Death and Taxes - GM Budd the C.H.U.D.'s Feast of Ravenmoor

Game Master Budd the C.H.U.D.

In response to Bacarov's query, Dalton shakes his head. "The door was jammed tight. We both strained together to break it down, but it would require more time than we thought was prudent to spend at the moment. I'll try again at it on our way out...assuming we leave the same way we came in, and don't pop up through some manhole on Main Street."

When Roslyn points out the campsite, the monk nods and immediately begins to follow her over. "I had just been about to suggest the same thing," he says. He puts thoughts of the book aside, for now. When Bacarov broke the book's secrets, he'd surely tell the rest of us.

Bacarov dips his chin in acknowledgement to Dalton's report. I suppose whatever was on the other side can wait. If it is a whom, between the blathering and kicked in doors I'm sure they've moved on." "We'll done." He responds evenly.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (2) + 11 = 13 Captain

His cheek twitches ever so slightly. Eyes narrow. Marsh's foolishness. Now you, Captain? Are you like Nosatrub? Warning me off to save my soul? Or do you see me as a consort of the damned?

"I am versed in dealing with the type, Captain. Just because he is undead and an abomination doesn't mean we can't use the skills and knowledge given him." He crouched over the bodies, unmoved by the gore and smell having dealt with so much death in his profession. "Abadar balances his scales as he sees fit, always with a divine eye on justice. A pack of ghouls terrorizes a town, only to drive one of their own out. That exile turns to a life of guile and scavenging, becoming a tool of information to be used in bringing balance to the larger problem. I am an Inspector, an instrument of Abadar's justice, and I will use the tools provided to me towards that end." The last words roll over the group, an echo of a deeper voice in his tone.

I won't be accused of kinship with filth like Rupman! His ire begins to subside and he reflects upon Roslyn's summation of the dead. "If this one is the druid and he had associations with Hyve...then perhaps we pay the drug peddler another visit. This time lying little girls will not bar our progress..."

Bacarov grips his spear and stands to gesture towards the south passage in question. "Lead The way, Captain. You also, Dalton..." You seem eager enough.

As they begin moving, Bacarov mentions to Warshawski, "I recall your talents with deciphering Multara's ledger a year ago. The old murderer had kept a journal in a broken form of Skald." He pats his satchel, now weighted down by the book. "...I think you shall be needed to aid me in deciphering this tome as well. Care for a challenge?"

Perception: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (4) + 9 = 13 next room

"Sure, sure, who gives a s$&$ if a few commoners or kids get in the way---oh right, the city watch, the shield of the people. Speak for those who cannot speak for themselves. Defend the helpless, afflicted and needy. Rights for all, even the destitute. We protect those who can't protect themselves, the most vulnerable among us."

"Yeah I remember readin that. I remember takin an oath to it too. Must have skipped the negotiations with child eatin monsters chapter."

"Meh, I'll look around with you captain."

Marsh focuses his anger and frustration on the scene before him. His eye for tracking and the hunting of men play over the evidence before him.

Take 20 on Survival/Tracking and Perception. Marsh specializes in humans and also has Dump Scavenger.

"There was something behind the door, and frankly it skittered. Whatever was in there clearly hasn't come out as it was still locked shut."

Sense Motive: 1d20 ⇒ 14 Worth a shot

"I don't have much love for the undead and the energy that powers them, but he did provide valuable intelligence. If he is an issue in the future, the Pharasmans can deal with him with very little effort." He tries to quell the Captain and Marsh, "Besides, if any of us were to be hit with the disease that they carry, it could ruin the entire expedition. I don't feel it was worth the risk."

He eyes the druid, "Drugs again. How is it that with all the wonder out here, we get caught up in such petty things." He knows the statement is wrong, that there is a larger problem that is slowly consuming him and the party, but he does his best to sweep it under.

