"Long dead perhaps, but why show Pellius something unless it has meaning today?"
The magus is confused but kisses he hilt of his sword,"The Lady has her reasons."
Pellius checks his wounds again and not seeing blood, merely shakes his head to try and dull the pain. "I'm ready so let's continue exploring. Top to bottom sounds good, no need to go up and down the stairs."
Bonegrit nods in agreement. "Can already vouch for the top bein' picked clean." The half-orc jerks his head in the direction of the long destroyed trap door sitting atop a rusted climb of iron rungs. "As to the mangled pile of rot what talked at ya moments prior, I haven't a clue why, what, or how." Bonegrit furrows his pronounced, ragged brows as he regards the orcish and human remains before him. Stranger than a jaunt through the Ghostlights, to be sure...
Pyotr shrugs helplessly. "Mysteries and visions... I won't pretend to understand the wisdom of the gods. Why hide the truth in fable and image, when you could speak it plainly? Perhaps this is why the brothers of the Cathedral did not recruit me to the priesthood."
Pyotr begins the descent down the narrow staircase to the third level landing.
The carrion golem had only one hand - the ogre's claw, which bears no mark. The other arms is severed at the elbow, a wound that occurred before the carrion golem's encounter with the adventurers.
The door mentioned by Pyotr is gone, probably destroyed when the keep fell.
The adventurers return down the narrow spiral staircase to the level below. Three doorways branch off this corridor. Two of these portals still contain doors, but the one immediately ahead of them is just an empty void. Delkaneth peers inside.
The room beyond looks to have once been the office of the keep’s commander. Fire has long ago blackened and destroyed many of its contents. As Delkaneth’s dancing light drifts in to illuminate the scene, it reveals a massive table, riven in two, dominating the chamber. The desk seems to be a map of the surrounding area, the alternately rolling and jagged contours of neighbouring badlands rendered in three dimensions. Unfortunately the flames have destroyed much of the detail, just as they have the various pieces of furniture scattered around the room; the wreckage of fine chairs, shelving, cabinets, a stand for armour. Covering all of one wall is a great tapestry, which although damaged still depicts a series of scenes of Lastwall’s defenders manning Harchrist’s Blockade against the orcs.
Also littering the room are the skeletons of a half dozen orcs, some still clutching weapons their dead fists. Most of these corpses lie in a half circle around a different body, the headless skeleton of a human clad in a suit of full plate so battered and broken it can barely be termed armour. The symbol of the sun rising over a parapet can just be made out on the sooty surface of his breastplate. One gauntlet clutches the broken hilt of a sword.
Pyotr leans his head through the sundered opening. "The garrison commander, no doubt... He felled six, at least, before he was overcome. This tower had at least one stalwart and true defender."
Pyotr turns to Pellius. "Any strange epiphanies or visions?"
"The history of Harchrist's blockade, and of this tower, may be found here, if anything yet survives." Pyotr steps carefully into the room, and purposefully avoids disturbing the fallen. He begins searching the cabinets and desk drawers for any clue to the history of the tower.
Pyotr turns to Pellius. "Any strange epiphanies or visions?"
Pellius looks about the room trying to discern what there is here to find. He shakes his head at the paladin's question.
He then falls on one knee, lowers his head, and start praying. "Lady, if it be in your heart for me to see my brother again then I need your help. If it be in your heart that he raise his sword against your enemies, then I need your help. Please Lady be merciful with this soldier of yours and show me what there is to see..."
The magus then gets up and starts looking around. He salutes the fallen soldier but is not too concerned about disturbing him or his old enemies. Without disrespect, he prods around searching their bodies.
Immediately drawn to the impressive (even after the being terribly scorched) cut and design of the cloven table, Bonegrit runs his gloved hands over the once but no longer smooth contours of the object with wonder. Woulda liked ta see the thing in its prime, yeah? He wanders the length of the ruined thing, running his hand along as he goes and imagining the hills, plains, and badlands that the carvings once represented.
Pyotr’s search of the flame-blasted cabinets and shelves reveals numerous books and ledgers, but most have been destroyed by the fire, nothing more than tattered black leaves sandwiched between scorched covers. A handful are legible in parts; but contain nothing more compelling than charred pages carefully accounting for the keep’s supplies; records of provisions received and distributed, time-tables for the care of horses and the mucking out of their stables, a poignant list of the next of kin for the men dwelling in the keep. One page documents a lyrical set of passwords and their proper responses for use by the wall guards, all drawn from the Acts of Iomedae.
