"Thank you, thank you. That was surprisingly effective." Alwyn picks some unidentified goblin glop out of his beard. "Of course, it would have been even better if they had just burned up and disappeared like the ghouls back at the farmhouse. I guess we can't have everything."
He looks at the cave exits. "The eastern exit probably just leads back to the corridor we came in through. Let's go north."
Elisile nods in agreement and heads north with the group.
1d20 5=16 fort.
Ow. Derned livin' dead.... Lets be movin'.
The cramped tunnel opens into a vertiginous gulf here, a cathedral-like cavern with a roof arching thirty feet overhead and dropping into a sloshing pool of foamy seawater fifty feet below. The echo of the churning water is the source of the strange breath-like noises heard from further out.
A steep stone ledge winds down to these surging depths, its slope glistening with moisture and mold. Narrow fissures wind into the rock face to the northwest, rivulets of water dripping down from them across the sloping ledge into the pool below. A stone door stands in the northern wall about halfway down the slope.
“The ledge appears treacherously slippery,” warns Elisile. “If we are to continue down there we should either grip the wall tightly or be confident in our balance.”
"I think I'll hug the wall, then. Balancing was never my strong suit, and that's especially true when I'm wearing my steel skin." After some awkward staggering, Alwyn swallows his pride and simply sits down before scooting down the ramp on his butt.
Climb r4+10-2=12,...
1d20 5=18 climb. Ach. They donnae be sayin' steady as a dwarf fer nuttin'!"
The stone door isn't locked and with a shove it opens. This damp cavern contains several items of furniture. A rickety table sits in the middle of the cave, its damp surface cluttered with all manner of what appears to be garbage: empty bottles, bits of clothing, crumpled bits of paper, and more, lying in neatly organized rows. A painting leans against the far side of the table, facing a large leather chair that sits nearby. This chair’s high back and cushion are horribly stained by smears of rotten meat and its arms are sticky with blood. A smaller table sits against the southern wall, its surface heaped with silver platters, fine porcelain plates, and crystalware. The “food” on these plates and platters is rotten meat, in some cases humanoid in source, and in all cases writhing with maggots. Thick, rotting blood gels in the crystal.
Yet the horrific stench of the room seems somehow even thicker and more overwhelming than this gruesome display can account for on its own. The stench seems strongest to the west, where the cave’s wall has been overtaken by a horrific growth of dark green mold and dripping fungi. At the center, a patch of black tumescent fungus grows, its horny ridges and tumor-like bulbs forming what could almost be taken to be a humanoid outline. What appears to have once been an exquisite puzzlebox the size of a man’s fist lies smashed on the ground at the fungoid shape’s feet.
Pacing the room, nervously flicking a war razor open and closed, is a figure dressed in the horribly-stained silken finery of a dandy or Magnimaran noble. But the creature wearing them has the discoloured, slimy flesh, twisted claws and snaggle-toothed, dog-like snout of a ghoul. Its weeping red eyes blink in surprise and a snaky, blood-red tongue sweeps nervously over its rotted lips as the door is flung open and it turns to face the party. It spots Larken, and it growls, “You live! Well and good, for now I shall have the reward of tasting your heart while it is yet warm…”
Slowly, slowly Illes took the stairs on by one with his back against the wall. All was well until about halfway down when he put his weight on that patch of spongy mold and it slid out from under him sending him tumbling down the stairs until he rolled to a painful stop. Lying at an awkward angle with his head pointed toward the bottom of the stairs he moaned, "Thank you, thank you... My next show is in twenty minutes... Tell your friends...damn it. Owww..." When he stood up gingerly and examined himself with the everburning torch it was apparent that his leather armor and the sleeves of the loose white shirt he was wearing were now smeared with the spongy black mold. "Nice. That's real nice."
Illes is still limping a little holding his elbow when the others open the stone door and move on to the next cavern. The platters of maggot infested rotting flesh are sickening enough even before he notices the curled fingers amid one platter. It takes several deep breaths and a concerted effort not to puke right then and there. "Oh no... I think we found the rest of the carpenters."
When the dog-snouted tongue flicking ghoul speaks, Illes does a double take, "Foxglove?! What in the Asmodeus' cursed book is going on here? What have you done?!"
