Samen ignores Sitter's plight. "Well alright. I guess there is latent magic present. I guessed it was tied in with cold magic somehow. This seems to corroborate that guess. Investigating the cages seems wise, but let's make sure the thing is well and truly dead. Anyone else want to see a dead monstrosity?"
Albreane's mouth turns down at Samen's callousness. "I'll stay here and at least try to keep the big fool warm. Samen is right though, if you're not completely sure that thing is dead, go finish the job."
"Sitter! Damn it all, no one touch anything!" Samoon scuttles over to Sitter's side. "Who has some means of heat without smoking us out of here? We need to get him warm."
Samoon tries to ascertain the magic on the bars.
Samen, having nothing useful to contribute, will cautiously head back and check on the monster.
Samoon, you are relatively certain it is some form of evocation magic, but without detect magic or some other way to interact with it you do not know much else to go on.
The dragon is still dead. The tub is mostly drained of its foul ichor. Upon closer examination...
The beast's eyes are gone. Faint smudges of black ooze surround both of the gaping sockets.
Wamblee speaks up.
"I have torches. They are better than nothing."
He grasps a trio of torches, and his flint and steel, clearly preparing to light them if no better alternative arises.
Albreane motions you to light them, and takes them somewhat rudely in her haste. "I'll take a little smoke over allowing him to die. Come here Samoon, hold one of these. Wamblee, sit down if you are still feeling woozy from the fight." She holds two of the torches herself, carefully feeling out the distance so as not to burn Big Sitter.
Marianne hurried back down the tunnel to check the beast as soon as Wamblee is stabilized. She tenses when she hears Big Sitter go flying, but relaxes when no more sounds of distress come from back down the tunnel. Having returned, she relays to the others what she saw. ”It is, *huff* ”definitely dead,” she pants, winded from the exertion of fighting and sprinting back and forth a couple of times. ”It’s eyes have,” *huff* ”turned to black sludge.” Once she has caught her breath, she eyes the bars, trying to ignore the prone oread ringed in torches. He’ll be fine. Not that I care about heathen sand-brain, but he’s too tough to die that easily. ”What is this gauntlet?” she asks, having seen no obvious ways through the bars. ”Did it cause that blast of sound we heard during the fighting?”
"Yes. No idea who forged it, though. Someone or someones are the masters around here--Rentwyrth clearly was one--but someone else is in charge now." .
Samoon goes over to investigate the charnel forges that the ifrits were working on. "Now...what were they doing..."
Wamblee begins to light torches and will pull out more if asked.
I'll turn on detect magic and start looking around.
Wamblee and Albreane continue to warm up Sitter. The monk notices Bree shoot daggers at Samoon's back as he ignores her request, caught up in his curiosity.
Upon closer inspection, you see dismembered bodies discarded haphazardly in bins. It is somewhat of a blessing that their identities have been erased by the damage. In particular, you notice all the rib cages of these dead elens have been cracked open. Their hearts are missing.
You imagine these foul troughs hold the heart's blood of dozens of elens.
It takes you a few minutes, but you find a small fissure behind the dragon's trough. There is an aura of moderate enchantment magic, similar in feel to the dragon's sleep song, coming from it. It does not appear to be active magic, but simply a lingering presence.
"Fallen Sky...is this brass being quenched heartsblood of these poor elens?"
He glances back at Bree, a little snappish. "What is it? I'm investigating. Oh right, Sitter." He wanders back. "I was investigating," he says to no one in particular, holding the torch.
Another minute, and Sitter begins to regain some color. His breathing stabilizes, and the rime upon his skin melts away. "River full of piss! Who's still around to bash, I swear if any of those 'frits are still alive I'll kill 'em!" He stands up, wobbles unsteadily, and glares around the narrow tunnel.
”Sit back down you oaf!” Marianne snaps at the warrior. ”Just because you are conscious doesn’t mean you are ready to fight. Give it a couple more minutes, else you’ll be useless if we get into another fight!”
"Fine! Somebody figure out those bars, though." He looks at Samoon, frowning. "Can't you blow 'em up or something?"
"We could try prying them off..." says Samoon. "Or better yet, figuring out a way to deactivate a spell. Everything is dangerous around here, Sitter. Let's not be hasty." .
As you all peer at the bars, you see huddled shapes beyond. They are likely bound and gagged, but you think you can make out the skinny form of Old Bertrude.
With nothing else of note happening in the larger chamber, Samen will wander back to the others (still having detect magic on). "What do you want to bet that gauntlet is the only way to open the bars? Anyone have some elbow-length gloves?"
