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Gwyneth's grip remains stern on the hilt of her sword as Therrik cuts through the knot of silk, the blade lifting an inch or two out of its scabbard as a precaution, though the paladin's mind drifts off a tad as she takes in their situation as a whole. A shattered wardstone, burning city, murdered dragon, broken bones, blindness, vermin, undead, a raving apostate, and now-- She pauses, eyes narrowing at their apparent survivor for an answer his mouth probably won't adequately provide --an unfortunate Elf in a silk gown.
The blade promptly drops and she snorts a laugh as Sadron dares suggest that they're his captors, and an even louder one at Naali's comment on their collective attire--but perhaps that's simply because most all of the paladin's stains are her own blood at this point, and Gwyneth can hear her Sergeant screaming something about bleach and the ruined glory of Her impeccable. Shining.
Well, while that's certainly not wrong, the fact of the matter stands that Sergeant Howdl's probably dead, crushed by alabaster and dragonbone, or up to his knees in abyssal corpses--because, thinking from experience, one does not piss off a Cold Iron Warden and leave the room with legs intact--and Gwyneth herself's still little more than buried alive. More practically, Iomedae was, as most of her devotees tend to forget, a Knight of Ozem. And fairly human. Which means occasional bouts of dirt, grime, and who-knows-what else. None of this pointy-ear, night-seeing madness the majority of her armoured compatriots all seem to share either...Not that she's bitter or anything.
Then again, To Shine In Her Legion really is one of her bound tenants...but since the Heavens didn't exactly give her the pony she wanted when she was five, and, y'know, Kenabres is dying, Gwyneth doubts this is the appropriate time to pray for a clean set of armour and a warm bath. Though Aroden knows I'm certainly open to either if you're offering, Inheritor.
In any case, she's glad to let the others deal with their newcomer, thinking the better of putting her foot in her mouth for once...and preferring to let Aravashnial do it instead. The Riftwarden's seemingly obsessive wealth of knowledge certainly strikes a chord with her ("Aaand suddenly I'm back at Blackwing," she quips at some point amidst his rambling) but Gwyneth's never thought the abyss meticulous enough for most of his claims and struggles not to sneak a wry comment here and there, if only for Anevia's benefit, whose ears must be bleeding with conspiracy theories after so many hours of assisting the unfortunate Elf with his sight.
Any mention of established humanoid cults, however, hits an obvious trigger topic, and Gwyneth appears to momentarily blank out the elvish caster's words by jotting updates to their growing scavenger list of equipment.
The elf nods at the half-orcs words and plops down next to some rations. He shoves a few bites in his mouth, clearly conflicted between eating politely in company and being ravenously hungry.
As the tiefling pulls out her scarf, he chuckles. A playful inflection can be heard in his voice as he quips, "I accept?"
He smiles at the tiefling and returns his attention to the half-orc.
"So, I'm not on the chopping block then? My name is Sadron Vaneth, and I am a musician by trade. I do not recall being attacked by a" he lifts hands that grasp a canteen and some crackers to make air quotes "crazy-looking dwarf."
"So far, I've seen the inside of a spider's web, and I thank you for letting me out of it. Has anyone seen a pair of cymbals by chance?"
Sadron looks about for his gear, now that he feels less threatened.
"Might I ask the names of my rescuers, and if they know our location and circumstances?"
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Abrielle watches curiously as a man emerges from the silky cocoon. Stranger things had happened today--- Wait, no. No this was by far the strangest. At least she could somewhat expect demons to try to set Kenabres aflame.
"I am Abrielle, that there is Therrik. Naali. Anevia and Aravashnial. That there is Gwyneth, and that's Horgus," she says, pointing at each as she mentions their names. "We are currently under Kenabres as far as anyone can tell, and our circumstances vary with each individual. Worst off may be Aravashnial. But, we are alive and seeking a way back to the surface. I take it you're a survivor of the razing of the city as well?"