"Dalton, in case of ghasts and ghouls, I would like to hold onto the wand. I know I gave them to you in haste, but we have no idea what is coming and if a spectral force attacks, it would provide at least some time." He worries about the invisible force and the stories of Ustalav, the undead that lay in wait underneath the nation. "We cannot afford to falter when we are so close."

Dalton withdraws the wand from his backpack and backpedals a little bit to stand alongside Dramin. Flipping the wand end-over-end in the air, he catches it nimbly at the business end and hands it over to the wizard handle-first.

Let me know how you guys decide to divide up the loot. Also, please make sure to edit in whatever items you take to your character sheets.

Roslyn shakes her head in response to the comments about Arlend Hyve and his girls. "Don't be surprised if Hyve keeps a wall of impressionable young girls between him and you at all times. Captain Garus was trying to find evidence sufficient to bring him in for ages, but every time he got close, he and his Pigeons managed to evade him, and some crisis or another would pop up that kept us all occupied. Now all this..."

Captain Roslyn and the investigators head into the larger cavern. This cavern contains what looks to have been a campsite for five, judging by the number of empty bedrolls along the walls. A few shelves with scattered books on them, a fire pit, and even a crude wooden table provide the furnishings for the site.

The most notable feature of the hollow is, at least to the eyes of the investigators, is the enormous painted portrait leaning against the far wall. The painting depicts a very familiar figure- a beautiful elven female with pale skin and black hair long enough to drag upon the ground behind her. She is mostly nude, save a slip of clothing that seems to form from the shadows around her. The painting depicts the woman larger than life, with the moon framing her head like a halo and a hill or mound beneath her feet- perhaps depicting the altar mound in Ravenmoor or even Carrion Hill itself. Tiny figures representing worshipers pile upon one another in a religious fervor, while the misty background and sky behind her is filled with miniscule shadowy figures resembling swirling patterns of insect-like shapes.

There are a lot of books and notes to gather up here, but no useful gear unless you guys want to stock up on stinky bedrolls.

Bacarov entered the room and notes the books and gear. "Other would seem our dead and bloated friends outside held this room in high regard. Dramin, you and Warshawski see what you can ascertain of the materials. We can catalogue and remove them back to the surface. I think we may..." He pauses mid sentence and hurls his spear across the room in a fit of spontaneous rage!

Spear: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (20) + 6 = 26
Dam: 1d8 ⇒ 1 cold iron
(Cast "cold" Spark)

"UPSTART WHORE!!" His weapon sinks into the canvas and penetrates the earthy stone wall behind it. Blue flames spark along the edges and catch the canvas and wood frame. Yet they are a freezing flame, so cold it crystallizes then freeze-burns.

"Cum se poate cineva atât de tânăr și fără minte cunosc cu adevarat rece ?? Cum pot ei să înțeleagă vidul?!?!?" Bacarov rails in a fit of bloodthirsty anger, whisps of dark blue smoke rising from his eyes. "El a venit WLL ! El vă va arăta adevărata natură a fricii și a dreptății!!"

Assuming the frame or the canvas is deemed "fine"? It's his take on the spark spell.

I'll be taking the Chill Touch wand, as I'm unsure if anyone can activate it reliably. Is it Caster Level 1?

"What are you doing Bacarov!?" The wizard screams as the spear hurtles towards the painting, "You'll destroy it!" He moves up toward the painting and glances back at the unhinged Inspector. "There could be valuable information in between that frame!" He doesn't know if what he is saying is himself or the link between the painting and him.

"The last one I was able to lay eyes on gave us information on the stars..." He begins to smooth out what is left of the painting, his words trailing off. After Bacarov's fit of anger he starts to snuff out the remaining flames with his hand of prestidigitation tricks. Each touch seems to be almost a caress, and far too careful to be a simple examination.

Curse myself for not preparing a mending spell. How could someone destroy such a piece of art? They tell stories in the same way books do, and give insight into the mind of the painter. What more could someone ask?

There is a lot more one could ask. He swears he sees the painting move and reach out to his hand, pulling him closer.

