As it becomes clear that Emilee is no longer in pain, Raseri collapses to her knees as exhaustion hits her. She grabs her arms as she curls up and begins to softly cry.
"I failed her," she sobs. "I caused her pain and now she's going to hate me."
Sinking back against the comforting rock himself, Gunnar perks up slightly and shoots a glance at Raseri, saying, "NO. You risked your very being to rescue her from imprisonment in the gem and we worked together to restore her body. She lives because of your dedication and your friends who honor your effort."
Reclining, Gunnar adds, "Pray to the holy ones for her recovery and give thanks for her chance to live again. Let us finish our rest and see what the morning brings."
"Yes, Raseri. Pain is apart of life. But, she lives because of you." Luthael adds.
Raseri looks up at Gunnar's and Luthael's words. Guilt-wracked eyes fill with tears as she tries to believe them.
"But she's been through so much, and I just caused her more pain," she whimpers. "I-I promised her she'd be alright. I promised her I'd protect her, and I broke those promises. She lives because of you, not me."
She looks at her left arm as her gaze falls from theirs. She knows she should at least tend to it. A part of her says she deserves the pain, and that losing an arm would be a fitting punishment for what she's done. Still, they have to fight the hag, and crippling herself wouldn't undo anything that's happened.
"Luthael," she says after a moment, her voice husky as she forces the words out past her guilt and shame. "Could you look at my arm? I--I can't heal it nor tend to it."
Ingryd comes over and sits. she lifts Raseris' hand and holds it gently."You rest. ruminate, as she has a chance. You helped bring a life into this world."
Ingryd looked distant but oddly serene."We can guide her and help her acclimate to the world. So she can thrive and survive."
Luthael replies, "of course." The prophet tenderly examines the Thorsdottir's arm assessing the damage and praying her to be healed.
He chooses not to contradict her again about her belief of promises not kept and hopes her odd beliefs can be modified when she is in a different mindset and potentially the girl shows her gratitude.
Raseri winces as Luthael peels away the blood-soaked fabric of her shredded sleeve. The gem's attempt to implant itself in her body has left her skin muscles torn. How the Thorsdottir isn't incapacitated from the pain is a mystery.
"I'm not her mother," Raseri tells Ingryd when the bearkin talks as if Emilee is a newly born babe and not a girl approaching adulthood who had her body and freedom stolen from her. "If anything, I see her as a sister."
She sits in silence for a long while as Luthael works.
"Do you know what it's like to die," she asks the sun prophet as she watches Emilee's slow and steady breathing.
"So, no gem to sell. No adamantine to harvest. Tortured girl with a half-heart somehow alive and not killing us all with said adamantine. Net positive." Scram fluffed her pillow and blanket, preparing for a comfy nap like no other...but just before she pulled the covers over her face pointed at Ingryd's honey jar "So if a girl popped into the animatronic torture corpse, just what...or who...the hell is that? Meh, tomorrow problems...*snore*"
With the girl sleeping and most of the party exhausted from the first round of rest and relaxation, Gunnar reseals the stone wall and everyone settles in for a bit of peace and quiet. This time Lady Luck appears to bless the weary adventurers because the time passes uneventfully except for a few dream induced outbursts from the girl and the occasional quiet muttering madness of Darrel who remains stuck against the ceiling in a far corner of the small room.
Eventually the hours slip by and all awaken refreshed and revitalized for the continued journey through the depths of the hag's horror filled tower.
Rubbing the sleep from her scratchy eyes, Raseri looks over to check on her charge and finds the young woman awake and staring quietly at the priestess.
Thankfully for Raseri, exhaustion means a dreamless sleep. Despite that, she wakes feeling drained. She'd never taken failure well, and she shivers as she remembers some of her actions from other times she felt she had failed her companions. She couldn't remember one of those times, but she does remember giving up the memory. She could go mad enough on her own without adding in holes in her memories.
