...Scramsax hopped down off the cage, snagging the opened lock with a finger on the way down. Amidst the gathered prisoners, her bejeweled bracelet advised ~Secure all personal belongings. Keep hands and feet inside the Scramway at all times.~ before vanishing.
With Scramsax teleporting away and taking all the freed prisoners with her, Gunnar instead focuses on the escaping hag. Having already cast Knock on the door, he flies towards the alcove and looks for a way through.
Ingryd growls as she stands there seeking a way through. Her frame scorched, bloody, and more as she looked at the dwarf.'I want her head, or at least not to escape death again. ' Ingryd's voice was cold and solid.
”If we can see what is on the other side of that door, I can teleport us there,” offers Gunnar quickly.
After gathering the rescued hostages close together, Scramsax whisks them off to the dryad's grove where they are met with a blend of surprise and relief especially for Vee and Katerina who'd gone missing for the last three days.
While Scramsax sees the hostages safe, Gunnar, Luthael, Ingryd and Raseri try to discover how to follow the witch's trail.
Stepping back into the small alcove, Gunnar kneels down and peers through the tiny, now open, door. Inside is a narrow room about five feet wide, fifteen long. A small table rests near the center of the room. Two teapots and accompanying cups and saucers sit atop the table. One tea set, decorated with a forest fern and mushroom motif, is normal size. A wispy trail of steam rises from the spout. The second tea setting is tiny, decorated with periwinkles. Indeed, the size of a child's doll set. Curiously, the small pot also has steam rising from its spout and the cups seem in more disarray as being recently used.
A set of stools able to rotate in a full circle sit along the back wall in front of a workbench that spans the length of the room. Mounted in the wall above the bench are a series of ornate mirrors. However, rather than reflecting the room, they each portray a different scene. One, the large chamber in the tower with its cages and bodies. Another looks upon a familiar operating theater. Another a dock and loading area. Another, some kind of training room complete with fighting dummies and wooden weapons. Underneath each mirror is a large dial engraved with glowing runic symbols.
There are two exits leaving the room. North and south. The northern exit is the same size as the one Gunnar currently peers through. Small, big enough for a cat or possum to easily scamper through. The other is of a more normal size. Both are open and exit into poorly lit corridors that appear to circle up or down within the thick wall of the tower.
Raseri takes a few moments to once again enter the Shadow Realm. Within that gray-scale recreation of the tower, the priestess finds a similar small door and similar hidden room. Peering into the room, she notices a few key differences. The first being the lack of any tea pots or other inviting warm beverages. The second is that the mirrors do not display anything understandable. Most are simply black. One looks like some constant snow storm is being watched for it is nothing but a mad, chaotic, scramble of white static against a night black background. Only one shows any kind of recognizable image at all. It stands out because of one thing. It is in complete color. It shows an image of a humanoid rabbit and duck arguing back and forth while a rather round headed hunter stalks them both.
Resting her hand against the wall, Raseri finds that is starts to crumble. Curious, she claws and tears at the barrier. It continues to fall away and crumble like rotted wood. It probably would not take very long for her to rip away enough wall to be able to crawl into the adjacent room.
”Let’s go!” says Gunnar at Ingryd’s determined proclamation.
Casting Thunder Step, Gunnar shakes the alcove and teleports himself and Ingryd into the room. ”I’ll check out the mirrors, Ingryd, if you can check the stairs and see if the hag went that way…”
"...yes that's right. 'V' as in 'versimilitude'. The Narg Nasty 6 V University Scholarship Fund is a great way you can say thanks without saying anything at all. The paperwork is all preapproved because of your special status, just include your bank routing numbers here with your Courlandian ID runes. *psst* ...and don't tell the taxman, but charity is a great way to counterpunch the greedy sucks... *psst*."
The super impressive sentient item that Scram had just like everyone else lamented ~Time for one last curtain call, I'm afraid!~ blowing a kiss to Illarya with her other hand.
*BaMF*
"Your mom says she loves you." the thief lied for no reason to the lone Prophet who remained. Scram listened for the dragon, then glanced at the tiny door. "...this might be a problem."
[ooc](If it makes a difference, Gunnar's spell to teleport himself and Ingryd into the room did some damage to the alcove ( ).
Ingryd looks about.
After watching Scramsax teleport his parents and other allies away, Luthael blinks twice when the chamber turns black and white, even his swirling heavenly host, until he notices Raseri next to him. Now that his parents are safe, he smiles at her.
The prophet jumps on the crumbling wall using his shield as a shovel to make enough room for them to get through.
