The Dwarf nears his opponent, swinging his axe downward at the metallic creature.
The blades of Quick and Gorim clang against hard scales, but Gwath hits again. His heavy blade misses his previous damage to the machine by inches, but carves away scales and internal parts just the same. The glowing red eyes turn to the half-orc, and unleashes more fire in retaliation. The fiery spray covers the brazier behind Gwath as well, but the blue embers do little more than intensify for a moment before returning to their dim, cold light.
Quick lashes out with his blade once more.
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Henry Southgard's glances over at the brazier, wondering if the embers absorbed the fire or if it was merely a trick of the eyes.
He loads the crossbow, aims for the construct...
And the bolthead flattens against an armored scale, hardly scratching the metal.
The half-orc mage shears off scales and a leg, but the exposed internal parts continue to whir and click.
The privateer’s blade connects with a hole in the mechanical dragon’s scaly armor, and its metal parts move no more, other than falling with a loud clamor against the stone floor. The red glow in the dragon's eyes dim to black.
"Drink deep," Henry Southgard says as he passes a red potion to Quick. He motions to the broken construct. "Is that thing native?"
Gorim chuckles at Gwath's comment while inspecting his own charred robes, "I've got a little somethin' for all of us, in fact."
The Cleric swings his holy symbol from his wrist into his fingers, and closes his eyes. A moment passes, followed by a faint white glow expanding outward from the Hand of Irori.
"I hope that thing isn't natural." Quick says in response to Henry. Looking to Gwath, "It was likely a test.Shall we continue?"
Quick nods to Gorim.
"We aren't moving until we're good and ready," Henry Southgard says, digging through his pack. "And for future reference, the next time we run into one of those mechanical golems, we draw it out into the open and do the Silas City Shuffle until we've got it surrounded."
"Also, we've still got some unidentified magic items that might be useful against more... 'tests'. Let's have a look at them, shall we?"
Gorim nods, "Agreed. Grab anythin' you think it may be," he says, motioning to Henry's pack.
"Let's check that journal for sure, still itchin' to know if that's the source".
Quick will detect magic once Henry has laid out all the items he wants checked.
From his pack, Henry Southgard produces a small bag of coins (6gp 14sp 6cp), two potions (Coffee-brown and bluish-purple in color), a small silver ring, 2 gold teeth, a pearl, and the D10 of Agony.
Quick finds magical auras on both stoppered potions, but this is no surprise to him. What does draw his attention is the energy pulsing from the pearl Henry pulled from his pack.
The half-orc mage identifies the oddity as a Pearl of Power , a potent aid to anyone who must prepare their spells at the beginning of the day. On command, once per day , the spellcaster can use the pearl to recall a prepared spell that he or she already cast that day. The spell is prepared again, as if it had never been cast. The Pearl of Power must be held in hand to activate. Quick thinks Gorim could make good use of this magical pearl.
Quick stoops and scoops up the pearl. "Gorim, this will allow you to recall a spell gifted by your diety after casting it. You are the only one among us capable of using such an item as intended. I say you should have. If Henry doesn't mind that is?"
Henry Southgard passes the Pearl to Gorim.
"So, you aren't getting anything on the potions? What about that brazier over there? It seemed to swallow up the golem's fire."
Gorim takes the pearl, nodding to the mercenary. He holds it to the light grinning, spinning it between his fingers, "Fascinating... despite all my travels and I've never seen such a thing..."
"...I mean, I've seen pearls, but..." he pockets the item, "Thanks".
While waiting for Quick to snap out of his concentration, Henry Southgard walks over to one of the braziers and passes his hand over the coals.
The crossbowman feels no heat from the azure coals.
After concentration for some time, Quick blinks and his eyes return to their normal hue.
"I can't get a clear picture here. I'm not sure what the rest are."
"We should not linger. I am eager to see what lies ahead."
Quick helps Henry recover his things, stands, and places a hand on the door. "Ready?"
"Illusory fire," Henry Southgard says as he withdraws his hand. "And don't worry about the potions. We can sit down and examine them later."
He loads his crossbow and stands by the door.
The Dwarf drums his fingers on his axe.
"Aye, let's go".
Wordlessly, Henry Southgard opens the door and steps through.
