“That,” says Sour Heck, “looks like a very useful piece of magic indeed.”
He squats down and watches carefully as Eloise casts the spell over and over. “Lumen,” he says. “Lumen. Lumenlumenlumen. LooOOOoomen. Lumen...” His attempted incantation trails off into a mutter, as he waves his hands theatrically about.
"Don't strain yourself too much, Sour Heck," Eloise says, clapping the Bard on the shoulder. "We need you to provide art, not cheap parlour tricks."
Sour Heck stares sulkily at his shoes like a kid whose toy sling has been taken away.
“Lumen,” he whispers one more time when Eloise’s back is turned.
Eloise turns, a crooked smile on her lips, and pats Sour Heck's shoulder again. "Tell you what. When we're done here today, I'll try and explain it to you. It's just a cantrip, you'll figure it out in no time. Sound fair?"
Sour Heck squeezes his eyes shut, hunches over, and curls his hands into fists in front of his face.
“Lumen, lumen, lumen, LUMEN!”
Over his head, a wan sphere of light, big as a fist, grows from nowhere like a soapbubble, shedding a pale greenish glow.
Sour Heck opens one eye.
“Did I do that?”
Another light bubbles into being near the first; the two of them bob slowly and aimlessly through the still air. A third drifts around from behind him.
“I think I did that!” Sour Heck says, sounding almost pleased. He pokes at one experimentally, then grabs at it: his hand passes through the insubstantial wisp.
A fourth light emerges from between two floorboards. “Hold on, now, that’s enough of you! Uhmm...come over here by me.” The lights float obediently to his side. “Well, well, you’re well behaved. Not very bright, though.” He closes his eyes and concentrates a few moments more. The bubbles shimmer, then burst into four small flames, like lantern lights that have strayed from their wicks.
“Well, well, well. Let’s see how useful you can be. Fly on down into that pit, so we can get a look at what’s down there.”
The four flames fly down the pit and station themselves just above the surface of the water, casting light like a quartet of invisible torchbearers.
"Nice," Eloise says, smiling and nodding. "Well done."
"Thank you for the offer of light, but I have eyes like an owl and can see well in darkness. Though I can offer light to anyone else, in a manner similar to what Mr. Heck just provided."
Heck's lights dive in to the darkness below, casting wan light around the chamber, throwing disjointed shadows. Water drips and seeps along the walls into a pool of dark and murky water, which casts skewed reflections of the dancing lights. The pool recedes to the west, giving way to a stone floor; and sinks deeper into darkness to the east, as it stretches below the pond. This may have once been an underground cell-block, but it has long since collapsed.
The crumbling walls are thick with mold and stained with soot. Heaps of fallen stones and charred wooden beams are strewn about the area. To the north, the twisted remains of a wood and iron lift lie in a heap, slowly rotting and rusting into the pool they rest in. To the west, a partially blocked opening seems to lead to tunnel.
"Well, lets get this over with." Iesha heads down on her turn.
Peredur climbs down the rope, trying to land on something other than water.
"Here goes nothing," says Talia. "Or everything..." She waits for her turn, then slips over the edge, floating softly to the floor below.
Kieli flutters down the hole, and lands on the ruined lift. The bird watches the party fumble down the rope with jerking head movements, seemingly amused at the mundane method of traversing the distance.
Fortunately the water as the end of the rope is not deep.
Unfortunately it is exceedingly cold.
Soon, the party is arrayed on the solid stonework of the remaining floor, near the passageway heading west. Throughout the endeavor, the only sound is the strain of the rope, and the splashing of footsteps, amplified in the cavern to such an extent that each groan and spray of water seems an offense to the oppressive quiet of the place.
All parties safely down, Kieli caws once, and the echo careens around the wreckage of the room before finally falling away to nothing. And when the bird flutters back to Talia's shoulder, the sound is such that it seems all that is left of Harrowstone is collapsing around the party's shoulders.