Raseri grins as she sees how easily she can force her way through and proceeds to batter the wall down.
In the Shadow Realm Raseri and Luthael begin to dig their way through the crumbling alcove wall. The gray world feels heavy, close. Everywhere a dense fog appears to risen, even within the confines of the shadow tower. The thick, clinging mist subdues light, sound and the heart. Even the spirits circling the prophet of Khors take on a sickly gray hue, their hungry wails becoming pained moans. The Shadow Realm does not easily welcome denizens of the Light.
As the two hurriedly carve their way through the wall, they feel eyes watching. Presences, some curious, some hostile, some merely hungry, gather. The barrier between worlds has been breached multiple times in a short period. Such usual events tend to cause such gatherings, especially in this realm of perpetual fog and mixed motivations.
On the other side of the wall in the realm of mortals, others labor. Gunnar examines the mirrors. Finds, perhaps with a measure of relief, that they do not appear to be gateways. Are not the avenue used by the hag in her flight. Flipping through runic dials, the dwarf judges each of the silvered glass squares to be tied to an arcane eye similar to the one recently crushed over the alcove. The screen showing nothing but the static haze of background mana.
Unfortunately, the tight confines of the room and the still echoing rumbles of thunder from Gunnar's teleportation make it impossible for either Ingryd or Gunnar to know for sure which way the witch may have fled. Large or small. Turning their attention to the top of the work tables, they spot something missed earlier through the lower view offered by the door. Five ragged dolls lay smoldering near the center of the workbench. An amalgamation of wire, wax, rags, and various bits and pieces of random trash, each is approximately a foot tall and each roughly resembles one of Gunnar and Ingryd's former companions.
Aterro, holding a small hammer made with a rusty nail and a piece of oak. Ibrox a rag hat topped with blacked mushrooms and moss. Trevor, a rough cut peasant shirt made of soiled cloth with used toothpick javelins. Kalisuel, old mop strands for hair and a bow made of willow and horse hair. Vrindel, a gnarled rowan stick staff and a robe of dried skunk cabbage leaves. Captured within the melted center of each doll's chest is a small glass orb that still gleaming with dark arcane magic.
On the other side of the door, Scramsax hears the rumbling bellow of the dragon. Closer. Much, much closer than before. A flare of light suddenly illuminates the tower's recently remodeled skylight. Another brilliant flare and then screams. An explosion rocks the entirety of the tower. Several vials go clattering to the floor. Two break releasing a pair of sour smelling liquids that quickly merge together. Almost too quickly. The halfling rubs her eyes, surely the two substances didn't seek to unite? No, surely not. Either way a stench start to fill the chamber. Reeking of death, decay, sorrow, and lost dreams. Screams echo from somewhere outside. For a moment something within can almost be heard screaming in harmony.
Raseri's grin fades as she feels the oppressive weight of unfriendly eyes on her and Luthael. She concentrates on breaking through the wall and hurries herself and the Sun Prophet through it. She looks at the doors and pauses for a moment before picking the larger of the two.
"Let us go this way. I fear dallying over long will only bring more unfriendly eyes on us," she tells Luthael in a soft voice, as if keeping quiet will keep more of the fell things of this realm from finding them. She silently curses herself for a fool that didn't remember the horrors of this place. All the while, she keeps a keen eye and ear out for any signs of the hag or of the two would be hunters becoming the hunted.
Scram didn't stick around for the harmonious death cries, squeezing into the hole with buns pinched tighter than ever before. Then, in the strange realm of mini-friends and mirrors, the thief looked for a place to hide...hoping the hag hadn't found it first.
...not wasting any more time in what seemed like a final showdown, the bean wizard spritzed her seed.
Grabbing the dolls and stashing them for now, Gunnar moves into the large stairwell (as he won't fit in the small one, of course). As the thunder fades, he listens up and down the stairs to possibly hear the hag's retreat.
If he hears something promising, he follows quickly--otherwise he follows Ingryd's lead if she seems to perceive a good path...
Ingryd follows and looks for any subtle signs of passage
While digging through the wall, Luthael tries to notice those shadow fey drawn like moths to his radiating sunlight. "Yes, we should leave this realm as soon as we pass this wall and rejoin our companions."
When there is space enough to get through the wall, he leads through the wall.
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The Shadow Realm. A realm of mystery. A realm of doom. A realm of wonders and all to often death. Over the centuries many have theorized about the colorless origins of this blighted world nestled within a fabric's width of the bright hued world of life and mortality. Some scholars and wizards say the world was born out of war. The constant struggle between Light and Dark creating a third nether realm where neither truly exists at all. Among the religious classes there are as many myths of its creation as there are sects and followers. One might say such is the case among any of the gods and their associated realms of power. One would like be correct.