"Oh, and there's some enchantment magic coming through a crack in the wall back there. Not quite sure what to do with it."
"The ifrit used the gauntlet to open a door," says Samoon in agreement. "We'll have to try it to open the bars."
Wamblee sighs.
"I fear Samen is correct. In that case, I am willing to wear the gauntlet to try and free the prisoners."
If there are no objections, Wamblee will begin to walk towards the gauntlet.
With no objections, Wamblee tries to slide his right hand into the gauntlet.
Wamblee, you feel a scritch scratch, like leopard claws against your skull. Scritch. You close your eyes. Breath in. Scratch. Breath out. You visualize yourself taking root in deep soil. Your bark is thick, and these small claws do nothing to you.
The sensation fades, and ceases. You are still in control of yourself.
Wamblee exhales.
"I am rooted. I am still myself. And I will open this cage."
He lifts his now gauntlet-ed right arm, and taking great care to not aim it at anyone, he maneuvers it towards the lock of the door - or a suitable bar if no lock is visible. He intends to turn and pull as a start and see what happens.
The bars melt away under your touch, like ice before a fire. There is now an opening wide enough to let even wide-shouldered Wamblee and Samen through with a bit of squeezing.
Marianne rushes in and sets about untying the captives, starting with Old Bertrude. ”Everybody stay calm” she says, somehow the picture of calm herself, only dusty to her family’s bloodstained attire. ”We are going to get you out, but you are all in less danger if you stick together and don’t go running off.” The calm words continue as she works. When she finishes, she moves among them distributing what food she can, along with saying prayers over sylphs and anyone who asks, and generally working to provide comfort.
As you untie the prisoners and remove the cloth sacks from their heads, you see Bertrude, as well as a handful of townspeople: the priest, two sons of the Neri hunting family, and two older ifrit miners. And that is all.
Sitter pushes Marianne out of the way, looking in the corners of the alcove as if someone could be hiding in such a small space. Frantically, he peers in the remainder of the cells. He finds nothing. His steps are surprisingly calm and measured as he walks out of the confining tunnel.
And then you hear the crashing. Screams of rage and loss echo from the large chamber. Judging from the metallic clangs and liquid sloshing, Sitter is upending the large troughs and throwing tools at random.
In the awkward silence of the tunnel, Bertrude asks, "Where's the rest of the town, dearie?" Her words are reluctant, fearing the answer.
Wamblee stands aside, gauntlet kept pointed away from doing any possible harm by accident.
As Mar moves in, Wamblee will say quietly:
"I will see if there are any other cells to open."
And with that, Wamblee will move away from the rest of the group, seeking others.
Likely, I will find none., he thinks gloomily.
His suspicions are met by the crashing, and the despair of Sitter.
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Your training has taught you to see a task through, no matter the likelihood of success. You unlock the remaining bars with the gauntlet, which slowly starts to lose cohesion as you use it. By the time you have unlocked all the cells, the gauntlet has become wide and flattened, as through a large boulder rolled over it. The misshapen thing slides off your hand with a sad clung onto the ground.
In one of the cells, you notice dark smudges against the brown rock. Upon closer inspection, you see that some elen smuggled in a piece of charcoal, using it to write upon the wall. The writing is an odd mix of adoration for the dragon, confusion at being imprisoned, and, near to the end, terror at the inevitable.
There are crude drawings of the dragon as well, somehow disquieting despite their lack of detail. They depict the beast devouring trees, inhaling rivers, and even stomping out Volcano's light. The last drawing shows nothing but the dragon, and tiny stick-figure elens below it. You cannot tell if they are worshiping, fleeing, or attacking.
A final scrawled message below this picture reads, The strength of the earth, the fire of Volcano. He will fly through the Sky. He will boil River. His eyes
and there the writing ends.
There is a sad clung of a dull metal object audible. Those who look see the gauntlet, but now flat and worn out, lying abandoned on the ground outside one of the cells. Wamblee has entered.
He soon emerges, with purpose in his eyes.
In a clear voice, he says:
"Siblings, Sitter, come here. There is a warning, inscribed by a doomed and lost Elen. You must see it for yourselves."
No response from Big Sitter. His rage has apparently been spent; the crashing and screaming from the larger cavern has stopped.
"Bertrude, they are all possessed by the brass. Do you have any idea who's behind all of this, besides Ser Rentwyrth? This mystery seems to have no end."
