Pavo's search adds nothing new, but he does check the door to the next room for traps, finding none.
OK, let's check their workmanship... and my old legs! Stand back, lads...
At Marcus' kick, the unlock door flies open with a loud bang. On the other side is a darkened hallway. Along one wall are a row of monk cells with doors ajar. Following the hallway reveals two doors. One is open and quick peek shows it to be what a one point must have been an office of some sort. A thick layer of undisturbed dust covers the floor and the musty stench of mildew is strong.
The other door is closed, but light can be seen streaming through the gaps where the door no longer fits snugly in the frame.
Let's clear the cells. Markus leans his polearm against the wall, opting for his trusty backup mace.
He steps into the first cell.
Khyrn follows along behind Markus.
Nodding in agreement Ramos hefts his mace and follows behind Khyrn and Markus.
The cells are austere and the few furnishings remaining are plain and unadorned. The men who had lived in them had not done so in luxury and comfort.
The subsequent search of the old office finds little other than mouldering ledgers that speak of dwindling financial accounts and insolvency. Nothing of real value was left behind when the monks packed up and left for greener pastures.
There reamins only the closed door to the lighted room beyond.
Nodding in agreement with Lucid, Ramos quietly wispers to the rest of the group. It smells like rotting flesh on the other side. It might be a zombie or something like that.
Markus reclaims his fauchard. Give me some room...
Kicking in the door, Markus prepares for the worst. Ever seen a grown man tap dance on a door, lads?
The revolting stench of rotting flesh roils from the open door. In the room beyond, ten chairs surround an oblong dining table situated parallel to the door. Along the north wall, a wide staircase leads to an upper floor. A wooden door below the stairs presumably leads to a slim chamber. Two doors line the south. A sagging antique wooden shelf dominates the west wall, looking like it might collapse at any moment.
Three tall candles on the dining table illuminate a sight of terror. With the exception of the place at the western end, each of the chairs surrounding the table holds an awkwardly seated humanoid figure. The nine bodies are in various stages of decomposition. Some sit with splendid posture, paused as if midway through a sumptuous feast. Others slump treacherously close to the floor. Those that can, are turned slightly, almost expectantly to the empty chair.
Heaping plates of apparently fresh food sit before each of the diners, but the empty place setting features a clean plate and a set of utensils. Several bottles of red wine rest upon the table and each of the corpses sits before a half-finished glass. A fly passes nearby, its there-not-there buzz breaking the eerie silence.
Look, there. They're twitching to see us. Dammit, I hate zombies...
Markus steps into the room, polearm extended.
Sverrir moves forward to bolster the front line. Dwur eyes narrowing;
:
"Heh. Time to work up a bigger thirst..."
The dwur moves forward, enchanted hammer raised;
:
Pavo takes a completely different tactic as his teammates. The candlelight creating plenty of shadows in the dining room, Pavo does his best to keep to those shadows.
The zombie dinner guests pay you no mind as you enter the room.
Pavo, check this door... Markus keeps his voice civil, if not low.
I am not comfortable with leaving these creatures here. We should destroy them now before their master returns and commands them.
Could it be illusion, Ramos?
Khyrn nods as Ramos speaks, "I agree. Those abominations must be destroyed."
They seem peaceful enough at the moment. Maybe we can learn something. Be ready boys, but I'm going to take a closer look see.
Markus slowly moves to the far side of the table, by the empty seat. Eying it. Slowly he passes the fauchard through the space above the seat, checking for an invisible occupant.
Marcus' weapon meets no resistance. The chair is as empty as it seems. All through his investigations, the zombies remain peacefully seated.
Sverrir props himself against a wall and takes a swig of liquor;
"Ahhhh. Tasty drop! We should check them out nei? Might have something that tells us who they were..."
The pole-master gets a whimsical look about him. Frackin' tea party for the dead.
All hail Markus, Necromancer, Lord of the Dead and of course, Librarian!
Having staked his claim, Markus sits at the head of the table, lounging with fauchard resting across his knees.
This is making me hungry lads. A spot of jam!
When Markus sits down, the zombies spring to 'life'. This pick up their utensils and begin to pantomime eating and periodically stop to lift a glass to their faces, suggesting a drink of wine. The zombies lack the precision for their motions to be more than a grotest mockery of the real thing. Suddenly one of the creatures turns to Marcus,
"Once again, milord has provided a delicious meal. As always, it is an honor to dine in your august presence."
It's lips don't move and soon after the other diners begin to chime in with sycophantic comments of their own.
"The Guild of Wizardry was wrong to turn you out," a male elf corpse remarks. "You ought to show them like you showed me."
The tattered remains of what must have once been a young woman speak up next, "I never should have doubted you Filge. I always loved you when we were together. Now I will love you forever."
The comments and compliments continue to rise from the diners, all aimed towards Markus. It soon becomes clear that each of the different 'speakers' voices are a variation on the same that you heard give the warning when you first entered the tower.
