Istiel feels a sharp pressure in her temples as they approach Thom's hut. "I feel... something... Is happening here." The sudden uncertainy in the monk's voice is unfamiliar to her companions. "It is... Important." A slight warble at the end of her sentence betrays her stoicly masked demeanor- fear.
Suddenly, the pressure behind the pain in her temples forces her head to turn towards the firepit, putting her focus on the ghastly fetish apparently levitating above it.
As her eyes settle on the unholy device the headache leaves Istiel, and she instead becomes keenly aware of a horrible knotting in her gut, a quickening of breath and heart, and a thin sheen of sweat on her skin. The fetish is unsettling, but something else is turning her stomach into knots. She does not know what exactly she fears, which is the most frightening part.
"The large bird we saw during scouting. The creature with the skin-stealer that attacked Gilders. The black feathers belong to it. It has corrupted more than our food." She concludes, taking a tenative step forward. "Do as you must Suriname. I will check the hut."
When nothing happens, she takes another, towards the hut, and finally begins a slow cautious walk to Thom's (former?) dwelling, with the shakey intent to check and open the door.
Oios's grimace turns deeper into a snarl as the unholy fetish assaults his senses. What good was holding the walls if the enemy could walk into the very heart of the town and desecrate it? This more than anything convinces the old man that Shadeholme as it was has been killed.
Send your creature in first Imix, but we must all go in and face this threat together. I do not think the enemy would have left evil power such as this unprotected.
Oios touches Drazan and Isitel and Hallows them with the blessings of the true gods of the Valley. Then he Consecrates the area around him and moves forward just behind the forward line.
Spend two points to Hallow Imix and Isitel for Good.
You may spend a spell point to hallow a target for 1 minute per caster level. Choose an end of the alignment spectrum (good, evil, lawful, chaotic); you must choose an alignment that you possess. The target of this word gains a +1 sacred bonus (profane bonus if you are evil; if you are neither good nor evil you must choose whether you grant sacred or profane bonuses with this sphere) to attack rolls, AC, and saving throws made against targets of your opposed alignment (evil for good, lawful for chaotic, etc.). This bonus increases by 1 for every 10 caster levels possessed.
The target also gains immunity to any spell or sphere effect that possesses or exercises mental control over them (including enchantment [charm] effects and enchantment [compulsion] effects), so long as that effect originates from a creature who possesses your opposed alignment. If the target is already under the influence of such an effect, the target is allowed to make a new saving throw against the controlling effect. Success means the effect is suppressed for the duration of this word, but resumes when this word expires. This does not expel a controlling life force (such as a ghost or projected spirit), but it does prevent them from controlling the target.
Standard action to Consecrate with Serendipity
You may bestow luck upon your allies. All allies within range gain a +1 luck bonus to attack rolls, skill checks, ability checks, and saving throws. This bonus lasts as long as you concentrate.
Spells 4/6
"First, I think..." Imix starts, the pauses in concentration.
One of the well-woven baskets hovers, then moves over to the floating fetish.
"Everyone stand clear" he warns, and a moment later it slowly descends, forcing the fetish down.
Naira's curiosity battles her survival instincts. Apachana and Tetchuix were quick to back away, perhaps they felt something that the Undine did not. Her pace slows until she was behind even Istiel, walking the fringe between an observer and a participant.
The engineer burns the image of the fetish to her mind. She would need to sketch this later, detail its formation and effects for her true superiors in Te-Moak.
The floating fetish didn't frighten her as much as the slow falling, strange tasting rain. "Something taints the waters here." With a short spin, her azure eyes softly glowed.
As the rain turns into mist, it retains its coppery taste upon your lips, the haze around the pagoda growing a tinge red, as if a cloud passing between a harvest moon. A basket turns on its side, spilling its contents - a few balls of alpaca yarn tumble to the ground, followed by the clatter of knitting needles. Then the basket lifts and floats up over the fetish, settling itself on top of the thing, both the fetish and the basket floating in the air, slowly twisting in the not-wind.
