Harrigan reacts quickly, running up the stairs as fast as his short legs will carry him, with Brashen close behind. As they near the top of the flight they can hear what sounds like someone muttering hurried gibberish, and things being clattered about, then an eerie sounding screech.
The stairs emerge into a large, brightly lit chamber that occupies this entire floor of the tower. At four points along the outer walls, large assemblies of polished metal mirrors surround stands piled with dozens and dozens of candles, lamps and lanterns, reflecting bright beams of light into the direct centre of the room, a recessed operating theatre accessible via two short sets of stairs to the north and south.
Splayed out on a timber and metal operating table, its chest completely opened, ribs cut away and skin pinned back against the table with long metal needles, is a hairless, blue skinned humanoid figure. Two long stone shelves cluttered with piles of papers, rotting organs, medical and scientific looking instruments and glass beakers, tubes and jars comprise the east and west extents of the operating theatre. The low shelves sit higher than the recessed theatre floor but lower than the chamber’s outer floor.
Four metal and lass tanks, each easily large enough to hold a human flank the short stairs leading to the theatre. Each tank is full of yellow liquid streaked with rust. Indistinct, vaguely human silhouettes bob silently in the soupy fluid.
A tall, gaunt man with pale features and a short trimmed beard stands near one of the tanks. He wears a long, sleeveless dark coat that leaves his pale upper arms bare, his forearms and hands being covered by gloves. The skull of a bird hangs at his throat, and he holds a bloody serrated saw in one hand. An owl flutters above his head.
In front of the man stand a rather short animated human skeleton holding a long knife, a metal tray and assorted tools and bloody organs lying at its feet. Beside the skeleton is a human woman wearing a white robe and habit … at least she looks human, but her face is pale and slack-jawed, and she moves with a shuffling gait.
With a deep breath to settle his nerves, Boland hurries up the stairs after Harrigan and Brashen.
My clumsiness alerted him to our presence, so I must be of use! he thinks to himself with determination.
Harrigan quickly notes the stairs the the necromancer is ready to defend and opts for the other flight down into the operating theater. Spiked mace in hand he runs to get into a position where he can hit them from behind.
“’Oo in the bloody hells are you then?” squawks the man as Harrigan’s head emerges above the stair banister, his voice thick with the accent of some Free City slum. “Come to kill ol’ Filge then ‘av ye?”
Not waiting for an answer, the man – Filge presumably – backs up a step to position himself behind the operating table. He throws the bloody saw to the floor and pulls an object from his belt – a large metal and glass syringe. He holds the syringe up in the air, flicks it with a crack-nailed finger, then injects it into his arm, shuddering and drawing in his breath sharply as he does so. “Ahh, that’s the stuff ...”
He then begins barking orders at his undead minions. “Marcie, guard the bottom of that stair.” The zombie woman totters down the stairs, then turns to face back up them. “Skeleton, over there, defend me.” The skeleton walks over to block the other side of the operating table. Filge then throws his arms wide. “Subject Two! Subject Three! Arise my beautiful monstrosities!”
The half-seen shapes within two of the cylinders begin moving, then smash their way out of their glass prisons, sending shards flying and waves of sickly yellow fluid crashing to the floor around them. Large, horrific, non-human shapes drag themselves free of the cylinders, wrenching off metal struts and props to use as clubs as they go.
Both creatures move with the slow gait of the mindless dead, but they are no mere zombies – or at least no human zombies. The one that pulls free of the tube near to where Harrigan stands is roughly human sized, but looks something like an anthropomorphic lizard, fluid dripping from its faded scales, no emotion in its dull white eyes. The creature that struggles free of the cylinder closer to the stairs is big, seven foot tall and bulky to match. It’s body is covered in wet, matted grey fur, and its slack-jawed face is more bestial than human.
“Brashen, wait,” calls Andolphas gruffly, grabbing Brashen’s arm. “The Stern Lady’s blessings be upon you.” The priest quickly chants a few words, and a healing warmth spreads through the warrior as some of his wounds close.
Boland squeezes past Brashen heading up the stairs when he spies the seven foot hairy giant crashing out of it's glass cage. Blanching visibly, he backs away from the creature, stuttering out the words to a spell as he does so. Finishing the casting he points his finger at the beast and prays to the green lady that it strikes home. A crackling line of blue energy bursts from his finger and shoots towards it's target.
Brash nods in appreciation at the healing spell, then growls a challenge as he charges forward to attack the hairy zombie that Bowland hit with his spell.
Boland’s spell hits the creature squarely, crackling energy ripping around it and burning its flesh. Although it does not seem to react to the attack, the spell has clearly damaged it.