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"Is that what these are?" says Gwyneth amidst her stocktaking, holding up a pair of well-shined silver disks with one hand and giving one a flick with the other. The metallic note practically sings, but Gwyn's familiarity with instruments ends with organs, trumpets and war drums, and she's clearly unaware that if she keeps holding them like wads of plate-mail, they're not going to sound pretty for long.
Nevertheless, she gives a curt bow of the head at Abrielle's introduction and weary grin as she hands the musician his cymbals, but otherwise returns to being a busybody.
Not that she doesn't appreciate another ally, but this clearly priceless artifact still suffers the mortal sin of logistics and, considering she can't hit worth a damn today, keeping track of their supplies is at least something Private Koschei knows she can do.
"Ah. Thank you, Gwyneth. Those are indeed them."
Sadron stuffs the rest of his cracker in his mouth and sets down the canteen. His eyes inspect the devices for damage, and he smiles once he's determined they've survived the fall unscathed.
He rubs them together lightly, and listens to the quiet hum of metal until it goes silent. "Brilliant. I was using these during the attack. When I fell, I thought I had lost them."
"Under Kenabres? That seems right. I remember an attack and falling silver. Such a shame."
"I find myself beaten and exhausted, but I can keep up with your wounded. At least until I get some real sleep. That web was not as great a blanket as one might think. Oh!" he exclaims to himself, remembering something.
He moves over to the cocoon and reaches in. After a few moments of ripping strands of silk, he liberates a backpack. Moments after, he carefully removes a sheathed sword, making a point to retrieve it non-threateningly.
He straps the remnants of his gear on. "To the surface then?"
Naali rolls her eyes at the joke about her scarf. "Hopefully it stays clean enough to even be recognizable as white."
"Well we came from a dead end. Not sure if this is the right way, but it is at least something. It's been dangerous down here, though, we've already gotten attacked a few times. Creatures, and undead, and then a dwarf."
"Terrors to most people, and you seem to have come through it less than worse for wear. My confidence in your band seems to be well-founded. If there was a dwarf here, as you say, then there must be an exit to the surface connected to these caverns. Somewhere."
"I shall do my best to help you find it. Gods know what we'll find has come to Kenabres."
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Abrielle adjusts her own pack and looks around at her companions. They'd been through a lot in a very short amount of time. She'd heard that these sorts of trails make for the best of friends later in life.
"Anyone have any idea how long we've been marching for? I'm afraid I've got no sense of time, especially down here with no sun for guidance. I assume we've got a decent portion of the day left, but we ought to remember our way back here. If this was where the dwarf made camp, it's possible there will be less natural hazards. Might make a good camp spot for later, if needed."
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"On foot..? Two, three hours...But in total?" Gwyneth finishes cataloging her gear and hauls her backpack on right side first--now with all assortment of this and that hedged upon it, the majority firmly tied down by spartan knots of frayed rope--before tossing her torch between her hands, one noticeably stronger than the other, letting the flame dance as she thinks. "Let's see...Seven-eighths of an oil pint's about nine, probably ten marks; add the usual five and three quart's sleep, another one or so to move out, half again in varying degrees of mortal peril..."
"Should be mid-morning Arodus 17, give or take the initial bout of collective unconsciousness," Gwyneth declares with a shrug, confident despite her lack of evidence. Never did have much use for a sundial.
Letting Abrielle finish, the paladin answers with another, if uncertain, nod. "True enough, but our rift can't have been the only split in this rocky sky. If it's anything like the quarry after blasting, I'd expect a few cave-ins at the least."
"Of course if they want to keep throwing able-bodied and--" She pauses for a moment, squinting at the outline of Sadron's longsword with a smirk. "--surprisingly well-armed musicians at us instead, you'll forgive me for admitting I'm some-thousand-percent okay with that, ma'am."
"Well, I guess we should keep moving. There might be others in need of our help down here - or on the surface, when we figure out how to get out of these tunnels."