Then your mind begins to make sense of the scene. Thom's furniture - by and large wooden and utilitarian in nature - has been broken up and placed, roughly circularly, around the room. The man's straw bed has been gutted, the straw piled around the edges of the hut, on top of the furniture, and then buttressed with branches and leaves. Another fine sheeting of straw and mulberry leaves lies along the floor, as well as a few remnants of Thom's clothing, torn into shredded strips. A few of Thom's shinier possessions - silverstones here, a copper mug there, one nice polished stone and shell necklace by the doorway - line the straw, half-buried. Large black feathers lie among the straw and leaves.
A shudder crawls its way up your back. A nest. You're standing in something's nest.
Imix ran a hair over his bald scalp.
"Alright, stand back." he warned, and lowered the temperature in the basket, ice forming on the wicker.
Naira pauses as Istiel went into pagoda. Between the fetish and the crimson mist, she doubted it wise to separate from the others. Perhaps Tetchuix and Apachana had the better idea. The engineer gulped, tasting the metallic mist once more. It's blood, isn't it? she thought.
Naira takes an uneven step forward, moving towards the Suriname. Her twine belt clinks with her tools as she approaches. She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a pair of thin, leather glove. They appear heavily used, and have worn stitches depicting runic shapes. She slips them on, one after the other. She curls her fingers. These gloves carried a calm and familiar feeling, they were second skin almost. Following her dissection with the skin-stealer, however, she wouldn't relay that feeling to others.
Naira extends her arm, and draws in power. Between suppressing the rain and preparing her spell, she was unable to do much else, all her attention focused on her magics. The engineer rears her arm back, as if preparing to throw a punch. Faintly, her blue eyes light up as she speaks. "Together, Suriname."
This kit is ideal for adventurers who venture into sunken ruins or half-flooded temples, and includes an air bladder, a common buoy (at home), 30 feet of (rope), a fishing net, a glass bottle, a pound of soap, three sunrods, a waterproof bag, and a waterproof hooded lantern with 3 flasks of oil.
This kit includes a simple fishing pole and a small box that contains fishing tackle (hooks, lines, sinkers, floats, and lures).
, Bludgeoning+Magic
Istiel stares at the inside of the hut for a long moment, only capable of making out the general chaos. Nothing seems to move or threaten her, but still, she feels incredibly uneasy. Her muscles are taunt, and if startled she feels more apt to run away than fight.
Taking a deep breath through her nose to steady her nerves, she pauses when the musky odor of damp straw hits her nostrils. The black feathers finally come into her vision, as does the rest of the... Nest the hut has become.
This is not your home, monster. She thinks, briefly contemplating if she wanted to dig around. Thinking better off it, in part due to the hanging dread about the place, she turns around and closes the door behind her.
The others see Istiel stand at the entrance of the hut for a few moments, then turn around and shut the door. "The black bird creature has made a nest in the hut. We can ambush it when it returns at night." She thinks for a few moments. "The skin stealer may have reported to it. They worked together to inform the Frozen leaders." Is deduced, cementing her thoughts that the creature deserves death.
The monk glances at the fetish, which now has a basket floating on top of it. It will know we have been here if they destroy the fetish. It may be for the best, however. It is corrupting this place.
She leaves the others to their experimenting, and continues investigating the surroundings. Walking over to the well shr leans over the side to look down into the black depths expecting to see nothing. The store house is next, and Istiel opens up the door to stand in the doorframe and peer inside.
The basket shakes and the smallest dusting of frost falls to the ground below the fetish. Next, Naira steps forward and with a nod, the basket shakes again, and then falls to pieces, still held in the air around the fetish, floating. Another magical thrust, and the fetish itself shakes, a few pieces of bone and a feather dropping to the ground with a poof of dust.
With the storehouse showing no signs of tampering, she closes the door and returns to the suspiciously smelling well. The bird-creature could have soiled it with something, or an animal could have simply fallen in, but she aims to find out.
The monk removes a 100ft length of silk rope from her pack, a torch, striking flint, and marcasite. The rope is securely fashioned to the bottom of the torch and set upon the stones of the well. Taking the flint and marcasite in hand, the monk bashes the soft, shiny, and yellow stone against the harder flint to make sparks , filling the air with a slight hint of sulfur.
The Tinder Fungus wrapped dowel of oak catches a spark with a smolder, and Istiel quickly picks up the torch to nurture the flame with her breath. Soon the sap and oil under the tinder catches and burns with a smoky yellow flame.