Among the fae and elven nobility, Shadow is a place forbidden and best forgotten by most. A realm born of betrayal and treachery by their own kind. A corruption of that which was once glorious, bright and fair now dull, gray, and treacherous, much like their lost kin.
The dragons might know. Born of the stars and entropy as they are believed to be. But who is willing to force a dragon to talk? Who survives long enough to write it down or turn it into a song that others might remember. Too few.
A few whisper that Shadow was where it all started. Light, Dark. Good, Evil. Life, Death and all in between. All of it born of a condensed primordial gray ooze that was nothing, yet something. An entire universe compacted into little more than a colorless glob no bigger than a giant's nasal boulder. Somewhere within that dense beyond dense mass a spark was born. This single snippet of wonder multiplied itself faster than a horde of goblins. A cascading chain reaction unleashed itself in the mere blink of an eye and in a cataclysmic explosion wel beyond mythic proportions, the multiverse was born.
It is about this point in any standard academy class or temple tutorial that most acolytes or apprentices might ask...so what? Who cares, when do we get to learn how to throw fireballs? Those on the opposite side of this query, after assigning an additional week's worth of busy work regarding why the offender and all of his, or her, although the perpetrators of such questions are well documented as being eighty percent male, will never inquire about fireballs again, most often reply. Because you're going to end up there one day and if you don't understand something's beginning, you likely won't understand how to deal with its now.
Thus the lesson would continue, shifting in perspective to more practical matters. For despite the wide disagreement for how, why, or when the Shadow Realm came into being. There is a broader sense of agreement on what it is now and how it often affects those who journey into its dreary grasp.
First and foremost among the effects of the Shadow Realm is that Time functions differently, if at all, within the boundaries of Shadow. Moments spent within its gray halls can equate to years within the mortal realm or quite the reverse. It is theorized that many of those who have disappeared into the mists of Shadow's grip will emerge at some point in the future thinking they have only been gone for a few days or years only to discover their homes and loved ones long since buried and gone. Therefore, extended journeys within the realm are discouraged by most sensible authorities, unless they are made within well mapped and cataloged portions of the realm where time anomalies are chronicled and can be accounted for.
Second, power within the realm is unstable. Arcane, holy, demonic, psychic, it doesn't really matter what form or source from which one's power originates. When exposed to the realm of shadow for any period of time, it is a near certainty some form of instability, mutation, or anomaly is likely to occur. Thus most journals will recommend limiting any such uses of arcane or other powers be kept to a minimum when visiting the Shadow Realm.
The above ties directly to the third known quality of the Shadow Realm. Those native denizens that exist within its bounds are inevitably drawn to any non-native energy or life force. Both Light and Darkness are keen attractants, honey to the proverbial bear so to speak. If one wishes to draw the attention of an Elder Stygian Entropy Beast, then by all means go wandering along a Shadow Road brandishing you Sword of Daylight's Glory or conjuring up clouds of Perpetual Darkness. Just be sure you've made proper arrangements for your next of kin.
Finally, it is well known that the Shadow Realm tends to shape itself similar to the mortal realm, but also remains starkly different in both small and large ways. Why this is, is still very much a mystery. But as already mentioned, the why's of the Shadow Realm are of little concern. The fact is, that while the surroundings one might find themselves in will have a look of familiarity, perhaps even exact outside of the utter colorlessness, there will be many differences. Some subtle, some less so. Always beware when journeying in the realm of Shadow because what or where you think you are may, in whatever reality exists within that primordial aether, may be someplace entirely different.
These along with several other known facts written in many basic tomes cover the known knowledge and recorded facts regarding the Shadow Realm. Information gleaned over centuries at the expense of many lives and lost souls. Unfortunately, neither Luthael or Raseri recall any of these particular lessons from their younger days. The latter because she chose instead to stay late working in the forge to earn extra credit toward her Forging Obscure Weapons of the Far Northern Realms class. While young Luthael was busy writing "I will not ask about fireball again" on the High Priest's chalk board.
Thus as the two busily burrowed their way through the putty soft door and crawled through to the other side, they were quite surprised to see a pair of shadowy images moving around the room.
One of those shadows was quite small. Rodent like in shape and form, a long tail the flipped about. Round ears standing out prominently atop a rodent sized head. A squirrel, or more likely a chipmunk. A quite diabolical and nefarious chipmunk judging from the spite and hate filled menace emanating from the eldritch infused shadow.