Horgus accepts the crossbow a bit uncertainly, peering the weapon over as though he is dubious about...well, something. Seeing as he clearly knows how to hold it, it is not as though he is unfamiliar with how the weapon works. Maybe he just cannot hit the broadside of a barn. Regardless, he nods his thanks to Therrik and collects the bolts that the dwarf had, as well. Once you manage to take stock of the new loot, there appears to still be only one path forward. Fortunately, this time it takes a vertical turn.
A steeply inclined tunnel leads upward, its walls lined with all manner of nooks and handholds to help with climbing. In the occasional place where there is no good crack in the stone to grip, iron pitons have been hammered in to substitute. In the dank, earthy air of the caverns, they have begun to rust just a bit but are still perfectly solid. The climb is short and relatively easy, even with the crippled Anevia and Aravashnial, though the latter takes a bit more babysitting than the former to get to the top. At the top of the shaft, the ground levels out again and leads in a winding tunnel for another thirty minutes of wandering. By now, most of you are probably growing very tired of the same darkness and rock with little more than your own footsteps to keep you company.
The monotony of spelunking does not last forever; eventually, the tunnel opens into a large cavern about seventy feet across. Cylindrical rock formations along the walls arch up to make a domeline chamber, but the walls and floor are riddled with cracks. At the center of the cave, a stone tower that may have once reached the fifty-foot-high ceiling has collapsed onto its side.
You notice a pair of bizarre looking humanoids slowly and carefully digging through the tower's rubble. Occasionally, they call out and you can hear a muffled voice answer back. Presumably, the voice is coming from within the rubble. From this distance, you cannot hear what they are saying or tell if their odd appearance is due to a trick of the light.
Though his kind may be blessed with the vision to see at night and in dark pits , Therrik has never actually spent any prolonged time under ground, until now. However, it seems his eyes are adjusting: he has no trouble spotting movement ahead, and he waves a hand to hush the others.
"Someone over there," he whispers hoarsely. "Two someones. They're... I can't tell what they are. They look-- wrong. They're digging through the rubble, looks like."
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"Damn caves," Gwyneth breathes, a hand on her weapon as she drops her gaze from the wounded ceiling with a slightly annoyed look of 'Told you so'.
"Define 'wrong' for me. Crazy dwarf apostate wrong or ask-first-sword-second?" she asks to Therrik in a hush, nose twisting with a distinct preference for the latter.
Naali wrings her hands on the haft of her glaive, hoping that it is 'ask-first-continue talking-second".
"Hmm... looks like there's a search underway. I wonder who they're answering to though."
Sadron listens to the paladin's question and nods upon it's completion. "Let us hope these are more survivors and not more of your crazy dwarf apostates."
"Perhaps one or two of us should approach and divine their intentions before alerting them to the size of your merry band?"
"Can't rightly tell," Therrik frowns in response to Gwyn's question. "I mean, they've got two legs and two arms," "but they just seem... kinda off. Weird. They're calling to each other, I think."
He turns and glances at the others. "They're sure to see our light, we go much further. I say weapons at the ready, but I'm in no hurry to leave more dead behind us. You... see evil?" Therrik asks Gwyneth uncertainly, because if there's one thing he never ran into in the River Kingdoms, it's a paladin of Iomedae; so he's got only the loosest hearsay knowledge of what the true servants of the gods can accomplish.
"If so, maybe we walk until you can, uh... do your thing. Call out to 'em if they haven't attacked by then."
If there's no objections, Therrik begins to stride forward, leaving his falchion in its scabbard but ready to be grabbed in a hot second should the need arise.
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"You can't?" Gwyneth answers Therrik's uncertainty with just enough of her own that it's a little difficult to tell if she's being sarcastic or not. Nonetheless, she straightens out a smirk and her eyes brighten substantially in the torchlight. A little help if you would, Inheritor.
The paladin takes a moment to think Therrik looks somewhat off under the divination--maybe it's all those markings he has--but she shakes it off with a nod and, assuming no objections, gingerly follows in turn.
