Regardless of how much you all attempt to figure out what is behind the corner from where you stand, the wielder of the glaive makes no effort to present itself. Fortunately, Naali is quick to leap forward and try to help whoever or whatever is hiding there. Rather than finding more friends or enemies though, she actually finds a pair of bodies and a great deal of fungus.
The dim lighting of this small alcove is lit by thick sheets of bioluminescent fungus that coats the walls and ceiling. Two dead bodies lie just around the corner with a strange heap of ropy green fungus between them. This pile of fungus does not glow, but it also does not move any more than the bodies. The bodies are garbed in masterwork chain shirts, but rather than the trademark longsword that goes with their armor's Iomedaean heraldry, glaives sit beside both men. A small vial, a scroll, and a pair of coin purses can be found between the two of them. In addition, the body with the scroll looks to be clutching something tightly in his spiked gauntlet-clad fist. From the way he is laying, you are unable to tell what it is.
Therrik peers into the alcove with the others, frowning at the sight of the fungus, and the big pile of ropy plant matter.
"...huh, a bastardirond," Therrik mutters. "I mean, uh, a basidirond. Heh. Old joke..." He clears his throat, shaking away the memory of Janayya telling him about the plants. "They can be pretty deadly, but that one looks like it's no longer a threat-- those corpses saw to it, I figure, but didn't last long after."
The big half-orc scratches at his jaw, surveying the tableau a moment longer before he shrugs and steps in, crouching by the bodies to pry the vial and the other objects from their corpses.
She peers around the fungus-lit alcove warily.
"The fungus is the basidirond? Hopefully we don't encounter any more, but... Crel, Lann, are 'basidironds' common around here? Is there any way to avoid them?"
"They must be pretty dangerous to kill two crusaders. Or not-crusaders, I haven't seen any Iomedaeans wielding glaives, only Shelynites."
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"That'd generally be because we don't go for much beyond a Longsword," Gwyneth answers Naali with a sharp click of the tongue, kneeling beside the bodies with little care for the fungi at their feet. "Not in the formal sense anyway. No offense, Cerulean."
To say that she's unhappy about this development would be a gross understatement, but the paladin's done this song and dance too many times to let it show. Armed bodies give her more peace of mind than the innocent masses...though their attire and weapon choice does leave her rather stupefied as she scours for signs of combat; wounds, bruising, some manner of injury beyond a fight with an over-sized mushroom--
--before searching for something more concrete; specifically a Crusader's Cross, some sort of heraldry--at least a name, for Heaven's sake. Something to honor the graves. Is that too much to ask?
Must be, because instead what she finds is...well, she'd consider it a familiar sign, but not a welcome one. There's a very deliberate, very distinct change in Gywneth's disposition as she turns over the unholy symbol in her hand. "Word of advice, Miss Almdottir. You learn most of a man by what he reaches for in a crisis. Ale, madness, faith; the crusade's always been pretty varied in that regard, though the pious tend to favor the latter. Usual reasons. Hererics of the Lord of Minotaurs...Not so different in my experience. 'couple swords of valor and a pack of lies don't mean much when Pharasma comes calling."
"That said, somebody else might want to get that armour off them. You don't want me in sword's reach," she states flatly, rising to her feet and dropping the unholy symbol to the subterranean dirt. "Me and Baphomet's ken have a...poor rapport," she finishes, her words leaving the impression that if she were to touch the bodies again, the results would be unforgivable.
Sadron follows after the more combative members of the party, turning the corner as they provide their analysis.
"A basidirond you say? I wonder if these might be cave dwellers. I've never come across one in the forests of Kyonin."
"Baphomet. Strange how an attack by demons would lead to a multitude of city-dwellers in an labyrinth-al area full of twists and turns that some may never escape from." The look on Sadron's face is as unpleasant as Gwyneth's disposition as he considers that alliance may be more real than conjecture.
He turns to the mongrelmen after Naali, waiting the appropriate time for their response to her question before adding a rider. "Have you seen these Baphomet warriors before?"
Naali retracts her worried hand away from the two bodies. She hadn't yet been forced to meet any of the cultists that lurked past the wardstones - she had her savior and many dedicated crusaders to thank for that - but no one could live in Kenabres without hearing about the dreadful things they did.
While she was happy that none of them had to risk more injuries dealing with violent demon worshippers, she wasn't particularly pleased to be near them now, either.
She scrunches up her face as Gwyneth leaves. The chain armor on each body was much better protection than her leathers - they had served her quite well for laboratory mishaps, but for real combat - something that was becoming much more common - the chain was much better.
"Oh, uh. Hrm. I guess I can." She slowly unlatches the important parts of the chain armor before snatching it away as if the body is going to grab at her. She shudders, and pushes the scroll closer to herself with her foot.