The stone door opens to a large room with a high ceiling. Stairs at the center of the room rise up fifteen feet, to a waist-high stone pedestal. The steps spread in four different directions, and between each stair, another low iron basin ripples blue light from glowing coals. The air in this chamber is a comfortably warm and smells of fire, and the four quickly notice a low orange light emitted from the braziers in the corners of the room.
The effect of the orange and blue lighting casts bizarre shadows on a bizarre sight, not far from the entrance. Laying before Henry and those behind him are two deceased black-skinned elves with silver hair, and between them a skeleton of scattered bones. The dark elf bodies bear deep, long cuts, though near each of their hands lays a rapier while the other is obscured by a light shield. The collection of dry, old bones wears a set of scalemail over its frame, and two very sharp sickles are strewn from where the fleshless corpse must have dropped them. A helm-encased skull appears to have rolled a few feet away from where the rest of the bones.
The air is quiet, save for a low hiss from the orange braziers, and no immediate danger presents itself, but the four cannot shake the sensation that they are being watched.
Quick strides forward a pace and kneels, his sword point to the ground. He speaks earnestly in the dragon-tongue.
"Lord Apsu, hear me. I am Kiir Do Faal Viintaas Gein. I implore you: favor your servant with a sign of your good pleasure. Make it known to your faithful that may abide here that I come in faith, and that those with me, while ignorant of your ways, mean no harm."
"We are come to protect the Silver Scale, and we have traveled far. Please, guide me in your will that I may defend your interests and fulfill my destiny to throw down the destroyer Aarmag and set the world to rights."
Listening to Quick's Draconic words, Gorim gently lowers himself to his knees, placing his weapon on the floor.
He surveys the room for any kind of response, listening carefully for anything beyond the hissing braziers.
Henry Southgard steps to the side to let Quick pass and surveys the room.
He feels no need to join the other's genuflection; of the two gods he knows, he's not quite on speaking terms with one and the other doesn't care for life outside of glorious combat.
The dead Drow and skeleton immediately catch his eyes. He sets his crossbow aside in favor of his falchion, nudges the skull out of the helmet, and crushes it beneath his boot.
That done, he pulls one of the dead Drow closer to a brazier and begins searching the body.
As Henry steps closer to bodies, he notices some additional anatomy to the skeleton; if his eyes do not deceive him, two narrow arms-length fingers are damaged around the dry-boned shoulder blades. The protrusions extend from intentional holes in the back of the scale armor, and remind the mercenary of the skeletal frame of bat wings.
At a casual glance, the black leather armor worn by the dark elf is embossed with a spider web design, and a hand crossbow is strapped to a belt, along with a quiver of short bolts. The black painted steel shield bears an engraved image of a spider, though the paint is marred by deflected blows. A dark, weathered pack is flattened under the dead body.
The room is silent for a few moments after Quick’s words. However, as soon as Henry begins to search the drow corpse, a booming, bitter voice fills the chamber with the mothertongue of each mortal in the room.
Henry feels a strong and sudden urge to cease his search.
Quick, about to berate Henry for his abhoring behaviour, stops short when the disembodied voice rings out in the chamber.
"Til los nid volaan het, drog. Zu'u los sahvotei wah faal Wahliik do Pah. Daar voth zey lost tul wah koriim suleyk do faal Vendruniik, ahrk los sadly hinzaal do prudaav ven. Zu'u lost kosaan ko til company nunon lith sul, ahrk nalkun dii fron ahrk sonaak genun reverence faal Drog Apsu. sovrahzun los gritiik, ahrk brash ahst tol. Zu'u dreh ni korah rok seik naan vahzah aax."
"Lig, genun hinmaar, ahrk genun mii ko vir mu aal aam daar stahdim raald."
"There are no intruders here, lord. I am faithful to the Maker of All. These with me have yet to witness the power of the Waybringer, and are sadly ignorant of the proper ways. I have been in their company only a few days, and already my kin and the priest show reverence to the Lord Apsu. The mercenary is a skeptic, and brash at that. I do not believe he means any true harm."
"Please, show yourself, and instruct us in how we may serve this holy temple."
Henry Southgard's search stops for a few moments as his mind wanders.
