The shimmering creature is a gelatinous cube, and a big one at that. It's slow on the move, and easy to hit, but has no special vulnerabilities. Instead, it is immune to electricity. It can engulf, and paralyze...
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Thistle's heart rate picks up as the news of the gigantic ooze filters through the party.
To bad Asuna never made it back from the Hellknight's bunk house. We sure could use her right about now...
Thistle focuses his mind, then casts a spell that spreads to each of his companions. The ornate rod he holds in his hand glows brightly as the divine magic flows, then is subdued again.
Fellgrim seems to enjoy creme brulee over jello, and the green cube lights up with an eerie blue flame as the alchemists lights up the flame. The hot air ascends into the narrow shaft, making the underground area slightly less bearable.
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Anyone
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Gelatinous cube (11)
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Thistle looks on with one scaly hand clinging to the ladder. He reaches his other hand into his handy haversack. The image of a vial of alchemist's fire comes to his mind...
but does not manifest in his hand.
He screws up his face, and then pictures a vial of acid.
Still nothing.
Allowing his shoulders to slump as he realizes he has nothing in his bag of tricks, or divine spells available to him to do anything to this creature. Except for maybe the bladeguard in his pack, though that would require him to get down and swing his weapon at the thing. He had heard stories of another oracle like him getting stuck in one of these things.
Best let the others take care of it, they seem to know what they are doing.
With the aid of chemical and repeated arrow fire, the gelatinous cube is eventually killed, splattered all over the room. The space is now safe for entry, and there's two exits visible.
This room is filled with crates and shelves loaded with supplies. The southern wall is lined with threadbare white towels. A cabinet on the western wall holds scores of green glass teacups, and a metal crate next to it is filled with small bags of faded yellow cloth.
The supplies here haven’t been touched in years. The yellow bags hold tea leaves so old they’re little more than brown powder. Nothing here is valuable.
The door to the south opens to a narrow hall, with a door on the left side. That door opens to a small room, in which a white marble basin in the corner appears to serve as a latrine. A mirror and a crystal orb are mounted on the wall across from it.
The narrow hall leads to a small foyer. Patterns of shadow, reminiscent of ripples on water, pass over the green glass walls. No light casts them—they seem to be illusions. The chamber surrounds a low platform engraved with a massive mystical pattern. A pair of double doors is set into the wall across from the platform. A scene engraved on the doors shows people relaxing in a pool of water.
The adventurers move about the room, until Bruce moves close to the double doors, which swing open by themselves, revealing a cozy room. The couch by the crackling fire is richly upholstered, and a massive painting hung above the replace
depicts a wizard battling a dragon. There is a small door to the west, and a large double door to the east. Place settings are laid out at a round table.
The table holds a curious centerpiece: a bodiless metal head with crystalline eyes that resembles the heads of the automatons elsewhere in the Spire. When the doors open, the eyes of the metal head light up. “Welcome, honored guests,” it says in a creaky voice. “We have long awaited your return. Server Two! Guests for tea.”
The door to the west soon opens, and a dilapidated old automaton shu es in. It has a thin build, one of its eyes has fallen out, and parts of its armor plating are missing. It carries a steaming kettle and a tea service, but comes to a stop and stares. In a buzzing voice, it says, “C-c-could it b-b- be? Have the P-P-Patrons returned?”
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Thistle looks blankly at the bustle in front of him, unable to read the lips of the automatons. His first reaction is one of defense, but it seems there are no hostile or overt actions by the two creations, so he waits for things to develop.
Once the general gist of what is going on is relayed to him, he mumbles to his friends, "Think we could ask them who the patrons are without tipping them off that we aren't them?"
It isn't until after he speaks that he realizes he has no sense of volume, and hopes that the creations didn't hear him.
The automaton head responds: Splendid. We can provide you with light refreshments—Chef Two has prepared kelip cakes with a candied glaze, and the silvertip tea is particularly invigorating. Our oasis offers a variety of relaxing treatments, and if you are injured, we have a small supply of restorative salves
Server Two soon returns with tea and cakes, while the automaton head on the table tries to strike up conversation: Pray tell me, are you the long-lost Patrons? I am the Steward of the Sanctum, and I have kept this facility running in anticipation of your return. Though we did expect you sooner.
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Thistle waves off the overtly helpful, if clumsy automaton that is in a poor state of disrepair. He clasps his hands behind his back, slowly pacing around the room to take it all in, looking for clues of who the missing patron might be.
With some small effort, the conversation is translated for him.
