Th'Kal bounds off with the rest of the group.
With a grinding crash the ceiling falls in, rocks and boulders flying everywhere.
I survived, but I'm bloodied.
I survived, but I'm bloodied.
Same Here
Same HereI survived, but I'm bloodied.
I expend two surges; I'm at 49 of 50 hp now.
Is this tunnel blocked off now?
The rumbling finally stops and the dust begins to clear. The statue is now buried completely under huge slabs of rock and the main area in the middle of the chamber is filled with a teetering pile of massive rocks. A small gap at the top allows retreat back towards the hejkin village - assuming it is still there - but it looks perilous. Otherwise, the route is onwards.
Th'Kal finds he is still holding the odd artefact in his claws - at least they recovered... something.
Arakan's eyes are drawn to the object he and Th'Kal had pried loose, more concern for where it was in the bug's hands while they ran than where he was going. For his efforts he was rewarded with a number of heavy stones pelting him in what felt like every bone and joint.
knowledge: history
Th'Kal is shaken after the cave in, but manages to fair better than some. While catching his breath, he inspects the item, holding it out in front of him for others to get a good look too.
"I hope your prize was worth us all nearly dying under all that rock." Safier tries to maintain composure after the collapse, but finds it difficult to hold her tongue. "At least it might slow pursuit, I suppose. Fortunate on that account."
Gart will use Inspiring Word twice on folks. That adds 1d6 to surge value. Thkal and whoever else needs one.
Gart will use 3 surges on himself.
The item is roughly rod-shaped and the lenght of a man's forearm, made of the same cold, hard metal stuff as the now-buried statue. It is surprisingly heavy, a sort of shiny pale-ish grey. One end has strange flanges and protuberances, the other end seems more like a smooth hand-grip. It doesn't look damaged or even scratched, which is surprising given that it was roughly levered out from between some heavy boulders. If nothing else, it would make a fairly lethal club.
Furio has a vague recollection of his dwarvish great-grandmother telling stories, when she was lucid, of the ancient dwarven metal-workers. They could make weapons that could pierce a braxat's hide with ease and armour that made the wearer invulnerable. They also made wondrous machines for long-forgotten purposes (well, she'd definitely forgotten, anyway), pieces of which turn up from time to time to confound scholars of the modern age.
In fact, shen mentioned one dwarvish family in Tyr who, over the generations, have collected various bits and pieces turned up by adventurers, nomads and the like to create a sort of museum. Possibly they could help if they managed to survive the upheavals of the revolution. If only Great-Grandma had remembered their name...
Furio recounts sagely, "I don't know what this item is, but....like many items, it makes a good weapon."
Th'Kal accepts Gart's inspiring words and feels better able to continue...
Jareen has a look at the rod.
Jareen is able to ascertain much the same as Furio concerning the provenance of the rod. In the scholastic circles he frequents the Dridger clan of Tyr seems to ring a bell as collectors and dealers in dwarven antiquities - perhaps that is the same family that Furio's great-grandmother was referring to. The item also seems to have a magical aura when handled, though that doesn't explain what it is actually for.
"Ready to surge onward?"
"As ready as ever."
"Well, lets stow the item until we can study it more safely, and get on.
The wide hall continues, but is getting increasingly choked with fallen rubble. The way continues ahead, or a smaller side passage that is maybe safer leads off at a right angle.
Taking the side passage I reckon.
The adventurers move cautiously along the narrower passage. It looks like it was once an ancient side street. Empty doorways gape in the darkness on either side from abandoned dwarven homes and shops. And it is getting chilly again, with breath beginning to frost in the air.
"I wish that we could fill a magic box with this cold. We could sell cold air. Make a mint," muttered Furio. "Think there's more dwarf stuff around abouts?"
Gart glanced into the doorways as he passes, wanting to make sure no one would pop out at the group. "Could be," he replied. "I am not sure if anyone would have wanted to live in this cold area, though. Maybe it didn't used to be so cold."
"I think the cold is made by spirits," added Furio.
"I wouldn't get too excited about the cold if I were you. It feels magical to me, and defiling. It could be draining the life force of us all just standing here."
The passage leads onwards and the chill becomes more oppressive.
history
percep
".....shhh....I hear footsteps up ahead......."
whispers furio.
Looking for cover;
stealth skill
Jareen will hold back, ready to fire off a force missile at the first sign of an enemy.
The footsteps don't seem to be approaching closer. It seems someone - or someones - are wandering about aimlessly in a small area up ahead.
Seeing Jareen ready himself, Safier readies her own spell. "Maybe we can draw them to us if we make some noise, ambush them?"
"Who wants to sneak up and check it out?"
"I am absolutely the worst person to do that. Arakan? You want to show off your sneaking and sulking, sorry skulking?"
Arakan rubs his hands together greedily, thinking primarily of what value they could get for just such a trinket.
He rolls his eyes at the old man's poorly vield joke, before adding, "Well, since the rest of you sound like a herd of drunken mekillott, it's up to me again to carry the load. I'll go look, but I am not going far." The surety of personal risk laying in wait prompts him to be certain about his movements and staying undetected.
Furio'll hang back; not stealthy.
Th'Kal contemplates going with his halfelf clutchmate... instead he just tenses, ready to sprint in his direction if he needs the support.
Arakan creeps forward. Ahead the passage opens out into a larger chamber with several exits. Ice patches cover the floor or hangs in icicles from the ceiling. A few people shuffle slowly about in the confines of the room, until they bump into the walls or each other. They are dressed like desert nomads or traders but they have a bluish-white palour and their eyes are vacant. A few have wounds that could otherwise be expected to be fatal, and most are rimed here and there with more ice. They don't speak or otherwise seem to be aware of their surroundings or companions - they certainly haven't noticed Arakan. And they don't seem to be breathing - unlike Arakan's cohorts, none of them fog the air with their breath.
Arakan takes in the surroundings as best he can, trying to get as much info to bring back to the others, before he skulks back to the group to tell what he saw.
Arakan recognises these as undead, probably pretty mindless but undoubtedly tenacious in battle.