"I'll have to make a few adjustments to get it to fit, but I've gotten pretty good at that over the years."
Therrik looks up at all the talking of gods and things, his thick brows knit a little. "Hang on," he says curiously. "So this armor they got on is decked out like they worship your sword-goddess, but they've got these little symbols of this evil minotaur god-thing? So, what-- you think they were pretending to be good citizens, but really on the side of the enemy? Maybe spies, or something?"
He is not sheepish about pulling off the other chain shirt, though he doesn't intend to wear it himself. It would still make decent protection for their wounded, he supposes. And, perhaps down the road, decent coin as well; it is nicely made.
Speaking of coin, he picks up both the coin pouches, peering inside.
"Ah, no," Crel begins, but Lann picks up the conversation when he falters for a moment. "They are not common; we were unaware of the name of this beast. Our people have always called it a 'spore belcher,' so do excuse the confusion. While I have not attempted to fight one myself, I do know that they are easily bested by a group such as ours. It is when faced individually or in pairs that they can be deadly." The logic behind his statement is fairly sound, given the pair of bodies lying on the floor before the lot of you.
At Sadron's question, Crel and Lann both exchange looks with one another before turning to peer back toward the bard. "We have. There have been others like them in the tunnels here before, though lately their numbers seem to have increased. They have some manner of vile alliance," Crel turns his head to spit on the cave floor at the mention of an alliance, as though to clean a bad taste from his mouth, "with one of the other tribes of our kind. A rather unsavory bunch, to be certain. Their village lies to the south and east of Neathholm, our destination."
Mentioning cultists draws a dark scowl to Anevia's face while the exact opposite slithers into Aravashnial's broad grin. While the former keeps quiet for the moment aside from mirroring Crel's gesture of spitting, the latter pipes up. "How extraordinary! I knew - I knew that there was an infiltration in progress! There is talk of an order called the Templars of the Ivory Labyrinth who work to infiltrate mercenary groups within Kenabras. But..." He pauses for just a moment, pursing his lips uncertainly as he has a thought. The thought that such an order might have infiltrated any branch of those who call themselves crusaders is dire news, indeed. "Well, no matter. We should bring the bodies! That way they can be identified by the church, of course."
Horgus merely scoffs with a derisive snort and shakes his head, "I hardly think that we want to stretch our finite resources even more thin by carting around a pair of bodies."
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"No offense taken. I keep a ceremonial one at home, though I've not tried to use it in combat. I find crushing a skull more effective against a wider variety of foes. Though I do imagine I ought to pick it up and give it a whirl one of these days," she muses as the other's pick over the bodies.
"For once, I think I'll agree with Horgus. We need not over burden ourselves with such wretched creatures of an even more wicked god. They met an end they deserved."
She pursed her lips and lost herself in thought. More cultists... and allied with another group. Can't be good.
"We'll have to keep a vigilant watch. And put an end to the impostors who would feign allegiance to the Inheritor!"
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Once Therrik summarizes the theory, Gwyneth doesn't appear to give it any thought beyond a long, slow answer of, "Yeeeeep."
That she doesn't bother to extend beyond that speaks quite a bit for her disdain, and her stance smacks of an angry, scorned child as Aravashnial's mouth curls in the torchlight. At mention of the Templars--less so their name, more the nauseatingly cheery manner in which they're dredged into the conversation--the paladin's expression turns positively black. Still, she says little beyond a snort at the word 'Talk', answering instead with a drawn blade as Abrielle voices what really ought to be the only course of action.
If this is Iomedae's way of answering her prayers for 'Something Evil' to stab...Gwyneth's not amused. Not. At. All.
Therrik doesn't rise from his crouch just yet, gazing down on the bodies.
"I agree we don't need to be hauling bodies through the tunnels. Got enough stuff to carry." Like people, when going up and down chasms. Therrik pauses a moment, then adds deadpan, "Could just take the heads."
Cracking his knuckles, he straightens back up... without doing any field-decapitations. "Buuut we don't know how long before we get back to Kenabres. They might rot to the point that nobody could identify them anyway. And the smell'd draw anything hungry down here, heh.
"Gwyneth... weren't you drawing, the other night?" he asks. "Could you sketch their faces?"
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Gwyneth looks at Therrik, then back to the bodies, then again to the half-orc. The request's reasonable enough, but it certainly doesn't sound that way to her ears, and her sword shakes at the idea of doing anything that wouldn't let these traitorous bastards remain lost and forgotten in the dark.
Oh but the church would disagree, she knows. There's an obligation involved; to identify the dead, to set the example for those considering the same path, to save those already tainted by their ways. Being one of them, Gwyneth's heard her fair share of insults, and a few she'd agree with; but the paladin's not callous, not cruel. Not when it matters, not in this...though her treatment of traitors has always taken exception.