The second dark, flat image clicks her heels and swings around on a revolving stool. Bulbous nose, pointed hat, snaggle tooth, knobby knees and pendulous breast that seem to almost take orbit around that revolving form.
The rodent drops the smoldering shadows of some strange purple-flamed effigies it had been manipulating. Cursing in a muffled staccato chatter that passes too quickly to understand.
A muffled cackle, like laughter into a pillow escapes shadow witch lips until suddenly the image reaches a twisted hand up to cover a bulging eye. Muffled words are exchanged. Arms, both long and short, gesture wildly. Somewhere a rumble roars and the entire plaster of paris tower rattles disconcertingly. Shadow witch drinks from a tiny shadow teapot and suddenly shrinks down to a pint sized hag-mare. While the rodent drinks from a larger pot and suddenly chitters with a deep rumbling, bullock sized tone. Each nods to the other then dashes out their respective doors small and large. A moment later a dwarf size shadow appears with an odious belch of sulfuric magic. A bearkin shadow at the wizard's side.
Luthael turns to Raseri, is about to suggest they depart when the pained moans of his gathered spirits suddenly change and then go silent completely. Turning his head he quickly spots the cause of such a silence. The storm of holy knights of light has slowed and stopped. The spirits gathered around one of their own suddenly gone completely gray, eyes filled with an empty gray light rather than radiating golden glory. Hissing and writhing it turns upon its fellows. Three quickly dissipate in a flurry of surprise induced weakness. Before the others can rally, a fourth of their number succumbs to traitors soul sucking power. It's eyes already turning toward the more luscious prizes of the two mortals only a shadow's reach away.
Back in the realm of mortals known as Midgard, Gunnar and Ingryd struggle to determine which path the hag may have taken. Gunnar gathers the doll remains for later study. Eventually Ingryd points down the corridor beyond the full sized door. Boot prints are freshest going that direction, she's sure. Well kind of sure. Actually it's hard to tell, but that's her guess.
On the other side of the door, Scramsax dons her gardening hat, pushing bean to soil and flask poised to water before she scampers through the tiny door and looks about for a place to hide since there's little to steal or stab.
Some might be surprised to learn that Raseri was mostly self-taught, having spent uncounted years lost in the Black Prince's Hunting Lodge and its extensive library, but she had some formal training under a fey lady whom she still can't remember, even after the return of most of her memories from her lifetimes spent under the thumb of a powerful hag and her silver-eyed sisters. Never mind that Thor's clergy has never been the most studious minded. So it is that she never recalled all of the dangers of walking the Shadow Roads and had grown far too comfortable traversing the perilous paths of this twilit realm.
"I think it's time to get back to Midgard," she says before grabbing Luthael hugging him tight as she reaches for the doorway back and pulls them both through it.
...revolving stool...
From her hidden vantage in the hall of mirrors, Scram admired the swivel of the finely crafted rumplestool.
With a true 360 degrees of freedom, the thief's imagination ran completely wild. She could twirl like a ballerina for a dragon's recital, or just turn to grab a snack from a nearby cubby-hole without standing up. With its compact form and stylish accents, it seemed perfect for any kitchen, bar, workshop or secret doll-villian-lair thing.
Scram was not concerned with durability in the slightest, recognizing true craftsmanship the moment whence she beheld it. But the nearly hallucigenic effects of the rumplestool reached extremes as its broad market appeal became crystal clear.
Shoulder pads raised to the max, a mom with teased hair was having problems.
Mom: "Oh dang, I can't reach it..."
A slide-whistle bellowed while the crowd sighed knowingly.
With a SpinMaster Rumplestool 3000, just SWIVEL and SNATCH. Cookies have never been closer.
The audience applauded in a way that seemed forced.
A dad in acid-washed jeans just dropped a dang wrench.
Dad: "Wow crap, I'll have to actually get up..."
No. Not anymore. Just SWIVEL and you're right the hell back in action! Tools at the fingertips, fun at the seat!
As the audience cheered, dad gave a singular, maximally authoritative thumbs-up.
A businessman in suspendies and a power tie is buried in forms.
Businessman: "What befuddling sorcery is this...?? I can't snag my stapler!"
Trouble keeping a deal together? That's SpinMaster Rumplestool 3000, SWIVEL and SNATCH.
The crowd knew it the entire time, as the businessman finally completed his abacus calculations with confidence.
Various iterations of this problem -> swivel solution -> guiding narrative -> ultimate social acceptance played out in front of a wide-eyed halfling in near total hypovolemic shock.
Wherever the hag went, Scramsax knew for freaking sure that stool was coming with her.
