Pellius looks over the stuff that Del found, "Good going Del!" The magus winks at the bard and states, "Of course, not as valuable as the two gems I found but I'll be nice and throw them into the pile when it comes time to divy up things."
Pellius then continues to investigate the area, "Since we made the trip and defeated the monster, let's take our time and really explore this place."
The magus is once again happy with his work, "Well, well, look here gents. Del, do your stuff and check this thing for traps, please."
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’.
Pyotr turns the locket over in his hand and reads the inscription. "A sad fate for those left waiting behind. To swear one's life to duty is a hard choice. But, for those who are bound to them...."
Bonegrit and Delkaneth investigate the contents of the desk together. The half-orc's opinions on the worth of the various items are fairly spurious, but Del’s practiced eye concludes the marble and bracelet to have little intrinsic value. The test tubes might be worth a little, but we’re probably talking in silver pieces rather than gold. They’re also so delicate that transporting them without breaking the remaining five would be difficult (although there’s enough material left in the portmanteau or the beds to aid in this). He struggles to value the amount of gold dust in the pot, finally concluding it worth at least double figures in gold pieces, but likely less than fifty.
Meanwhile, Pyotr appraises his find. Poignant as it is, he’s quite convinced it’s also rather valuable, perhaps a three figure sum in gold pieces.
Having determined the secret door is not trapped, Delkaneth gives it a firm push and it pops open. Behind it an oblong storage compartment about the size of a coffin*. It’s largely empty, but contains the following items:
• A sheaf of maps from the days of Harchrist. These include
o an overview of the whole of Harchrist’s Blockade, the fortification stretching unbroken across all of Lastwall’s northern border.
o A large map of northern Avistan.
o A terrain map of the lands immediately north of the keep.
o A ‘political’ map of the Hold of Belkzen, denoting the areas of influence of the various orc tribes. Bonegrit and Pellius recognise some of the names, such as the Empty Hand and the Black Sun, whilst others have been swept aside with the passing of the years.
• A beautifully tooled scabbard, unblemished by the passing of time. It’s designed to fit a longsword, and an intricately worked design of a dozen blazing suns, all fashioned from gold leaf, track along its length.
• A rectangular wooden box containing fifty gold coins stacked in five rows. Each coin bears Iomedae’s sun on one side and on the other the profile of Watcher Lord Veldyn I, Lastwall’s monarch in the days of Harchrist.
• A slender spellbook with the name Lamintar Greyfoal on the spine.
Still giddy, whether from the metal balls on his head or from the gems he found, Pellius smiles to himself. "Boys, we are going to be rich here. I heard adventuring could be profitable but this is ridiculous. In the past few days, I have more money than I've ever had."
The magus unsheathes his metal-alloy sword and slides into the scabbard. "Perfect, just perfect. Unless one of you want it, I'll take the scabbard." He then looks over the gold pile and pockets a coin after saying a brief prayer to Iomedae. "I'll also take one of the coins. It will good to have the Lady's sun in my pocket all the time."
Pellius then sees the spellbook and his eyes light up. He carefully opens the book after checking for anything unusual and mumbles out the spells he reads after a very cursory look.
"Our careful search has paid off. Let's continue taking our time here; there may be more things to find." The magus runs his head over the two large lumps on his scalp and winces at the pain, "If only I was feeling a little better..."
With a quick incantation to understand the mystical script within, Pellius flips through the pages of Lamintar Greyfoal’s modest spellbook. Some kind of protective spell has no doubt warded it from aging, the white pages are crisp, but many of them are blank; the book is only half full. Nonetheless, there are several spells inside:
Meanwhile, Delkaneth investigates the maps with equal interest. The terrain map, whilst smallest in scale, is probably most valuable, should any of Lastwall’s patrols venture this far north. He wouldn’t be surprised if strategists in Vigil were willing to pay 100 gp for it, if he was mercenary to sell it for that much. The other maps might fetch half that as curios, but only to a collector interested in such things. The gullible might be fooled into purchasing them for more if convinced they were modern.
Pyotr turns one of the heavy, antique coins over in his hand. "Pellius is not wrong. I have never imagined such wealth." He begins rearranging the contents of his pack, and wedges the box containing the forty-nine remaining coins into a corner.
"It would surprise me to find many other rooms that escaped looting, as this one did. But, perhaps we could seek out the armory, all the same?"
"And let us not ignore the mystery of Pellius' vision."
Pyotr walks to the arrow slits, and looks out into the waning night. "Perhaps these mysteries are best left to another. The night grows shorter, and Master Ironcoffer will not delay the caravan for us. Nor will he be pleased if we are far behind when they reach Freedom Town."
