Still twirling the lasso at the ready "So what's the plan? We can't climb down...that's exactly what it wants, eh? How do we make it come up to us? Or put a lid on it somehow? Rebuild the Mound?" he hoped the answer was 'yes'.
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"I think it wants us to climb down and play by its rules. I say we do the first thing but not the second thing. We just need to know what we're dealing with."
Aterro spies a nearby boulder jutting out of the ground that would make perfect anchor.
"We just need someone perceptive and sneaky to see what exactly 'it' is so we can destroy it.
Know anyone like that?"
*shrug* "Yeah I'll steal a peak. Rules are for suckers."
"A careful descent is warranted," says Gunnar, "As those enthralled by the siren's song threw themselves into the depths in a likely fatal fall." The dwarven mage looks carefully down into the depths, assessing what challenge may lie before them and considering how to cut off this being's link to the ley lines so his companions may have a chance at neutralizing it.
”We could take the flying carpet if there’s room.” Luthael suggests trying to make the best of the situation.
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But Khors would not have his servant contribute little or nothing to the current challenge, even if it seemingly wanders afield of your original task involving swords and saints. In fact, it speaks to the wisdom of the Light that your path earlier in life brought you under the tutelage of Canon Eleanor Tamsom. Chief Chronologist for the Temple of Courlandia. Of mixed Khazzak and Perunalian blood, she was a dusky skinned beauty with a sharp mind and even sharper tongue if one miscataloged one of the texts or scrolls in the temple library. Her no nonsense manner and lack of tolerance for fools often turns many of your fellow acolytes and adepts off, but not you.
You enjoyed the deep conversations the two of you would have long into the afternoons and evenings discussing everything from history to the latest temple dogma and directives from the Council of the Sun. You can also recall the disquisition she was researching and writing regarding the history of Courlandia during the interregnum between Ankesh's fall and the arrival of the Elves and their empire. She'd spent nearly ten years wandering the wilds of Orzu and the surrounding area. Speaking to reluctant and elusive fae, tribal shamans, old grandmothers and aunties, gathering stories and myths and all manner of tales from human, hueginn, fae, and many other kin of the north.
Her findings and meticulous research concluded something quite different from the likes of Reeks, Mannerhauffen, Ytch, and the few other scholars who bothered with studying the past of Courlandia and the Wild Orzu Hills. According to Eleanor there was a time long long ago. A time of darkness and extreme strife that roiled the entire peninsula. A time of invasion, not by elves, but by alien beings from some distant and vile realm. Horrific, bizarre spider-like creatures. Creatures from someplace known only as the Plateau of Leng. The stories are unclear how the invaders were defeated. Some say it was due to the intervention of one of Baba Yaga's sisters, others say that the gods intervened to turn them away, still others say it was only the coming of the elves that finally ended the threat. Regardless, disaster was prevented and the abominations were driven out or imprisoned in secluded tombs they could never escape from.
Eleanor once described one of these tombs to you. Stone cairns meant to look like a natural hill or feature. Each mound then surrounded by an elaborate ring of standing stones designed and enchanted to channel the natural energies of the land turning the cairn into an impenetrable prison. The magical workings were quite powerful and some say that a few fae even sacrificed themselves to secure the final bindings of power. Something almost unthinkable among such creatures.
You don't know what ended up happening to Eleanor and her thesis. After six months she was called away to serve in the great temple in Zobeck and the Council. You never saw her again.
As Luthael scans the megaliths, the memory pops like a bubble too big with coincidences. The prophet pauses and says out loud and telepathically to Scramsax, "I had a tutor who studied the history of these Orzu Hills. This mound looks very much like a prison for horrific, bizarre spider-like alien creatures from the Plateau of Leng. That's NOT of Midgard."
"Some say that it took one of Baba Yaga's sisters, the arrival of the elves, or sacrifices by a few immortal fae to secure the final bindings."
"Are we certain that our intervention here is more than suicidal?" Luthael may be very comfortable with the concept of death, such that he is content in his spiritual afterlife. On the other hand, he is not actively seeking out the end of his life now where he can do more Good in the name of Khors.