"Raseri, please take us back to Midgard. My heavenly host is being defeated here." He continues to stand guard awaiting return to the hag's chamber.
Gunnar continues flying along at top speed with Ingryd, following the tracks and watching/listening for the hag as they go!
Ingryd breaths heavily as she really wants to get to the hag, and make her suffer.
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However, a second curiosity grabs your attention. Along the far end of the workbench near a patch of what you guess is sour grape jelly, you manage to spy another footprint. This one is quite small. Tiny in fact. It is only the single print, pointing toward the center of the room. It does appear a bit more humanoid in nature. Standard heel and toes, similar to that of a sprite or other small fey creature, although a bit wide overall for your typical delicate pixie.
Ingryd fidgets back and forth eager to be after the hag while Gunnar checks around the chamber for other clues as to the direction she may have departed.
A moment later Scramsax pulls herself through the small door, her second story experience allowing her to squeeze through the narrow opening...barely. But any concerns about flexibility or waist size are quickly tossed aside upon spotting the old witch's spinning stool. Perfect for nearly every occasion and any room.
Realizing she had time since Raseri and Luthael clearly are yet to return from their rendezvous in the Shadow Realm, she quickly pulls out her tools and works to unbolt the chair from the floor.
One should never, ever, under any circumstances underestimate a god's ego.
And so, the portal opens before Raseri with a flash of brilliant light. Blinking her eyes she catches sight of the mortal realm beyond. A lovely world of color, light, dark, joy, pleasure, sorrow, and guilt.
Yet, something feels wrong. But before she can truly pull back, something pushes her through the portal. Luthael is close behind. Out of the corner of her eye, Raseri spots a scraggly haired, wide faced, toothy being all gray and pale and gangly limbed, sipping from a bottle labeled Old Thunder #29. Taking another swig, he raises a long, clawed paw-like hand and disappears in burst of smoke as the gate snaps closed.
Turning to look at their surroundings, Luthael and Raseri find themselves high atop a tall crag of rock. A sun of red, nearly thrice the size of Khors yellow orb, fills the sky and yet little in the way of warmth truly seems to come from that eerie light. Looking out upon the crimson hued landscape, they can see tufts of a strange almost metallic looking grass rustles in the wind. A ring of glassy stone runs partly around the wide summit upon which they stand. Gazing out over the wider land, they see the mountain they stand upon rises up from an forest. But much like the nearby grass and weeds that tinkle in the breeze like temple chimes, the trees of the forest are like nothing either has ever seen before. Skeletal, silver barked trees with leaves ranging in color from pale yellow to a bruised purple. Gnarled and twisted, the strange trees reach toward that crimson eye staring down from far above...and yet...and yet, there is a familiar feeling to the view. As if both have looked from this very height, long, long, long ago.
More worrisome is the fact that Luthael's spirits cry out in shock and fright before instantly disappearing completely. The prophet of Khors struggles to understand, until he looks inside himself to the place of light and warmth where his god has ever dwelled. There inside that inner temple of holy light, he finds...nothing. Nothing but a barren empty shrine. A feint blood red flicker of flame sits within the center, weak, cold, of little consequence at all.
From the box carried upon the prophet's back, the sword moans in pain and surprise.
What have you done? It whispers in fright and panic.
Realizing that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong, Raseri feels all of the confidence she'd spent so long building and rebuilding crumble leaving behind a frightened young woman who clings to the priest she's beginning to develop feelings of something more than friendship for as if he is her only chance at salvation.
"I'm sorry," she whimpers as Luthael can feel her shaking. "I'm sorry! I'll make it right!"
Luthael looked around at the dreadful scene. His hand reflexively clutches his bejeweled, holy amulet. His hollowness seeps from his heart to his extremities. "Raseri, please find that steel in your soul and return us to Midgard as soon as possible."
”Some small prints—perhaps that chipmunk from earlier,” says Gunnar, ”But see, here are the larger prints. We can only hope they lead us to our foe!”
Flying off following the (larger) prints, Gunnar can only hope his friends are following…
It was a race against the clock. Scramsax panicked.
Of course obtaining the stool took priority, but if Gunnar and Ingryd weren't going to find the path in less than a minute, or if Raseri and Luthael didn't appear from wherever they went in less than a minute, things were about to get a lot more fibrous, unsoaked, and full of protein.
The 3/16ths socket didnt fit the nut. Fudge. Fumbling around, a 5/32nd was produced but the little wrench protested by not slipping on smoothly. Ok. 7/32nds. Nope.