"Come, Delkaneth. Let us see if between us, we can carry this last piece of the splendor of Harchrist's Blockade." Pyotr walks back towards the commander's room to collect the tapestry.
I still have connection issues and in the middle of it I am moving. However Pellias would like to inspect his vision little more before leaving I will try to post tonight but no guarantees.
"Aye, I'm ready to turn an' return to the caravan if the rest of ya feel it wise. Would like to figger out where that pile of rot came from though, if I can manage it. Wanna follow 'is tracks on the way out, then? " Bonegrit defers to Pyotr with a blank expression. It seemed as if the others had trusted in the Iomedaean's judgment thus far, which simultaneously strikes Bonegrit as unusual and pleasant; humans in Lastwall deferring to a half-orc? Then, he did hear mention of being Chelaxian bandied about at camp. Maybe people from thereabouts were more tolerant to those of a greener influence. Could it be that a nation of alleged devil-worshipers treated his kind better than the bastion of righteousness that was Lastwall? Then there was the whole slavery thing. Bonegrit shakes himself free from wandering thoughts and returns to the query at hand "At any rate, we may want to inform Dierik about some of the fancy drapes and maps'n the like. Seeing as how he's a man of this country himself, he may fancy havin' some relics of the past to hang on to. If nothin' else, the maps'll give him a clear grapple on where to go from here. Or where to steer away from"
The adventurers file back out into the corridor, Pyotr and Delkaneth returning to the war room. Together they carefully lower the great tapestry from its hangings. Despite the damage it has faced, it remains sturdy enough for the pair to roll it up into a tube as long as a cannon. With some hefting, they raise the tapestry to their shoulders and awkwardly manoeuvre it through the doorway, following their companions onto the roof of the keep.
The howling wind has dropped to a gentle breeze as they cross to the main spiral staircase, the great black vault of the night sky hanging over them. Getting the tapestry down the stairs proves even more irksome, but they manage nonetheless, dropping it to the floor once more as Pellius leads them back into the chapel.
Pyotr leads his companions into the chapel, ducking his tall frame through the broken maw of its portal. The room is T-shaped; or more accurately sword-shaped. Small side chambers, perhaps serving as robing rooms or quiet areas for meditation or prayer, extend on either side of the door like a sword’s crosspiece, whilst the blade of the room stretches away from them to a window in the southern wall. The window is open to the night outside, and actually consists of five vertical slits cut through the thick outer wall of the keep, not one slit being wide enough to allow an attacker to squeeze through. Broken shards stuck in the narrow frames and shattered on the floor below show that these verticals once held stained glass panels.
One the other side of the barricade of pews is a pile of human skeletons, their bones clear testament to the great cleaving blows that slew them. Absolutely nothing else lies amongst these remains, no broken weapons, no scraps of armour, not even the rotten remains of any clothing.
Beyond them stands a twisted and deformed icon to Iomedae. The sword and sunburst are mangled out of shape, and it appears the finer metals that once decorated this icon (which is as tall as Pyotr) have been stripped and looted by the invaders. What remains is only the copper and iron core of the symbol.
A horizontal recess in the western wall bears the life-sized effigy of an angel carved in low relief, as if sleeping in full armour atop her tomb. Her arched wings mantle her beautiful face, and of course, there is a longsword cradled upon her breast.
As you enter the chapel, your eyes rest upon the desecrated symbol of Iomedae that dominates the room . . . but it is not as you remember it. It stands in its full glory, the warm hues of gold and silver shining in the light of the candles dotted about the chapel. The pews are not piled in a barricade, but neatly aligned to face the icon and the stained glass windows that look out to the night beyond.
Yet all is not well here. Through the thick walls, you can hear the din of men fighting and dying, the death screams and battle cries, the skirl of metal on metal and intermittent, deafening crashes that shake the keep to its foundations.
Eight men dressed for battle are gathered in the chapel. Their mail hauberks and pole arms denote them as simple men at arms, and their weapons and bodies are yet to bear the marks and stains of the battle being fought outside. Grim, frightened expressions are writ on all their faces.
A young, sallow faced man with a thin moustache seems to be the ringleader. He carries a single bladed battle axe in his hands. He quickly crosses to the effigy of Saint Lymirin and opens the secret compartment at her feet, taking out a half dozen potion bottles and stacking them on one of the pews. He then crosses to the opposite side of the room and raps the stone in several places until a hollow thud denotes the presence of another secret storage space, this one large enough for a halfling to stand tall in. It contains a great, open faced helm with a sunburst upon the brow and several more potion bottles. Ignoring the helm, the man sweeps the potions into his cradled arms and returns to his fellows.