As she regains her bearings, the priestess looks over to check on Emilee. For a moment her eyes meet the young woman's, and Raseri's cheeks burn dully with shame before she looks away. Her right hand grabs her left arm, now with only the faintest of scars to tell of her fight to get in and free Emilee. The blood that had soaked her sleeve and the tears that had turned it into little more than scraps of cloth are long gone thanks to the magic she holds within. Without the armor and the padding to bulk out her frame, it's clear to see how small she is, four feet and eight inches tall and a slender frame do not an imposing warrior make.
"Emilee, I--" she starts to say, but what can she say? She may not have outright promised that she'd allow no harm to come to the girl, but she had named Emilee her little sister, and that carried implications among the northerners of Midgard. She takes in a deep breath and forces herself to look the other young woman in the eyes.
"Emilee, I'm sorry. I--I didn't want you to go through what you did. I didn't want you to suffer, and--and I almost got you killed," she says, her gaze falling to her knees with the last six words as she braces herself for what she knows must be coming. Emilee had trusted her, and that had nearly gotten her killed. What is almost worse than that, her body was still mangled by what the hag and her minions had wrought, and now Raseri isn't sure she can undo any of it without killing the young woman.
Gunnar quietly observes the exchange looking up from his study of the wand. He has been hoping that overnight it will have recovered some charges if it is of the type that most wands he has studied were.
He also considers how long they may linger here, thinking he may have time to scribe a spell or two into his spellbook from either the captured mage spellbook or one of those scrolls.
After finally resting from their travels and encounters, Luthael rouses himself and performs his daily devotions and morning ritual
Scram winked awake with a shock of creepiness, taking in Emilee's minimal energy poise and confused stare filled wirh the horror of her harsh, new (but free) reality. But instead of recoiling further, the halfling father (and/or mother) of another girl full of gears had a stroke of sympathy.
Sliding (not walking) over during breakfast "Hey, are you hungry? I have some sweetbread, its a little stale but no worms or mystery hag sprinkles or anything..." ripping a loaf in half. "You remind me of my daughter, Vee. But she's all of that.." pointing to the girl's embedded sonic-adiabatic regulation device "...and none of that..." pointing to a patch of soft, natural skin.
"I guess she never knew a life without all the mechanus, but fer you that's all you remember. Must be somethin'..." taking a sip of creamed coffee smelling vaguely of very nice whiskey. "Anyways maybe you two could play together sometime. Just not cards. She cheats..." the thief said it in a bragging not disparaging way, proud to have taught her legerdemain.
"I'm Scramsax by the way, and this is my gemmy bracelet friend Esmerelda the Wrist-princess..." bringing up the dreaded jeweled hand.
The huffy puppet contorted ~Hmmph...you're a masterpiece, that adamantine is far more precious than my best jades and garnets...~
"Don't get jealous, wrist...we can't all be priceless."
The girl listens quietly to Raseri, her heart quietly tick-tick-ticking within the depths of her chest. The gentle mechanical sound easy evidence that Gunnar's repairs continue to hold up. She levers herself upright with a soft groan, closing her eyes against the vertigo that suddens causes her head to swirl for a few moments. Yet, the shear ability for her to lift herself upright is just as easy evidence that Luthael and Raseri's healing also continues to hold.
With another soft groan, she lowers herself back onto the table and rubs her eye. Her hand pauses as the feels the metal and glass around the new artificial left eye. Her brow furrows. Puzzled. Her eyes turn back to Raseri.
"I...I...don't really remember...much. Killed?" She says, her voice dry and scratchy. She looks Raseri up and down again, frowns. "I think I'm alive, although I ache all over. I remember Red. Screams. A monster. My...friends." She looks around for something. Someone. Doesn't appear to find them. "An angel carrying me into heaven..."
A pause as she turns to Scramsax when the halfling mentions something to eat. Her head bobs. "I do think I'm hungry miss. Feels like I haven't eaten in days."