Khyrn's face twists and becomes red as he grows more and more angry with each word from the zombie's mouths. Finally, he exclaims, "That's enough! Markus, move. Ramos, your assistance would be welcome."
Khyrn stalks over and takes position behind one of the zombies. He waits to see if Markus wants to get up from the table before he continues, but once the Lore Warden acts, Khyrn calls upon the power of Heironeous to destroy these undead monstrosities.
Startled, Markus nearly topples over.
Then he relaxes... thinking. Say my full name, darling... You know how I love your voice.
Gripping his hilt tightly as the zombies animate, Pavo quickly moves to the other door once he sees that the zombies wouldn't attack. Approaching the door, he first presses his ear to it, listening for any sounds coming from the other side before testing the door for any traps.
The zombies respond to neither Markus' comments or Khyrns blast of the divine (though they do seem damaged by it), but continue with their praise of the mighty Filge, his keen intellect, his sexual prowess, etc..
Seeing the zombies failure to react, Khyrn begins methodically hacking through them with his battleaxe, not stopping until the last one is destroyed.
"Let us find this Filge, so justice may be beaten into the one who would violate the dead in such a way!"
Sverrir remains standing and drinking, watching the pantomime with curiously grim eyes;
"Go on Khyrn! Enough talk eh lad... let us seek Filge... or better yet let him come tae us!"
The dwur lumbers to the table and flips it sending plates and glasses flying...
|
Lucid makes with he Detect Magic as he looks around. Someone taller than me grab the silver off this shelf, but be careful as it looks like it might fall over with any disturbance. He gets well out of the way in case the bookcase does fall.
When Khyrn hacks into the undead Lucid grimaces but nods in approval.
Markus raises a hand as he winced... Not a zombie.
Not necessarily Markus. They may have been, but commanded to remain in their seats. This troubles me.. any wizard able to call into being this many undead is cause for concern.
Khyrn rolls his eyes as the dwarf flips over the table.
"Right, what's behind those doors?"
Khyrn motions to the door under the stairs, readies his battleaxe, and prepares to open it.
If there is something in there... Prudent to let it come out. Markus covers the door with his fauchard's reach.
A thorough and careful investigation of the side rooms reveals of kitchen, a pantry and a storage room under the stairs. The kitchen area has nothing of note other than some dried foodstuff (most likely for our good master Filge). The musty and dusty storage room is mostly bare, but there is a half dozen copper candle stands.
Anyone know who owns this place? Is it derelict? We've not become thieves, have we?
"After seeing what has happened ta the Land family, I ain't got no qualms about taking a few belongs of this 'great Flige'." Spotting the candle stands, Pavo gives them the once over with his keen eyes.
After determining if they are of value or not, he will mention their value to his comrades before silently make his way to the stairs that lead up to the next level.
Take it all Pavo. Ramos half mutters. As far as I am concerned the only thing Flige has coming to him is a painful death. I tell you what though. Once we find this bastard, we should let this "Guild of Wizardry" know what he was up to. Hell there might be a bounty on his head for his crimes.
Sverrir stares at Lucid through bloodshot eyes;
"Wine? Do I look like an aelf? We dwur prefer our drink to warm the throat little one!"
When talk turns to vengence and retribution, the dwur nods;
"Find him. Crack his skull. Gain what we can, then celebrate our victory and the Land lad's soul resting..."
Markus laughs, mostly to himself. Frackin' dark lot I've thrown in with...
Then he claps Sverrir on the shoulder.
The stairs lead to a massive bedchamber that fills an entire floor of the observatory tower. The last light of the day filtering in from the tall windows ringing the chamber catches motes of dust in the calm air. A fine bed with plump red linen sheets squats upon a dais along the southeast cradle of the tower's arc. A nightstand next to the bed holds a wax-choked candlestick and a black book bound with brown and read leather.
At the midpoint of the eastern wall a strange form stands rigid atop a short wooden stool, as tall as a halfling and clothes in a fine black suit and top hat. Clean sloth bandages wrap every inch of the sentry;s skin. A pair of ash-tinted spectacles rests upon a long skinny nose. The diminutive dandy holds a silver platter as if presenting a meal, and upon the tray rests the freshly preserved severed head of a middle-aged human woman. A platinum piece sits upon her out-stretched, purple tongue.
A messy desk rests against the opposite wall, piled high with loose papers. An apparatus holding four long tubes filled with coloured liquid po=eels out from the clutter. Doors on the north and west walls appear to lead to small closets.
Wide stairs lead above. A massive white stone statue of a thin human man with outstretched angelic wings and a beatific look upon his idealized face looms large in the northward arc of the the tower wall. The angel holds a sword in one had and cradles a harp with the other. The presentation conjures thoughts of mausoleum peaks or the graves of important men. Tall letters etched upon the statue's base spell out a single words: "Filge".