Initially you look to the remnants of the circle. An attempt to determine the potential for replicating or repairing the arcane cage. The answer is a disappointing no. Too much has been undone. And the initial powers were much more potent than you would have initially imagined. Sanctified by blood. Strengthened by sacrifice. And to your surprise, it was fae blood and sacrifice that powered the rituals.
Following the thread of this unexpected discovery, you feel along the lines of power that dive beneath the surface and into the depths of the pit. Carefully. Cautiously. It doesn't take long to sense the 'otherness' of whatever power lurks below. Multiple powers, you realize. The arcane resonances are all wrong. Dissonant and out of sync with nearly every normal form of magic practiced within Midgard. This is not the result of some fae or draconic or tribal or even undead, unholy power. This is something completely foreign. Not of this world. But from this deeper arcane vantage point, you can sense the hatred and fury flowing underneath the alluring calls emanating from the pits dark reaches.
You can also sense continued weakness. Whatever has awoken from its millennia long sleep, it is still vulnerable. Still not fully free from the shackles originally locked around its being.
While Gunnar and Luthael examine the broken circle of stones and outer area, Scramsax takes up Aterro's rope and sets about dropping down into the pit. Watching from above, Aterro can't make out much. The halfling, carefully lowering himself into the deep. A purple light glows within some kind of mist or cloud that hangs in the air not far below the opening obscuring what might be the source of the illumination.
You drop another twenty feet into the dark, dank pit. The eldritch light looms closer and as your eyes adjust, your heart starts to beat just a little faster. The mist grows denser, obscuring the bottom of the pit, but you see shapes floating within the cloud. Small. Humanoid. You focus your mind's eye upon several of the creatures. Enough so that you cut through some of the cloudy mist and discover they are goblins. Similar, if not the same, as the ones you saw leaping into the pit earlier. Glancing around you also spot other creatures. Deer, rabbits, a pair of sprites. All float trapped within the eerie confines of the gentle purple mist. No. They do not float. For you do sense the smallest amount of movement. They continue to fall, but extremely slowly. And each face is locked in a look of pure rapture and ecstasy.
As you dangle there upon the rope your eyes catch a hint of movement. Different from the slow cascade of leapers trapped in this massive honey pot. A silver and yellow thread, swirls and whirls its way through the mist. You watch as the worm like thread ripples toward one of the goblins. When it gets within a few handspan, the thing, for it is certainly no benign thing as it lashes out and drives one tip into the goblins ear and shortly out the other. You watch with growing concern, the slow bursting eruption of blood and tissue from the goblins head even as the thread rapidly elongates and wraps itself around the hapless victim until it is fully cocooned. Moments later whatever held it aloft ceases to do so and it plummets away into the brighter depths.
You dangle just above the edge of the dense mist and for a quick frantic moment you scan the area for any sign of an approaching thread only to sigh in relief as you remain alone...for the moment.
From within the mound, or perhaps from a distant star Aterro, Gunnar, and Luthael heard the voice of Scramsax manifest in their minds ::Hot and wet down here, like a cuddly racoon after its done swimming...no, like a dog's nose but hotter. Scratch that. Farmhand's armpit after a hard days thrashin'...smells good though.::
Such astute and useful observational analogies continued until ::Here we go, a mist. Alright I see what's going on, the mist slowed time or gravity...or is just really sticky. Everything that jumped in earlier is floating here, like it cushioned the...hold on somethin's moving...the hell?::
Silence for a moment.
::...oh yeah, its definitely dead now. Alright so this yellow and silver worm just went straight through one of their heads. Lots of blood. Can't...can't see it really anymore, it wrapped itself all around the body like a Marzanian whore and dropped out of sight.::
Dangling there slowly getting covered in sweat ::Team, you getting this? I'm gonna...hold on I'm gonna try something...::
Scram pokes the mist with a finger about knuckle deep, but not his finger...the demon finger he extracted before from under the tower. He'll also drop a sling bullet into the mist to see if its natural path downwards is halted like these oddly still living creatures.
