.
Comon Cereidh!
He will give an inspiration to Cereidh.
The sharp snap of Doderic's bow echoes back down the tunnel. The sounds of combat with a foul sounding creature leave Ingold and Thorgrim trapped with little to do but hope their companions will win through and not draw others down upon this precarious position. Even more disconcerting is several seconds have gone by without the deeper, resonant sound of Bregghar dealing death as it so often does.
Within the chamber Doderic's arrow strikes true, but with less devastation that his initial blow. Cereidh struggles against the sticky webbing, but only manages to wind the strands further about her body.
"Now I see you, little man." The great spider hisses, dropping down from above. "Long has it been since I've tasted such a morsel. Sweet it will be to sip of your blood for the wounds you've caused this day."
The spider's sudden drop takes Doderic by surprise. It lashes out with one of its legs jabbing the pointed tip into the hobbit's chest and unleashing a flow of paralytic toxins. It then spins and sinks its jaws into the hapless elf.
"Sweet, sweet is the taste of elf blood. Long, long has it been since such I've supped on such pleasant wine."
Spider: 78/150
Caught unaware, the toxin is injected to directly for Doderic to resist it. He should have stayed in the shadows, but he just couldn't leave Cereidh at the mercy of the spider.
perhaps.. I shoulda kept my distance. Curse my took nature.