Not that good a person, she thinks, and her scowl softens to a frown. Iomedae must be furious.
"...I could," she relents to Therrik. With a heavy sigh, the paladin jumps her sword up in her hand, catching it by the blade before holding out the well-worn hilt to Abrielle. "Here. Start early. Give it a whirl while I deal with this..."
The word 'nonsense' dies on her tongue. Nonetheless, Gwyneth rifles through her gear, pulling free two clean sheets of parchment and her charcoal.
A few minutes later, the paladin holds up two rough, roguish sketches; hardly artistic, but they're recognizable and succinct, at least to those familiar with the persons involved. Any particularly notable features--scars, markings, and so on, have been tallied on the back of each for reference. Much to her outright disgust, the paladin also snatches back up the unholy symbol with it, binding the lot together and losing them somewhere in her pack.
"Should satisfy an inquisition," she says, sadness carrying to her voice as she wonders if there'll even be anyone left to report back to. "Just...let's keep going, yeah?"
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Abrielle takes the sword, slightly amused at the Paladin's obvious distaste. It wasn't totally obvious, but her behavior and demeanor had shifted enough to show that something wasn't sitting right with her.
"I'll be sure to avoid lopping off any heads," she said, giving the blade a gentle swing through the air.
~ ~ ~
Once the sketching task was done, she handed the sword back to Gwyneth and gave a nod to the mongrelmen. "We ought to get a move on it. I'd hate to be slow should your town need aid."
"A village of these... vile beings to the south and east you say? We appreciate your taking us to a place of safety where we can regroup and find our way out. But I'd be curious..." he turns his head so that his hunch can be heard by the rest of the party, "if we might not find a clue to what happened above in the village of these Ivory Templars."
A moment's thought and he adds in clarifying hindsight, "Sorry... by vile beings, I mean the templars. Your kind are as beautiful as your hearts."
" 's not bad," Therrik observes of Gwyn's drawing, peering over her shoulder. He adjusts his pack with the new armor stuffed into it-- huffs a little bit at the added weight-- and shrugs. "Abrielle's right. Let's set sail, these people have waited long enough to get home."
While Gwyneth does her drawing, Naali works on putting on the chainmail shirt, and adjusting it with a belt to get it to fit better. She stuffs her old leather armor into her backpack.
"I'll save this, in case your people might need it in the future."
She heaves the once again bulging backpack off the ground, teeters a little to catch her balance, and is ready to go.
"Alright! To Neathholm!"
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Aravashnial frowns back to Abrielle - or rather, where he thinks she is as his blind gaze is a few feet off the mark - when she declines to bring the bodies. He does not protest, but the displeased curl to his lips makes his feelings on the subject quite obvious. Anevia nods in agreement though, as does Horgus for a moment until he belatedly catches the "for once" portion of the aasimar's statement. With an idle, annoyed roll of his eyes, he moves to settle himself down against the opposite wall of the cavern as the rest of the group gets to looting. As far as he can get from the bizarre spore creature and the dead bodies, it seems. The other human and elf do much the same, if only to stay out of the way.
Lann and company look a bit reluctant to stay for much longer, but apparently their debt to you is stronger than their impatience. They wait for the time being and answer what questions they can as Naali shrugs into her new armor and Gwyn doodles. "No offense taken, friend," Lann replies in response to Sadron with a weary smile, "I understood your meaning. The Templars have simply taken up temporary residence within one of the other villages of a tribe of our people, though. And fear not, those of our kin that they reside with are just as vile as you imply, I assure you."
For her part, Gwyn plays the role of the sketch-artist fairly well, considering. Both depictions scarcely need the notes on the back side of the page to tell who they are meant to represent; for someone that would know the faces, at least. Anyone who looks on can easily see the resemblance. All that finished, you set off through the darkened halls of subterranean Kenabras again with the mongrelmen guides in the lead.
The tunnel winds north for upwards of fifteen more minutes before reaching a circular cavern that is twenty feet wide from wall to wall. Four mongrelmen of various bizarre appearances, none of which seem to be quite the same as the last, stand guard before a large stone door. They hail Lann and his companions warmly and turn suspicious looks on the rest of you, but your host's word is good enough for them. For now, in any case. They open the door for you and usher you in, but their curious stares never quite leave you all. It may feel a bit odd for some of you to be on the receiving end of such looks, given the appearance of those giving them.