”I concur, Luthael, these emanations are all wrong for mortal magic, and it was fae blood used to trap this alien creature. It is still hindered by its prison, but gaining strength quickly. There is no telling if it is already too strong for us, but if we do not stop it now, it will wreak untold destruction before the forces of good can marshall the strength to defeat it,” says Gunnar, both aloud and in his mind to Scramsax. ”Is the way clear for us to descend yet, Scramsax?” he asks using this strange mental communication.
::No, if you jump in now, you'll hit the mist and be slowed in time. I'm trying to see how it reacts to non-living material...if it doesn't react, maybe we can lure it to the surface of the mist and use ranged attacks from above. Also, we could maybe go fishing with the carpet and a grappling hook. That's right, fishing. Get these little snacks out of here so it cant feed and get stronger. Theres a bunch of coneys down here.::
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"A bunch of rabbits are down there?" Aterro wondered back. "Is it feeding on them too?
And where'd the name Narg Nasty Six come from?" he asks, for some reason deciding that now, with the mind-link, it is the best time to ask. "Why not The Dedicated Band, or The Stone Men of Nargenstal? What is it about being 'nasty' that you believe implies some kind of virility?
Anyway, I'm going to try something. Let me know if it helps."
Curious of what this slow-time-fall thing is that the hobbit is describing, Aterro gathers up a bunch of stones. He starts casting Light on one, and dropping it down, as he had when they first encountered the hole. He'll do this a few times both to see if Scram is aided by the flashes of light dropping down, and to see if it is affected by the same force that is trapping the goblins and rabbits.
"Tell me if the stones slow or not."
If they didn't, he had an idea.
"I concur, Gunnar. That we have only just learned of this Terrible Thing does not lessen the threat it poses. But we do know that fortune has placed us here at the infancy of its rise. If ever there is a time to arrest its progress, that time is now.
Your idea of using the carpet us a good one, LightCleric Luthael. But with the phenomenon Scram has witnessed, we do not know if we would be risking the magical thing with a descent. It may be that climbing on the to the sides like spiders is the only way to avoid the effect, as our Hobbit is doing so now."
Dropping the sling bullet, you watch as it falls normally through the cloud and even hear the ping of metal hitting stone somewhere below. Moments later, another stone drops from the opening above. The gleaming white light momentarily illuminates the upper interior of opening.
You see that the top of the mound is actually the apex of a thick dome of stone over a hundred feet in diameter. The blast blew away the center of the dome. The interior of the dome was covered with dozens of massive arcane and runic symbols, most of them shattered and destroyed in the blast. But enough can still be seen on the outer edges to give you an idea of what might have been.
A second stone drops past and you shift your gaze to the walls of the great chamber. To the east and west you spot tunnel openings. The western opening is twenty feet above you current position, while the other is almost level with you, maybe a couple of feet lower. The one to the west looks like it partially collapsed in the eruption, while the eastern opening seems to have survived intact.
A third stone falls, this one a little closer to where you hang near the end of the fifty feet of rope. Like the other two, this one falls through the mist unhindered. And clatters to the ground below. You'd estimate about another hundred feet give or take. You can just barely make out the three lights blooming in the heavy mist, but the cloud still obscures anything else that might be down there.
A fourth stone drops. It barely misses you. But before you can mentally caution your companion's aim. You catch a glimpse of another worm attacking and killing another goblin. Of more alarm though is you see the cocoon you saw created a few minutes earlier suddenly move. Three more appendages jut out from the goblins silk wrapped body. The newly formed limbs, twist and stretch in an eye watering display of contortions and flexibility. The completely wrapped and covered head twists around and although there are no discernible features you can feel the thing looking at you. It twists back around and then dives into the mist where it disappears into the purple cloud.
You slowly twist around to watch for another stone but none seems forthcoming.
From above Aterro drops his lighted stones into the pit and watches them plummet into the eldritch cloud. They drop past the dangling halfling whose own movements are slow, cautious, very deliberate looking as he pokes the severed demon finger deeper into the mist. Eventually the stones hit bottom and all can just make out the dim white light buried deep within the purple. Whatever magic trapped the living creatures did not prevent the stones from falling as they naturally should.