The half-orc’s luck turns when he finds a small strongbox built into the foot of one cupboard. The lid has been ripped off and the contents looted, but a slender journal in a protective sleeve has been left behind, undoubtedly passed over by the illiterate orcs. Despite its covering, the fire and the subsequent passage of years has done its damage, but flipping through the crumbling pages, Pyotr still finds fragmented passages of interest. The journal was never filled; the entries stop about halfway through, leaving the rest of the pages blank but for shadowy smudges of soot.
Pyotr’s eyes linger on the archaic Common of some of the latter entries.
22nd Rova, 4449 A.R.
The hordes draw closer. Knight-Captain Quemlin’s charge was broken at Baramcor’s Vale. Two hundred of Vigil’s best riding the finest steeds Lastwall can breed, and I can count the survivors with but the fingers of one hand. Harchrist’s Blockade will face its gravest test yet in the coming days.
Fear festers amongst the men. Every one of them bears the Mark of the Allure, but not all do so nobly. They know they’re bound here, bound until the bitter end, and with the war drums of a thousand thousand orcs audible even as I write, they’ve come to realize the inevitable.
It troubles me that it requires a fetter wrought of magic, rather the courage of their own hearts, to keep some of the men-at-arms at their post. Even, Inheritor forgive me, even if that magic is sanctified by Iomedae herself. But these are desperate times, and if only by these draconian measures can we hold the wall, then let it be so.
The final entry is this;
25th Rova, 4449 A.R.
Second Sword Knight Uriala informs me that the Watchkeeps of Saint Sophronia and Saint Xenia have already fallen. A great plume of black smoke rises to the east; the Watchkeep of Saint Abban is also burning. Did the orcs set the fire, or did Commander Bruthleim light the firepoints himself when he knew victory was futile? It matters not now. Harchrist’s Blockade is broken in many places, and we’ll be surrounded before too long.
Inheritor knows, we may well fall before then. Giants have joined the orcs which besiege us; their hurled boulders knock holes in our battlements hourly. This great fortification of ours is being kicked down like a sandcastle.
Our Marks will hold us here. May our hearts hold fast to our honour and our courage, and may our swords make good account.
Hold the wall.
After his prayer, Pellius inspects the body of the Watchkeep’s apparent commander. The numerous punctures in his armour attest that he was already bearing a great many wounds when he finally fell. Of his skull, there is no sign. Perhaps it was borne away by those that slew him as a trophy.
It seems they also stripped him of any valuables. The sword must once have been a masterpiece, but now all that remains is the hilt and about an inch of the blade. His armour’s a wreck, although one of the gauntlets is undamaged. Stuffed loosely inside it is a lilac handkerchief, a lover’s token. In one corner a lopsided heart has been crudely stitched, circled by the name Ruanetta.
More rewarding is Pellius’ search of orc corpses; it seems that Abadar, rather than Iomedae, is heeding his prayers this evening. Underneath the broad pelvis of one of the skeletons, the magus discovers a pair of gemstones. They glitter and shine in the light of Pellius’ enchanted feather. Presumably these baubles were once stuffed into the creature’s underclothes, set loose when the loincloth rotted away. A quick survey of the orc’s weapons finds most of them to be more or less unusable due to rust and decay, but there is a falchion, a battle axe and a greataxe in reasonable condition. Furthermore, one of the orcs is clad in a suit of chain mail that while stiff and corroded, could be made serviceable with some attention from someone skilled in crafting.
These faceted jewels refract light in shades of clouded yellow. They are known as beggar’s diamonds; and although far less valuable than a true diamond they’re not completely without worth.
Delkaneth examines the tapestry. Despite its age, the fire damage and several arcs of ancient blood splattered across its weave, it’s clear that it could potentially be of significant worth, and is likely the most valuable thing in the room. Exactly, how valuable is a question Del cannot answer; the tapestry would first require extensive repair and restoration by a skilled weaver. To the right collector, or someone interested in Lastwall’s history, it would undoubtedly raise a handsome sum.
The tapestry consists of a broad central band depicting a length of Harchrist’s Blockade and several of its towers fighting back massed hordes of orcs with archers, siege weapons and gallant charges of heavy cavalry. Decorative borders along the top and bottom depict heroes of Lastwall beautifully portrayed with precise embroidery. Each corner of the tapestry bears the symbol of a sun rising above a parapet; the same design visible on the dead man’s breastplate. This is the symbol of the Swords of the Allure.