Within the door, a small dark lake ripples in the center of a two hundred foot wide cavern. The walls and ceiling glow merrily with thick sheets of the same luminescent fungi you saw before near the basidirond, lighting the entire cavern well enough for all to see well enough, for the time being. In the center of the underground lake, over two dozen low stone buildings cluster on a rocky, hundred foot wide island. Lights glow within nearly every window of the buildings, giving the settlement an almost welcoming look. Rafts made of mismatched planks of timber bob along the length of a crooked pier at the lake's closest shore. Shadows of all shapes and sizes flicker to and fro through the cozy little village; likely the denizens going about their daily routines.
"Welcome to Neathholm, friends," Lann says theatrically, a relieved quality in his voice when he sees his home in one piece. You hear the heavy stone gate grind close behind you and realize a bit late that this is where you will be staying for the next short while, whether you like it or not. Regardless of whether or not you mention this to any of your fellows, he sets to guiding you through the village with the ease of long practice. Here and there, he says hello to someone or waves to another person, each as fantastical or grotesque as the last. When he finally stops his tour through the small town, you have arrived at the largest building atop the island's low, central peak.
"This is the home of Chief Sull, our leader. I will need to inform him of what has transpired, but would certainly appreciate if you could lend your words to my account. I imagine you experienced much that we could not have." And with that, he steps into the relatively large building of all manner of stone and half-rotten planks of wood.
Therrik returns the gazes of the mongrelfolk just as curiously as he is gazed at in turn. Gods below, but they're a motley lot, he thinks.... but as a half-and-half himself, he supposes he's got no call to wonder at others. They're just... smaller fractions. A quarter of this, a quarter of that....
Therrik is actually fairly relieved when the gate closes behind him. Unlike many in the group, Kenabres isn't his home-- he is not frantically worrying about friends who might still be in trouble in the city above (well, with the possible exception of Janayya, but he's decided for his peace of mind that she isn't in the city); he merely would like a good night's rest, in a warm room, and a hot meal... and the village seems liable to offer that much, at least.
He also brightens at the sight of the rafts, however clumsily built they may be. That's a bit of home.
"Sure, we'd be happy to talk to your chief," he says. And happy to unshoulder his pack too, for that matter.
"Hello! Hi there!"
Naali happily waves to the diverse inhabitants of Neatholm, feeling a good bit more outgoing in this city - after all, in this 'city' she was likely the most normal looking one of their whole group!
The mongrelfolk here were fascinating, and the majority of the time of the short tour through the city trying to mentally tally up what each resident might have descended from. Perhaps it was rude, but she couldn't help it.
Partway through the tour she remembered a question she had wanted to ask earlier in the day.
"Oh, Abrielle, I was meaning to ask earlier. What did use to dye your hair? I've never gotten anything I made for customers to be that bright before."
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Unlike the rest of their troupe, Gwyneth's running on something of a one-track mind. Whatever the mongrelmen menagerie look like, she's not particularly interested in meeting their eyes unless she's got reason to run her sword through them--Naali seems to be holding up enough friendliness for the two of them anyway. Apparently leaving the bodies behind has done nothing to keep the paladin off edge, and her weapon remains in-hand for the duration of their short-lived tour. It takes a deep breath and a look skywards--no red lightning, no burnt skies; just luminescence, rock and mold--for Gwyneth to remember her place and properly sheath the blade.
"Agreed," she follows to Therrik's word. "Besides, I'm sure we've all a few...uhm...questions of our own...?" she muses unsteadily, looking over a shoulder. Horgus probably won't have any, save some variant of 'Where's the nearest exit to this infernal hellhole', and Aravashnial...
"Master Horgus--Riftwarden," she says, rubbing her forehead. "Can you...not, maybe, spiel over our hosts? You'll get your answers soon as I...we have ours," she corrects, spitting a prayer that this Templar business is all some incredibly spiteful coincidence. "Then we can all retire for tea and plan our way out of this mess, yeah?"
She helpfully neglects to mention the swathe of heretics she intends to execute on the way. Before they enter, the paladin can be heard chuntering: "Please tell me this place has tea..."
Therrik winds up falling into step a few feet behind the determinedly-striding Gwyneth, idly observing her grip on her blade, the line of tension in her shoulders.
"Those cult guys really got you off your keel?" he mutters quietly, only intending to be heard by Gwyneth.
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"What? No. No! No I'm fine, I'm good." Gwyneth's stiff gait falters as she tries to fumble up some appropriate answer. "Really, I'm totally...not okay with this," she admits. For a moment the paladin doesn't say anything more, wondering if there's much point in trying to justify her anger. Eventually she shrugs, conceding that she doesn't actually care, and proceeds to ramble haphazardly as they walk.
"A couple years back, I was...I guess I was looking for an answer to something. Found it in a tribunal's execution record. Called themselves 'Templars' and sang glory to the goat-bull-whatever of the abyss. Wasn't much else anyone knew on them. Or maybe they just wouldn't tell me. I dunno. But I figured if...if I could do something about them, maybe I'd get a chance at grace. Get assigned to a proper Sword Circle. Hit the Worldwound like a hammer and be some big damn hero in Iomedae's name. The works, y'know?"