Those companions watch him in silence, their breathing hoarse, fear etching deep lines on their faces. Some are even shaking their heads slightly, others jump at a particularly loud crash from the keep above.
“There’s no time to think on this,” their leader tells them “Because death is the only other choice you’ve got left. The other keeps have already fallen. We don’t stand a chance. We were pushed into this battle, and my word’s worth nothing if I had but no option than to give it.”
“Our marks will not allow us to flee whilst we bear them,” he says, and hefts his axe “Whilst we bear them . . ,” he reiterates. One of the other men is now kneeling on the floor, weeping softly. Another is crouched by the stained glass windows, scratching a message on the wall by daggerpoint.
The leader takes a breath.
“So we lose them. Lose the marks and we can live. These healing drafts will suppress the blood loss. Drink deeply after . . . and you should be restored enough to make our escapes.”
The axe in his hands is quivering.
“Daelt, you’re first. Courage, man!”
Daelt steps forward, his eyes squeezed shut and stretches his ungauntleted hand across the arm of the pew. On his bare palm is branded the mark of the Allure. The axe slices through the air and severs his hand at the wrist. Blood gouts out across the flagstones and Daelt’s scream rings out. He collapses, but his companions are by his side, tipping the contents of first one, then another of the healing potions into his slack mouth. The magic takes hold, and the flow of blood slows to a trickle. Pale and shaken, Daelt gasps “I’m well enough, well enough. The next man!”
The axe falls again, and again, and soon seven dismembered hands lie on the floor, the marks of the Allure still visible through the blood.
The leader turns to you, crimson axe in hand. “Your turn,” he says.
The taste of fear is an iron tang in your mouth. You extend your hand, the mark of the Allure glaring at you from your bare palm. Sweat beads on your forehead, stinging your eyes. The sallow faced man twists his face into something resembling an encouraging grin as he raises his axe high.
It comes down, lopping off your weapon hand at the wrist.
The vision ends abruptly, the chapel returning to its ruined state. However, for some the horrific effects of the vision endure . . .
Pyotr stares in stunned, open-mouthed surprise as the vision unfolds. He is even more startled as the ringleader turns to him with the axe. The fear and anger in the room is palpable, and he can feel the failed and failing strength of the other soldiers. In a flash, all of Pyotr's doubts and fears from earlier vanish, and he knows he holds nothing more certain and more sacred than the sword mark on his palm.
Pyotr looks the man squarely in the eye and flatly states, "I'll not." The vision fades even as the words leave his mouth...
Pyotr crosses the room to the far wall, and begins methodically tapping his gauntlet against the stone. Minutes pass as he keeps his ear against the rough masonry, carefully searching for the secret door.
The magus holds his hand high trying to staunch the blood flow as he yells for help, "where's the healing potion? Quickly before I bleed out here."
Sorry but it is to post with phone; should get better soon
"Pellius, look at me!" Pyotr shouts as he grabs the soldier's hand. "Look at your hand! You are not of the Allure! You are Sword-Sworn of Vigil! Dismiss the nightmares!"
Pyotr forces Pellius' hand in front of his face. "You are neither a traitor, nor an apostate. Banish the visions."
Further gameplay update coming shortly.
The magus is angry as Delkaneth dismisses his wound. He resists Pyotr's grabbing his hand for a second before realizing that it was another vision.
"What happened? What do you mean 'Allure'?"
Pellius wiggles his fingers and flexes his hand as he looks and listens trying to figure out what's going on.
With the foreknowledge of the secret door's existence, Pyotr's careful search quickly yields results; a change in the timbre of his knocks marks the location of the expected portal. Further inspection reveals a crack in the stonework just wide enough for the half-orc to thrust his fingers into and tug, but the door does not open, several centuries of stonework settling about it have left it somewhat recalcitrant
Before Pyotr can apply his full strength, Pellius’ sudden outburst captures his attention.
After a moment, Pellius calms considerably and begins to see his hand as it truly is... whole and still attached. Pyotr claps him on the shoulder, "These visions have dangerous power behind them. We must be wary of our own eyes."
At the wall, Pyotr throws all of his considerable strength into ripping open the obstinate masonry. With only his fingertips gripping the edge, little by little, the stone door parts from the wall, until Pyotr can fit his fingers through the opening. With an improved grip, he throws the door wide.