Imagine something along the lines of the famous Bayeux Tapestry.
Bonegrit investigates the cloven table. Very little detail remains, although the ridge of Harchrist’s Blockade is clear enough, and of course unbroken unlike its modern state. A glint of metal catches Bonegrit’s eye beneath the shattered slope of the table. Peering underneath, he spies four fist-sized brass figurines, all tarnished with a brown patina. Three of the figurines are of mounted knights, in reasonable condition although their lances are bent or broken off. The fourth is a man-at-arms on foot, clearly a scout with bow in hand and a feathered cap. Bonegrit also notices a half-score of lumpen coal blocks, of similar size and vaguely resembling orcs. It seems these pieces must once have been used to represent troop movements over the raised relief map.
Whilst the coal orcs are virtually worthless as anything more than a curio, the brass figurines could probably fetch 15 gold pieces each for the metal content alone. To someone with an interest in such things, they might sell for quite a bit more.
One page documents a lyrical set of passwords and their proper responses for use by the wall guards, all drawn from the Acts of Iomedae.
Pyotr carefully removes the page from its binding. Despite his care, the edges crumble to dust as gently places the parchment on a fire-blackened shelf. He turns towards his more worldly friends. "A series of challenges and their counters. Worth knowing, while we walk these halls, you think?"
Pyotr gently thumbs through the journal, pieces of the brittle pages flaking off against his fingers. "A tragic accounting of the keeps final days. The Knights of the Allure..." he shakes his head in regret.
Pyotr stares solemnly at his palm, the sword mark emblazoned upon it. To control, rather than inspire...? A far greater tragedy than the fall of the tower.... Pyotr clenches his hand in frustration. This is not the time to dwell on these matters. "Pass me that gauntlet, would you Pellius?"
"Pass me that gauntlet, would you Pellius?"
The magus looks at the gauntlet one more time before handing it over to the paladin. "What did you have in mind?"
Pellius handles the gems as if trying to gauge their value.
He turns to Del, "I'm with you, Del. I also found some weapons in decent shape that could be worth something but I don't want to haul them around while we're exploring. Maybe we just make a note of what's here and come back for it once we know the place is safe."
Bonegrit calmly gathers the array of figurines. Fetching a bit of linen from his backpack—the same that served as a makeshift handkerchief mere days prior—he carefully wraps the objects and stows them away in a less crowded confine in his backpack. Though the terrain presented by the ruined table is indisputably outdated, Bonegrit takes note of further outposts, keeps, towers, and other structures of distinction that line the wall from where they are up until as far as Dierik's proposed caravan route.
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"Pass me that gauntlet, would you Pellius?"The magus looks at the gauntlet one more time before handing it over to the paladin. "What did you have in mind?"
"Merely to postpone the disquiet of my thoughts." Pyotr hands the journal to Pellius. "Out of sight, out of mind," he states flatly as he places the gauntlet on his sword-marked hand.
Delkaneth’s cantrip detects nothing magical in the room, although he does identify the gems Pellius found as beggar’s diamonds. Despite the name, Pellius recalls them to be quite expensive, judging each jewel to worth somewhere in the region of 1,000 gold pieces in value.
A quick inspection of the door at the end of the corridor shows that it has been torn off its rusted hinges then placed clumsily back in place. It’s only leaning in its frame; a sharp push would be enough to topple it to the floor (although carefully lifting the whole thing and manhandling it aside would be a subtler form of entrance).
Familiarity has, unfortunately, not hardened the adventurers from the persistent smell of death that has been their constant companion these last two days. It’s with them again; the odious reek of carrion wafts past the leaning door into the corridor in which they stand.
Pyotr leans his greatsword against the wall and lifts the door out of its frame, carefully moving it aside. A few twists and turns orients the door, and he pulls it through the opening, leaning it against the corridor wall.
Pyotr’s careful manhandling of the door lets the putrid pall from within flow out more readily, but does afford the adventurers a view of the room beyond. The chamber, some fifteen by twenty feet in size, appears to have once been a station for archers, as the three arrow slits in the wall attest.
More recently it has become the lair of something foul, presumably the carrion golem the adventurers destroyed, unless something of equal stench shares the tower. A pile of semi-decomposed auroch skins, crawling with maggots, serves as something resembling a bed. Not far from it are the remains of a half-eaten feline, a Belkzen puma four times as large as a normal cat.