At this time he may spend some time examining the portrait for any hints as to where it takes place (the ritual that is depicted).

Both of Dalton's eyebrows shoot upward as he witnesses Bacarov seemingly lose his mind. He sees Roslin's hand go straight to her weapon at her hip, and holds out a steadying hand as he watches Bacarov ramble on in a foreign language. What sort of knowledge check would I roll to recognize what he's saying?

Bacarov is starting to succumb to the passions of his life under the law. The events in Ravenmoor have unlocked a part of his past that he'd all but buried. Now he tires of Ghlaunder, frustrated at having to deal with what is - to him - a diversion from the real evil being summoned under Carrion Hill. Bacarov's passion for serving Abadar and seeing the scales of justice balanced are approaching a fever pitch. Kind of like Constantine meets Judge Dredd...

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (18) + 9 = 27 Dramin

It's enough I must deal with Vincent's brash view of things...now I have to deal with the weak-willed in the face of a lesser threat."
Bacarov watches as Dramin lovingly doused the flickering blue flames as they attack the painting. He sees the hole in the canvas, right thru the elf whore's face. The former Inspector pulls his spear free and takes a step back, the intensity in his eyes not diminishing one iota. He plants the butt of the spear firmly on the ground next to him. "Tell me, Dramin. Are you searching for evidence? Or the dark, scabberous touch of Ghlaunder the Whore? How long have you let her weak seductions play along your mind? I don't have time to waste on that wretched usurper's machinations. Not when a real threat stirs in this city. Even Markham, who's weapon you bear saw the worship of the Whore to be a lesser foolishness by those backwards fools in Ravenmoor."

A hazy, dark-blue aura manifests around Bacarov as he gestures once to Marsh to be on his guard. (Casting Sanctuary on self)

"Tell me your great and studied mind has not fallen prey to her."

Marsh reguards Dramin with a stone face.

"Are you really lookin for the blackness between the stars? Or are taken with her?"

"Sebastian did the right thing. That b$*+@ is dangerous."

We're falling apart. Dramin and Bacarov both to different madnesses. Who knows who else is affected. Am I? I've been told before the spirits were in my mind. Not really there. How do I know I'm talking to something real? Something solid even as it is corporeal.

I close my eyes and try to push it all away. The world's collapsing and every step we take down into these tunnels seems to draw us further into madness.

One.
Two.
Three.

I open my eyes. It is all still there.

Dramin, you note the intials "AD" in the painting's lower right-hand corner; likely the signature of its creator, Abner Dagwood.

Dalton, you're looking for a Linguistics check there.

- - - -

Captain Roslyn's hand flies to her sword as the party suddenly collapses into madness. "What the hell's going on?!" she asks, seemingly directing her question toward Dalton, Marsh, and Warshawski. "Stand down, both of you! Bacarov, Dramin, explain yourselves! What the hell is this woman, anyway? And if you keep throwing around the word 'whore,' I'll slap the taste out of your mouth, Inspector-"

Before anyone else can speak, an eerie sound echoes through the campsite, bouncing off the cavern's stony walls. A shape seems to form just beneath the surface of the painting- and then peel out from it. The noise, like hearing the din of a crowd while submerged underwater, suddenly becomes clear... the buzzing and beating of millions of tiny, insectile wings, and a horribly familiar voice.

"My poor, poor children... How you have lost your way. Ghlaunder was but a gateway to higher, greater, Older powers, Inspector. A conduit to forces greater than this world's Gods. Your hatred plays you right into Their hands, you poor, confused boy."

The shape coming out of the painting seems to take shape, forming that of a comely woman, but its features are distorted, as if it has not yet fully formed into reality.

"Seeker of knowledge... you already have accepted my caress. My love. Your mind is opened. Why do you continue this charade? Come and lie with me. Let the Old ones speak into your mind. You will hear their whispers. You will know the way."

Actions?