There's a mental anxiousness momentarily, like the gag before vomiting ::...oh gosh, I was wrong about the feeding thing. Instead it seems to be mutating them into some kind of monstrosities sporting a pentad of protuberances...:: tongue twisters were much easier mentally, and that pleased the halfling.
::...but right about the slowing effects. Seems it only affects matter living or once living, not sling bullets and enchanted stones. I bet a hail of arrows would leave a mark...but we need more light. Maybe drop a bunch of logs and start a bonfire while we...hold on...see something...::
There's a bunch of grunting and struggling which Scram really didn't need to mentally enunciate, yet did so anyways.
::Two tunnels, one might be collapsed or its a trick of the eye. And some arcanist symbols and northerner's runes on the ceiling in here. I think you can come down to the side tunnel now if you want to explore more.::
”Right, let’s get on this carpet and follow the rope down, staying out of that bio-reactive field. I want to get a closer look at those arcane symbols,” says Gunnar, preparing for the descent.
"More light? The Lord of Light can easily provide." Luthael fishes out a torch from his pack and breathes a prayer to Khors causing it to illuminate without fire. "Ready Scramsax?" The priest drops the wooden torch near the halfling.
After helping the spleunking, the prophet turns to the WarCleric, "Brother Aterro, I've had many titles, but LightCleric has never been one of them. Maybe Priest, Prophet, Father, Brother, Deacon, and definitely a full cleric." He ends with a grin.
"Seriously, I think we should take the carpet if we go. We could fish, but more importantly it would aid our escape, in case we need to exit in a hurry."
With his legs and one sweaty hand gripping the rope, and the other hand gripping the devil's middle finger, Scram had no choice but to attempt catching the falling enchanted torch with his mouth...
...snapping forth at it gently like a dog and his favored flying disk.
And where'd the name Narg Nasty Six come from?" he asks, for some reason deciding that now, with the mind-link, it is the best time to ask. "Why not The Dedicated Band, or The Stone Men of Nargenstal? What is it about being 'nasty' that you believe implies some kind of virility?
Chuckling outloud, but restraining his laughter within, Scram deadpans ::Play on words, my steel-clad friend, nasty is actually an acronym...chosen of course for the alliteration. But its not sexual nasty, its N-A-S-T: You know, 'next-gen' since we're the new adventuring band replacing Britta's crew. And besides, it was in the contract we can't go back and change it now, or we'd lose legal possession of these magical items.:: Then, remembering the little sketches he made ::I have a few banner designs if interested.::
It was a lie of course, all of it. And Scram, despite lying more or less constantly, wasn't very good at it.
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"Stormlords of Thor? Very inclusive, Scramsax." Luthael deadpans outloud and in thought. Believing in the words of the thief, con-halfling, and all around scoundrel.
At Luthael's criticism Scram had to think fast ::Ehe, well it can stand for other stuff too...thats the beauty of it, see...in your case talkin' bouta :: This time a furious orcish drum beat accompanied the words, making the acronym appear even more badass than it already was.
Luthael just laughs outloud at the halfling's reaction, a gut rumbling laugh which rocks the prophet back.
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"Ah. Very good, very clever. Well done," Aterro comments on the halfling's choosing of names.
"Luthael, it seems that the carpet will be unaffected by whatever phenomenon is down there, and we might escape it ourselves if we cling to the side. Yes, break out the carpet and let us go in force.
Wait, are you saying others do not call you LightCleric? But that is what you are, so why not wear the title proudly? How else could one both do you honor and distinguish you from the great many other cloisters of our chosen path?
Oh, your kind was always inscrutable. In the Order it seemed to me that such men were of extra cunning and intellect, more like mages then my fellow WarClerics. Such a conundrum is too far above a ground pounder like me."
Luthael starts unrolling the carpet ready for flight while he smiles and replies to Aterro, "no. They've never called me a LightCleric."
"I've held many titles over the years in the Church of the Sun Lord, as I've mentioned, but the unique title that I hold is Invictusol, if you are so inclined."