"Yokeless egg. Edible but not satisfying. All the flavor is in the yoke. Eat it if you have to, better off fried with salt, pepper, and pork fat. Could use it for baking. Elves make a sort of bread with egg whites, but it's really more of a pastry. Goes stale in a day..."
The Dwarf observes Henry in astonishment.
Yokeless egg? Does the voice mean to say Henry is without substance? ...without honour?
The dwarf think back to how this began, with eggs being dished up on his plate. With Moss. With the eagerness to see these hills, their magnificent views and to see adventure. Then the orcs filled the streets, wielding falchions and extreme prejudice...
His fingers wander to the rip in his robes, where to Orc cut him deep.
"Proszę, wybacz naszą wkroczenia, nie urazić. Wielu szuka Srebrnego Scale", states the Dwarf, gesturing toward the Drow, "Po co mamy się nauczyć. Żałujemy bezpiecznej pozycji".
"Najemnik myśli przede wszystkim o przetrwanie, to należy się spodziewać człowieka ukształtował od bitwy - ale nie jest bez honoru".
"Please, forgive our trespassing, we mean not to offend. Many seek the Silver Scale", gesturing toward the Drow, "To what end we've yet to learn. We only wish the item safe".
"The mercenary thinks first and foremost of survival, this is to be expected of a man fashioned from battle -- but he is not without honour".
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While Gorim and Quick begin to answer in their own tongues, Gwath simply begins to raise his eyebrows back and forth in confusion. What kind of question is this? A riddle? Or rhetorical? The voice must have spoken to us in different languages hence Gorim and Quick's responses... My first instinct to not answer at all.
Gwath stares at Henry with a furrowed brow. He too seems to be turning it over in his mind. "Henry, did we hear the same thing? Something about a cock egg?"
"...and that Gnome in Thaleniel. Used egg yolks to keep a mixture of oil and vinegar from separating. Great condiment, needs a better name than mayonnaise."
Henry Southgard snaps out of his trance when Gwath calls out.
"I heard a voice speaking in Common, asked about yolkless eggs." Henry realizes that Gorim and Quick seem to be answering in their own tongues. It reminds him of the charnel room, where a spirit affected each of them differently.
"Quick question. Did the voice use the Orcish word for an egg yolk, or the word for an oxen yoke?"
A deep, knowing chuckle echoes off the stone walls.
“Tongue-Wagger of the Shining One”
By the sound of it, the source of the voice seems to be changing its position in the chamber, but it is difficult to pinpoint where.
Gorim manages a nod to Henry's words, a puzzled expression taking hold of the Dwarfs face as he listens to the voices words.
He focuses on pinning down the its location.
Henry opens his mouth to retort, closes it, and hangs his head in deferrence.
These questions make no sense...
The dwarf’s wisened senses detect the voice to have started at the pedestal where the stairs meet, but now slowly drifts fifteen feet in the air, over a blue-embered brazier, toward the nearest left corner of the room.
When the four have no immediate answer, the deep voice continues, “I am Zaal Vsok, Highest of the Silver Faith, the last of our brotherhood, and this question has gnawed at my sanity for two days.”
“When our faithful were many, it was I who inherited the mantle of leadership, and decided whose hearts were ready to see and meditate by the Silver Scale. Doubtless you encountered my brothers' unquiet spirits, who failed in the gathering of disciples when new folk brought new gods to this land, and whose bodies have since succumbed to the decay of time. My oaths demanded that I remain here, and as my word as my bond, my soul occupied my failing flesh for centuries longer. One thousand years, this sanctum was unbreached, and when my soul measured years as a breath, the third of these vermin overpowered my defense of the Silver Scale. The greed and wickedness of dark-hearted mortals struck down my ancient bones, and the Silver One saw fit to continue my accursed existence. Bound to the site that I swore to protect, I am doomed to ponder my failure until the unraveling of the world.”
Quick shakes himself from his rapt attention at the last words. Condemned?
"But you have not failed. Many still serve and revere The Silver Fire. Apsu is just and merciful, he would not punish you so long. Show us how to help you, ancient brother."
At the spirit's words, the real Henry Southgard sneaks a quick glance toward the skull he just crushed underfoot. Oops.
The Dwarf gazes in the direction of the soul, nodding at the young Half-Orcs words.
"Allow us to help you, Zaal."