Fortunately for everyone, probably, Gwyneth's detection reveals no evil in the area despite the group of individuals clawing at the dirt. As the group approaches, both of the humanoids abruptly straighten up at the sound of footsteps and drop into a defensive position. Now that you are closer, you can see that the pair of creatures before you look extraordinarily bizarre.
One is a hunchbacked woman whose face is so warped by tumors that it will be a miracle if she can form words. The other is a tall, thin man with a face that melts the features of an attractive elven man, a goat, and a lizardfolk. The left half of his body seems to be dominated by green scales, while the right bears smooth skin. Atop his head, a single curled ram's horn protrudes from the right side of his hairline. Naturally, the less disfigured of the two (though this may be a matter of opinion) does the speaking.
"Uhh! Who are you? Friend," he rasps quickly, his voice a strangely accented but quite eloquent Common. "If your intentions are ill, we ask that you move on and leave us in peace. If they are good, then perhaps you can help. As you can see, misfortune has befallen us."
Horgus makes a rather disgusted face at the sight of the pair, but miraculously manages to keep his mouth shut. For the moment. Anevia, on the other hand, merely looks on the two in pity and glances across to Aravashnial to explain what is going on.
The lot of you can tell quite a bit easier from this short distance what is going on now. The pair of humanoids have been digging at the base of the destroyed guard tower, presumably to get at their trapped comrade. Who is promptly shouting out to them to ask what is going on and who they are talking to. It seems that only one enormous rock remains wedged in place above the small space in which their friend is trapped. While the pair of individuals alone likely cannot move it, maybe all of you together can? Then again, maybe it would be best to simply dig their friend out from underneath his prison?
Sadron approaches behind the party, ready to follow the example of it's more burly of figures in fight or flight.
Hearing their plight, he points at the tiefling's scarf and raises his hands in peace.
"Is your comrade alright? It seems his situation is less grave than you might think." He pauses for a second, regarding his choice of words with a shake of the head. "Sorry, please excuse the unintended pun. I was merely thinking of how to dig your friend out from his stone coffin while I was speaking... nevermind. The point of it all is that if we can find enough rope, and someone can heave a different rock off a part of that decrepit tower, we might save our collective backs some pain."
He turns to the party, "Or we can just dig him out." A moment later, "Not helping him wasn't a thought anyone else had, was it?
These are Mongrelmen. You know the following: Despite their monstrous appearances, mongrelmen are generally hardworking and peaceful creatures. A mongrelman can produce offspring with any humanoid, mixing bloodlines in strange ways to create hardier crossbreeds. No two mongrelmen look the same. One may have a face that is half hobgoblin, half lizardfolk, with one human-like foot and one cloven hoof, while his sister may have elven ears, a dwarven beard, orc tusks, and clawed hands. Each mongrelman usually has characteristics from at least a half-dozen different races. This strange mixture enforces mongrelmen’s place in the edges of the world, for they are shunned by all who fear their twisted appearance. Mistaken as enemies by all, mongrelmen prefer to be left alone.
Most mongrelmen live below the surface of the world in hidden caves far from civilization. These creatures pride themselves on their survival skills, for the bowels of the earth are no place for weaklings. Other foul and intelligent races who claim dominion in the underworld take mongrelmen as slaves (particularly morlocks), finding this deformed race’s docile nature and hardworking attitude makes them extremely useful as tools of labor. In this role, mongrelmen still fall back on their pride of survival, slow to rebel and patiently waiting for the overthrow of their masters.
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"Oh thank Iomedae," Gwyneth sighs at the stranger's response. If ignorance is bliss, then the paladin is clearly a shining beacon of it, not seeming to give a single damn about their appearance so long as it doesn't require a drawn sword or a nudge from Heaven.
"We're good," she certifies to the odd humanoid as the rest approach. "Definitely good."
She pauses to cast a look over the rubble, then back to her empty hand--wondering how best to get that dang boulder out of the way without breaking a bone in the process--when Sadron pipes up at her back.
