Samoon quirks an eyebrow, deciding between ifrits and monsters. Judging the trough-thing to be the larger threat, Samoon stays with Marianne and Samen. Albreane sticks close to Samoon.
From your vantage point, you still only see the arms and claws. The scales are undeniably reptilian in nature, a dusty yellow color. There are also a few shiny blobs on the arms, like little sores or pimples made of metal.
Wamblee follows Big Sitter. The ifrits go to a blank space of wall about halfway down the length of the chamber. One ifrit presses a brass gauntlet to the wall, and a small section glows and disappears. Without a word, the ifrits go into the newly-revealed passage.
The passage is narrow, and rather short. To either side, there are small alcoves just barely large enough to hold an elen or two. Crude bars of iron have been lodged in place to turn these alcoves into makeshift prisons. You hear movement in one of the cells up ahead.
Wamblee continues quietly moving, his eyes peeled for ifrits or prisoners.
An unfortunate foot placement causes Wamblee to kick a stone, which clatters against the walls. The six ifrits turn as one...
Wamblee Init:
Samen Init:
Ifrit Init:
Albreane eyes Marianne and Samen, who led the way to the clawed beast. She mouths, what now?
In a moment, Wamblee selects the kama, grasping both ends.
And charges, fist first at the ifrit on the right.
Samen looks to his older sister, hefting his staff. You want me to whack it?
Samoon reaches into his bandolier casually and flips a bomb towards the ifrits, taking care to not hit his siblings.
Wamblee smacks the closest ifrit with a solid blow.
One of the other ifrits tries to approach Wamblee, and gets tripped by his kama. Another approaches...
and is tripped as well. The ifrits do not seem particularly concerned by this; they try to extricate themselves from the awkward tangle of limbs. Walking over the arms and fingers of their compatriots, another two ifrits finally manage to get past Wamblee's defenses and surround him.
Big Sitter yells a guttural oath in Oread, and charges at the back of one of the ifrits who attacked Wamblee.
The ifrit takes the axe to the back of the head, and slumps to the ground.
Samoon hits one of the tripped ifrits, and the shocking energy arcs to the surrounding ifrits as well.
The gauntlet ifrit, his expression unchanging, bangs his brass gauntlet against the bars of a nearby cell. The sound is much louder than expected, and somehow the ifrit seems to hurl the agonizing ringing toward Wamblee, Sitter, and Samoon.
Wamblee winces from the multiple blows but holds his ground, switching to his sansetsukon.
I will keep the ifrits from the others.
Marianne sits poised, like a taught bow. She jerks a hand to direct Samen into position, letting Albreane find her own place, and then lifts her bow. Smoothly, silently, she draws two arrows from her quiver and puts one to the string. A breath, faint, escapes her lips, barely audible to those near her. ”Bás le mo naimhde.” Death to my enemies. A beat of silence, and then a roar like a storm wind, Unheard within the roar, a bowstring twangs twice.
Samen will tap his staff on the ground and charge it up. "What she said!"
rounds
Samoon, ever the experimenter, decides to not toss a bomb at the gauntleted ifrit. Instead, he raises his staff, trying to encase the gauntleted arm in a casing of shining force. "Here goes nothing," he mutters.
Samen makes his arcane preparations. Marianne fires twice at the scaly arm protruding from the tall trough. Both strike the scaly limb, causing bright orange blood to leak onto the ground. The smell is sickly-sweet, almost rotten.
Immediately, a bulbous, yellowish head upon a long neck whips out of the trough, spilling liquid off the side. The visage does indeed vaguely resemble a pogona, but there are traces of alligator and frog as well. The cheeks bulge; the forehead looks dented. Teeth go in all directions, horizontal and vertical. Thick yellow fluid oozes from over-sized nostrils, and the beast has but a single pointed ear. And the eyes...
The eyes are beautiful. The blue-gray orbs belong to an ancient cat who has gazed upon the storms of the heavens. The beast croons a poison-sweet lullaby...
Marianne and Bree are asleep rounds
Marianne and Bree sink to their knees, and their eyes close. They seem at peace in their slumber.
Wamblee initially misses with the the three-section staff, but brings it around to brutally snap into the face of the ifrit who just took Samoon's bomb. He falls.
Heedless of Wamblee's tough skin or his obvious martial prowess, the ifrits crowd around and raise their hammers.
One ifrit strikes a particularly hard blow - the hammer rings from its contact with Wamblee.
Big Sitter stands in place on the hard, blinking, trying to recover from the loud echoes within his head.
Samoon creates a perfect shimmering cube that encases the brass gauntlet, holding it in an awkward position. The ifrit almost looks like he is waving.
The gauntlet ifrit struggles violently, and
shatters the box of light. This effort leaves him winded, unable to continue his sonic attacks for the moment.
Your arcana also tells you this thing is vulnerable to fire and resistant to cold.
"Gods above and below, you're ugly. Hey Mar!" He pokes her gently but firmly with his staff. "Maybe now's not the time to rest, huh?"
”I hate caves,” Marianne moans, sitting up a little blearily. Shaking herself, she kicks Bree none too gently before standing. ”Come, let us slay this Dark abomination!” she snarls, readying her bow.