"Does anyone know what that strange ticking sound is?" She adds taking a bit of the offered sweetbread.
Raseri isn't sure if she's relieved or worried that Emilee doesn't remember the horrible moments where she was in so much pain. Despite herself, she blushes when the young woman calls her an angel.
"That's what's keeping you alive," she answers. "And I guess I'm the angel you mentioned," she adds, blushing even more at the admission. "I realized you were alive after we stopped them from turning you into the hag's puppet. I wanted to save you, and we figured out that you, or your soul, I guess, was trapped in a ruby or some other red gem. After you helped Xav beat this hag-monster thing, I tried to help get you out. Gunnar or Luthael helped with whatever barrier was keeping you in there, and--"
Raseri's voice trails off as she recalls what happened next.
"After you were freed, you went back to your body. Since nothing was working right, you were in a lot of pain and suffering. I--I tried to help, but if it wasn't for Luthael and Gunnar, you'd be dead right now."
"When we return to the village you are getting a great meal and some quality booze...wait how old are you?" Ingryd asks as she stands and stretches her large frame still covered in blood and gore as she talks marring her golden fur.
'Scram, lets make sure in town we eat well okay." She adds with a giggle. Though it wasn't fully hearted.
Looking up from his examination of the Wand of Force, Gunnar speaks as the conversational pause lengthens, ”I am probably not the best qualified to ease you into this, lass, but you have been through quite the ordeal, and it is only through the extreme efforts of those you see before you that you live. The ticking sound you hear is a mechanical heart that now circulates your blood, one of many changes made to your body before we could rescue you.”
”We seek to defeat this evil hag who imposes unnatural winter on the land, holds a powerful dragon hostage by threatening her unhatched young and now, it seems, plans to build an army from the bodies of her defeated foes. Perhaps it is too much to ask you to join us in this fight given your recent trauma, but perhaps you can relate to us all you remember and we can be better prepared for the battle ahead,” he finishes.
Luthael nods along with his companions conscious not to overload the newborn.
The young woman's face races through a series of expressions ranging from confusion to disbelief to wonder as Raseri relays her tale followed by Gunnar's explanation of at least one aspect of the strange sounds and feelings she continues to discover within her own body.
When Ingryd speaks of meal and drink, the girl's eyes light up brightly with both surprise and happiness. "Pooka!" She shouts smiling at the big bearkin. "I wondered where you got off to. I should have known you were here all of the time." Then she shakes her head in mock concern and then her lips go sour with distaste. "I hope you're not talking about drinks like whiskey and ale. You know I'm not supposed to cause they make me sick."
Sensing the urgency in Gunnar's voice, or perhaps it was the wizard's disappointment at discovering the wand had not recharged itself during the night, the girl tries to lurch to her feet. She instantly grows dizzy and nearly topples over before catching herself on Raseri's shoulder.
"Whoa!" She exclaims in surprise and more than a little concern. "Everything feels so different and the room is trying to spin itself around like a millers stone." She pauses takes a few deep breaths and finally straightens up again. "That's better." She squeezes Raseri's hand and holds onto the priestess even after she seems to be able to maintain her own balance. She looks at her rescuer with genuine awe and caring. "You saved me. Although I don't really remember much, I know what you say about being trapped somewhere else is true. If it weren't for you, I'd still be stuck in that weird gem with those monsters. I don't think I'd like that very much. This is better even if there is more pain and...well...I feel like a new babe walking for the first time, but I guess I'll get used to it all soon enough." Her face goes a soft shade of red and she quickly stretches on her toes to kiss Raseri on the cheek and wrap the priestess in a hug. "Thank you for saving me." She says before stumbling awkwardly back a step.
Her eyes then land on another sight. That of the hapless Darrel floating in the corner of the room. The former foxkin is busily watching the entire interaction with tired, wary eyes. The remaining remnant of his Bardic mind conjuring various poetic lines and musical stanzas to mark the moment as a distraction from his current reality as a gas bloated abomination.
