Velrun staggers slightly as he feels his muscles spasming slightly and the palsied effect travels through his body. Eyeing the humanoid closely he suddenly remembers the potions recovered earlier. Quickly reaching into the satchel he pulls out the oil faintly glowing with a luminous glow and applies it to his rapier.
I hope this works...
A shudder courses through the false cleric's spine as skittering figures dart at the corners of her vision, head jerking at each twitch of the shadows.
The sudden faintness of her limbs is almost enough to stop her dead in her tracks, and she weakly flexes her digits just to confirm she still possesses them. A hand reaches up to delicately close around the iron butterfly that hangs from her neck, seeking comfort from it, before dropping back to her side.
As the heat rises, so does her breathing. A thin sheen of sweat is clinging to her brow by the time they enter the final tableau of the spookshow.
She looks to the others and, nodding weakly, says in a soft voice, "It's time to end this madness..."
From the gloom lurches the broken form of the demon-warped Chelman, the proprietor of the theatre. His legs have been torn off below the knees, and his limp and broken body is bloated like a waterlogged corpse, infused with a viscous, writhing black tar that oozes from every wound. As it draws close, the group can see the nail plunged squarely into a smouldering wound in the crown of the pathetic creature’s head.
With leaden feet Oscar discards everything not needed, barely dragging his own weight forward.
When he sees Chelman he wrestles a scroll from the pile Velrun gave him, casting it quickly, then moving to interpose himself closest to Chelrun.
"I'll try to hold him off!' he calls "Velrun, go round, get him from behind! You're the only one with the strength for this now!"
Chelman, or the twisted wreckage that was once the proprietor of the Theatre Infernalis, sloughs forward leaving a trail of black ichor behind 'him'... the effect, tragically comical, is not unlike that of a slug. Dead eyes fix upon the group as he opens his mouth... the lower mandible drooping lower than should be anatomically possible and a miasma of vapours pours from his throat... the last thing the group sees before the billowing cloud engulfs them, is Chelman attempting to stand upon the stumps of his knees.
...and the vigour, that had been sapped by the visions within the mirror maze, of the group starts to return.
Velrun nods in reply and quickly maneuvers into position, humming an upbeat ditty about heroes making a final stand for justice.
Euphemia adjusts her weakened grip on the longspear and thrusts for Chelman, coughing against the vapors.
Unfortunately, it looks quite whiffed.
Seeing Euphemia has taken it upon herself to keep Chelman pinned, Oscar steps back and rushes another scroll.