"Yes Sire. D-D'you have any water?"
The boy looks famished.
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Roscoe supported Norman wherever possible, lending his own thin frame for the two-faced man to lean on., while they made their way up the hill towards the caves and bone fences.
He didn't look back, but hoped the others would follow. There would be strength in numbers here, and he didn't appreciate the thought of becoming lost on his own.
He avoided eye contact, mostly because subconsciously he was grossed out by the two faces, but attempted conversation nonetheless.
"Norman, how long have you been here? Can you tell me anything we need to know? Where do we go and how do we get out of here?"
As the crew began to walk up the soft wall of the tunnel, defying all notions of gravity they were naturally accustomed to, they continued their conversations.
From this viewpoint, they were able to peer into that vale of dark and musk, seeing slightly more clearly. There was more life creeping about than they once thought. Small creatures, strange things, skittering about in the distance, alongside the familiar two-legged prisoners, still frantic. Each of these bodies flit, in and out of perception - as if they existed in one moment, and then did not, and then did again.
Truly, a perturbing place hung above their heads.
The pilgrims also noticed several of the same caves and holes noticed by the red man prior, nearing them as they went from floor, to wall, to cieling. Passing by several other of the mysterious steaming pools, their stench only served to keep festering, never waning, but only getting worse.
The closest entrances to the troupe were about a hundred yards off or more, one barren crevasse round, with another behind it, gated by skeletal posts, perhaps twenty yards off from the first.
Beyond these, the other caves were farther off, cut off from easy passage by means of mottled puddles and rigid cliffs of meat. Obtainable, sure, but the needs of those present demanded attention if the whole would carry on, surviving.
Norman leans on Roscoe's support, coughing as he talks.
"I'm unsure if I could recount to you how long it truly has been, young sire... I fell into this dreadful place much the same as you, I'd imagine. H-ch-however, I do know one thing... My master tried to summon music from this place. Valuable, unlike any else... Such cost me my life."
At this point in your conversation, you begin to get the feeling that the clothes that Norman is wearing is of a more high-brow nature, from wherever he may reside.
Graiel keeps his head an hood low, keeping pace with the group.
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"We should probably pick up the place. I'd like to be a good distance away before we have to rest."
Merek passes his squire some water. Dink sparingly. It's the last we have for some time.
As they travel, Merek tells the others what he knows of this land.
I've only been here a few months. It was just after I was removed of my armor and shield, my sword broken, my strength sapped from my body. With naught but the clothes on my back, I was banished from the City of Brass. If my squire did not jump through the portal at the last moment, with my broken sword in hand and a pack full of gear, we likely would have died long ago.
It wasn't long after we got here that the siblings started following us. They are Orphans. All the naked grey children are. They are invisible to every predator and oppressor we have encountered so far, and the Atherlings completely ignore them. We have done what we can to keep them fed; they shrivel like prunes when they go without. But they are good hands. They do as they're told and they help keep an eye out.
Merek pauses to answer the question: "What are the Atherlings?"
The alabaster men with tails are a race called 'Athelings', and they are generally unkind towards anyone who does not share their shape. They always have different colored eyes, and in passing we have found that they are named based on the colors of their eyes.
We have also observed that faeries are fearsome, and a commodity of the lands. The Athelings use them for several purposes, their tricks and secret craft and their scouting capabilities greatly aid the Athelings, and are perhaps the key factor which makes their troops unmatched.
There are three names we have learned in this land; the Gorelands, the River King, and the Fair King.
Of each of these we've heard conflicting claims that each individual person/place are a bastion of protection, a horror to be avoided at all costs, and that each has also granted gifts.
Above us - if you look up - you can see the craggy ceiling. There are settlements up there full of warbands. Between here and there, there are many creatures without any sort of natural prowess flying midair.
The behavior of creatures here can be telling. There seems to be only two types here: the Aggressors or those who think themselves strong, and the rest who hide at all costs. The in-between are us or anyone else who has come through the Black Door. Who we are is yet to be determined, but the slow to adapt are quickly consumed but this world.
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"Our first order of business should be to find a defensible position that will allow us to gather supplies and make plans from there. I wonder if there are any caves within range that will allow us to do just that. Also, do you know where these "Athelings" were taking us, and how they relate to the Elves? Do they use the magic of a pact with outer gods to cast heretical magics?"