Best not to let them realize we aren't the patrons, whoever they are. Just let them go on thinking we are them without disputing that.
"We were researching methods to alter time, and as such have gotten tangled in the threads of time. I thought we were only gone for a few days, but it seems we have been gone for much longer. Tell me, by your measure, how long have we been away? "
There must be a clue in here somewhere about who the patrons are and what their purpose is.
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"I apologize for my companions here. As my friend has pointed out we have been experimenting with time alteration. This seems to have left us a bit disoriented and fogged our memories. We may ask some rather strange questions that we would have known before we departed." Bruce says as he takes a seat at the table.
So you are the patrons, then. I recognized you, after all, you are cast in the image of the prince the head says, glanicng up at the painting who created us to serve the Patrons. When he had to shut down the transit system, he told us to keep things running until he returned. And so we have.
Over the centuries, many of us have suffered damage beyond our capacity for repair. But now that you have returned, you can restore us.
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Thistle follows the automaton's eyes to look at the painting, taking a moment to study it and see if he recognizes anything or anyone.
restore them?
"Show me." Thistle commands, comfortable that these creations will follow his orders without complaint.
"While we walk, please tell us everything that has happened here, and why the prince left."
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Caranthir relaxes a little as the automatons accept their claim to be the Patrons.
"We would tour this level to see how you have maintained the facilities," the elf says. "Before we do so, it has been quite some time since we have been here. Remind us what dangers we might encounter on this level, and also whether there are any of your kind that are no longer following orders."
I admire your devotion, sir, but I'm afraid you would have a hard time restoring me without the proper part. I believe the answer lies in the Iron Crèche. If you could take me there—past the Reclaimers—I could restore the Sanctum and my staff, the detached head speaks.
The reclaimers are ]he minions of the Iron Crèche. It is their task to maintain the facilities, but many centuries ago they came to the conclusion that the staff of the Sanctum were no longer required. They will consume us and recycle our pieces if you let them. But if you bring me to the crèche, I could redirect this aggression.
As you wish, my patron. From now on, I shall carry that name. Alfred says as Bruce picks him up.
Allow me to refresh the layout of the sanctum for you. To left, you have the relaxation area, and to the right are the servant's area, where we have our kitchen, and our hydroponics area. Beyond that are the reclaimers. Now, if you go there, you might notice that we have taken the liberty of erecting a little barrier to keep the reclaimers out. After all, the prospect of being disassembled wasn't all too appealing.
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Caranthir searches for anything radiating a magical aura as they pass through the relaxation area, the servants' quarters, the kitchen, and the hydroponics area.
"Curious...they have been growing plants using mineral nutrient solutions, in water, without soil. They could last here without sustenance for some time."
He continues following the automatons, looking unusually relaxed.
"We will likely need to dispose of these reclaimers," the elf says to the servants. "They have not complied with their original mandate. Show us to them," he orders.
A small kitchen opens into an aquaponics chamber. The smells of unfamiliar plants are heavy in the warm, damp air. The tanks are filled with water, vegetation, small fish, and shellfish. Attached to the tanks are facilities for transforming the contents into meals.
There is a barricade in front of the far door, from beyond which a metallic scraping sound is audible.
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"Are these the same reclaimers we met on the levels far above us?" Thistle wonders out loud.
"This could make for an awkward reunion."
Anticipating trouble never got anyone hurt, and so Thistle takes a moment to cast another protective spell.
With that, Thistle nods that he is ready to confront whatever is scratching at the door from the other side.
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Alfred makes an artificial gasping sound as the door opens. The walls and floor of the short hallway ripple as if alive— every surface of this hallway is covered with a wave of tiny constructs. They look like they were originally beetle-shaped, but have incorporated pieces of junk into their construction and are now covered in rusted protrusions.
Two of the heap of junk seem hostile...
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Caranthir
Thistle
Jelani
Bruce
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Golem
Golem
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Fellgrim
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These creatures are Junk golems, constructs that can break themselves down and form a swarm at will. So both a creature and a swarm, if you may.
Caranthir fires several shots, but has a hard time aiming his arrows in the crowded corridor. A single arrow hits, freezing some of the creature that seem to make up the creature.
Thistle stands by for healing.
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Caranthir
Thistle
Jelani
Bruce
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Golem (17)
Golem
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Fellgrim
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It's resistant to magic, and has DR/adamantine
Bruce draws out an alchemist's fire, and studies the golem.
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Caranthir
Thistle
Jelani
Bruce
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Golem (17)
Golem
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Fellgrim
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