"You're not really a musician, are you?" she puts to him with a grin, already scrambling to unwind her own set of rope from her gear. "Not sure we've the tools to dig him out, but I've got two arms and I'll be damned if I don't use 'em."
"And noooo," Gwyneth looks about their mismatched troupe with a ever so slightly menacing smile and twitching brow; twice so at Horgus, though the fact he hasn't said a word yet suggests she needn't be worried. "Preeeetty sure that's not on the table, Vaneth."
Naali is startled for a moment when Sadron suddenly points to her face, and it takes a moment before she remembers her scarf. She resolves to remember this fact next time, and puts on a friendly face for the underground inhabitants as she looks them over.
Oh! Mongrelfolk! Naali had read all about them in Egede - learning of their plight, despised and shoved aside by surface races, had somehow been reassuring to her when she didn't fit in. She felt a bit guilty about it now, actually seeing them deal with the consequences of surface problems, though.
Of course, demons are really everyone's problem.
"Of course we'll help!" She rolls up her sleeves and looks for Sadron for further instructions in the extraction of the mongrelfolk, though she made a point to not refer to them as such - in her opinion it sounded like a slur made by less-than-caring surface dwellers.
"We fell down here after a massive demon attack on the surface. A few of our people are injured as well." She says, indicating Anevia and Aravashnial, "If you could help us after we get your friend out, we'd be really grateful."
She smiles again. "I'm Naali, what are your names?"
Therrik is a little weirded out by the bizarre appearances of the ... people... but he keeps his mouth shut. He just hopes the tumor-lady isn't... catching.
"Yeah, uh, we'll... lend a hand," he says slowly after the elf points out what they've got to do. "Just... tell me where to dig, or whatever..."
He side-eyes the strange folk as he goes to help apply Sadron's knowledge, but keeps any commentary to himself.
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Abrielle doesn't wait for any more instruction. She immediately produces a length of rope.
"We should try to secure the rock. We can use weight and leverage to try to control which direction it falls if it does. Last thing we need is to drop the rock back down. Anyway to get the rope looped around the under side? As we lift it away, it might be worth our while to wedge rocks under it. To keep our progress going with less risk of going two steps back as it were."
Abrielle really has no idea if any of what she's saying would work. She's got no knowledge of such things, but it all seems like a very good plan in her head.
Sadron nods along to Abrielle's suggestions.
"Good idea."
Waiting until after the mongrelmen respond to Naali, Sadron turns to the them, "You two can help shore up the sides while Therrik and Gwyneth secure the rope and put the plan in motion."
Pulling out one of his cymbals, he goes to sit with the injured and fatigued. He taps and rubs along different areas of the device with experienced fingers, playing it quietly as a makeshift drum to while away the time and distract those who aren't actively involved in the rescue process.
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"Aye sir!" Gwyneth's impromptu salute might come off as a bit out of place, but her muscle memory and desire to assist comes ahead of any self-awareness she might otherwise possess. Wedging her torch between the rubble for light, the paladin's motions aren't perhaps what you'd call nimble, but they're prompt and methodical, braiding tough knots in the rope and checking the tension holds at one before moving to the next.
"Oyyy!" She calls down into the so-called stone coffin as she works, voice set so that even when her smile can't be seen, it'll certainly be heard. "Just hold tight, yeah? I mean, not that you've much choice, eh? I mean--bah! Point is: we're working on it! Inheritor willing, you'll be out before long!"
"And Inheritor unwilling, we'll...err..." She thinks for a moment--then, realizing that the idea is at least twice as stupid as she makes it sound, physically claws the thought away like a pest. "Improvise!"
"Lann," the horned, scaled man responds quickly as he nods along with Sadron and moves immediately as directed. "This is Dyra and within is Crel. Are you certain we can simply dig beneath to get him free? Shifting the stones further may cause the boulder atop to fall." He leaves out the implied rest of the sentence, "onto Crel." It is obvious to any who look that Lann is right; the large rock that is the only thing standing between Crel and freedom is fairly precarious. Failure might mean squashing him flat.