For the love of the gods, 5mm it was the only thing that made sense. The hag's corruption had mutated sensible units into some kind of abomination. It was going to take everything the thief could muster to unbolt these suckers. Latching vice grips. Soft-handled pliers. The thief was not f*cking around.
*tic tok*
The clock clickered down to 39 seconds. Only that much of a temporal pause before spirits-of-flatulence-knew-what was going to happen.
Struggling with the final bolt "For the love of all that's holy, Griz!! Follow your nose!" Scram shouted, dipping some leftoever Britta Gleamgaurd toast into the sour grape jelly pointed out by the wizard.
'Lead the way!" Ingryd growls as she points with a hammer, gladly letting the dwarf track, as she is too focused on killing than seeking.
Raseri nods and tries to focus on finding a way back to Midgard. She reaches out for that whim of steel that Luthael sees in her, but she finds nothing. Still, she has to try, and her voice quivers as she tries to open the doorway between worlds that leads back to Midgard.
Unfortunately, memories and doubts from when she left Zobeck for the Courts of the Shadow Fey come back with a vengeance. Flickering images of failure after failure, of nearly being gutted by a strange fey doll in Zobeck's library, of falling into a spike pit and being unable to free herself, of being banished from the Courts to the Black Prince's hunting lodge, and of a hole in her memory where now there is only a sense of shame and frustration flit through both her mind and Luthael's. Her tongue stumbles clumsily over the prayer she says, and with each stuttering word, her panic and despair only grow.
What would happen this time? Would she and Luthael be sent somewhere even worse? Would she find herself in the clutches of the Gray Ladies or worse, the hag that had taken her in and killed her again and again and again in her quest for a perfect daughter? Would she doom Luthael and herself to be forever lost to the void of Ginnungagap? A thousand terrible possibilities flowed through her mind as she tried to find the way back home and something in the pit of her stomach told her that she had failed once again.
Have their god's forsaken them? Abandoned them? Without word or warning? Without hope of redemption for whatever grievous sin one or the other may have perpetrated? Surely not so? One might expect such fickle and ruthless behavior from the White Goddess or the Goat of the Woods, yet even those foul, evil beings would maintain some thread of connection. If for nothing else to enjoy the fear and suffering of the one being punished. Dangle a thread of hope only to snatch it away time and again like a cat toying with a mouse. No, such is not the way of Thor or Khors. The answer lies elsewhere.
Both travelers look once again upon the alien landscape. The strange forest. The slow moving, band of sludge-black water winding through its center far below in the valley. It takes a few more moments for each of the two to sense that there is more missing than just their gods. Raseri, with her experience tapping the ley lines of power and melding the natural energy of the world with hammer, steel, and forge is the first to notice. The ley lines. Those natural rivers of power that weave and weft about the world...are not here. This place with its red sun and metallic flora, it is an dead world. Devoid of magic.
Without some magical source...magical power...there is no way to open a gate. It is as if the Shadow Realm dropped them through a one way trap door. As soon as it snapped closed they were trapped like rats in a cage.
The sound echoes like a hundred dragon bellows through the mountains. The two mortals are forced to their knees as the deafening sound rattles bones and ripples through the metallic grasses, weeds, and trees. Turning to the southwest, the two see a cloud of dust rising over a ridge. Billowing and black. It is like a great geyser of soot and grit spewing into the blood red sky. Lightning crackles and flickers through the center of the rising mass. Thunder echoes, but its rumble is nothing compared to that other jarring blast.
"POP! CLANG!" The final bolt finally breaks free giving Scramsax a knuckle crack she won't soon forget. But at last with a solid five point six seconds to spare she has the stool well in hand, its grease coated center swivel disappearing into the thieves stash. Fully expecting Luthael and Raseri to arrive upon a wave of sour looks and the usual 'what have you done now' questions, the halfling is met by an eerie silence as far as those two companions are concerned. Silence of course being relative given the unmistakable roar of the dragon outside which stills causes the walls to ripple and grit to leap from the tower heights to the much safer and solid resting places on the floor.
Then there is the other roar. That of Ingryd followed quickly by Gunnar's racing boot steps. Those two eagerly after the old cackling crone of the pendulous chest and frumpy gams. Before she can finish storing all the wrenches...why is it always the last one of the pile that you try...that bearkin's roar is cut short.
You both hear the sound of a stone door sliding open, or perhaps closed, it is difficult to tell, just a few more feet ahead and to the right. Or so you would guess, for you see nothing but blackness. Then the click...clack...click...clack. Not of boots. Something sharp tapping the stone. Slowly. Patiently. Confident. Whatever moves, it does not fear the dark.