"What is that?" Emilee asks pointing at Darrel, her eyes wide and curious.
As Emilee stumbles from her dizziness, Raseri reaches out to catch her. The priestess finds herself blushing from Emilee's praise, something she doesn't think she deserves, and her blush only grows brighter with the kiss and the hug, the latter of which she returns.
Then Emilee reminds her about poor Darrel, which only causes her embarrassment to grow.
"That is our poor guide, Darrel. He helped us get here, then got caught up in the mess we caused yesterday," she says before looking to Luthael. "I don't know if I can help him. Can you?"
"Pooka?" Ingryd says confused and concerened. Then seeing the girl hug Raseri she smiles and nods.
"We need to take down the hag, and get Darrel back to normal" She smiles eager to spill the hags blood.
Luthael watches Emilee wondering what being who they just resurrected.
Hearing Ingryd's question, Raseri turns to her.
"Pooka is one of Emilee's friends," she answers before turning back to the young woman. "I guess I should introduce you to everyone," she says. "The big bearkin is Ingryd. The dwarven wizard is Gunnar. The elfmarked priest is Luthael, and the halfling sneak is Scramsax. I'd take anything she tells you with a grain of salt. And the foxkin over there is Darrel," she tells the young woman, pointing out everyone in turn before turning her attention to her companions. "Everyone, this is Emilee."
Wagging a finger with the airs of a history professor "Actually, sentient balloons are more common than one might expect. Recall the gnomish strategy at the lemonade stand employed such guises as a tactical strategem, and even Aterro the Battle-brute 'got lifted' at one point if memory serves."
Struggling to remember any signifigant historical balloons, Scramsax pretended to know them instead "...ah yes, and who could forget the Peruvian Oracle Gadfly of 1106? Carrying the airs of divine revelation, a jealous rival of the temple attempted to pop the sacred blimpette. Yet the very moment the blade touched its surface, the bouyant wisdom split into countless versions of itself...each carrying the same inevitible truths. Whereas the would-be deflator originally had only one lippy, uptight provacatour on his hands, now by his own avarice had a flying flock of the propaganda spewing gas sacs to deal with."
Leaning in closer to Emilee with a conspiratorial slant "...the rival never knew the secret to all airbags: you can twist them into shapes that resemble kitty cats or foxes..."
"What about the giant tree, why didn't they use the balloon there?" Ingryd said to scram holding up the always cold mug.
" And Emilee, don't worry" She comes over to give the girl a hug. Motherly and soft.
"We can try to help you out." She pats the girls head and smiles. Trying to be motherly despite all her gore, ash and dirt.
Looking sympathetically over at Darryl, Gunnar asks, “Do we have any magic capable of restoring our guide?”
”As Ingryd said, we had best be moving on to defeat the hag and rescue the eggs—we are on a timetable, as I recall,” he adds.
Luthael shrugs at Gunnar's question. "We can look again, but I don't think so."
The prophet looks at their guide to determine how to restore their guide.
"I fear that Gunnar is right, and not just because of the dragon whose eggs the hag holds. The Margreve is also suffering. Still, I don't think we wasted time saving Emilee," Raseri says as she dons her armor. While Luthael thinks over how to get Darrel back to his normal self, she busies herself by cleaning off both Ingryd and Emilee with a bit of magic.
With the realization she is currently wearing little more than the flimsy sheet from the operating table and Raseri's blanket, Emilee blushes brightly when all eyes are turned upon her thin body. Her self consciousness disappears as quick a coins at a carnival when Scramsax begins to recite her tales of unpowered airborn flotilla's. At first her brow furrows in skepticism at the tale of burst gadfly, but by the end she's peppering the halfling with clarifying questions, her mind fully imagining the surreal scene as the oracle exploded into a thousand floating, pontificating, kitten sacks.