Pyotr wrenches open the secret door, and the wavering light emanating from the feather behind Pellius’ ear is cast across the contents of the storage space behind. The dust covered helm, with the sunburst on the brow, sits in the corner, but this is suddenly of secondary importance.
Eight severed hands, the Mark of the Allure still faintly visible on the stretched skin of their desiccated palms are also hidden behind the secret door. On its opening, they come to unlife, twitching like spiders and propelling themselves towards to the adventurers on their fingers.
ROUND 1
Initiatives
Pellius' shock quickly dissipates as the undead limbs crawl towards him. Cursing himself for not having his usual fan of fire, the magus quickly pours his arcane energy into his sword. He makes a fist with his left hand and waits for the hands to get within range of his sword strike.
Striking a low blow with his sword to sweep the foremost limb, Pellius' left hand pours forth a ray of yellow light that withers away at the undead hands.
Pyotr steps back from the wall in surprise. The sudden appearance of eight crawling, scrabbling hands momentarily stilling his reflexes. When he recovers, he draws his sword and swings at one of the hideous dismembered creatures.
A strange spell of something grips Bonegrit for the briefest of moments before the half-orc shakes it free with furrowed brow. He can only watch on with incredulity as Pellius begins clutching at an imaginary wound and requesting aid for his grievous injury. Even as Pyotr seems to assist the man in dispelling whatever madness has taken hold, the talks of Allure, Marks, and visions leaves the ranger twice as confused as he had been prior. His nostrils, eyes, nor ears avail Bonegrit to the supernatural forces at work in the room; nothing save for the knot in his gut that tells him something is wrong. The hackles on the back of his neck spell similar danger, but do little beyond placing Bonegrit in a state of alert. "What'n the name of alla the Hells are ya barking about?"
The question hangs in the air at Pyotr's back as the larger half-orc navigates the room, the scratch of his gauntleted hand on stone grating as surely on Bonegrit's nerves as the keep's walls. His ignorant frustrations seem ready to culminate in further protest when the secret compartment is wrenched free, the creatures surging forward cause for more alarm than his dumbfounded inquiry. Bonegrit unshoulders his bow and looses a couple of arrows at the hand furthest to the rear, though the cramped quarters dull his aim and reflex in equal parts.
_________________________
As the crawling hands swarm out of the secret compartment, Bonegrit’s arrows scythe across the room. The first misses, but the second finds it mark, skewering the hand through. Even so, the hand continues to crawl forward, transfixed as it is.
Another knuckles down then jumps through the air at Pellius, who calmly raises the tip of his blade to meet its flying leap. The sword goes right through the hand but doesn’t stop it. Grotesquely wriggling, the hand begins to work its way along Pellius’ sword towards the man himself.
“διαταρ ζόμπι,” declares the magus, sending a blast of positive energy down the length of his weapon to dissolve his attacker to nothing.
The other hands swarm out with great speed to attack him and his fellows. They move faster than a severed piece of ancient flesh should have any right to.
A pair race over the flagging as quickly as hunting spiders, leaping onto Bonegrit. Decomposition has left the tips of their fingerbones free of any meat, and it is with these bony claws that burrow into the half-orc’s skin . Another thrusts its claw-like digit through the leather of Pellius’ boot and into his foot .
Del has an axe in each hand, but suddenly, somehow there’s an undead hand clamping vicelike around his throat, constricting his windpipe with the surety of a constrictor snake. He feels his legs turn to jelly as he struggles futilely to breathe.
Pyotr’s greatsword clangs down and squashes one claw to mush, but another rakes his calf with its twitching fingers .
Actions from Round 2
Bonegrit
Pellius
Crawling hands
Delkaneth
Pyotr
Emboldened by his recent success, the magus once more repeats his attack. He steps back and shortens his usual arcana gestures so as to not be interrupted by the attacking hands. A quick swipe with his blade and another ray from his fist cause devastating damage to the undead limbs.
Pyotr lets out a feral snarl as the bony fingered monstrosity digs into his calf. With a flick of his sword, he slaps it off of his skin.
Grunting to the point of seeming a growl, Bonegrit glares down at the severed hands seeking further purchase in his hide with their grotesquely rotted digits. "Get offa me you blighted bastards!" The ranger swats the monsters with the curved length of his bow, though their resolve seems lessened none by the half-orc's protests. Reeling from the throb of pain that accompanies the dark-black blood pouring from his injuries, Bonegrit begins shuffling backwards slightly with his longbow raised before him—a warding gesture intended to swat away further assaults from his two assailants.