Therrik lends his arms to the digging, nodding a little at the names. "Therrik," he grunts.
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"That's not going to happen," Gwyneth answers with blind confidence.
All throughout the work, she keeps a stern eye to the rock and one side of her rope leashed to her arm, careful that should it slip too far, her grip is such that the boulder is really going to have to try if it's in the interest of crushing its misbegotten captive.
She's not being intentionally rude by omitting introductions; it's simply that, for now, the situation takes precedent and she's a little too focused on that to think about giving the odd looking humanoids her full grace.
As the entire group bands together to try to get Crel free, things seem to be going remarkably well. It seems that Sadron is very learned in the ways of digging people out from beneath collapsed guard towers. Or perhaps he just understands the fine arts of engineering a bit better than the rest of the group. Whichever the case may be, it does not take long to dig out a hole large enough for a remarkably furry mongrelman to climb through.
After a bit of wiggling and squirming, Crel pops free with his long, rabbit-like ears flopping out above his head with the effort. Similar to both Lann and Dyra, his features are just the slightest bit misshapen such that his nose stretches out almost like a beak from his face and his lips are cleft in the center. He almost looks like a ratfolk had mated with a human, if one ignored the ears and the enormous size of his feet. All three of the humanoids thank the group profusely, unable to express how grateful they are for the help.
"You are from the surface, no? And I imagine you wish to find a way back up, of course," Lann ventures as he eyes the bloodied, dirt-covered group thoughtfully. "There is a village not far from here, Neathholm, that we live in. You are welcome to come with us back there, if you wish it. Perhaps our chief yet knows of a way to ascend once more."
Therrik looks even more bemused at Mr. Rat-Rabbit... whatever he is. They're so damn strange it's hard to even feel threatened, if that makes sense. Still, they seem.... nice enough?
"Wouldn't mind a place with a fire," he says. "Feels like I've been cold since we tumbled our asses down here. You hurt at all?" he asks Crel.
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"I'd never say no to assistance in a time such as this. Particularly if there may be a clue to get back home. Things have gone a little awry as I think you can see here," she said, gesturing to the mess of rubble around them. "Wait, you mean to tell me theri is an entire village down here?" she asks, surprised that such a thing could exists. Sure, she's heard of communities living in sewers, but not entire villages in underground caverns. Well, except the Underdark, but she doubted they were that far down.
"Amazing..."
The long-eared mongrelman shakes his head, those ears flopping about in the process like the ends of an enormous scarf. Oddly, they do not stick up in the air as one would expect, instead hanging down his back limply. "Thank you, no. Bumps and bruises, but nothing broken. I'll be fine once I get a bit of food in me and can wash all this dust out of my fur," he replies cheerfully, all buck-toothed smiles.
With Therrik's agreement and no verbal reluctance from the rest of the group, as Horgus's reluctance is very clearly written on his face, Lann beckons them onward. He turns without another word and leads you all off through one of the nearby tunnels. It occurs to you all a bit belatedly that if these three had not been here to guide you, it would have been very easy to get lost. The chamber you are leaving has numerous tunnels that lead outward in every direction, none of which are even remotely marked. The mouth of the tunnel closest to the base of the crumbled tower even seems to have collapsed in on itself. Who knows what mysteries the other paths hold?
During the walk through ever more torch-lit cave, Aravashnial passes the time by asking the mongrelmen about themselves. Or rather, about their lineage, how they came to be down here, and how they survive. While it is at first educational, the incessant deluge of questions quickly grow tiresome for everyone present and Anevia suggests he conserve his energy. The rest of the trip goes uneventfully, for at least another twenty five minutes, until a significant obstacle presents itself.
Ahead, a wide chasm has split the tunnel floor. The floating rock dust in the air and the groans as the tunnel walls settle indicate that the split happened very recently. All three express dismay, though Dyra's reaction is less verbal and much more conveyed by her body language. "We must make haste," Lann murmurs, mostly to himself and his companions, "If the tremors have claimed our home, there may be survivors trapped as Crel was." The other two nod in agreement and make to cross the chasm. Crel backs up a few steps and simply bounds across in one great leap, while the other two pick their way carefully down one side.