Roscoe listens to Norman, but he's too swept up in the current situation to make any sense of what he's saying.
"I.. I'm not sure I follow." Roscoe said carefully. "Summon music? Was someone mad enough to tap into this place in the hope to find a composition of beauty?" He must have heard wrong.
Roscoe looked at the others and nodded his head. "I agree, but I feel we need to head for that cave over there." He indicated the closest entrance, about a hundred yards off. "I don't think we can make it far without gathering ourselves and get a bit of a plan together."
You begin to near the cave entrance laid plain before you.
About fifty yards off, in the meat there lay a wide spread of offal, larger than a man laying spread. In the smear there is found different footprints, worn and crusty. Beneath these footprints there are found fragments of some sort of primitive text.
You wander close to the entrance of the hole, and see the other, gated by bone about thirty yards off. It seems defendable, and even though there are no true paths within, with effort you think you could wander through the marrow fence, with care.
Each cave entrance spans about 10-13 feet in diameter.
Surrounding the one nearest you, there are several 'regular' sized mounds of s!$#.
None of the refuse is fresh, but it is not as old as the other smear far off. They each smell different, after a moment of wading among them towards the cave.
Roscoe listens to Norman, but he's too swept up in the current situation to make any sense of what he's saying.
"I.. I'm not sure I follow." Roscoe said carefully. "Summon music? Was someone mad enough to tap into this place in the hope to find a composition of beauty?" He must have heard wrong.
"When in the service of wizards, I suppose... Master was always a wild eccentric. He'd learned of this realm through some black scroll, and told me he heard his own late grand magus invoking the same, through the same... Perhaps I can find its' origin, and enjoy it on his behalf..."
The man seemed sad.
"Looks like something might inhabit this cave."
Gravel walks close to Kran and taps his shoulder with one hand while pointing to the newest smear.
None of this is fresh.
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Roscoe looks at Merek and nods. "Alright. Let's go have a look." He wasn't sure it was safe, but under the circumstances he felt like they couldn't afford not to take the chance.
"Beggars can't be choosers."
He let Norman stand on his own legs and pointed at a wall at the entrance. "Norman, would you keep watch here while I go see if it's safe?"
He held up his sword, and tried to peer inside before slowly going in to investigate.
You peer into the cave, and from what you can see, it seems like a tunnel burrowed straight down into the flesh. There are small bits of musculature and bone jutting out of the walls. The diameter of the burrow is about 15 feet here and there.
Deep, sitting at the bottom, you can barely make out what seems to be a pile of bones. You're unsure if this is simply the actual landscape being torn away, or perhaps a pile of ill fated persons.
You are able to make out this detail, however, due to the fact that in the center of the pile there lay a large silver chalice, filled with clear water.
Gazing down long enough, you begin to smell its cool, pure scent...
Something undefiled existed in this place.
Slowly he advances into the strange tunneled out cave. There's a great apprehension in his movement forward. As if with every step forward he'd much rather be running back.
It crosses his mind that the strange chalice could be a trap somehow, or at least the catalyst to the death of whoever lay there.
Still.. Roscoe moves on and has his guard up. He will stop when he can see the pile a bit better, and try to piece together the information he has.
Slowly he advances into the strange tunneled out cave. There's a great apprehension in his movement forward. As if with every step forward he'd much rather be running back.
It crosses his mind that the strange chalice could be a trap somehow, or at least the catalyst to the death of whoever lay there.
Still.. Roscoe moves on and has his guard up. He will stop when he can see the pile a bit better, and try to piece together the information he has.
You find yourself about a third of the way to the bottom of the cave.
As you clamber down the tunnel, grasping on to wet chunks and bony knobs.
Eventually, you are able to stand on two feet.
You see the light shed from the pristine goblet, upon the uneven skeletal floor.
The light it sheds clearly outlines the rim of the tunnel, however dusky, suggesting that there is more to the bottom of the cave rather than a small temple.
You smell faint hints of the same vomit smell found in the steaming ponds.
...
Norman looks to the lot of you.
"So, lads, where are each of you from? What were your lives like before... this?"
The moustached man seems relaxed.
A steaming figure jumps out from it, sailing towards them, ever silently.
From the quadruped form covered in foul fog there juts two large, long bony prongs, seeking to skewer.