"So seeing them now, while Kenabres holds host to a demon army and a shattered wardstone?" The paladin spits. "Oh yeah. I'm beyond pissed. I'm f#&%ing livid."
"This place is fascinating, " the elf quietly exclaims to no one. He takes a moment as they enter to closely inspect the fungi on the cavern siding.
"Brilliant use of natural resources to provide a comfortable and defensible habitat. That's a small comfort to a forest dweller stuck beneath an indeterminable amount of earth."
"Would anyone mind if I took a small sample? The aesthetics of some homes I could think of would be vastly improved by natural lighting such as this, as opposed to magic lamps and torches."
Sadron pulls out a flask and pinches pieces of the fungi into it, along with some water from the lake.
"This is the home of Chief Sull, our leader. I will need to inform him of what has transpired, but would certainly appreciate if you could lend your words to my account. I imagine you experienced much that we could not have."
"We will do what we can."
"Then we can all retire for tea and plan our way out of this mess, yeah?"
"Cheers to that!"
Naali's alchemical knowledge kicks in as she hears Sadron talking to himself about the glowing fungus.
"It's usually called 'foxfire' when fungus glows like that. I believe that specific one is called a bitter oyster, because of the shape. Don't try it though! It's uhh. It's very bitter, among other things. You probably figured that out."
"You think people would want to buy them? We had some in the shop sometimes, I never thought of offering them to people, since they're no good for cooking." Naali ponders home decorating with fungus growing everywhere. It reminds her of home.
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Neathholm was certainly... neat. Or strange. But these odd creature were nice enough to welcome them so she'd consider it neat to honor their kindness.
"Well this is actually quite lovely," she said as an offhand comment as they passed the guarded entrance and entered into the glowing cavern. "I'm impressed."
~ ~ ~
She couldn't help but grin at Naali as she attempted to greet anything that so much as glanced their way, but broke into full smile at Gwyneth's tangible fury. Not that she was mocking the Paladin. No, any cultist of such a vile god ought to be put down. There was just something entertaining about the passion the woman had and how she opted to use it.
"Calm yourself, Paladin. One obstacle at a time. We will root them out, whether it be today, tomorrow, or next year. But care must be taken. I'd hardly like to have to face down an entire town of cultists without proper preparations." She throws a wink to Therrik who also seems to have his eye on the overly tense Gwyn.
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Abrielle looks startled by the blunt question from Naali. Usually people only whispered about her hair color when they thought she wasn't listening. "I uh, don't. Though most people will say I do regardless of any protest I make."
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Sadron was a fellow she watched curiously as he tried to take samples of the mongrelmen's light source. He was quite jovial despite their rather sticky situation (literally stick for him for a while there). She hadn't decided if it was endearing or simply a sign of insanity yet.
"I suggest trying to hybridize them with a nocturnal plant from the surface," she commented to Sadron. "I doubt the fungus will do well with so much natural sunlight without some help of crossbreeding."
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"We'd be glad to give an account of what has transpired to your leader. I have no doubt he'll be concerned about the ongoings of the surface as it is all happening rather close to your homes," she stated when they arrived at the chief's residence.
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"Calm yourself, Paladin. One obstacle at a time. We will root them out, whether it be today, tomorrow, or next year. But care must be taken. I'd hardly like to have to face down an entire town of cultists without proper preparations."
On a better day, Gwyneth would've taken that advice to heart. Unfortunately she's still hopped up on Grade-A Righteous Fury™ and, rather than argue semantics (because Abrielle is completely right), the paladin instead shoves her tongue firmly in cheek, somehow managing to look equal parts the stern soldier and a petulant brat.
"Calm? Cerulean, this is calm. I've not set anyone on fire yet, you've all still got the dignity of clothes, and no one's had to break out of an Abadaran vault with two tindertwigs and a ball of twine." She shakes her head at the memory. "Might wanna hit me if I start spouting Abyssal though. Bad sign all 'round."
"I suggest trying to hybridize them with a nocturnal plant from the surface. I doubt the fungus will do well with so much natural sunlight without some help of crossbreeding."
Sadron replies without turning his head, his voice slightly muffled as it echoes off the fungus covered wall from which he is removing his sample. "Well said," he considers for a silent couple moments. "Ah! Moon flowers! A fitting choice. A vase in front of a window that receives some amount of moon light in turn lights opens into a bloom that lights your room!"
Sadron stops along the way to pick up a dagger and some more vials.
"To replace the ones I lost in the fall." he offers as an explanation to anyone who asks.