Tossing the torch into the well, she stands off to the side, away from the smoke, and slowly controls the descent of the flame with her left hand on the rope as it clumsily scrapes down the wall. The depths now within her eyesight, she searches for answers to the rotting smell.
Drazan found himself more curious as to what was taking so long by the moment until it outgrew his caution. A moment later he was observing Istiel from the entrance with a knowing stare, his weapon in both hands as if ready for trouble.
Another basket rises. "Again." orders Imix, again and again. A staccato rhythm of power.
Naira: Don't use points on this account. I can cantrip it until the crows come home.
GMBP: Use Cantrip as necessary to break this thing. Keep a second basket floating nearby in case something inside makes a break for it.
As Naira and Imix concentrate their magical assault on the fetish, Istiel bends over the well, and hand over hand, silently lowers the rope-bound torch into the well. About ten feet down, the torch's light diminishes, as if muted, the light it gives off sickly and wavering. Still, there's enough to see by, just barely, and as the torch drops lower, eventually, just barely, Istiel can make out shapes below, above the dark waterline. Still the torch drops, and the shapes make themselves out to be people.
Or once people, anyways. Now, they're just meat; bloody muscle, piled in a heap in the well, at least four bodies above the waterline, skinless, bloated.
Along the well's wall on the other side of the piled bodies, three stones jut out from the wall, each about two feet wide, just above the waterline, staggered slightly, each one a little higher in elevation than the last.
Then, the fetish succumbs to Imix and Naira's assault and explodes, not with fire or energy, but... malevolence. It washes over the pagoda and into the forest, tendrils of wispy smoke, that pass through you all, gripping your bodies - the insides of your bodies - as they move outward. In the treeline, everything is silent, and then, the sound of things falling, almost rainlike, all at once from the trees, and then moths, midnight-black and misshapen, begin scattering out of the forest. The moths, hundreds - no thousands of them - hop and skitter, flying short, looping circles before crashing, and then hop-skittering some more, coalescing as they come towards you, into one tumbling, looping, buzzing mass.
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Istiel is briefly startled by the diminishing light in the well, not expecting it to... fight back.. against the lighted intrusion. As the light reaches the bottom the blobs take shape, and several moments of staring later she knows the fate of the skin-stealer's victims. Four. I expected two. Are there more stealers? Or was the one efficient?
It is not hard to tell something is... wrong... with the light in the well. Something was hungrily consuming the torchlight, and it baffled her. A spell to hide the bodies? I need the others to look. Istiel was equally unsure about the three stones jutting out of the wall opposite of the bodies. A ladder? No- it marks the water height. She turns to inform the others of her discovery, but a sharp pang in her temple warns interrupts her- a warning that something was about to occur.
The sounds of rushing currents changing fill her ears moments before the explosion of the fetish.
Istiel drops the rope and covers her face with her arms as the magical blast slams into her, causing the monk to gasp and stumble against the side of the well. She grips at her head, panting and clawing at the sides of her scalp through the thick black cloth that covers her head. Instinctive fear causes her to reflexively double over as horrific visions fill her mind and attempt to warp her very being. Forgotten, the torch splashes into the fetid water below.
Even after years of meditation she feels completely lost within her own mind. Nothing could have ever prepared the young warrior for this- all feels hopeless as she struggles to find her center, to fight, to survive this. Insanity, flames, and crows rips apart the walls of her mind until finally nothing is left but the fragile core of her center, which Istiel desperately flees to.
Bolting upright with a sharp gasp, the oily sickness slides off of her, leaving behind a shaking and terrified monk. With no time to process what has even happened, she exhales in a slow, controlled manner, bloodshot eyes shifting all around to comprehend the new threat. Moths? MOTHS come for us? The crows will be next...
The monk points to Thom's old hut before breaking into a sprint. "Get inside! GET INSIDE!" She yells, running up and opening the door to the simple dwelling.
Fort
+7 Fort +1 Serendipity = 14 :(
Oios' many years of experience have not prepared him for the madness of the last week and as the insanity only intensifies his strength fails him. He feels drained and a groan escapes his lips as he feels the wave of hate drain away his vitality.