"No...my anger is righteous. I'll not go bleating like a lamb into the Void...not like Phedron...nor Beckett...You are nothing, slippery charmer...you are the lesser progeny of a greater sire...but an utterance of the Void...you'll be consumed in the Silence...crushed by the weight of your impotence...paintings are all you've got...whispers and false promises..." Bacarov slams a fist against the wall next to him. "ABADAR'S JUSTICE CLAIM YOU!!"

Bacarov grinds his teeth in frustration as he pulls an acid flask from his satchel. His eyes burn with hatred but he also knows the limitations of of Abadar's protections. His hand goes from directing the flask at Dramin to throwing it at the painting...

Perception: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (6) + 9 = 15
Throw: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (13) + 1 = 14
Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 2 acid

(Sanctuary Active | Will DC 14)

"Warshawski, the Captain cannot see what we see! Beware..." Then to Marsh as he points to the painting, "Smash this infernal thing!"

Bacarov's fists glow with blue flames. "...Dramin. Time to make a choice boy. You can remain with us or be put down. it won't be the first time I've had to kill a friend."

I drew the dagger...I took his life...I saved his soul from the Black Eternity...oh, Phedron...my dear boy Beckett...

"Dagwood. This was hi---" His words stop when he hears Marsh yell out. The world spins for a moment and it is only made worse when he hears Rosyln and Bacarov as well.

What is going on? What are they talking about? Taken by her? Hardly... Right? When he sees the form walk in, he knows without even seeing. The scent, the buzzing, the voice. It was her. For a moment he thought the voice was coming from the inside of his own head, but it was only a fleeting moment.

He won't perform the Perception checks at this point.

With a strike of clarity, he looks back on the choices that he had made, almost viewing them out of body and comes to a conclusion.

"You may know the way, but I don't want to be led. The pursuit and the hunt for the way itself is whats far more valuable to me and to the All Seeing One. You've been with me this whole time and yet you barely even know me, me, a simple mortal with a weak will. You tempt me with the wrong honey, girl."

He begins to laugh at the futility of it all, and grasps his small two faced mask under his shirt. "And the inspector here has a point you know. What good is the pursuit of life's mysteries when you end up dead from a crazed Abadarian before you can learn it all?" The physical threat means nothing to him, but the ever growing fracture doesn't care. "I have to thank you though, you have made me much closer to my patron from all of this."

He quickdraws a small dagger Free and a Protection From Evil Scroll Move and stabs at the painting.

Fumbling Dagger Attack: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (8) + 5 = 13 Against the woman.
Damage: 1d4 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4

Would this be the moment? I could feel the weariness dragging my soul down but I wouldn't throw myself into the middle of this mess. Yet.

I moved over towards the Captain and spoke gently into her ear.

"The woman in the painting, whose voice we just heard, is a corruption. Not a god. Not a demon. Something else. She forms cults around herself. We've already broken one. Apparently she's here as well. She... slips into your mind. Through her books. Through her words. Be on your guard."

Linguistics check to understand the language Bacarov spoke just now: 1d20 ⇒ 16

Perception check: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (16) + 11 = 27

Dalton sees Warshawski moving to explain things to the Captain faster than he could. In fact, everyone is reacting to the apparition with greater alacrity than the monk, and Dalton allows himself a split-second of recrimination before refocusing. Dramin and Bacarov look about ready to come to blows, and Vinnie's growling bass voice belies his inner tension as well. Instantly, the monk knew that he saw what others could not, due to his position within the room. Everyone else was looking at the painting head-on, and he was at its flank, not being directly addressed by it. He could act. He did act.

"Deception, my friends, we are deceived! Deception, deception!" the monk throws his right arm out in a dramatic pointing gesture at the painting that seems to house the apparition. "The beast's magic comes not from the painting but behind it! See the curtains fall!" and with that, he storms over to the painting, making to hurl its burning frame away from where it rests and toss it across the room. I seek to remove the hiding place and reveal whatever is creating that sound I heard coming from behind the painting. Let me know if you want a roll for that.