"Have you done that before, Crusader? Breaking out of a vault of Abadar? That sounds like an amazing story. And how you got into such a predicament?" he lets the question stand as he regards her words about languages. "I am familiar with the demon tongue. I don't like it, but it is handy when your forest is overrun by the things that speak it. Why is it passing through your tongue a bad sign?"
"Oh! Neat. I haven't met any elves with natural blue hair before. Actually I don't know if I've met anyone with natural blue hair before. I did meet a man with green hair once, though." She recalls that he kept it mostly shaved, and didn't like anyone asking about it, and decides not to prod any further. For now, at least.
Naali offers her old leather armor to a merchant, explaining that "If you don't mind the burn marks, it's still in very good condition!"
Even without the armor Naali's backpack remains filled to the brim, and she considers selling the clothes right off her back - she has a spare set of clothes from her purchases at the festival after all, and having both pairs was getting heavy. But there is nowhere to change, and her new clothes are far too nice to get rid of now.
Therrik listens to Gwyn and Abrielle's exchange, his brows dancing a bit in what might be amusement.
"Well, I'll keep it in mind if you start talking in growly demon talk. Or grabbing people by the collar or anything," he deadpans. As they stop at what passes for the 'the shops' in Neathholm, to allow Sadron and Naali to make a few sales, he pauses.
"What about some of that stuff we're hauling that we've found?" he asks the other. "That armor could probably see more use for someone in this town, and they might be able to pay for it, then it will sitting in my pack. And the brooch, and stuff."
"Hell, maybe the chief would want to buy that armor, even," Therrik muses. "It is nicely made."
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"Technically...yes? And it was an Abadar adherent. Chevalier property, not the church's. Sort of. I think?" Gwyneth dotes to Sadron's inquiries, breathing something about 'f++@ing bureaucracy' before burying the thought back from whence it came. "Not now, Vaneth. Later, maybe."
At the very least, the tone implies it's a tale she'd be happy to tell. Just...not while she's half-doused in her own blood. Or armed, for that matter; to say nothing of having the Templars just out of her reach. As for the Abyssal...Gwyneth's eyes flash down to their feet, where the dim light of Neathholm's glow shines just a bit too brightly off her greaves. "It's a thing," she says, and leaves it at that.
When it comes to Therrik, Gwyneth seems fit to let him say what he wants. Something about seeing a dwarf getting cut clean from his shoulders manages to keep her spite diverted from the half-orc.
"It's an idea," she concurs, sword reluctantly planted at her feet while they stop to take inventory. "But so's throwing you in the lake." Alright, partially diverted. Pulling her stock list from her belt pouch, she follows up with an equally deadpan explanation: "Vermin bile."
Detect Magic
"Very well..." he pauses for a moment to consider the paladin's continued use of his surname, "Koschei. I look forward to your tale."
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Abrielle continues to simply accept Gwyneth's poorly direct frustration. She couldn't imagine being a Paladin. A being a Crusader was one thing, but those Bible-thumping, armor polishing, holy warriors were another story. She could never imagine them as anything but a bunch of depressed springs waiting to lash out at the nearest thing they could given even the slightest chance to do so.
"I agree, Therrik, that selling what we have no use for here may be the best choice. It'd be wise to travel light, in any case."
Therrik offers Gwyn's retort a toothy grin. "I'm hard to throw," he says, "but I might just go in anyway. Believe me, I like the smell no more'n you."
He helps sort some items for purchase and sale, if the mongrelfolk of Neathholm wish to purchase. "Let's talk to their chief first, then really shop it up, eh?"
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Gwyn's mouth nearly dares a smirk. If they were any closer to the shore, the paladin may very well have attempted to toss him in already. However terse her manner, she's never quite been able to back down from a challenge.
For now though, she nods, having already lofted her sword onto a shoulder. "Fine. Whatever works."
Lann nods his thanks to all of you and opens the door to lead you inside the stone building. Within is a fairly roomy home that looks very lived in, with all manner of wooden tables and stone chairs strewn around. In what looks to be a makeshift hearth glows a large pile of the very same fungus that is present around the cavern outside. Sitting at the head of the table as he partakes of a steaming meal of tubers and some sort of mystery meat is a rather grotesque man.
Bloated and rat-faced, his body holds more folds and rolls than should really be possible for someone living underground. Tiny, needle-like teeth are clearly visible between his thick, flabby lips just below a series of literal whiskers. His upturned nose is startlingly reminiscent of that of some manner of vermin, while his beady little eye peers up at all of you. The other eye is cloudy and white; he can quite clearly see nothing through it. Greasy gray hair sprouts from the top of his head in matted tufts and sparse braids. Despite his appearance, he offers a warm smile to Lann and all of you, beckoning you in.