**Round One**
Still he has enough presence of mind to maintain his ward and retrieve an alchemist fire.
Isitel! By the gods monk! We need to fight this evil off.
Two Acts: Maintain Serendipity
One Act: Retreive Alchemist fire
Turning your attention to the moths, you gather that they are at once normal and not. They're silk moths, likely grown instantly from the worms in the trees upon the unleashing of the malevolence. But they're also not silk moths; their deformities suggest they were quickly, and painfully transformed, and the energy, having experienced it coursing through your body, you're very sure is not of this world, or reality.
, YESS
Naira's eyes are wide as the fetish bursts. Her confidence she displayed when casting her destructive magic earlier vanished. It hadn't taken more than a moment for her to realize her mistake. The engineer's concentration on the weather halted in an instant, rather, with sweep of her arm, Naira called for a storm, hoping to wash away the insects.
Seeing the effects on those around her, she calls out for her engineers. "Listen to her! Inside!" Fumbling, Naira moves towards the hut.
When it begins to rain, I gain +10 Concealment due to Whiteout.
Imix's eyes open wide as he realises what they face. Such abominations might not live long, but they would live long enough. Little chance of fighting them with fire in a cold, wet copse.
Istiel's call snaps his mind onto a new channel. The house will be dry. With firewood. Possibly even cooking oil, even a fire. The monk's plan is elegant in its simplicity - and breathtaking in its bravery.
Imix breaks into a run, scooping up the older man on the way to the hut. "Listen Oios! The hut is dry! Naira: can you make it cold?"
1 action to pick up Oios? 1 action to take cover? Not sure.
How insect proof does the hut look?
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Naira spews like a faucet. "C-Cold? I - No, I- I've never - Water, just water!"
Not even Drazan's current mind of pessimism and alertness could prepare him for the degree of malice that spilled forth from the fetish, doubling him over. When Drazan's could see straight and could breath again his immediate reaction was to become angry, or would have been had the mass of nightmarish moths not started swarming out of the forest.
Drazan moves toward Oios speaking the words to prepare for battle and just like the time before, his size doubles in an eruption of burning fire and rage.
>Fort
Move(1)
Sphere casting (2)
+Enlarge +Rage +On Fire
The mist gives way to a light rain, but you barely notice, the moths move so quickly; their looping, circuitous flutterings hiding a surprising fluidity. The swarm flows, waterlike, over you, the mass of flapping bugs blotting out the little remaining sunlight. The depths of their mutations strike dread into your hearts as the silk moths cover you; mandibles sink into your skin, stingers pierce your flesh, and barbs tear across your bodies. Death, quite literally, is upon you, in the form of thousands of tiny cuts.
When a Large creature (which normally takes up 4 squares) squeezes into a space that's 1 square wide, the creature's miniature figure occupies 2 squares, centered on the line between the 2 squares. For a bigger creature, center the creature likewise in the area it squeezes into.
A creature can squeeze past a creature while moving but it can't end its movement in an occupied square.
To squeeze through or into a space less than half your space's width, you must use the Escape Artist skill. You can't attack while using Escape Artist to squeeze through or into a narrow space, you take a –4 penalty to AC, and you lose any Dexterity bonus to AC.
Imix screws his eyes against the stings and cuts. Memories of watching an ant swarm take apart a wounded goat during his education compete with the nightmare imagery pushed into his mind moments ago. Desperately he holds onto his focus and pushes himself and Oios through the curtain of moths and into the hut.
Imix is stumbling, but there is a chance this might respond to his suriname power. Calling upon all his new, deepened power, he calls forth the power of Life itself. Cuts close, stings are pushed out, missing flesh scabs over instantly.
"Then Fire!" he calls. "We need fire - now! Burn this place!"
Naira sprints into the hut, marked with dozens of little bleeding cuts. Her rain began to wash away the blood, lightly staining rust-red trails down her arm. Inside, she turns to face the entrance, watching those follow her inside. As most of her wounds close up, she attempts to formulate a plan.
Imix, Istiel, Oios are in. The large one, Apachana and Tetchuix remain. Naira's arm extends, moving in loose spirals. "I'll halt them! This place will not be my tomb!!"