Open archways exit the room to the left and right.
Despite the state of the room, the spoor indicates it’s only been used as a den for the last two or three days.
The remains of the puma are not old, no more than a day or two at the most. Curiously, although it looks half-eaten, little flesh actually seems missing. Around the main carcass are piles of meat stripped from the body, apparently chewed at length, but then discarded without being consumed.
The bedding and food are peculiar things to discover here if this room was indeed the lair of the carrion golem. Constructs need neither to feed nor sleep.
Pyotr nearly gags as he pulls the door free of the frame, and the wretched reek of carrion billows out. "Foul creature of corruption! His lair is as fetid and vulgar as he was!"
Pyotr rearms himself and follows Delkaneth into the room. He halfheartedly turns some of the filth with the edge of his sword, seeking for anything buried in the mass of carrion.
Pyotr’s tentative investigation of the carrion turns up nothing but offal.
Delkaneth listens carefully, and hearing nothing looks into the chamber on the left hand side. It’s another archery station, and appears bare. He also sends a dancing light floating into the opposite chamber. This room is also largely empty, but one notable difference is a cobwebbed covered cauldron, large enough that their dwarven friend Dunagan could have happily sat inside and bathed himself were he with them. The cauldron sits on a pivoting platform beside a particularly large balistraria. It looks to have once been used as a means of dumping vatfuls of boiling tar or flaming oil upon besiegers to the keep.
Last into the room, Bonegrit only comes upon the fetid scene as Delkaneth's gaze has already turned to the rooms beyond, Pyotr's sword-length investigation well underway. Bonegrit's attention remains fixed to the golem's chosen den and the rotting remains of its apparent prey. Fighting back his stomach's protest, the half-orc manages to steel his grit as he begins sniffing, searching, and mulling over the room at length. Something seemed off. He couldn't name nor place a finger on it, but his gut was trying to tell him something other than how dangerously close the stink was to provoking a violent bout of vomiting. Bonegrit's brows furrow as he squats down amid the carnage. His thoughts become words, though he seems to be talking to himself. "Gotta be missin' somethin'. . . but what? What am I missin'?" The half-orc's right index finger begins picking absentmindedly at the rough stone floor from his crouched position, a gruff 'hmmm...' following shortly behind.
Pyotr backs out of the room, the stench and decor greatly reducing his tolerance for the historical significance of the tower. Instinctively, he heads for the fresh air of the open parapet, but stops at the third doorway of the corridor. Taking a moment to see whether it is still secured to the hinges, he carefully opens it.
[
The magus gently kicks things around in the supposed lair of the carrion golem. Not finding anything unusual with the lair itself and the half-eaten puma, Pellius suddenly remembers part of his studies. "Guys, something is very odd here. Golems, like the one we just killed, don't need to eat nor sleep. So either this golem is special, may a recent construction, or there's something else here."
As Bonegrit’s finger digs into the weathered flagstones, a glint of metal catches his eye. Hidden in the fold of a rancid auroch skin something glitters. Being careful not to touch the horrid hide, Bonegrit plucks it free.
It’s a strange find, a large copper hook about as long as the half-orc’s restless finger. Its pointed end is wickedly sharp, and seemingly stained with blood or something similar. Its base is wide and flat like a coin, and bears an intricate design; a face, the left side that of a beautiful human male, the right that of a snarling orc. Bonegrit recalls the flesh-piercing hooks he once saw adorning a fanatic of Zon-Kuthon, this little object bears some resemblance.
Pyotr tries to open the door down the corridor, but it doesn’t budge an inch.
A sealed door, in this place? What door would have survived the onslaught of the horde?
Pyotr backs away from the door, and edges back down the corridor towards the golem's room.
"Gentleman, a moment of your time, please. I have something of a mystery over here, and would welcome your assistance."
"Got a bit of one here myself." Bonegrit wrenches the copper hook free from the aurochs hides and gives the flat base a closer scrutiny. Rising to his feet, he then turns to meet Pyotr as the larger half-orc returns to the den. Turning over his shoulder, Bonegrit also waves Pellius and Delkaneth over. "What sorta devilry do ya reckon this is?" The ranger holds the hook out for the others to examine, drawing particular attention to the dual faces on the coin end of the thing.