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"I am a stone singer of my clan." says Kran as if that explains everything.
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Kran is listening to the man talk, then cocks his head, turns, and says "Prepare yourselves for battle."
Roscoe turned around and made his way back towards the group. Blissfully unaware of what Kran has just spotted he reported back his findings.
"There's something strange down there, a goblet of some sort. Many died here and I don't think it would be advisable to drink from it." He said, as he dusted off his coat.
"Still, even though I haven't seen everything this cavern has to offer, I think here at the entrance we have the best chance of getting some rest. We should tend to our wounds. I can take first watch, but to whoever is taking it after me.. watch for danger from the valley, and from the cavern."
The floating figure begins to articulate as the steaming acid evaporates from its' frame.
The shroud reveals a hulking tiger with the face of a vampire soaring towards you,
two long bony talons jutting forth from its shoulders as thirsty pikes, seeking to pierce.
Its spine is covered in malefic spikes, running down the length of its' scorpion tail.
Group Initiative = 8
"Meatlings Fressh, fancy mine! Stomach's coin, DANCE SUBLIME!"
It roars, sweeping down towards Graiel, with skeletal spears unkind.
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"I wonder what you taste like, spineger." says Kran as he begins singing a song of the thunder that once again channels it into his hands. Kran then moves and swings his fist at the new threat.
The stormfist strikes the flying beast, dismantling it's trajectory, dropping it's prey during the aerial tussle.
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Laying on his back, Graiel stares at his attacker with purple glowing eyes. All around begin hearing whispers in their minds.
As it flies off, the proud knight of flame stabs forth with his broken sword, producing fire from its' hilt, striking the left haunch of the monster.
"Children, stand behind me." He speaks, hand waving them off.
The scrappy beast lands on the floor, next to the hole of the tunnel.
Adjacent to Roscoe and Norman, it rattles its' head about, trying to shrug off the malevolent voice of its' prior target.
"NNN-nettles bloom, berry's gloom... Nettle-sting, buggy WING!"
Up from the tunnel there erupts a small flash of glittering light.
Their number is hard to tell, but there are definitely more than one,
and now they are hidden.
Group Initiative = 10.5
The beast eyes the two closest to it now, with large, yellow, feline eyes, contemplating. It clicks its' many fangs together playfully before the words emit from its' mouth...
Speaking to Norman, Roscoe, and Graiel, it mocks;
"Which of these bear more life, more vigor true?
Tell me, morsels, lest you rue..."
Standing back on its' four legs again, the tiger's tarantula-leg-like bone tendrils strike again those close.
With a CRACK, one such bonespear rips into Norman as one razored whip. Blood spurts forth from the gentleman, and he falls to his knees, crying out in muffled agony.
The other reaches for the pious red scout.
They have dispersed from the scene, none to be found.
However, they too have dealt the damning blow to the eldritch monster, and it loafs around in fatal throes,
fleshy tortoise still writhing inside it's bloated mouth.
All in all, the air feels far too wet, and far too hot.
The belchy breath of this land is suffocating, and you feel it weighing down on the limits of your soul; your dignity.
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"DIE ABOMINATION!" screams Kran as he again swings his ensorcelled fist at the creature.
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Graiel rises to his feet and beyond to the tips of his toes as if some unseen force were lifting him. His eyes glow brighter and the disembodied voices grow louder. Shrieking, mumbling, laughing, crying, all verbal expressions of emotion coalescing into a cacophony inside your minds.
The virile whelp is pommeled by the dwarf, sliding backwards again, now to the other side of the hole by the direction you're all facing.
It begins to scowl now, in a manner more like a frustrated child than anything else.
"SOUR tarts? For MY sweetheart??"
In a flash surrounding primarily Kran, two dazzling insects appear midair,
One with face stern, another with a perky grin.
From the grouchy sprite there is let loose a smoky white cloud, settling upon the man. His electric indomitability seems to fade, even if for but a moment...
From the grinning, there is let loose a melody of havoc from its' chirping wings, clicking together. Confusion
Graiel and Merek are out of the range of the music's malignance, though they are hence irritated, and for a moment, begin to feel paranoia creeping inside of their bones.
As the creature spears Norman, Roscoe steps in and swings his black blade with both hands, hoping to strike the creature.