You may create a spinning vortex in a body of liquid that sucks creatures and objects to its center. This vortex is 5 ft wide at its base, is [10ft] high, and is half as wide at the top as it is high. Any creature entering this area must pass a Reflex save (DC 16) or suffer bludgeoning damage equal to [1d8 + 2].
If the creature is smaller than the vortex, they must pass a second Reflex save (DC 16) or be pulled into the middle of the vortex. Creatures in the middle of the vortex suffer bludgeoning damage once per round with no save, and must pass a Reflex save each round or be unable to move, and on a success may only move at half their swim speed. A vortex cannot contain more creatures than would exceed its volume.
Drazan growls and yells as he flails wildly at the swarm around him with a his hand and feet before taking up his ax in both hands again and swinging at the swarm in a large swinging motion, trying to expose the moths to as much of the flames as his bloodline and divine gifts allow him to.
1 ACT
1 ACT
1 ACT
The damage is sub dual on the first two attacks but the fire damage is still lethal and I'm guessing the fire damage is the only part that actually matters.
"Made them regret it did you? How? Tell the details." Drazan asked with a reflexive curiosity and hopefulness that karma had already been dealt out. Though a glint of righting this wrong still lingered in Drazan's mind. Prisoners of war are one thing, but this man was effectively a defector from his nation. He is by no means innocent, but there was more to gain by having him alive and well than beaten and regretful for his choices. "You look... like you've seen better days. Are you regretting falling into your life debt yet?"
Istiel stumbles into the hut, swiping away the moths that have torn into her clothes and flesh. The monk's robes, once a seamless black fabric, sport hundreds of nicks and cuts, ribbon-like in some areas. She makes it to the center of the room as Imix channels before letting out a hacking cough. Crunchy moth chunks are spat from her mouth and rain onto the straw.
Heaving for breath, the monk begins looking up at the windows, seeing they're thankfully closed.
Oios scrambles off the Suriname's shoulder with a muffled curse. The heart of Shadeholme is dead and murdered on our watch. All we can do is cauterize the wound to keep the infection from spreading.
He opens up the wondrous pack and retrieves a fire flask and leaves it open for the others. Take these and throw them when the moths come for us.
Move action to retrieve a flask, leaving it open for others to take flasks too.
Move action to retrieve a tin of explosive paste when everyone has their flask.
Move action to spread it... somewhere?
13
The swarm swoops out of the way of the vortex, which swirls in front of the hut's doorway, the moths billowing away in great, dark, cloudlike tendrils, back into itself, those of you huddled inside the hut safe, for a moment.
Outside the hut, the swarm is quick, almost intuitive in movement, leaving air where Drazan strikes, though the fire licking off the man's skin and axe singe the swarm around him, the moths popping and falling to the ground like tiny meteors.
Imix grits his teeth, but Oios is the leader. Now is not the time to suggest other options. Obediently he retrieves a flask of Alchemist's fire - as well as Ifrit's blood - and prepares to throw.
Assuming Serendipity has faded.
Holding for clear LOS, or signal from Oios.
Drazan continues to wage his war of attrition on the swarm of moths for as long as they continue to swarm him. The smell of burning moth wings wafts from their flaming corpses as Drazan's blood drains from the thousand cuts and bites that the malevolent bugs repay in kind. His growls of anger can be heard with every swing
Istiel quickly smears the paste on the outside of the gourd containing the alchemist's fire. She grabs another gourd marked with the runic scrawl of healing in Abyssal for later.
These tricks now fight against the flame. Ironic. Crosses her mind as she goes to stand with the other gourd-flingers to wait for the vortex to drop.
Action 2: Retrieve potion of cure moderate wounds from sack
Action 3: Ready action to toss gourds as the vortex goes down
With her allies preparing to fire their volley, Naira pushes her swirling mass of water out towards the rain, through the writhing mass of white moths. Before they can recover she pushes her hand out, gathering the mystic energy of the airborne water, and sending a forceful blast of condensed mist into the swarm's core.
While hundreds of moths are pushed back, only a few are torn away from their own wings, writhing like the silk worms they once were.
Action Two/Three to attack with Destruction Sphere.
Spread the paste on the bottles and let fly when they start to come in! Oios shouts.