No roll necessary, Dalton. You recognize that the language Bacarov was speaking was Aklo.

The shape of the woman dissipates as Bacarov and Dramin attack it- but the painting itself continues to shimmer and move until Dalton hurls it away, landing face-down atop the mussed bedrolls. Nothing is on the wall behind where the painting was leaning, but...

The sound of insects chittering moves with the painting, continuing to build until everyone can hear it- including Captain Roslyn. "What's that noise?" she asks.

Moments later, a ripping sound tears through the chamber, and thousands of tiny black bodies begin to swarm out from under the paining. Roaches, centipedes, beetles, and more- many of which take wing and begin to fly toward the party.

Actions?

"Prideful fool, Dramin. I sought its destruction but you insist on your excuses...your studies..." As the insects bloom from the painting Bacarov focuses his mind on the area and lashes out, vaporous tendrils of smoke pouring from his hands.

(Casting District of Twilight Fort DC15 or be Fatigued, 10 ft area)

"Everybody out now!" Bacarov shouts and backs his way out of the area.

Was this what I sowed after all of this time?

He sees the exhausting darkness spread out from Bacarov and he runs as fast as he can out. This was all too familiar.

He remembers back to Ravenmoor. "It's come full circle it seems."

I move to grab Captain Roslyn and carry her out with us if she doesn't move quickly enough for my liking. Do I roll strength to do that or can I just carry her along with me as I flee?

Strength check in case it's needed: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (15) + 2 = 17

I could feel the cold from here. Sucking at my soul the way ice sucks at the heat of a candle. Linking my arm with the Captain's to help Dalton draw her out, I turned and I fled. Am I a coward? No. I'm just not an idiot.

Captain Roslyn has drawn a vial of alchemist's fire and is halfway through cocking her arm to throw it when Dalton and Warshawski grab her and haul her out away from the ever-expanding swarm of insects. "What the hell- let go of me, dammit! Haven't you ever dealt with a swarm of bugs before?! Heeey...!"

Bacarov's spell slows the swarm at first, causing the first wave to slow and delay the progress of those that come after them, but it is obvious that this will only stifle the bugs briefly. I'm not rolling a save for them; I'm assuming here they'll fail. However, this swarm isn't going to stop pouring out of the painting any time soon, so we're going to say this is going to buy you one round's worth of movement. Unless anyone has any objections, I'm going to assume you're all withdrawing from the area? If so, where do you all want to retreat to?

"Fire Sebastian! Get yer wand out and let's haul ass!"

Marsh heads out.

"We shoulda dosed it in oil an hit it with alchemists fire dammit!"

After depositing Roslin at a safe distance from the painting, I'll down the invisibility potion I have in my bag. Hoping that the spell will protect me from the swarm, I want to move closer to the painting that Bacarov threw acid at and turn it over so it's lying faceup.

My goal is to assess the damage that the acid flask did and see if it looks possible for me to finish the job destroying it with my temple sword.

Dramin backs away and when he sees the monk quaff his potion he begins to think.

"I have no magic to burn it but I can scatter it if we must, it may take a lot from me though." He tugs at his arcane bond and begins to think of the spell he may require.

Gustani. Gusts of winds.

He screams toward Dalton, "Let me know what your assessment shows!"

Dalton throws an affirmative nod over his shoulder at Dramin before slapping his forehead, remembering that he's invisible. "I will!" he calls out as he's moving toward it. The swarm reacts to his voice, and he flinches as he jumps away from the leaping bugs.

K (planes): 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (8) + 10 = 18

Budd, is this likely a planar portal of some kind and, if so, can it be shut down or dispelled?

The painting appears to be acting as some sort of planar gateway, though you're not sure where to. It could presumably be dispelled, but destroying it would depend on the method used to attack the painting. Dalton, you might be able to destroy the painting if you do enough damage with your attack; it has already taken some damage, after all. Let's say 10 points of slashing damage will do it. However, you'll take damage from the swarm if you get that close.