"Cozy." the bird croaks, and pecks gently at Talia's ear.
“Eloise,” Sour Heck says conversationally, “What the hell is our little Talia? I had a peek in his journal to see if it said anything about who she is or where he found her. Nothing. Any idea?”
"Kieli!" hisses Talia in a whisper. "Not so loud! We don't need to announce our presence to everything down here just yet. And I think I'd prefer a warm fire and a cup of tea. Much cozier than this place."
She smiles ruefully and kisses him quickly on the head. "Feather-face."
Speaking over her shoulder, she says, "You know, Mr. Heck, I do have adequate hearing. If Eloise cannot answer you to your satisfaction, you're welcome to bring your questions directly to me." She grins at him mischievously.
"Hey, I don't speak for others," Eloise says, chuckling. She winks at Talia, and draws her sword.
"Lumen," the Magus chants, and the sword's blade starts to radiate a cold, neon-bright light.
“Talia! You misunderstand. I was just asking Eloise a traditional bardic riddle!”
“My eyes of different colors
Can see in the darkness
My long-clawed hands
Can heal at a touch
I talk to birds
As I float through the air
I wear a flattering corset.
Who am I?”
As usual, it’s hard to tell if Sour Heck is pretending to be unnerved, or is actually unnerved. But there’s a definite tremble in his voice as he asks, “Who are you, Talia? I deliberately don’t ask what.”
Talia giggles in response. "Fear not, Mr. Heck, I took no offense and was merely jesting with you. And I like your riddle. You've a quick mind. As for who I am, that's a rather philosophical question, and perhaps best left for discussion over an ale at a tavern, or a glass of wine and a fire. But I'll give the quick answer: Grew up in Ustalav, befriended Kieli when younger, and became a fortune-teller, reading cards in the market to make a living. Professor Lorrimor saved my life a few years ago, and we shared correspondence after that. He meant a great deal to me." Her voice trails off for a moment, her eyes distant.
Her lips twisted up into a grin. "If you want the longer version, you can buy me a drink; provided we survive the day..."
"And provided I find any more coin...I spent what I had on rope and pitons. And sympathy for a swollen belly. You know, in many parts of Ustalav that you apparently didn't grow up in, it's traditional to buy the bard a drink."
"Yeah, but that's after he's started performing," Eloise says, "so his throat doesn't dry out. Maybe add another drink when he's finished, to show your appreciation."
"Oh, aye. And I'll happily buy the good bard a drink in return for a story or song. I was merely imitating the bardic tradition. Trying it on to see how it fit. Rather like a new pair of gloves, yes?" Her eyes twinkled in amusement as she spun back to the cavern.
"So, where do we go from here?"
"Th' tunnel to th' west, I'm thinking. Though 'twould be a fine jest indeed if th' way were blocked."
The party moves west, through the partially collapsed tunnel, and into a wider, square room.
Three other dark hallways extend out from this large chamber, in each of the other directions to the compass, North, South and East. West, behind, remains the only hope of exit, because the stairs up, which occupy the center of this room, are choked with rubble... rubble bearing scratches from desperate fingers... those of the skeletons that lie all around the room, each bearing the remnants of burnt prisoner's robes.
Aside each of the four doorways, a shining brass nameplate is bolted to the wall. At least, it was once shining, now they are so coated with soot and ash that barely a glimmer escapes the grime. They are all unreadable.
The scent of burned skin, so prevalent throughout the prison, is strong here, lending an unsettling taste to the already fetid, choking air.
Despite the heat Peredur shivers as he looks around the room, the prisoners' fate weighing on him. He absently rubs the brand on his neck before shaking his head. "One way's as good as another. South first?"
"Why not? Then proceed clockwise?"
Iesha nervously draws her glaive and prepares to head down the south corridor.
"Hold up," Eloise says, looking around at the skeletons. "I don't exactly like the idea of defiling the dead, but shouldn't we break their legs or something to stop them getting up and coming after us?"