“It may be that he has tried to achieve lichdom … and failed,” says Elisile, gesturing to the ruined box on the floor.
Slowly, slowly Illes took the stairs on by one with his back against the wall. All was well until about halfway down when he put his weight on that patch of spongy mold and it slid out from under him sending him tumbling down the stairs until he rolled to a painful stop. Lying at an awkward angle with his head pointed toward the bottom of the stairs he moaned, "Thank you, thank you... My next show is in twenty minutes... Tell your friends...damn it. Owww..." When he stood up gingerly and examined himself with the everburning torch it was apparent that his leather armor and the sleeves of the loose white shirt he was wearing were now smeared with the spongy black mold. "Nice. That's real nice."
Illes is still limping a little holding his elbow when the others open the stone door and move on to the next cavern. The platters of maggot infested rotting flesh are sickening enough even before he notices the curled fingers amid one platter. It takes several deep breaths and a concerted effort not to puke right then and there. "Oh no... I think we found the rest of the carpenters."
When the dog-snouted tongue flicking ghoul speaks, Illes does a double take, "Foxglove?! What in the Asmodeus' cursed book is going on here? What have you done?!"
spot and arcana are bunk.
init r 10+2=12.
1d20 7=11 spot. Mr. Foxgloove?!? I be thinkin' it a shame that we be needin' ta put ye doon fer de long rest.
1d20 7=26 initiative!
Naah, let's kill the sumbich.
Alwyn shakes his head in disgust as he prepares to destroy the undead abomination. "Any last words, ghoul? Or will you go to your ultimate death mumbling meaningless gibberish?"
Dravite move to the side of Hudak and readies an action to attack Foxglove if he closes.
Elisile will cast Cat’s Grace on herself.
EDIT: With Cat's Grace and Mage armour active, her AC is 19.
The creature flings itself at Larken, its razor sweeping down across the youth's face.
fort r15+7=22.
"Foxglove,....your stench is naught compared to the power of hagfish."
Epic fail is epic!
The creature ducks aside from dravite hook and the razos slashes across Larken's face.
"Larken, get out of there!" Illes limps into the room keeping his eyes on what used to be Foxglove and raises his flute to inspire more able sword arms. Just as he draws a breath to play the choking stench hits him hard. The bard gags momentarily, but regains control and begins a Chelaxian marching song while his stomach lurches.
The mage raises a hand, seeking to fire over the tops of his allies' heads, and intones a few words of power. At his command, a fiery meteor springs forth from his hand and flies towards the undead monstrosity.
Alwyn pow attack +1 great sword r10+7+2-3=16; damage (if it hits) 25.
Hudak pow attack +1 bastard sword r11+10+2-3=20; damage (if it hits)22.
WOO HOOOOOO!
Shoanti reaping death comes at the gruesome dandy.
The ghast dodges Vethran's blast. However, he is less fortunate with the Shoanti maulers. With he slips aside from Alwyn's blow but, with a shriek of agony, it falls under Hudak's blade and falls whimpering on the floor.
"Please, no more! I surrender! It was him, not me!"
"Who do you speak of, freak? Quickly....Nualia's Tongue thirsts."
"The Skinsaw Man. He killed all those people, not me, not his poor lordship. He terrifies me! He comes here sometimes and I'm so scared! Please don't let him get me! I only came here to get what she wanted." His voice is strange, wheedling and squeaky, not the gruff tones he used on seeing Larken.
"Where is he now? Tell me. Who is the she you speak of? Nualia's Tongue thirsts."
"Xanesha. Ironbriar introduced us. He knew my grandfather. He built this place. He is this place." Foxglove titters. "He wanted to be a lich, but it didn't work. Instead, this whole place became his phylactery. I didn't understand when I came here. But he whispered, and so it all happened. But no, I was talking about Xanesha!" He seems anxious to change the subject. "She wanted me to collect some fungus." He waves at the odd patch of fungus by the wall. "All that is left of dear old Vorel. It's quite deadly - she wanted it for a poison. But, but, it infected me. She sent me back to find them - the greedy ones. No, not me, him. Yes, him, the Skinsaw Man. Not me. Not his lordship."
"This guy's a whack job. So who else is here with you? Where is the Skinsaw Man? Where is Xanesha?
I knew that Ironbriar wasn't on the level."