Wamblee feels winded for a moment from the hammer blow.
This might be it. I cannot afford to hold back. Master Yuma did complain that I could be too meticulous. Well, about this!?
Wamblee decides to treat the head of the ifrit between him and Sitter much like a tree he used to practice on. The one that cracked.
Samoon flips another bomb at the ifrits, this time choosing fire.
"Figure out the weaknesses of that 'dragon', Mar, and wake up Bree! If we can get an angry air elemental it's worth it!"
Wamblee fells the southern ifrit.
The remaining two ifrits continue to pound on the thick-skinned oread:
Angry from the damage to his ears, Sitter picks up his axe and casually sinks it into the ifrit to the west:
Samoon's bomb hits the gauntlet ifrit. The splash is enough to knock the northern hammer ifrit to the ground.
The gauntlet ifrit, swaying on his feet, throws one last noisy chime upon Sitter and Samoon -
Ignoring the stunned Samoon and the possibly dying Wamblee, Big Sitter froths and laughs as he chops down the gauntlet ifrit, severing his arm and stomping about in the blood.
Wamblee crashes to the ground, knocked senseless.
Albreane twitches awake, shaking her head, and stands up. Pointing her hand at the dragon, palm first, she attempts to deflect a blow from the beast with a gust-
The pogona-croc, a note of anger in its whine now, snaps at Samen, heedless of the wind blowing into its face:
Samen, the jagged teeth rip into your shoulder and chest like a saw.
*drip*
*drip*
*drip*
Goes Wamblee's blood onto the stone.
Samoon, as your head clears after several seconds, your eyes focus on your brother, broken and unconscious on the ground.
"Ow! That hurt, you forsaken abomination! Eat fire!"
Samen casts a (fire) Frostbite, then tries to hit the beast twice.
Samen's staff lights up with flame, and two crushing attacks strike the foul monster. The smell of burning flesh fills the air, along with a bitter chemical odor from the trough.
With a scream of pain, the thing slumps into the trough, completely submerged. Samen is just tall enough to see over the side - the opaque, crimson liquid shows no signs of movement.
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"Samen! Crack its head to be sure and get moving! Big Sitter only starts laughing like that when fights get deadly!" Marianne calls, sprinting down the tunnel after the other group.
When she arrives, she immediately drops to her knees next to Wamblee. "You're tougher than any of us, so why are you always the one we are pulling back from the brink of death?" she mutters angrily as she tears off part of his clothing and tries to bandage him. As she does, Marianne raises her voice, roaring into the darkness.
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Samen eyes the trough with suspicion as his sister's nagging voice carries on the wind.
She sounds just like mother when she's angry.
Samen channels the rest of his arcane fury into the staff, attempting to poke a hole in the trough to drain it, seeking to forestall any regeneration effect from the malodorous soup.
Successful or not, he trots down the passageway toward the rest of the group.
Samoon raises himself up, ears ringing, then crawls over to Wamblee. He fumbles for a vial on his bandolier.
"Drink this, brother," he says, mainly to himself, as he trickles it down Wamblee's throat. Samoon himself is hardly scratched by the sonic onslaught.
Samoon notes that Wamblee is still unconscious. "Damn it," he grumbles.
"MARRRR!" he shouts. "Anyone!" He does not leave Wamblee's side.
The dripping abruptly stops. Wamblee's body relaxes, though he still does not awaken.
Samen ambles over at looks at the scene around them. "So... how did your adventure go? I got halfway eaten, but I think it's all the way thumped. Any survivors?"
Samen drops some acid on Wamblee.
The attack on the trough does put a hole in it - impressive, considering it is just shy of an inch thick. Sludgy brown-red fluid leaks out of it.
----
After Samen's acid bath, Albreane tends to Wamblee's injuries with unhurried care.
Samen's question, in the meantime, is answered by the thump squish of Sitter's axe. All six ifrits are dead, and most are thoroughly dismembered. Breathing heavily, Sitter takes a knee still softly chuckling.
Samen arches an eyebrow at Sitter. "Well now how are we going to see if the brass is safe? Someone's going to need to touch that gauntlet and see if they go all wibbly. Any volunteers?"
"...Sitter, are you all right?" says Samoon.
"Someone with great strength of will," suggests the elder brother. "I nominate our sister."
Samen nods. "Great strength of will and poor strength of arm. You up for it Mar? Just a quick poke."
Samen gets in position, ready to tackle her if it touches back.
Wamblee groans, and picks himself up off the ground. He gathers any weapons he dropped, and then joins in the debate.
"Why touch the brass at all? It's likely corrupt. We should bury it or melt it instead. And what happened with the dragon?"
Sitter stands up. "Yeah, volc the glove. Let's just-" He reaches for the bars of the far alcove-cell. There is a blue flash, and the large oread is thrown to the far wall. His skin is steaming, not from heat, but from freezing cold. Wisps of breath escape his stiff, unmoving mouth.
"..."
Wamblee is shocked into silence, but runs over to Sitter and sees if there is anything he can do.
Wamblee, your hands at still unsteady from your own blood loss. Sitter's eyes swivel over to you, a silent plea.