_________________________
Fighting for breath, Delkaneth grasps the hand gripping his neck and wrenches it free. As oxygen flows back into his lungs, he hurls the offending extremity towards the broken window.
His throw isn’t quite accurate, the hand bounces off the lintel of the window, drops to the floor, wriggles for a moment and then scurries back towards the Chelaxian. It leaps onto the back of his calf and sinks its fingertips into the soft flesh behind his knee. The other hand squeezes down hard on an even more sensitive part of his anatomy, and a squeal escapes Delkaneth’s lips
Delkaneth retrieves his discarded axe and uses the other to hack the crawling hand which has latched onto his nether regions. He doesn’t destroy it, but at least bats it away from the sensitive area!
A swipe from Pellius’ blade sends rotten fingers flying in all directions. The hand he struck spins in the air, lands and begins to lurch towards him on its pinky and thumb. Another ray of golden energy reduces it to nothing.
Despite Bonegrit’s ducking and weaving, the crawling hands are too fast for him. One keeps burrowing away at the flesh of his leg, whilst another scrambles up this torso to grab him by the neck
Another hand stretches towards Pyotr’s neck, scratching away at his collarbone The half-orc swats it away with his sword and follows up with a blow which splits it in twain.
Attacks for Round 3!
Bonegrit
Pellius
Crawling hands
Delkaneth
Pyotr
Keep it simple, stupid!
The magus smiles as memories of his brother surface in his mind. Nodding in appreciation of his brother's mantra, Pellius once again repeats his succesful attack. This time however, he picks out a companion besieged by two of the undead limbs.
Overcome by frustration, Bonegrit lets out a savage snarl. He releases his longbow to clatter upon the flagged stone beneath in favor of the double headed great axe strapped to his back. He hefts the thing quickly over his right shoulder and brings the weapon down in a vicious, diagonal arc intended to ruin one of the creatures that continues to harass him so.
_________________________
As the four halves of Pyotr's attackers fall gruesomely to the floor, he looks up to find Pellius easily dispatching his own adversaries. Bonegrit capably fends the pair off with his bow, but Delkaneth is not so fortunate.
He crosses the room quickly to Chelaxian has just barely managed to bat one of the crawling monsters away from his nethers. "Hold very still, Delkaneth," Pyotr says calmly. There is momentary look of astonishment on Del's face as the giant sword come slicing in...
As Pyotr moves to aid Delkaneth, Pellius rushes to Bonegrit’s side. A pair of the severed hands are crawling over the half-orc, seeking out a chink in his armour to burrow their filthy nails into. Knowing that it cannot harm his companion, the magus unleashes another yellow ray, the bolt of positive energy playing over Bonegrit’s torso just behind a rapidly scurrying claw. Having missed with his magic, Pellius tries with the sword; a swift stab as the thing clambers over Bonegrit’s belt. Some preternatural sense warns the hand, which jumps aside and lands on the flagstones at Bonegrit’s feet. Avoid Pellius it may have, but it’s not fast enough for the ranger’s swooping axe, which clangs into the floor with a shower of sparks, cutting free one thumb in the process.
However, all the attention on this crawling hand works the advantage of the other, which hurls itself at Bonegrit’s face, waggling its fingers wildly. One of the decomposing digits goes straight up the poor fellow’s nose, and blood spurts
Delkaneth swings wildly at his attackers, the breathless pain emanating from his loins making his blows spasmodic, useless gestures. The hand behind his knee holds on grimly, scrabbling away relentlessly. The one he knocked away makes an acrobatic leap and slaps the ailing Chelaxian across the cheek, its curled over fingers opening the skin
Pyotr rushes to his rescue, and with a few words of warning swings at Del’s leg. Whether by accident or design, the young Chelaxian doesn’t flinch, and Pyotr’s greatsword sweeps the offending hand away into oblivion.
Bonegrit
Pellius
Crawling hands
Delkaneth
Pyotr
Pellius once more aims his golden ray and slices through with his sword.
Sputtering through his nostrils with a loud cry of pain, Bonegrit heaves the troublesome foe to the ground with a look of rage. The ranger attempts to bring a booted foot down on the thing before it scurries forward with another assault, managing to catch the creature's thumb against the ground before it begins to lunge anew. Adjusting his right hand's grip on the axe near the head of the weapon, he brings the blade down towards the pinned creature as one chopping wood.
_________________________
As Delkaneth swings his axe with greater effect, Pyotr steps in to sweep up. With almost a literal sweeping gesture, he drags the swordpoint along the ground swiping across the wounded hand.