"Sprites incoming! From the tunnel!" He shouts as sweat is gushing from him and he's getting in close with the demon.
Group Initiative = 11.25
The smoky blade from Roscoe's hand slashes the dizzy lion right in its' face, gashing from snarled cheek into vicious mouth, purple humors.
The beast disengages from it's motley prey, swiftly burrowing into the tunnel, singing sadly;
"Keep your skin, you win, you win! Keep your meats, little treats! Leave me be, to be with brother and bees!"
The fae likewise hover over this same tunnel, about 10 or so feet overhead of the tallest of you.
The scowling one snorts
"Y'all heard her. Get lost, or else."
And the grinning sprite laughing, as if drunk, spouts;
"I mean you could stay... It seems the party's just getting started!"
It points at your confused, seemingly inebriated swayings from its' recent spell, slightly mocking.
"Thank gods..." Norman gasps. "Gentlemen, any chance any of you have ether to spare, perhaps?"
The two faced man clutches his blood-muddy breast.
Merek is preoccupied, perhaps panicked, regathering his three pages.
Kran begins moving at top speed away from the battle, in a seemingly random direction.
wisdom check:
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Roscoe slowly turned around. He ignored the sprites, and seemed apathetic to having routed the beast.
Roscoe showed no concern about Kran taking a sprint.
Then the smell of blood came into focus, and Roscoe regarded Norman with tilted head. He stepped up to the man, on who he moments earlier had applied bandages, and instead of lending another helping hand..
He lunged his blade at Norman, trying to skewer him.
Attack:
Damage:
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Graiel, with glowing purple eyes, turns to look at Kran and tries to claw at him...
...to no avail.
Roscoe slowly turned around. He ignored the sprites, and seemed apathetic to having routed the beast.
Roscoe showed no concern about Kran taking a sprint.
Then the smell of blood came into focus, and Roscoe regarded Norman with tilted head. He stepped up to the man, on who he moments earlier had applied bandages, and instead of lending another helping hand..
He lunged his blade at Norman, trying to skewer him.
Attack: d20+5
Damage: d10+3
Roscoe's sword plunges into the butler's ribs, and a look of horror overcome his faces, as his second face begins to cough up blood.
"Roscoe, m-my lad... Why?..."
He falls forwards, off of the devil's blade, down into the tunnel.
As this process continues, the flames upon his ifrit head begin to grow, and touch the flame of the candle's wick.
The smiling sprite quips to his droopy twin;
"You know, that's what I love about this tune... You never know how they take it!"
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Roscie stands still, as the figure of Norman disapears into the tunnel. He doesn't seem to have any reaction whatsoever to the cold-blooded murder. His arms hand by his side, and his blade is pointing to the ground, drops of blood slowly dropping into a small pool next to his boot.
Kran stands stock still, looking around and unsure of which way to go.
As if waking from a dream, you feel a moment of intense vertigo as your consciousness snaps awake.
You find before you silence where there was was noise,
Peace where there was once struggle,
and absence where there was once comrades.
Merek, Norman, and the faeries are gone.
You may or may not be sure of where they went,
What you can remember feels like a swirl of sound and colors.
But the blood remains.
About fifty yards to your east, Merek's three children slowly bound toward the three of you, their chest heaving with sadness.
You stand near the manticore's tunnel. Forty yards to your west, there lay the other tunnel guarded with fence of bone.
On the cieling, several hundred yards to your south, there lay the two beasts, each lay lifeless, stuck in their prior wrestle, betwixt two acrid ponds.
To your north there lay the dark mouth to the path of the Athelings' den.
To your south there lay the long sojourn towards where the lot of you were captured, by your memory, still a dreary road.
To your west there lay the open frontier; the gorelands wide.
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The purple glow fades from his eyes as Graiel falls to the ground clutching his head.
Kran looks around but doesn't see...anyone. Unsure of what to do now, he listens to see if he can hear the others.
The children return to you, bawling.
"They took him away! What will we DO now?"
You realize in this hellish maelstrom that Merek was the closest thing the pink boy and grey twins had to a father, or any real source of care.
The scent of vomit still plagues your core.
"You need to come with us. We need a better spot....I swear, this place is like the insides of a giant beast." says Kran as he once again begins looking around for threats or anything else.
Graiel rises from his huddling silently follows behind Kran.