Turning wide-eyed toward Darrel. "Is he one of the miraculous oracle's floating remains." Her eyes grow narrow with suspicion. "He isn't going to start trying to convince us how to save our souls under the glorious guidance of some persnickety god is he?" She shakes her head. "My mother always said the gods were just a bunch of hooey. That they were really just powerful wizards and witches in need of constant attention and affection." She shrugs. "But I don't know really, some of them seem pretty neat."
Listening to the girl ramble onward causes Darrel to moan with added misery. His pleading eyes turn to Gunnar, Luthael, Raseri. "You said you'd be able to...to...fix...this. Just give us a little time, you said. Let us study. Pray. We'll set you right. That's what you said." He says waving a long tentacle along his bloated upper body. "I'm a musician and ex-adventurer. With a crooked drunken smuggler in his family line. I don't know anything about how to undo...any... of this." His eyes go wide as he accidentally slaps a tentacle into the wall sending himself spinning off toward the other side of the room.
Of course, this sends the young Emilee into a fit of laughter ending with a rather loud snort and continued giggling.
Not missing a beat with Emilee "Surely he is, yes. But behold, such divine wisdom is forever cloaked...only the most perceptive can find it. Here the Oracle is employing a classic tactic: the anagram cipher. What sounds like the desperate stutterings of a man-fox in a bad spot is actually a dastardly encoded message. Here, hold my inkpot..." passing the adamantine girl-slayer a tiny vial of octopus ink and pulling a feather from god knows where.
"Y S Y B A T T F T J G U A L T Y S L U S P W S Y R T W Y S I A M A E A W A C D S I H F L I D A H T U A O T." Scram recited, quickly jotting down each first letter of Darrel's rambles.
"Rough translation? ~You see—you battle fate. Just grasp, understand. A light trembles. Yield strength. Let uncertainty shape perception. We seek your resilience. This world yearns, so imagine anew. Amid everything, awaken. Wisdom awaits. A chaotic dream spirals. In history, footsteps linger. Illuminate destiny. A heart thrives—unbreakable, alive, open to transformation.~"
The halfling took a knee, bowing her head in reverence "...we thank you wise oracle for this gift of knowledge...this inspiration. I think we can all learn something from this." the thief smirked glancing back at the others.
Luthael approaches Darrel, "Alright. Let's see if the power of Khors can restore you."
Luthael begins to pray near the stricken foxkin. As the prophet's words fill the chamber there is a subtle shift in the air. A sense of peace and warmth. Darrel's darting eyes grow calm, his labored breathing relaxes, the constantly twitching tentacles become limp and begin to sparkle as if the guide were suddenly surrounded by a cloud of fireflies. Narrow beams of light begin to connect the multitude of pinpoints creating a mesh of living light completely surrounding the transformed foxkin. Luthael's chanting prayer grows stronger, more fervent and urgent. Sweat breaks out upon the prophet's brow, his knuckles white as he grips the well worn holy sun symbol hanging around his neck.
The net surrounding Darrel weaves itself tighter and tighter, the light grows brighter and brighter. But somewhere along the flow of that growing brilliance, there is a tiny mote of darkness and shadow. A minute black spot floating in every eye, upon every heart. A dissonant note echoing the prophet's prayers. The source of such a manifestation is unclear, but all can sense it, even Emilee scratches at an odd sensation tingling her arm. But it is not just the girl who notices. If fact, those who have witnessed the potent power of the prophet's prayers recognize the sour note even more clearly.
Then all are forced to look away as the glaring brilliance of Luthael's holy healing grows much too bright for any mortal to gaze upon. The chanting reaches a crescendo and with a fill almost gasping effort, Luthael completes the spell. A nova of holy light and power erupts around Darrel and then vanishes in an instant leaving blinking eyes to look upon the restored foxkin who collapses to his knees in all encompassing relief.