Anevia gives a weak smile and draws up her free hand to wave to Chief Sull while Aravashnial peers around blindly. Horgus, on the other hand, looks thoroughly disgusted and stares aghast at their host-to-be with his jaw hanging open. He utters some incomprehensible murmurs and blanches white, shaking his head gently to excuse himself. It seems that, for the moment, he would rather be on his own in the small village rather than sit with the chief.
Lann greets his chief warmly and moves to sit down at the table beside him, gesturing for all of you to do the same. He quickly launches into a summary of what has happened to their outpost and the tower, sparing no detail about your assistance in saving Crel. Once he finishes, he looks over to the lot of you expectantly and says, "That is my tale, though I suspect our new friends have their own. Please, if you could share it with us? We would be most appreciative."
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While the table seat is offered, Gwyneth declines, giving a slight bow on entry but thinking little else as she reflexively scans the property for threats (). With her sword sheathed and Lann extending their greeting, the paladin is comparatively quick to fidget and ultimately stands aside the room's entrance with her arms crossed, the lack of motion helping to settle her blood. Horgus's exit is as...predictable as it is appreciated, she supposes, earning nothing more than a crooked brow and a shake of the head. At least he had the good sense to get out, she thinks. That's something.
Once Lann is done with his exposition, Gwyn pipes up, keen to correct him. "Really? Because appreciative isn't the word I'd be looking for if someone told me there was a literal army of demons marching overhead."
She realizes only too soon how sharp the words sound midair, and in return gives a second, albeit more flustered, bow in apology. What follows thereafter is a surprisingly curt account of the Worldwound's assault--detailing Lord Hulrun's failed speech at Armasse, The Kite's destruction; a city overrun with enemy forces and casualties rising by the second. She does make it a point to stop between her sentences, in part so that the others might add their lot. The truth is that she doesn't want to stand here and talk about it at all, but these people--mongrels, whatever they are--they've got as much right as anyone to know what's coming. Or at least what's already there.
Gwyneth stops just short of Terendelev's fall, the shadow in her eyes apparently making up for the one lost from her feet. Someone else can handle that. She doesn't feel like crying. "So. Not to sugar coat the situation, but the surface feels like it's midway through hosting the biggest abyssal incursion since the fall of Iz."
She then sighs a prayer, as if only just realizing the severity of it all. "Inheritor save us."
"We don't know the exact current state of Kenabres or the overworld, but as Gwyneth described, it's likely pretty bad. I'm sure crusaders are working to regroup, but if it's not contained it could spread into neighboring countries. It sounds like the danger has already started to spread to your people as well, with the Templars of the Ivory Labyrinth so close by."
"We need to find a way to regroup with our people on the surface, desperately."
Therrik lets the others recount the details; he still feels outsider enough to Kenabres that he doubts he could do any better a job telling of her fall. Best to let those who love and know the city speak of it, he figures.
Should the chief glance his way and expect his contribution, Therrik spreads his hands a little. " 'S what the ladies said. We've got the injured," a little nod at Anevia and Aravashnial, "and... a noncombatant to try and get safely back topside. We're grateful for your hospitality, assuming you can tolerate us, but we'd be more grateful for any road you might know of that leads up."
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"We...the world swallowed us up. Opened a chasm straight down. Without the dragon--without Terendelev we...really wouldn't be here," Gywn adds, frowning as she realizes she doesn't quite know how Sadron managed the trip, and looks to the musician for an answer before going on.
"Beyond that, pretty uneventful trip here. I mean besides the giant bugs, tentacle monsters, undead, mad dwarf...The chapel wasn't so bad," she says. The paladin clears her throat, careful not to get sidetracked. "Skyward's our goal, Chief Sull; but the Templars make that...problematic. Lann makes them sound recurrent. Used the word 'alliance'? What in the hell would the Ivory Labyrinth need down here...?"
A lightbulb seems to click in her head as she finishes, and any attempt to keep the anger from her face falls short as she realizes: "Son of a...those bastards knew what was coming, didn't they? Kenabres burns under a legion of demons so they scurry underground to...to avoid getting mauled by their own army?"
Gwyneth pinches the bridge of her nose, now pacing a hole in the floor with her voice reduced to a quiet, pained groan.
"Ah... I can't seem to recount my descent into the chasm. I recall seeing Terendelev being slain before a few crusaders rushing by knocked me into the divide. I believe I had called on my limited arcane knowledge to survive the fall, but I must have been knocked unconscious by falling debris." Sadron tells his story with the air of a prideful person discussing their shortcomings.
"I woke up wrapped in a shell, and was left there for some time, until these fellows came along. I'd be dead for sure without their timely intervention."
He nods a head to the party in gratitude, and nods again at Lann and Sull as his story is completed.