Brash charges it and connects with a hit that would seriously injure or kill a normal human. The big, hairy creature staggers back a pace but remains standing.
Harrigan takes one look at the reptilian zombie blocking his path and stops in his tracks. "Maybe later buddy," he mutters and shifts direction to jump down into the operating theater, yanks his last tanglefoot bag from his belt and hurls it at the zombie blocking the other stairs.
“Oho, so it’s a mage what leads this merry band is it?” calls the necromancer, seeing the effects of Boland’s magic. “Nice spell there chum, but not good enough. Come to steal ol’ Filge’s secrets have ye? Or did those bastards at the Guild send you? Jealous, are they?”
At this moment, Harrigan crashes over the low stone shelf, kicking glass-ware down as he goes, and hops down into the operating theatre, throwing his tangle-foot bag as he goes – but he slips in a puddle of liquid that is now dripping down from the shelf onto the floor where he stands, and although he is able to right himself, his aim is off, and the tanglefoot bag crashes uselessly into the side of the short staircase.
“Not so close Stunty,” Filge mutters, seeing Harrigan closing in. He mutters a few mystic sounding words under his breath, flutters his fingers in some arcane gesture … then bites hard into his upper arm, near where the syringe went in. Hard enough to draw blood that stains his lips and oozes down his arm as far as the leather band that is drawn tight around his scrawny bicep. He looks up and smiles nastily at Harrigan, his crooked teeth stained with blood, then licks his lips, and turns and dashes off, pushing past the zombie nurse and up the stairs, scooting around one of the unbroken cylinders.
“What ever you’re doing here, you’ve made an enemy for life, violating my private sanctum,” he yells over his shoulder as he goes. “As short a span as that may be if you don’t get gone.”
“Marcie, over here. There! Gods you’re slow … Skeleton, come up here. Subject Two! Step left and kill the one in front of you. Subject Three! Kill that one, down there.” He shouts orders at his undead slaves … who follow unquestioningly.
The lumbering, hairy creature steps to the side, then swings at Brashen with its makeshift but effective-looking club, a strong but clumsy blow that the warrior is able to turn aside – just – with his shield.
The reptilian humanoid shambles around its broken cylinder and down the stairs towards Harrigan, holding the length of heavy piping menacingly.
The zombie nurse and the shortish skeleton move over towards Filge.
“Not so close Stunty,” Filge mutters, seeing Harrigan closing in. He mutters a few mystic sounding words under his breath, flutters his fingers in some arcane gesture … then bites hard into his upper arm, near where the syringe went in. Hard enough to draw blood that stains his lips and oozes down his arm as far as the leather band that is drawn tight around his scrawny bicep. He looks up and smiles nastily at Harrigan, his crooked teeth stained with blood, then licks his lips, and turns and dashes off, pushing past the zombie nurse and up the stairs, scooting around one of the unbroken cylinders.
Boland hesitates before taking his next action, watching the crazed necromancer closely to try and anticipate what his next move will be.
Boland:
The first thing you saw him do – inject himself with a syringe – did not look like part of any spell ritual you’re aware of. He may have been injecting himself with some sort of drug, or possibly even injecting a potion directly into his bloodstream. You’re not really sure what advantage this would have over merely drinking a potion, but you can hypothesise that it may increase the potency or duration.
His next action – chanting and gesturing before biting his arm – did appear more like a spell.
Mothman:
Boland:
"Enemy for life? Hah! Considering yours has about five minutes left to run down that's a chance I'm willing to take."
Boland is uncertain on the best way to proceed, but he eventually decides that the hulking constructs posed the biggest immediate threat. Moving back towards the mouth of the stairway, he reaches into a pouch at this belt and draws forth a handful of ashes, which he sprinkles to the ground. Raising his other hand above him, a small but crackling shard of molten rock shimmers into existence. The moment it takes shape, he hurls it at the large creature facing off against Brashen.
The fiery shard hits the hairy zombie squarely, exploding against its flank. The stink of burnt hair fills the air. Unfortunately, a minor misstep in Boland’s casting results in a magical fire not near as hot as it could be, and the monster still stands, though now looks very much the worse for wear.
Brash laughs aloud, although this is cut somewhat short by the impact of the zombies attack on his shield, the blow jarring his whole arm.
'Whats one more enemy? We've made plenty in the last few days!' He yells to his companions, thinking of the other adventuring group and Kullens gang.
'Lets cross this one of the list of people we have to kill tonight ey?'
Brash steps to his right, keeping infront of his opponent, and swings his flail again, heartened by the fact that its looking weakened.