You attempt to isolate or clear the malignancy but have no success. It is slippery as an oiled eel. You cannot grasp the thorn in order to pull it from Khors' side. For you discover it is embedded deep within the sun gods essence. How this is possible, you cannot be sure, but you sense Khors' pain and with that the pain grows within yourself. You are forced to muster your strength and will in order to maintain the struggle of completing the spell. To end midway could be a disaster for poor Darrel. You marshall onward, fending off the blackness that seems to grow ever stronger with each passing second. With each surge of light, the dark stabs deeper and deeper into Khors. You can feel the god's surprise. Feel the recognition of pain swiftly followed by uncertainty and maybe even a little fear.
Try as you might, you cannot remove or drive away the darkness. Not from here. But even as you throw a protective barrier between the dark and Darrel, even as you complete the final prayers and the restoration of the foxkin, you send a more of light tethered to yourself back toward that such of vile corruption. As Darrel falls to his knees and your body breathes deeply to quench its own need for air, your mind follows that mote through the winding confines of the hag's tower reaching a place not so very far away. You just have a moment to sense the tortured presence of Khors and another fiendish evil then the mote of light is stamped out leaving your mind racing back to yourself, the thread of light withering like a frost stricken vine until you are back within yourself surrounded by your companions and the grateful Darrel.
"Oh nice, Darrel's back."
Despite her joyful facial expression, somehow it seemed the thief was saying the exact opposite of what she meant.
Ingryd blinks and rubs her face. "What Darrel is okay? I can't see that light was blinding"{/b] She says following it up with rapid blinking and then looks.
[b]" Great to have you back Darrell. We will get you back for brauts and Beers" She says with a wide smile.
Luthael slumps to the floor on his knees. Tears streaming down his face. His holy father is injured somehow. As every time, he faces a wounded injustice, he goes right at it. Saving his Sun Lord would be no different. He will not stop until his divine patron is whole and healed. "The hag has wounded my lord Khors. The wound is nearby."
After catching his breath, the prophet stands up unsheathing Thorn, the Blade of the First Storm, for dramatic effect. It has been some time, since his companions have seen the steel in his eyes. "We have a hag to kill. Let's go."
Drawing his hammer, Gunnar replies, ”I’m with you. Let’s purge the stain of evil from this place.”. He stands and prepares to follow.
After scrounging up some clothing for Emilee and giving Darrel a bit of time to regain his senses and composure following his return to normal, the party of heroes departs the temporary respite of the researcher's office and follows after the determined prophet of Khors.
Sensing the wound of his god as if it wear a thorn in his very own side, Luthael does not venture back through the surgery exposed to the potent magic flowing through the center of the tower. Instead he turns left and left again along the corridor most recently used by those transferring bodies and equipment elsewhere within the confusing confines of the hag's domain.
The prophet sets upon a winding course, passing small laboratories and another pair of lecture halls. Another hall leads to a mostly empty dormitory where the soft sounds of snoring can be heard echoing back along the passage. Then another stairwell. This one spiraling narrowly upward.
After a seemingly endless grueling climb, another landing, another doorway. This opens into a dark, narrow passage. Immediately, everyone's senses jump to a focused alertness as Luthael steps into the passage, his boots squishing upon the floor coated with a rancid smelling tar, black substance that clings and cloys with each step taken. An arch lies just ahead fifteen paces. Pale yellow and sickly green vines dangle from the arch to cover the entrance beyond. Upon the face of the arch is an ancient sun symbol, now splattered with blood and feces. The normally benevolent sunface of Khors, slashed across three times in each direction making a triple lined X across the gods visage.
Nothing can be seen beyond the vines. Nothing can be heard for there is an unnatural stillness hovering in the narrow hall. One that makes even the soft breathing of each hero sound like the billowing of a gale. Each shift and adjustment of belt or gear, the screeching jangle of an ill-kept iron hinge.