Act 1: Dip flask in paste.
Act 2: Throw flask
Act 3: Spread some more paste around.
Active Condition: Negative Level
HP 14/27
Drazan swings through the cloud of moths, the creatures dodging out of the way of his attacks with ease. The vortex and Naira's spell are likewise summarily dodged, the moths parting to let the magic through like a billowing curtain.
The gourds from the alchemist's sack, however, are more effective. They sail through the air, wobbling neck over end, until they come smashing into the ground. Brilliant orange flames light the clearing up, burning the moths by the hundreds, their blackened forms littering the ground around the hut.
The swarm dives through the mist into the hut, covering those inside; the little horrors digging across your skin once again.
3d6 damage next round.
Bleeding from hundreds of bites Oios stumbles out of the hut and draws another alchemist fire from his bag.
Isitel! Come out, throw a flask at the paste, and shut the door on the unnatural menace! Drazan help turn the hut into cleansing fire!
One: Move
Two: Draw out another flask
Three: Holding onto it. If the others are nauseated then Oios will throw his flask at a space that has paste on it (DC 5 right?)
Active Condition: Negative Level
HP 9/27 (current max HP 22)
Added one hp as bleed would not apply because of Imix healing. Still down 6 though so 15-6=9.
Imix, blinded by the bugs, and mind still reeling from the visions from before, lost his orientation. Desperately he stumbled for the door, doing his best to break out of the house.
"Once we're out, close the door!" he implores.
The mass of malevolent moths swarms into the hut, cloaking it in unnatural blackness and heat. She ignores the thousands of horrifically mutated insect parts tearing into her skin, rushing out to hold the door until everyone has exited.
This time the monk keeps her mouth closed, exhaling heavily through her nose as she concentrates on counting the figures running by her. One... Two.... Three..
Istiel tosses the cleansing gourd into hut with a grunt, then swings the door into place with all her strength. Her shoulder set firmly against the wooden portal in the long second before the explosion, her eyes catch the line of smashed moths in the doorframe still struggling to use their ruined bodies to escape and kill her.
Action 1: Move outside hut
Action 2: Toss alchemist flask
Action 3: Close door
As her destructive push proved completely ineffective against the furious cloud of bugs, Naira was nearly toppled as the moths cut into her. Once again covered with hundreds of small, bleeding nicks, the sorceress was overwhelmed. Thousands of gallons of water swirls loosely, losing momentum, before sloshing to the ground outside, joined by the now storming rain.
Covered in insects, Naira pushes herself outside of the hut, swiping the moths off her skin and clothes. Blood washes off her, trickling and diluting into the puddles at her feet.
Sweeping his baneaxe though the swarm, many of the moths remaining outside the hut explode into crackling embers, falling to the ground in swaths, while the remaining horrors scatter into the rain. A loud resounds around the clearing as the paste inside the hut surely catches on fire, the sound of thousands of small bodies crashing against the windows' shutters rising above the rainstorm for a few seconds, before all goes silent in the dwelling.
The storm outside picks up to a furious pitch, the rain falling in seeming wellsfulls around the clearing, while thin trails of smoke begin trailing up from Thom's hut.
The water stands an inch deep, in a matter of seconds, the earth of the silkwood forest saturated and waterlogged.
From the well, the sounds of screams reaches your ears just above the storm.
Istiel leans against the door of the hut, finally able to open her mouth as the swarm scatters. Water washes down her shredded robe, carrying a small but continuous stream of blood with it.
Pushing off the side of the hut, the monk briefly staggers as she becomes light-headed from blood loss, but quickly regains her footing. During the movement her eyes catch the skulls of the fetish... "The bird skulls. On the fetish. They all point North. Past the hu-" Cutting herself off, the monk stands tall as she listens to the sounds on the wind.
No more time to rest; hands clench into fists as she stalks towards the well. "A scream from the well. Just now. I saw four skinned bodies at the bottom before... this. Wicked darkness fought my torch as the fetish erupted." She arrives at the well, peering over the side. Her torch, long extinguished, is no use. Taking up the silk rope, she wraps it around her shoulder and begins to spin it up, looping over her shoulder and arm in a continuous circuit as it is drawn out of the well.