Another mighty swing from Brashen completely caves in the big zombie’s chest. Ribs crack and break, and a putrid smell almost makes Brash gag as rotten organs and juices leak from the newly created cavity. The creature stumbles, almost falling ... but remains standing, barely.
Andolphas moves up from the stairs to stand behind and beside Brashen , then holds his holy symbol aloft. “In the name of the Stern Lady, be gone from my presence!” he calls, moving his arm and the symbol he holds in an arc before him.
There is a brief red glow from the symbol, and the effect on the undead is immediate. The skeleton and zombie nurse that stand before Filge immediately collapse to the floor, the skeleton’s bones bouncing and clattering across the stone floor. The reptilian humanoid that stands behind Harrigan turns and flees back up the stair to the far edge of the room where it cowers against the wall. The large hairy creature that faces Brash appears unperturbed by the demonstration of divine will.
“Bloody hell!” exclaims Filge, looking stunned.
Harrigan wasn't expecting the zombie to turn tail and run, but he throws out a quick backhanded swing with the morningstar as a parting blow.
Harrigan wasn't expecting the zombie to turn tail and run, but he throws out a quick backhanded swing with the morningstar as a parting blow.
Brash gasps in amassment as the undead creature stays standing, despite missing most of its chest.
‘Harrigan! A little help if you can.’ Brash yells out, tensing for another strike from this creature that he is sure is only moments away
"Hey Filge! Catch!" Harrigan runs up the stairs and hurls a flask of volatile chemicals at the mage.
Harrigan’s aim is off – the flask smashes on the ground a few feet from Filge, though a few splashes of the burning, volatile liquid do scorch his pants-leg. “Tsssk” he hisses as he pats the fire out with his gloved hands, before scooting towards the edge of the room
As he moves, he is chanting under his breath, and when he reaches the edge of the chamber and turns, he breathes in sharply and a ghostly, faintly glowing, disembodied hand appears, floating in the air before him.
“Subject 1! Subject 4! Get out here! Defend me!” he yells.
The two remaining cylinders begin to shake, then crack, then finally burst apart in a spray of broken glass and foul yellow liquid, as two more zombies smash their way free.
The humanoid creature emerging from the north cylinder appears reptilian, somewhat similar to the one that now cowers at the edge of the room.
The one to the south is short and ugly, somewhat dwarf-like in proportion, with pasty blue-white skin and lank wet strings of hair plastered to its head. .
Harrigan manages to avoid the burst of glass and sudden rush of water down the stairs without injury or mishap.
Boland can scarce believe that the construct in front of Brashen remains standing after the amount of damage it had sustained. He is about to throw another spell at it when the crazed necromancer calls forth the remaining two creatures and suddenly there are others to worry about.
Harrigan's mis-thrown flask of Alchemist's Fire jolts his memory and he digs in his pack for a similar flask. Taking a quick step to improve the angle, he hurls the flask at the newly arrived short and ugly creature, praying to the Lady that it hit's its target.
Brash growls and attacks again, knowing that the creature must be close to dropping.
1d20 + 2 + 1
1d6
Boland’s throw is short, and the flask smashes on the floor not far from the hairy zombie that Brashen fights, splashing it with a few drops of liquid fire.
For his part, Brashen’s blow bounces harmlessly off the monster’s thick hide.
Despite his success with the skeleton, zombie and lizard-like zombie, Andolphas frowns slightly when the large zombie facing Brashen resists his command.
As the second two tanks shatter and release their occupants, he raises his Holy Symbol again, repeating his previous action.
"The Stern Lady bids you begone from my presence!"
Finding his path blocked by another of the brine soaked zombies, Harrigan grits his teeth and hurls his last alchemist fire at it before backing up.
Harrigan’s flask hits the short zombie and breaks open against its leg, spilling liquid fire over the creature, fire that burns despite the damp condition of the target. The zombie looks down stupidly at its burning leg, then up at the back-peddling dwarf, but does not otherwise react to the attack.
“Stop messing with me zombies!” yells Filge, before making an intricate gesture with a small scrap of cloth that he holds, muttering under his breath, then touching the ghostly hand that hovers before him. The glowing hand flies across the chamber, straight towards Andolphas, who is not dextrous enough to dodge aside as the hand passes straight through his chain shirt and robes to strike at the flesh below.
The cleric finds himself completely unable to move. As he stands rigid, aware but helpless, a foul, carrion stench begins to emenate from his very flesh, as the spectral hand returns to Filge.
“Ha! Got ‘im!” crows the deranged necromancer as he dashes across the chamber
“Now you, subject four, kill the dwarf,” he yells.