I pat Kriger's massive shoulder, "Well fought, giantslayer."
Kriger shrugs, "Meh. Gonna have to get me a better axe," he remarks mostly to himself.
Servayn sorts through the coin, rooting out items that radiate magic into a pile, and placing the non-magical coins within his haversack, for transportation out of this place and later distribution. The intact spellbooks he also carefully places within the haversack, "Some of these might need magical mending, Malaswyn, and could be of benefit if Frieland begins to train it's own arcanists or construct an academy of magic."
He uses a cloth from Vordakai's (presumably) tattered garments to move the crystal sphere away from the other items, not wishing to touch an item that radiates such powerful magic before knowing what it does.
The magical jars in the circular rooms, he leaves where they sit. "These jars radiate conjuration magic. If they contained more of these undead Cyclops, they could radiate either conjuration or necromancy, I suppose, so I'd be wary of disturbing them, and, especially, of damaging one..."
He checks the ground in that room for any sign that jars have fallen from the shelves in the past, perhaps due to shifting ground or earth tremors.
The jars are about one foot tall, with a top sealed with black wax. A white mist swirls in each of them. There are 42 jars aligned.
I will help out with examining the objects.
As I do, I share what I know, "That foul undead was an atrophied lich: a rare undead spellcaster who cannot rely upon his phylactery to sustain him in undeath. It is good that we reached him before he could bring his phylactery back to working order."
"It would certainly be better not to leave them here, where someone else might discover them and unintentionally release some new evil into the world." Servayn says, his voice trailing off as he remembers the fate of his childhood mentor.
You can't figure what the sphere does, beyond it's immense power.
The jars, from what you can tell, serve as a form of focus to trap the soul of an individual. Each jar seems filled with such a person. In theory, touching the jar should allow communication, while unsealing it would release whoever, or whatever, is trapped in it.
From it a boy's voice calls out, laced with fright and cracked by anguish. In the overlapping awareness appears the face of a young boy of seven, with blond hair and blue eyes: "Who's there!? I wanna go home..."
Kriger raises an eyebrow at Kalsgrim's declaration. "Don't ask me. Maybe you should ask the jars all those questions," he jests, grinning.
"Kalsgrim, if you cannot communicate with any, I have a spell which will allow me to understand another's tongue."
Kriger shrugs, "Will do, fearless leader."
"We have to transport these people back across a room filled with lava or whatever, and another that is flooded and required water breathing magic to cross, so if they are imprisoned within these jars, it may be more feasible to keep them within the jars, until we get them back to the Varnhold. Several of us have haversacks that can carry many jars..." Servayn says.
Touching all the jars, you find they seem to contain a villager of Varnhold. They are mostly in a state of shock and unclear where they are or what is their condition.
Of note, one of them, one who calls himself Maestro Ervil Pendrod, seems to be a citizen of some prominence. He recalls going to the church of Erastil in the middle of the night, though not by his won will. He also is not clear where he is and whether he is still alive...
Kriger's investigation doesn't bear much, until he goes to the feasthall, where he finds, among the rests of the disturbing banquet they interrupted, shards of broken jars.
Servayn figures the jars are some form of vehicle for a spell that captures the soul and body of a person. It doesn't seem to kill them though.
"Should we rest here? As long as the lich is destroyed we are safe from the creatures of the night and Servayn and I could choose spells to aid in our escape."
"I believe that the vessels have not only imprisoned their souls, but also their bodies, and that if we free them, they will indeed appear bodily here, which is, as I understand it, a unique form of magic not known to present-day arcanists..." Servayn says, pondering the objects.
"And I whole heartedly support the idea of resting a bit. I still feel hollow inside from the effects of that spirit creature."
"Then let's make sure we're careful with them." Kriger nods at Kalsgrim as they scour the place for more jars.
You take the time to rest, heal and recuperate, eating some food even. The next day, you set out to explore the rest of the place. Nothing much is revealed in the unexplored room, and some threats are quickly dealt with, in particular a pesky water elemental that almost drowned Kriger, before getting neatly split in half, and some dread zombie centaurs that were dissolved away by holy magic.
Near the Hell Pool, you discover a small secret chamber. It lies empty, its walls bearing eye-shaped patterns and carvings, all of which seem to be looking at a point on the east wall where a single carving of a giant, stylized eye looms. The eye’s pupil is an intricately engraved relief roughly the size of the palm of a hand. At the foot of this wall is a small shelf with two jars similar to ones with the Varnhold villagers, but they seem empty.
The eye carving radiates strong conjuration and divination magic.
[ooc]Good pbp GMing OM.[/om]
I examine the jars and carvings.
"The undead Cyclops seemed to know of us. Perhaps this eye-carving is some sort of scrying device?" Servayn posits, stating what is probably already thunderingly obvious.
"Hmm, the device seems to be related to the lich's eye-gem. Perhaps we should fit it, see how it works?"
"Who's got the eye? Did we get it? I hope not, that way I can go cut it out of him." Kriger grins sadistically.
The "eye" was carefully put away in a bag by Servayn, who took great care not to touch it.
Servayn will withdraw the eye, and see if it can be used to activate some sort of scrying effect from the eye-carving, concentrating on the capital of Frieland.
If possible, Servayn puts the sphere back in the extradimensional space of the haversack and sets the backpack on the ground, backing away.
"Let's not mess with this stuff. It just tried to compel me to rip out one of my eyes and place it in the carving." Servayn says, staring at his backpack warily. "Gosh, I can't even think of someone I hate enough to sell this to them..." he mutters.
"Scratch that. I'd totally sell this to Grigori."
Before resting, I look around for anything profane or potentially used for evil that has not yet been destroyed.
Malaswyn remembers only too well the little temple where they were engulfed by dark flames. This area, and the strange chambers with profane depictions radiated strong evil.
Over the next few days, you make sure the access to the place remains as challenging as possible and head back north towards Varnhold, though on foot, as your horses have been slaughtered by predators.
The weather gets colder everyday and there is the occasional snowfall to remind you winter is on your doorstep. Clearly tired from lugging around a lot of equipment, and dearly missing horses, you arrive to Varnhold and set camp there in the comfort and security of its triangular fort, reminiscent of the struggle with the spriggans and the liberation of Malaswyn.
Servayn will shake his head at the terrible fate of the horses, but make the return a bit easier by conjuring phantom steeds for the companions to ride.