Samoon looks at the inscription. "Well, well. 'his eyes will turn to black goo' probably isn't how it would have ended."
Samoon pauses. "All four elements of the four races are mentioned. 'His eyes bring forth The Dark', or something, must have been the final phrase." He looks disgusted.
"Congratulations, Samen--the races are united, and perhaps the Servants of the Dark count as a fifth. The black goo that binds them all together."
Samoon begins to scribble some notes.
"Black goo...Brass that consumes the will...a creature that also overrides the will...tainted orange blood. Magic with aspects of metallurgy, enchantment, necromantic, and evocation. This place is a testing ground," he says thoughtfully. "That dragon is a crude first try. There could be other testing places elsewhere." He looks at his list thoughtfully.
He glances back at his siblings. "And on the other side, a bunch of quarrelsome children grown up, each displaying powers of some sort. And Albreane..."
"You think it's an elemental of darkness? Such a thing would be revolutionary, but given the struggle on Wamblee's face, I don't think we've killed it. It's probably deathless like that man we killed a couple of times. Lets poke around that fissure back there that then enchantment magic came from. There might be another passage behind it."
Bertrude shakes her head at Samoon. "I din't see anyone else 'cept that fat merchant hangin' around. All others were simply shambling about with dead eyes and dead minds. I heard a voice once or twice, deep and smooth as a poisoned lake. I din't hear much, but sounds like he was givin' the orders. Renty was in it fer money, though how such a beast was to give him gold is beyond me."
"Mari, dove, tend to me if ye please." With Marianne's help, she gets to her feet, back and knees cracking in protest. In a raspy whisper that everyone can hear, she says, "Is yer paper still safe? With all the mad els running about these days, they'd kill for a scrap of it, heed my words. The winds have turned violent, girl, and changes will be coming soon. Dragons, darkspawn, and who knows what else!"
The priest, Wisdom Placido, interjects. "The superstitious talk can wait for later, I would imagine. Who else is down here with us? Who remains in town? Who needs our help, now that the abomination is...gone, if not dead?"
Samoon, you notice a faraway look in Albreane's eyes, staring at--as far as you can tell--nothing. Her lips move slightly.
Samoon slides over to Albreane. "What is it?" he says quietly, looking at her, then where she's looking.
White-blue eyes smile back at you. In a breathy voice completely unlike Albreane's own, the stranger says, "There are interesting things going on down here. She fans herself lazily. "Enough to make a girl swoon, Samoon."
A gust of wind blows past your face. The ele with pale eyes is suddenly at the entrance to the tunnel, walking slowly away. "Mister Tattoo is right, I'll bet there's something fun in that stinky hole in the back. Hope the rest of you find a way to squeeze in." She blows a kiss at you, and she is gone.
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”It is fine, Bertrude, worry not,” Marianne tells the old ele. Turning to the rest, she says ”You are all we have found so far. There were a number of enthralled ifrits above ground, but that is all we’ve seen. We haven’t fully explored this place, and I am confident we will find the rest,” she lies. ”I hate to say this, but we need to hear your stories now, before we move. The dragon is dead, but we haven’t seen everything yet, and we need to know what is going on before we start running around blindly trying to play heroes.” Noting Samoon and Albreane’s interaction, she walks around and sits down back to the wall, so that the former prisoners have to look away from the pair in order to watch her.
Marianne, you catch a brief glimpse of Bree walking out the tunnel. You are unsure how she walked out so quickly.
Wamblee looks concerned at Bree's actions.
"We should follow her. Immediately.", he say as he begins moving to the fissure to examine it more closely.
Samen quietly watches Albreane lose herself. "Bye Bree."
To the prisoners: "We have no indication that anyone with an addled mind can be recovered. They fight to the death and cannot be calmed."
Wamblee, the fissure is small. You imagine it would be a tight fit for even your sylphan siblings. Barring magic or a major shoulder dislocation, you cannot see a way in for yourself.
Wamblee speaks without turning.
"I might be able to dislocate my shoulders sufficiently to force myself through. But I would rather not. I cannot see another oread-sized means of entry. And thank you, Samen."
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Samoon swears a bunch of very colorful, anatomically impossible phrases in multiple languages.
He turns to Bertrude. "It's dangerous below, and it's dangerous above, and the way back up has brass spikes that may be uncovered again. Please stay put with the others. We're going to try to get down further and find out what is going on."
With that, Samoon goes to find Sitter. "Sitter, burning damned obsidian glass bombs sky-fallen pogona dung! What did you find?"