Risking his own safety, the monk will pick up the painting's frame and slashes at it, twice, in a quick flurry of blows. Knowing the need to destroy this painting in one attack, he puts extra oomph behind his strike (power attack).

FoB attack 1: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (10) + 8 = 18
FoB attack damage: 1d8 + 7 ⇒ (8) + 7 = 15
FoB attack 2: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (1) + 8 = 9
FoB attack 2 damage: 1d8 + 7 ⇒ (1) + 7 = 8

"Watching and waiting Dalton!" He could sense the man's force among the swarm. Dramin tries to pick out the painting, but the wall of skittering carapace made it difficult.

Readying a Gust of Wind to disperse the swarm as per tiny/diminutive swarms if he fails to stop the flow.

That'll do, pig, that'll do!

Dalton falls upon the painting with great vengeance and furious anger, tearing it to shreds with a few well-placed swipes of his temple sword. The flow of insects pouring forth from the painting is cut off at the source, but those that have already come through quickly swarm over the monk, tiny mandibles ripping flesh.

Swarm Damage: 3d6 ⇒ (4, 4, 1) = 9

Dalton takes 9 damage and will need to make a Fortitude save, DC 15.

Seeing the success of Dalton's attack, Dramin casts gust of wind, sending the tiny creatures flying to the back of the chamber and dispersing the swarm.

Blowback: 1d4 ⇒ 2
Damage: 2d4 ⇒ (3, 3) = 6

Many of the insects are pulped upon impact with the cavern walls, though some still wriggle about menacingly. Consider it dispersed for the time being. It could presumably the swarm could reform, but I think it's considered whipped for now. In any case, the presence of Beliandral seems to have gone from this place.

Actions?

Fortitude Save: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (13) + 6 = 19

Immediately after dicing up the painting, Dalton whirls his sword around in a quick arc and sheaths it. With both hands, he holds on tightly to the furniture, bracing himself against the wind he sees coming from Dramin, and allowing the bugs to be blown off him. When they impact the wall, he wastes no time in moving over to where a few stragglers still squirm on the floor and stomps them with his wooden sandals. A few times, he jumps in startled pain from a bug bite and grabs the vile creature from underneath his clothes, pulling it free and crushing it.

Turning to his friends, he questions them insistently, his face twisted in concern. "Does her voice linger for any of you? Do you hear any remaining voice inside your mind? Any whispering?"

They all fall silent after his questions, listening carefully for a few moments. Dalton peers upward without looking upward, as if he's trying to roll his eyes back into his head to look at his own brain.

"I hear no more traces of the accursed one," he mutters, after a minute of silence passes.

"Man, crumby choice of word Dalton, but good work man."

"And I'd say I owe Dramin an apology, but I'm afraid I hit too close to home. She must be gettin into his head an probably others. We gotta be careful. I wish we coil get a clear shot at her."

"How did she talk to us like that an not the captain? Are we all losin it as a group, or is she down here fickin wit us!?"

"Seems to me that she was using this painting as some kind of focus to communicate through," the monk offers, staring at the frame, which his sharp sword has sliced to ribbons. "When I destroyed it, the talking seemed to stop right away." He turns to Roslin. "Did you not hear her speaking?"

"Weapon really marked by the encounter in Ravenmoor it would seem." He watches Dramin amd considers his reaction to Ghlaunder's offer. In a way, Bacarov quells some of the doubts he has about the boy. But not all of them.

”Well done.” He offers coldly. ”Ghlaunder’s inane prattling seems to have stopped. Although it’s the first time I’ve heard her since our departure from Ravenmoor.” (I think that's a true statement) He looks pointedly at Dramin. ”I wonder if all of us can say the same.”