“That’s a great idea! Unless it makes their sullen, trapped spirits angry enough to attack us. Then it’s a terrible idea!”
Sour Heck scratches his chin. “How would you feel about giving them a funeral? Perhaps it would lay their spirits to rest.”
The bard takes out his drum and settles down crosslegged. “I’m going to play at dirge time. Sing something the lost souls will recognize--that Pharasman hymn will do nicely. Then maybe Iesha can say a little something about moving on to their peace.”
He shrugs. “Can’t hurt, anyway. Not much point in staying quiet...this place knows we’re here.”
He begins the dual rhythm of Ustalavian funeral music.
"Well, I'm no priestess, so it sounds like you're up, Iesha," Eloise says, shrugging.
She clears her throat and starts to sing along with Sour Heck, producing a soft-voiced dirge dedicated to Pharasma and the slain.
Talia listens quietly to the percussion and the song for a moment before moving up to Iesha.
"Iesha," Talia says softly. "I'd like to offer you a ward of protection, for I suspect your healing services and power over the undead will be sorely needed down here. If you feel another of our companions may have more need of such a thing, I will follow your judgment."
Iesha nods gratefully, then begins a simple blessing for the dead, singing along with the other two.
As Iesha’s hymn draws to a close, Sour Heck changes his drum song. The beat speeds gradually from the slow pace of a dirge to the leaping rhythms of a processional. Move along, the beat urges, Shake off your dusty bones and run free! There’s a whole world waiting, bigger than we’ve ever seen. March out into it, dance out into it, forget your tired feet and move!
"Thank you," Eloise says after the music has drawn to a close, and she smiles. "That feels good."
Shaking herself, the Chelishwoman continues: "I studied that spell I mentioned, the one that puts magic into someone's weapon. I can cast it twice today. The other two major spells I have going will provide me with some temporary protection, and can hit basically any target, even if it doesn't have any flesh on its bones."
"Yes, thank you," says Talia, smiling in turn. "I feel lighter on my feet! What an odd sensation. I'm grateful."
Iesha
Peredur
Sour Heck
Talia
Eloise
Skeletons
The music echoes throughout the stone halls of Harrowstone's basement for long moments. While it is cast forth appropriately, what echoes back from the four unidentified wings of the prison, comes warped and atonal, unwelcome and unwholesome. The prison seems to withstand any attempts at giving those still confined here a proper rest.
In fact, under the sounds of raised voices and beating drums, the bones strewn around the place start to scratch at the floor, making shambling attempts at standing. The smell of burned skin and ash grows more pronounced as the dead rise to hush the living.
Heck stares slackjawed from his seat on the floor.
"This is in no way my fault!" the bard cries. "I've performed at dozens of funerals, and less than half ended in violence! And generally only after I'd presented my bill."
Iesha will remain where she is and channel energy to harm undead.
I couldn't get the area of effect thing to work right, but I think that my 30' range includes the ones at:
5-N
7-J
8-I
9-M
10-J
13-G
"We should have just broken their legs," Eloise sighs.
Her sword rises -- and falls on the skeleton at her feet.
Iesha blasts away one of the skeletons, jarring a second. Eloise's blow finishes off the third.
[url]http://pyromancers.com/media/view/main.swf?round_id=23147[/url]
"They must be critics, Sour Heck. Pay them no mind," Talia says, before chanting arcane words of power. Her eyes glow a fiery orange-red and she levels her gaze towards a rising skeleton.
Round : Surprise
Sword and mace in hand, Peredur advances towards the skeletons, interposing himself between one and the bard.
The skeleton starts to smoke and burn under Talia's fell gaze. Unable, or perhaps uninterested in extinguishing itself, the skeleton still stands.
All of the skeletons have fumbled their way to their feet. They turn as one, in an unholy coordination and lurch toward the party.