By your estimation, it is ten feet from your side to Crel's, seventy feet wide, and thirty feet deep. It is possible to climb along the edges of the chasm, but this method may end up being just as difficult as climbing down and back up again. To say nothing of the pair of injured party members that will need to be ferried across somehow.
"...yeah, not feeling up to jumping that," Therrik says warily, watching how Rabbit-guy cleared it easily enough. "We got rope, hang on...."
Therrik digs out his coil of pre-knotted rope from his pack, glancing around for anything to tie off to. "Most of us should be able to climb this easy enough-- if you can't, cuz of your leg, or your eyes--" a little nod at Anevia and the elf, "then I'll knot two loops in it and you'll stick a leg through 'em.... guess we can do it around your belt, too." Since Anevia's leg is broken, and all. "I'll just lower the two of you, yeah? Don't think either of you weigh so much we can't get you down the drop alright. I'll come down last, and then we'll get up the far side and repeat it, going the other way."
Therrik's tone is calm and steady. He looks at Lann and Dyra, already starting to climb. "I know you folk want to hurry-- can't blame you, I would if it were my home. But hurry's a great way to slip and break an ankle here. If you want to wait for us, I'll gladly help haul and belay you, but if not, mark your course as you go and we'll catch up with you."
"Hope there's no more big bugs or evil dwarves or nothing down there," he mutters, half to himself. With his dark-piercing gaze, Therrik scans the bottom of the freshly-exposed crevice for any critters.
"Ooh, a village? I'd love to see it. How long have you all been living down here? Is it like dwarven ruins like that temple we found, or did you carve it? Sorry. Too many questions, we have somewhere to go."
...
She watches Crel make his leap across the chasm before peering down into it herself. "Wow, impressive! You must travel around here a lot."
"Therrik's right, though. We should take it slow and safe, or we'll end up with another person injured."
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The march back underway, Gwyneth spends what few uneventful minutes there are talking to Horgus, trying to adjust his face of thunder to one more positive given their current situation.
"Come on, Master Horgus. We're who-knows-how-deep down here, in the dark, no guide, no map--have you seen how many ways these paths branch off? You've gotta admit their aid's warranted," she said, nudging him on the shoulder as they walk. "So crack me a smile. We're getting home."
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Once led to the gaping chasm however, Gwyneth finds it hard not to pull a scowl of her own.
"Oh you've got to be kidding me..." she sighs, cursing that the church hadn't taught her how to fight these kinds of obstacles. Between a wrecked left side and a couple years walking with a crutch, Gwyn had never been one for climbing, to say nothing of her invalidated training. Can't exactly swing a blade at a split in the ground, or talk it into surrender, now can you?
Nonetheless, Therrik's suggestion earns a nod, and as ever the paladin offers to assist with what she can.
"We've more than enough broken bones between us," she calls to Lann and the others. "Whatever's become of your village, we'll meet it with straight spines and a steady gait." She glances back at Anevia, chuckling a little as she corrects, "Well, steady enough!"
Sadron attempts to climb with the half-orc's guidance and gear.
"I'm glad I was found by people of such capacity." Sadron offers the party in praise. "And prepared."
Sadron watches the party attempt to cross, ready to help should someone fall.
Therrik favors the bard with a toothy grin as he belays him down. "Just don't like crashin'."
All three of the group's noncombatants gladly accept Therrik's help down into the chasm and, despite their varying levels of competence at climbing, manage to make it down fine. Horgus is by far the most difficult to lower down, with Gwyn coming at a close second thanks to all her armor, but even his complaints do not slow down the process too much. You all make your way one at a time across to the other side of the chasm and wait for Therrik to carry you to victory-- Err. To haul you all back to the top on the other side. Again, it seems that Horgus's grunts and groans and requests that you pull harder only serve to soothe his wounded pride. They are certainly not doing much for the half-orc's overworked muscles.