He steps within the hovel to ascertain what of the books can be salvaged. If he finds anything, he gathers them up for cataloguing and transport. ”We’ve been down here too long. Unless there’s an argument, we should return to the surface and review what we’ve learned so far. Perhaps return with a larger force considering what Yarresh disclosed. Maybe hire the services of a Pharasman, if possible, to combat the necromatic energies suffusing this location.”

As they’re preparing to depart, Bacarov says, ”We must be on our guard. And we must be honest with one another. Should this defiling presence attempt to make contact with one of us, we must communicate the attempt immediately.” Bacarov eyes everyone in the group. ”This is non-negotiable. And if any single one of us fails in this disclosure, their lives are forfeit in the interest of preserving the others.”

"She seems quiet. But then again, she always pipes down when things don't go her way." He takes his bonded ring off and re affixes it on his other hand, its power spent.

"No apologies are owed." He turns to the bear of a man and offers out his hand, "We still live and we still endure." He casts a quick sweep of detect magic on the painting to scan for any remaining magical resonance.

Knowledge (arcana) / Spellcraft: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (2) + 12 = 14 If its Spellcraft, +1

He knows full well that the inspector is speaking to him, but he focuses on the spell at hand. Is it that I don't wish to face him? Or are you just not wanting to face yourself? The distraction is clear though and he can't quite focus.

After the spell concludes he only catches the tail end, "I don't think we can afford to head back up. This place must go deeper, and each moment we wait her stranglehold becomes more pronounced." He ponders a moment, "Then again Bacarov is right, if we fail here then it was all for nothing, a Pharasman may be of use."

He stares at the cold eyes of the inspector afterwards and just nods, though his own face scans the inspectors body. And you as well you know.

You're right, Bacarov. I don't think Beliandral has directly contacted you since Ravenmoor. She seems to be quite taken with Dramin, however.

There is no lingering magic on the painting. It seems to have gone completely inert after Dalton shredded it.

Captain Roslyn huffs and glares at Dalton, still salty over being bodily picked up and carried to "safety." "No, I heard no voice- and I saw nothing, either. I wouldn't have believed anything was amiss if those bugs hadn't come pouring out of the painting. I don't know what's going on with the lot of you, but..." She stops to squash some ugly roach-like creature beneath her boot, then disgustedly wipes it off on the rocky cavern floor. "...it seems like this 'woman' is very dangerous. I'd appreciate it if you filled me in on all the details once we get back to the city." She looks at Bacarov and Dramin. "I'd like to take a look at these notes we've found, but if we do it down here, we'll likely draw the attention of more unfriendly creatures. I don't think we'll be able to talk our way out of fighting too many more of them. I say we return to the surface and examine what we've found, personally, but then again, what do I know?" She gives Dalton another sour look. "I'm obviously hopelessly over my head and in need of protection."

Bacarov points back the way they'd arrived and begins walking. "To the surface then. We regroup and resupply and come back down here wiser for the effort." He touches the satchel at his hip where the book resides. And I have questions that need answers.

"I didn't...I just..." Dalton holds up one finger as he addresses Captain Roslin, then realizes everything that he was about to say would probably not help.

Better to be thought a fool while silent than to open your mouth and remove all doubt, he thinks to himself, remembering a lesson from his days at the monastery in Rahadoum. Blushing slightly, he just keeps his eyes on the stairs as he makes his way back upward with the group.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 9 + 2 ⇒ (11) + 9 + 2 = 22

Marsh swats the monk with a congratulatory shoulder knuckle.

"Good job buddy, yer gonna have to drop the monetary gig and start lookin for a round table that's short of a knight. Har har har! Sir Dalton the Charmin! She's sweet on you buddy."

Vinnie smiles.

"We head up then. I need to prepare for what comes below, possibly get us some more alchemist fire and learn a spell or two to deal with the parasite infestations."

The camaraderie between Marsh and Dalton puts a smile on his face, he thinks of a clever remark to put Dalton on edge, but he decides against it. No need to sour such a moment.