Rising to his feet, he then turns to meet Pyotr as the larger half-orc returns to the den. Turning over his shoulder, Bonegrit also waves Pellius and Delkaneth over. "What sorta devilry do ya reckon this is?" The ranger holds the hook out for the others to examine, drawing particular attention to the dual faces on the coin end of the thing.
Pyotr can’t make anything of the symbol.
As for the door, when the half-orc tried to open it, it didn’t give an inch. He didn’t hear the rattle of any lock, so most likely it’s either barred closely from within, sealed by magic, or perhaps the ancient, oaken boards of the door have simply swollen over the ages, sticking it fast in its frame.
Pyotr finds no evidence of entry or egress into the sealed room.
"Bah! It's nothing more than a fishing lure!" Pyotr waives his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Come now, I can't imagine the horde leaving any door on its hinges, much less locked. Let us see what someone has taken pains to secure in this place."
Pyotr returns to his examination of the door.
Like Pyotr, Delkaneth makes nothing of the hook.
As for the door, it does have a lock, but Delkaneth’s careful investigation leaves him convinced that the lock is not the cause of the door’s immobility.
Pellius nears the door, curiosity etched in his face as he tries to figure out what's going on.
The magus curses at his choice of spells for the day. Not being able to discern more about the door, he suggests the next best thing. "I agree gents. No sense in keeping a door tightly locked unless there is something that you want to keep safe, right? Let's break it down!
Pyotr takes a moment to consider the ramifications of his actions. However, with too little evidence to go on... when Delkaneth stands up from his examinations, Pyotr puts his shoulder into the door.
Seeing no reason why not to, Delkaneth and Pyotr put their shoulders to the door. The corridor does not give them much room to put their full weight behind their efforts. As the men slam against it, the door gives a little, but holds. They try again, and the door shudders, then shatters, collapsing into the room beyond.
The chamber is not overly large. Time has taken its toll on the furnishings, but clearly it was not ransacked when the orcs overran Harchrist’s Blockade.
A squat, rusted iron fireplace squats against the south wall, a corroded brass flume rising from its crown and twisting to snake through the mortar and stone of the wall, presumably to an outlet outside. A large desk riddled with woodworm abuts the eastern wall, a comfortable looking chair whose cushions are now covered in mould drawn underneath it, and something resembling a spice rack sitting atop it. An open portmanteau sits in the middle of the room, full of a mess of deteriorated cloth that must have once been the occupant’s wardrobe. Two simple, and similarly mouldy beds, one by the north wall, the other beside the fireplace, complete the furnishings.
A couple of frames hang on the wall, but the pictures they once contained have rotted away.
Above the desk, once concealed by a disintegrated painting, is the faint outline of a secret portal, somewhere in size between a door and a compartment.
Pyotr looks around the room in surprise and confusion. It's just someone's bedchamber... What did you think you would find, you fool? This isn't a storybook!
Pyotr pokes around the room. On one of the beds, underneath the remains of a bolster, he discovers a golden clasped locket. The outer clasp of the locket has been broken off and lost, revealing the alabaster and agate cameo inside. It’s the face, in profile, of a young lady, something of a beauty bar an overly large nose. In tiny script underneath the image is the inscription ‘Command my heart forever’.
Delkaneth investigates the desk. There are three drawers, which had little copper hooks to lock them in place. These have now corroded away, allowing Del to open the drawers easily. The uppermost drawer is empty, but the lower two prove more rewarding. The middle drawer contains various pieces of junk, including a badly made penny whistle, a large marble, four empty vials, the remains of some writing quills, some short lengths of leather cord, a whetstone and a tiny knife. The bottom drawer is a little more rewarding, containing scattered copper coins of old Lastwall denomination (32 cp in all), a bracelet of woven steel wire, a brace of six empty test tubes (one of which is broken), a small oilcloth, a tanglefoot bag . . . and at the back is a small ceramic pot which Delkaneth is delighted to see contains gold dust!
Last into the room, Bonegrit does not manage to find egress until Delkaneth is already in the process of sorting through the desk. Seeing the Chelaxian rifling through the drawers, Bonegrit watches over his shoulder with tentative interest. As he sees the marble rolling about in the drawer, it jogs a tease of a memory from the recesses of his mind. The bottom drawer brings the orc from his reverie, however, and the sight of potential spoils brings with it the promise of wealth. Unfortunately, Bonegrit's sense of value is about as sharp as the butt of his greataxe, likely owing to his many years spent outside of cities, let alone markets and shops.