Swivel stowed, Scram felt satisfaction knowing that future problems had already been solved. But the little bean was bubbling trouble, and the thief suddenly realized she was all alone in a hag's death trap.
Tossing it outside was no good. Beans and dragons were not a combination the halfling was interested in, and besides it would desecrate the grave of her ill-fated mule Quincy. The latter no doubt leading to ghost mules a'haunting, or worse revenant mules wielding vengeful necrotic weapons from beyond the grave.
Tossing it down Ingryd and Gunnar's chosen path was likewise cringefully bad. Ingryd's bees would get distracted trying to pollenate the sprouts, not able to be there for Griz in a pinch and leading to chaos-god-knows-what chain reactions taking place given the bountiful increase in yield.
Holding it put? Out of the question. Breaking a mirror was seven years bad luck, and there were decades worth of misfortune here.
There was only one play that made any sense: the unknown. Scram could not even guess what would happen by tossing it down the alternate fork. So, who cares?
Chucking the sucker like no one's business, the Barsellan wiped her brow and gave herself a nod of surety before preparing to slip off after the others. But she first paused, remembering her two clerics...taking out a crowbar, Scram carved a trademark dong into the stone, pointing in the direction of the party.
Having dealt with magical darkness before, Gunnar assesses the nature of the darkness before him. If he deems it to be magical, he will attempt to dispel it.
Ingryd steps in and assumes a defensive posture, Shield forward and hammer out paraelle to the floor. allows her to rotate her amr to strike forward, down or thrust up. She speaks .
"Any thing you can do about the light?"
Luthael gets up and brushes the odd soil from his leathers. He offers a hand to Raseri to help her to stand. "At last we have each other."
"Let's go see what makes that black cloud." He smiles sadly and escorts her southwest. His hand unconsciously drifts to his bejeweled, pectoral amulet to his Sun Lord.
Realizing that she's trapped Luthael and herself on this horrid plane nearly shatters Raseri's mind. Bad enough she's gotten herself mired so deep in trouble without bringing one of her friends down with her. She timidly takes Luthael's hand after the gods-awful noise had hammered them both to their knees. As she follows the Sun Prophet, she notices him reaching up to the holy symbol on his breast.
"I--I'm sorry," she apologizes. "I've doomed us both."
"Maybe," Raseri says, unable to meet Luthael's eyes.
Scramsax tosses her prepared bean through the tiny door. She can hear the little legume bounce back and forth among several stone surfaces before it seems to settle. After a short waits later the prickle of something magical taking place tingles in the air. The door suddenly fills with a hodgepodge of twigs, small sticks, dry grass, and leaves. The panicked clucking of a caged chicken echos through what remains of the opening. After a flurry of squawks and begawkes an egg rolls slowly through the door. Its pastel red, blue, and yellow striped shell a bright contrast to the dreary gray and brown of the stone room.
Of course, the halfling sees none of this, having quickly marked the way for her two wayward companions to follow and then scampered off after Gunnar and Ingryd.
Seventy paces down the descending corridor steps, Gunnar's voice rings out strong and fierce. The wizard swipes away the darkness as it if were nothing more than a nat bothering his nose. Able to see once again, both bearkin and dwarf easily spot the approaching pair of driders. The arachnid legs click-clacking across the stone, black blades poised to strike, eyes suddenly blinking in surprise as they are forced to readjust to the infusion of dim sconce light.
Beyond the pair of driders, a cloaked and hooded figure ducks through another open doorway. It moves with a strange, almost hopping gait. Gunnar catches a flash of brown fur, then the figure disappears through the room beyond.
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A short while later even the sword still hidden within the confines of the nullbox complains.
What is that infernal noise? How is it I can no longer sense the might of Khors?
Forging ahead, the two lost travelers pull themselves up and over the sharp rise of the ridge. They find themselves looking down into another wide, long valley. The rumble of machinery adds to the ever-present assault upon their senses by the crystalline plants. The source of the rumble is clear. Near the far end of the valley sits a monstrosity of mechanical might. Towering five times the height of a giant and more than triple a dragon's length, the beetle-like structure rolls along on tracked wheels at the paces of a snail.
A maw at the front of the metallic beast opens into a series of whirling grinders that churn up earth, plants, trees, and everything in its path. The high pitched squealing sound of the material being ground up like so much wheat between the millstones is deafening. Somewhere within the interior of the rolling extractor, a smelter must be hard at work. The source of the spewing black cloud.
In the wake of the beast's passage is nothing but a pulverized and flattened pathway through the forest. A swath of desolation a quarter mile wide and extending all the way back to the beginning of the valley.