"Naira. There are three marks at the waterline of this well. Small. Equally spaced. What is it?" She inquires gruffly, rope coil quickly gaining mass. With every revolution, it is dyed a little more crimson...
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Imix wastes no time calling - once again - on his Suriname powers.
The energy of life itself washes through the clearing, over all the injured, bleeding heroes around the accursed hut. The rain turns warm for a moment, but only for a moment.
He notes something interesting about the fetish skulls, but his mind is too overloaded to cope. Even his stoic mind is too overwhelmed by horrors to properly pay attention to Istiel's words.
When the monk bolts for the well, Imix stumbles after her, feet slipping in the rain.
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Naira breathed in deeply, looking up towards the blackened clouds she conjured. She allowed it to continue to pour. The rain gave her solace. It washed the blood off her arms and clothes. It provided noise, something to combat the silence.
Between her fellow engineer's dying during their expedition, the situation at Shadeholme, and the assault of the moths, Naira felt everything slipping from her control. How long could she live amidst frozen, skin-stealers, and strange magics? Everything seemed so far beyond the control she had just yesterday. Everything, but the rain.
Naira walks towards the well, looking down it. Naira had no need for the light, peering down but not seeing what the monk spoke of. In her storm, the water had risen, and still it rises. "Perhaps they monitored the rainfall here."
Noticing the spirals of the waters, Naira rips a shredded tatter from her garb. She drops the cloth to the water, watching as it is pulled into the eddy, flowing towards the well's wall before disappearing - pulled though the wall into somewhere. "Your engineer's built this poorly, the water leaks, perhaps to a grotto."
Naira pauses, remembering Istiel's claims of screams. "Or," with a frantic wring of her arm, the rain lightens, then stops altogether. She sounds bleak, a little shaken."The waters flows to a hidden passage. Not unheard of. With the storm and recent rain, it may be flooded. You, um, there may be people down there." Drowning, she finished in her head.
Istiel finishes drawing up her rope as Naira inspects the well, the soggy torch cresting the top in a few moments. She unties the torch, now covered in fetid water, and lets it fall to the ground. The rope stays wound around her shoulder.
She listens to the engineer's assessment without looking over, staring into the depths below. "The water rises. They do not have much time. I will find them." The rope drops from her shoulder and into the crook of her elbow, then against the side of the well. She begins to tie one end around her waist. "I need a light."
With a soft splash, you land next to the corpse, your feet touching something soft and giving; the pile of corpses below you, now submerged below the waterline.
The topmost corpse's mouth holds something, jutting from its mouth, that being closer, you can make out in the dim light: a fingerbone, long and thin, that seems to suck the surrounding light into it.
Across the well, the water whirls and slips through the stone cracks in the well wall, what must be Naira's secret passage. You can hear the screams more clearly now, two voices, panic-ridden, one intelligible, the other frantic but with the cadence of prayer...
The top of the well offers a good, if darkened, view of the monk's activities as she rappels down the side of the well. A grimace, hidden behind her mask, courses her face as she touches down on yet more corpses. The skin-stealer met justice. I will hunt down the bird priest next.
The fingerbone jutting out of the gaping mouth in front of her causes a moments pause- its magical properties clear. Thoughts of vengeance for the slain bolster her courage, and she reaches out to nab it with her free hand.
Curiously, the monk looks between the two objects in her hand. A stone, glowing with unnatural light, and a fingerbone, unnaturally hungrily feeding on said light. The darkness swallows the light. A reflection of the land above? Domhnall would have something profound to say about this.
Istiel briefly considers crushing the fingerbone, but a shudder runs through her body as fresh images of the exploding fetish seek to once again violate her mind. Hastily, the monk stuffs the darkened fingerbone into her belt pouch and ties it shut. Crushing the darkness yields suffering. If sealed away it can do no harm. Master, I hope this pleases you.
Her light now glowing in fierce defiance, she awkwardly steps over corpses to the cracks in the wall and begins searching for a way to open it. The monk gets her mouth close, and shouts. "CAN YOU HEAR ME? I AM MONK ISTIEL. OPEN THE PASSAGE."
She tries to open the passage by bracing the side of the well with her legs and simply pushing against the area where the cracks originate.