Growling at the disrespect shown to the god of the sun, Gunnar cautions, "Be careful, there is potent evil magic at work here. Let me try and disable it, then perhaps I can repair the injury done to the benevolent Kohrs."
Raseri stays close to Luthael and Emilee so she can keep an eye on both of them. Emilee because she doesn't look like she can fight and Luthael because his actions and news worry her. While she would rather find the eggs first, she doesn't argue when they go to see what has wounded Khors.
Seems the mask didn't offer protection this time.
Luthael stands vigil over Gunner recovering from the hike. His face grim and focused on the desecration. With the powerful ley line affecting all of the magic, he waits to reShape the Stone to restore the compassionate face of Khors.
" Lets watch, the perimeter, Eh Scram" Ingryd Offers as she looks about rhe room.in doing so she hopes nothinf comes to stop them. Infact she really wants to make sure that that Luthael gets this cleared for everyones sake.
Shaking her head "Locksmiths." Waving an arm to the magic-users "Every hiccup in the road requires just the right application of the right tool...Girl in a gem? *wham* Unlocked. God with a frown? *ding* Another tumbler clicked. Fate sets up the barriers and they have all the answers. One after the other *bing bang boom*." Relaxing on the little cushion of hair on Ingryd's back "Guess we just have the easy life..."
Sitting up suddenly and explaining for clarity "Eh, metaphorically Griz...m-metaphorical. Of course there's no actual locksmiths anymore, no one uses locks in Midgard... *ha* Now that would be ridiculous. Well I hope you were serious about beer and brats later, if so I'm about to unlock a world of flavor."
Gunnar begins his examination of the entry hall and the eerie evidence of ill intent seeping from the walls and former holy symbol. The dwarf is soon joined by Luthael, the prophet adding his own expertise and observations to the wizard's analysis. Emilee wrinkles her nose a steps back a couple of paces.
"Ack! This place smells awful." She says bringing her shirt up to cover her nose and mouth.
Darrel's face shows a similar state of disgust at the sewer scented aroma, although his eyes also hold the wariness and trepidation of a former adventurer who is all too aware of how such things often mask even more unpleasant events soon to be experienced. The foxkin waits nervously with all the eagerness to move forward as a rabbit entering a wolf's den.
At first, the wizard is unable to locate any sign of the source for the seeping tar. Unsurprisingly, magic infuses the entire area pooling along with the viscous oily ooze in various low spots and corners. Although streams of the magical goo seep from the obscured nose, mouth, eyes, and even ears of the desecrated sun symbol it is not where the anomaly truly manifests. For certain, it is a potent source of corruption and evil thanks to many long years of fiendish blasphemy. But in this case it is merely a conduit.
Raseri slaps and crushes a hungry mosquito that lands upon her hand and works to find a way through the seam of her glove.
As the puzzled dwarf waves away the symbol as the source of the corruption, it is Luthael who points out the dangling vines and their web of embedded roots which infiltrate the entire stone surface of the arch. With a nod Gunnar slips closer for a better look, wary of any sudden movement or attack from the likely toxic and unnatural foliage. He quickly observes how the vines do not merely sit ideally upon the surface of the gathered ooze. In fact, the dwarf's keen eyed gaze observes the narrow openings at the tips of each vine engaged in sucking up the ooze like a parasite sucking blood from its host.
Curiously, the dwarf pokes a long pole at the bottom of the arch. A grunt of disgust follows. The stone is soft like a sponge. The pressure forces forth a vast glob of the oily rancid ooze that slops to the floor with a slurpy splat. No other reaction occurs from either vines, symbol or ooze, but standing this close to the arch, the dwarf does manage to hear a quiet, high-pitched hum coming from somewhere beyond the curtain of intervening vines.