Swarming about the great machine are numerous smaller clockwork devices. Most appear to be dedicated to some form of repair or maintenance duties as they busily patch holes, replace gears, clear jams, or otherwise keep the conveyors, processors, manufacturers, that make up the things central purpose.
Continuing to watch, both prophet and priestess soon spot the other flyers. These maintain a distance of about five hundred yards out from the devouring mouth of the machine. At that distance they maintain a secure perimeter around the great beast. Constantly swiveling back and forth, each carrying an array of wands, tubes, and blades that could easily deal with many unknown intruders.
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Gunnar tries to sidle around and get a view of the escaping hag through the open doorway. If he is successful, he will try out a new spell on her! If not, he makes up for Luthael’s absence by tossing a fireball at the driders.
Line of sight on hag—Odin’s Grasping Fist (Bigby’s Hand)
Just the driders—Fireball at Level 4
"Maybe try to find a seam again to return us to Midgard?" He asks Raseri, while trying to create heatless, fire in his palm.
Raseri nods and begins praying again, begging forgiveness and doing her best to observe all the proper epithets and deeds of Thor.
Gunnar's magical hand reaches out and grasps the cloaked figure firmly by the shoulder. With a jerk it spins the creature around to reveal a furry-faced, puffy-cheeked, oversized chipmunk with glowing eldritch eyes and a feral snarl permanently manifested upon its thin lips. It struggles for a moment against the pull of the magical hand then suddenly laughs upon seeing the surprise etched across the dwarf's face.
"Chitterchitter squeak click chitter chitter chitter." It prattles off in its own high pitched native tongue.
The driders respond by surging toward the dwarf, longswords in hand. Their arachnid legs click-clacking upon the stone. The first moves in on Gunnar's left a flurry of steel slashing at the wizard. Using the distraction of it's partner, the second scuttles to the right managing to break through the wizard's guard to score a pair of hits.
Munk Sorceror: 187/200
Pausing atop the ridgeline, momentarily stunned by the view of the monstrous machine and its parasitic spawn filling the vale below the pair of shadow road travelers pause for a moment to take stock.
Luthael attempts to perform one of the most basic magical prayers available to those who serve Khors. It is a prayer he has made more times than he can recall. Always his god has answered. Always the light of Khors has emerged bright and pure. Even in the depths of the darkest storms or surrounded by the unholy night of death itself, Khors power has been a beacon of hope and salvation. The prophet waits. Repeats the prayer. It is perfect in every tone and syllable. And yet, the only light is that of the ugly, cold red orb staring down from the sky above.
Raseri, desperate to lead them out of the trap she inadvertently put them in, attempts to open the gate again. Unfortunately, the result is the same. There is simply no power, or not nearly enough power, to manifest a portal. Not willing to panic, or at least to show panic, she delves the recesses of her mind for potential answers. A few manage to present themselves based on the little information gathered. First, the Midgard, or whatever world, in which they currently find themselves has little to no natural mana. A quick moment of concentration reveals this theory to be possible as she cannot sense even the smallest of ley lines or other source of natural magical power in the vicinity. Second, if she had a sufficient amount of energy, she is certain she could manifest a portal and return the two of them back to their proper time and world. Third. Something was powering that massive behemoth in the valley and all of those things flying around it. If they were able to get a closer look at one, perhaps it would provide a sufficient power source.
There was another alternative. She hesitates to say anything knowing Luthael's opinion of the sword. But she knows he caries the artifact still. Removed from the null box, surely the blade would have enough power to sever the veil between the worlds and open a portal back to the Shadow Road. Of course, unleashing the blade came with its own set of risks.
Gunnar throws up a Shield as he is surrounded by the Driders (+5 AC takes it to 26). If any of the attacks still hit, they take damage from the Fire Shield.
and
As Gunnar's magic strengthens his Arcane Shield (minus whatever attacks get through), the Dwarf looks around worriedly for the rest of his comrades. "Take down the, uh, squirrel while it is grasped!" calls out Gunnar as he wills the hand to squeeeeeeeeeeeeze!
Bonus action crush:
Strength check versus any escape attempt for the hand:
Then Gunnar raises his hammer and a sonic boom erupts, hopefully damaging the adjacent Driders!
Creeping up just before the turn of the stone corner, Scram heard powerful dwarven demands to cull the scurry. Fully understanding the balance of nature required such sacrifices, or at least pretending to for fun, the arch-druid loaded a double-cloved stone into her sling with the chattering rodent name actually on it.
...before darting back around the falling curtain of dispelled darkness.