At the mention of demons and Templars, Sull's brows furrow in concern and he nods along with your stories. Once you have finished with your respective tales, he takes a moment to sip from his glass and wet his throat. Then, he begins speaking in a calm, authoritative voice that almost seems reminiscent of the quiet guidance of a father.
"I and my kind may be considered outcasts and freaks in the eyes of uplanders like yourselves," he says with not the slightest bit of animosity in his tone, [/b]"but our ancestors helped drive back the demons in the First Crusade. We harbor a great deal of hatred for their kin, as well; perhaps as much as you do. They have brought more harm to both of our homelands than nearly any other foe. I would be glad to lend you aid, but must ask one favor of you."[/b]
He pauses again to glance across to Lann thoughtfully, before he moves to take another sip. "I will ask only that you bring a message to your Crusaders; tell them that we will stand with Kenabres to defend the city."
Anevia's face lights up immediately, looking more than thrilled at the notion that you might be getting the city aid. "Of course we will! We'd be glad to--" Abruptly, she stops in mid-sentence and sheepishly glances across to the rest of you. "Err. Sorry. I would be glad to and I imagine you all will, as well. But I'll let you speak for yourselves."
Therrik smiles ruefully. "That ain't much of a favor. Like the lady says, I'm sure they'd be glad to hear it.... if anyone's left up there alive."
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For a moment, Gwyneth stops dead, looking to the chief as if she had misheard his offer. Anevia's face assures her otherwise, and for an instant the paladin's brow straightens...only to furrow again, her pacing renewed.
"Done." The word has a certain finality to it; a confidence typically reserved for prayers and oaths. "So long as my legs work, I'll march to the Prelate myself. And if Hulrun's fallen, I'll go to Sunnestier. Or Alodae. Or Streigher, or Cobelen, or Hawkblade...or somebody, anybody who's standing," she says, wincing as the promise drives a new wedge in her heart. She soon shakes it off.
"But that still leaves us with the Templars. And with all the havoc going on up there...Well..." Gwyneth finally cracks a smile, albeit a weak one. "I don't think the Inheritor's got time to burrow us a skylight, y'know?"
"But that still leaves us with the Templars. And with all the havoc going on up there...Well... I don't think the Inheritor's got time to burrow us a skylight, y'know?"
"She has the right of it, Chief Sull. We would be more than happy to carry your message to anyone above who is there to hear it, but we are lost here. Can you guide us to the surface? Perhaps give us a map so that we can establish a communications route between your domain and the city above?"
Naali nods understandingly. "I'm not sure how many people even knew there was a village below Kenabres, though I'm was just a visitor to the city. It sounds like you all have some historic ties to the city though, hopefully at least one good thing can come of all of this by reminding everyone of that."
"Wonderful!"
"Outstanding. It would be heartless of us not to lend aid to the city of our ancestors, especially in such a trying time." Chief Sull nods sagely as he considers his next words carefully, before continuing.
"The nearest route to the surface lies to the south, though I must urge caution should you elect to take that path. While those of us that live here are peaceful, the traitors to the south," he says contemptuously, as though the very mention of them brings a bad taste to his mouth, "do not hold the same opinions as our tribe. They have regularly consorted with cultists of the most vile quality."
"If you will do me yet another favor by paving the way for those we mean to send to the surface to help, I have a few things that I could offer in return." He pushes his corpulent form up out of his chair to wander into the next room, coming back moments later with a crate of mismatched wooden planks. Setting it on the table, he opens the top with one hand and gestures within with the other. Nine potions are arrayed within, resting on a bed of what looks to be moss, though it could be any manner of green subterranean flora. "Varied potions of healing that might be of more use to you in your foray, should you accept, than they will be for us."
"Much as I wish we could send some of our own along with you, I fear I cannot spare the manpower. My soldiers must be sent further into the tunnels, so that we might better gather the assorted tribes of our people," he offers apologetically, with a slight frown touching his face. [b]"Even so, you may stay as long as you like. We will gladly provide for all that you may require and you can purchase any supplies you have need of in the stores we have.
Therrik listens; the man may look like the unfortunate byproduct of a rat and a gopher's drunken night together, but he speaks civil-as-hell, and Therrik's a believer in actions speaking louder than looks.
"Hey, I think that some of us," he tips his head in Gwyn's direction, "want to go deliver some steel to the bellies of those cultists anyway, so.... not like it'll be out of our way," he says drily.
The offer of the potions makes him whistle, though he doesn't really know what the potions are beyond the chief's words.
"No, you keep your folk safe-- who knows what the quake mighta released into these caves? Don't worry about us. We'll take a night's rest here gladly, though. I could use a bath like nobody's business... and my companions probably also think the same."