After nearly an hour of backbreaking labor that even Lann and company lend a hand with, you all find yourselves on the far side of the chasm. It is only once you all get here and dust yourselves off does Therrik notice a small alcove off to the side of the tunnel ahead. From where he is standing, the man seems to note the clear outline of the head of a glaive sitting on the ground with his darkvision. Whatever else may lie beyond the corner is left up to his imagination for now, though, as that is all he can make out. For now, no one else has noticed it.
Therrik has to shift his grip several times on the rope when it comes to lowering Horgus, winding up leaned back against a rock to brace, and wrapping the rope around his forearm. The half-orc huffs and puffs as he tries to keep the feed of rope steady and not let any slip-- if Horgus b@@@*es this much when he's in one piece, Therrik doesn't want to hear it if the guy actually gets bruised up....
He takes a moment after Horgus is finally on the ground to wipe a little sweat off his brow before moving on to the next soul. Aside from the complaining, it's not much different than loading and unloading cargo, he supposes.
Once everyone's up on the far side, Therrik starts to rebuckle his armor with Gwyn's assistance (he gives her a nod of appreciation), only to pause, staring off into the tunnel ahead. "Little alcove up there," he points out. "And I think a... glaive? Looks like what Naali's carrying, anyway. Let me get this scale back on and we'll check it out."
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Abrielle is a little wary of the climb down; from the top of the chasm, she can just barely make out the bottom at the edge of her vision.
She ensure's she goes before Anevia and Aravashnial, though she does request someone else go before her, such as Naali.
At the bottom, she assists Anevia and Aravashnial unhook themselves from the rope once they come down and helps them find their footing, and of course helps them back into their makeshift harnesses again for the trip up.
When Therrik points out the anomaly that is the weapon on the ground, she looks to the mongrelmen. "A common weapon among your villagers?" she asks. She looks into the darkness to see if she can make out anything else.
After the party ascends the other side, the elf takes a moment to stretch out tired and sore arms. "Well done all."
As Therrik points out the surroundings, his elven eyes scan the darkness.
He listens as Abrielle tries to gather information from the 'locals'. Good question.
After they respond to the musetouched's request, Sadron asks them, "What kind of threats have you seen lately?" He pauses for a brief span and adds, "besides the quakes I suppose."
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All hands hauled and to attention, Gwyneth gives Therrik an honest word of praise, for whatever it's worth, though the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes until the binds are set on his armour and her gear sits firm on her shoulders. His nod reciprocated, the paladin's line of sight catches the half-orc's with a vague curiosity as he notes the alcove ahead.
"Glaive?" she repeats aloud, casting her light ahead, brow high and spare fist once more firm on the pommel of her sword. Her first thought, oddly, is to her fellow faiths of the Crusade--Shelyn's, specifically, though she's really got Naali to thank for the reminder of the Eternal Rose's favored edge.
Then she remembers why the tiefling carries a glaive in the first place and Gwyneth makes a sound like a hissing pipe as she sucks air between her teeth. She tries not to think about it and, no matter the answers their Mongrelmen guides provide, it's with impatient strides that she marches ahead, stance guarded and eyes keen as you might expect after their last surprise in the dark.
With armor redonned, Therrik makes a cautious way forward after Gwyneth, his green eyes peering into the gloom for any sign of a hostile wielder of that glaive.
Naali makes the ascent at a modest pace, despite the fact that hooves are not the best for climbing, and helps out Therrik with pulling the rope and its remaining cargo (a very grumpy Horgus and others) up from the chasm. As she wipes the sweat from her brow she mentally notes that all the bardic tales about adventurers seemed to gloss over details like this.
"Hmm? A glaive? Oh no, what if someone else is trapped down here! Come on!", the Shelynite who taught her how to wield the weapon foremost in her mind, eyes full of worry as she moves to investigate. She tugs on the arm of whoever is closest to come help her search.