It is clear to the dwarf, the vines infuse the toxic ooze into the stone, turning it into something that will eventually either dissolve away completely or simply collapse under the weight of whatever still lies above. But whatever manifestation is creating all of this, it is not here within this chamber but somewhere deeper within whatever portion of the ancient Griffon Knight fortress that Khors once blessed.
Sharing what he has discovered, Gunnar suggests, ”Let us clear the vines as best we can, then repair the damage to the stone—at least partially. Then we can follow the sound and investigate deeper to try and find the source of the unholy infection.”
Standing back, Gunnar starts using Curse of the Frost Giants (Frostbite cantrip) to embrittle and kill the offending vines, hoping to starve whatever is sucking the life out of the very stone.
"With pleasure," Luthael replies to the dwarf. Then, the prophet pivots and starts using Thorn, the Blade of the First Storm, as a machete to clear the vines from the stone.
Raseri steps forward, leaving Emilee with Ingryd and Darrel while she helps clear the vines away.
The vines blacken and react with a sluggish torpor following Gunnar's chilling blast. The are a few futile attempts by the weakened vines to lash as Luthael and Raseri as prophet and priestess cleave at the unholy foliage to clear the archway of its foul corruption.
With the opening cleared the passage ahead is revealed to be another short hall leading to another, wider archway opening. Nothing but pitch black darkness can be seen beyond the second arch, although whatever lies beyond appears to hold the source of the sickly sludge that oozes and pools boot deep within the passage. Here, all along the ceiling and walls are more of the sucking vines, their roots burrowed deep into the rock turning it into little more than a putrid sponge cake like substance.
Alerted to the threat, these vines are much more active. The rubbery suckers with their leech-like tips writhe and undulate about searching for any chance to break past armor, reflexes, and defensive blocks in order to latch on and begin siphoning the unlucky victims life blood.
Fortunately, a reasonable counter measure has already been developed. It is slow, muscle aching, mind numbing work as Luthael and Raseri hack down each patch of frosted vines before moving on to the next patch succumbing to Gunnar's northern magic. But even the most mundane of tasks come with the occasional poor aimed strike or a duck coming slightly too late. But with each mistake, Ingryd and Scramsax are there to quickly cut or rip the vines free from their fleshy perch and keep the damage to a minimum. The effort is hampered even further by the constant irritation of mosquitos flying in face, humming in ears, and of course, biting any little bit of exposed flesh the hungry insects can find.
What feels like half a day to progress twenty paces is actually only a handful of minutes. Regardless of the oddities of time and the mind's own tricks, the way is cleared and Luthael and Raseri stand beneath the expanse of the second arch.
Here the two holy adventurers behold an unholy sight. The room beyond the arch is circular in nature, approximately eighty feet in diameter. A domed ceiling lurks somewhere above, but it is obscured by a cloud of humming insects. Within the center of the room is a raised dias upon which sits an ancient altar of once white marble carved with the four faces of Khors representing the various seasons and aspects of the sun god. But much like the symbol at the entrance these have been defaced, the marble is now the same spongy, blackened substance as the stone in the outer passage. More of the slimy, oil-like sludge leaks from the altar with each passing moment.
Even as priestess and prophet gaze upon the unholy desecration a great glob of sewage glop slops upon the altar. It drops down from somewhere above and hits with a burst of odious splatter. Within a few moments the reeking ooze is absorbed by the altar and then slowly excreted back into the chamber even blacker and more foul smelling than before.
Four alcoves at the cardinal points of the circular chamber are carved out of the surrounding stone. Beneath the sick black slime coating the walls the relief of some ancient knightly crest is seen above each alcove opening. Inside stand the rusted remnants of an armor shrouded figure.
Suddenly the hum and buzz of the swarming cloud above changes tone. Gazing into the skin crawling morass of blood sucking insects, another form lurks. Bigger, emanating pure evil. A moment later and the entire cloud begins to descend.
Ingryd steps up and looks back as she seemingly stands ready to delve into the dark.
It hits her and she stops
"Hang on, Need honey"