He remains lost in thought, cataloging what may be needed down below.

I stared at the mess. Paintings. Bugs. Catacombs. Rat catchers and undead. Things merging together into a mess.

"In Ravenmoor, she turned believers into a cult and warped their beliefs to her own ends. Has she done the same here? I want to say we should consult with the local temples and bring the power of the gods to bear here but how do we know who to trust?"

Despite his monastic training that hardened his skin to most blows, Dalton definitely felt Vinnie's friendly jab to the shoulder. He resists the urge to rub the impact point as it smarts painfully.

The man's built like a grizzly... he thinks to himself, before turning and offering the larger man a smile. "Is she? I doubt it...I feel I put my foot in my mouth once again. They were always reminding me to keep my silence back at the monastery." the monk folds his hands together in his robe-sleeves, looking uncomfortable as they all climb the stairs.

He considers the predicament they're in, and focuses on the steps as they all climb.

When they reach the top of the longest flight of stairs, they come to the level that had the blocked-off door from before. He gestures to it with one arm to the party, his hand still within his loose sleeves. "Do we give the blocked off door in there another go, or wait until we come back? From putting my ear to the door, I'd guess there are rats and not much else in there, but one can never tell with these ruins."

I'll get out of this funk one of these days.

The march back up the stairwell is long and mostly uneventful. The parade of history scrolls silently past the investigators as they try to make sense of what they found in the Sunless Grove below. It certainly did not go as any of them expected particularly the GM, but they find themselves returning to the surface of Carrion Hill with potentially vital information contained within the notes found within the campsite and the Pnakotic Manuscripts.

However, as Dalton pauses to ask the party whether or not they plan to check out the other blocked-off door...

Senses: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (8) + 9 = 17

"Those aren't rats, that's panicked footsteps an' a door bein hastily shut, we got someone with us down here."

The wizard looks at the bear of a man and focuses out of his reverie.

"Then the question is, do we deal with them? I am prepared to face whatever now." The statement comes out matter of factly, though it sounds as if the meaning is multifaceted.

"Marsh, do you think we can get that door open if we worked on it?" His curiosity gets a hold of him, "All we need is for evidence to escape." He attempts to goad Bacarov and stop his death march to the surface for a moment, the stairs applying its tax to his body.

I swear, I need a floating disc for the next time.

"Hell yeah we can get it open. Want me to bash it or pick it?"

Marsh purses his lips.

"Or uh, we could have Warshawski talk to em. Maybe they'd open up."

Bacarov moves to the side of the door and considers for a moment. Nodding agreement with Marsh's option, he looks to Warshawski. "Yours is the softest touch among us. If they are frightened, which seems to be the case, your voice is far easier to hear than mine in this case. And I will translate your words to the Darkling (Aklo) tongue the dwellers down here seem to prefer."

As she approaches, he rests a hand on her shoulder -(Cast Guidance)- "Be mindful of revealing our true purpose. Whatever is inside could be a fountain of knowledge." His touch sends a sliver of cold from his fingertips.

Diplomacy (aid): 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (11) + 11 = 22
》+2 Aid to Diplomacy
》+1 Guidance to Skill Checks

Bacarov's words startled me. Not because he suggested diplomacy but because, so often lately he seemed to be on a mission to burn down the corrupt... and he hadn't yet figured out there was corruption everywhere in the world. I nodded.

"Give me a minute. The spirits can translate for me." I closed my eyes and reached out, drawing the spiritual essence of the dead to me. It was dangerous, down here where madness seemed to reign, but I wadded into the shallows and not the depths. One friendly spirit touched my ear and my tongue, giving me the gift to speak any language for a brief period."[/b][/i]

"Hello!" I shouted through the door, "We come in peace! We only want to talk and learn about this place. We won't hurt you if your intentions aren't to harm us. Please, can we discuss things with you?"

Diplomacy with Guidance and aid: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (2) + 11 = 13

Pfft! They don't like girls down here!