In a somewhat amazing display of coordination and dental strength, not to mention the create use of a face as a backstop, Scramsax snatches the torch out of the air gripping it firmly in his teeth.
Despite full hands and a mouthful of torch the halfling proceeds with yet another vaudevillian display of fast talking chicanery in order to convince both of his priestly companions of the value and flexibility of their new Narg Nasty 6™ team designation.
With the ongoing dialogue chattering in his head, Luthael still manages to roll out the carpet. The tattered carpet is spotted with mold, mildew, and copious amounts of cat hair. And it smells...like cat...lots and lots of cat. And now you are all pretty certain why Radovan was keeping the thing rolled up in a back closet and why he may not have been too worried about giving it up.
Still, appearances and scents are one thing, functionality is another. And the carpet does function as promised. With the utterance of the command words, the carpet gracefully lifts itself into the air.
Luthael sits down on the carpet and activates it by saying, "fly me to the moon."
The prophet figures the Thorsons would want their concentration on battle if it happens. He tries to make the carpet hover in place, so the other companions can climb aboard.
Gunnar sits down in the middle of the carpet and says, ”My appreciation, Luthael. Let us proceed.”
Getting onto the carpet "More of those things keep forming. Kill them all now, or kill them all later, or save some now. That's the op--ew, what the hell? Is this animal dander?" Scram looked at his now soiled hand, with nowhere to wipe.
What he said made sense, though. The party could kill all the goblins and forest creatures before they transform. The party could kill all the goblins and forest creatures after they transform. Or the party could save the untransformed ones, and kill the others. Such was the calculus as Scram saw it (before the discovery of an extra sloppy pussy crimping their carpet style).
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"Gratitude," Aterro rumbles, also mounting the carpet.
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"Careful, here, Kalisuel," Aterro cautioned as he felt the familiar tingles of some ill-advised fingers creeping around his head. "I was planning on asking for Thor's Guidance for myself, but, given that I've built up a resistance to any who would seek to dominate me, methinks you could make better use of it."
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Gunnar, Kalisuel, Aterro, and Luthael climb onto the hovering carpet. Seeing all are aboard Luthael cautiously guides the floating floor accent over the opening of the pit. Up until this point the odd dreamlike song of whatever lies within has been little more than a nuisance poking the back of Kalisuel's mind. But as she stares down into the open burial mound, into the eldritch mist with it floating victims, the call grows stronger. Calls to her. Promises to end her days of fear. Promises to fear her of her forgotten memories and restore her to her true power.
The elf's eyes glaze over and she slides closer to the edge of the carpet. Her heart pounds. Blood pulses. A part of her knows it is all a lie, but the longing starts to overwhelm. The promise of peaceful serenity is too much a lure. She leans out...
...and a strong hand grips her shoulder for just a brief moment. A spark of electricity flows from priest to elf. "Strength." Is the only word said but it is filled with the power of the Lord of Storms. And like a powerful storm wind, Aterro's blessing of Thor blows away the mists of deceit and illusion clouding Kalisuel's mind. Guiding her back into herself and reality. Blinking away the last vestiges of the pit's magic, Kalisuel slips back from the edge of the carpet as Luthael guides it low enough to allow Scramsax to climb aboard.
While Scram settles himself on the carpet, commenting on the unpleasant presence of past pets, everyone else is discovering the interior of the cavern for the first time. The first thing you noticed is the heat. Little more than a dozen feet from the lip of the opening, everyone is suddenly sweating as the temperature rises to that of the hottest Nurian summer. In addition, the air is filled with moisture. A sweet smelling mist that clogs your sinuses and makes every breath feel like you're partially drowning.
Scramsax dangled near the end of his length of rope. From his vantage, the eldritch light looms closer. The mist is much more dense the further down you go an fully obscures the bottom of the pit. The faint diffuse glow of Aterro's lightstones still shows in the purple haze marking their location somewhere below, but not providing any insight as to what lies there. The rest of his companions now see the shapes floating within the cloud that Scramsax spoke about. The goblins. The deer, rabbits, a pair of sprites. All trapped within the eerie confines of the gentle purple mist. All have the same enraptured look of joy and ecstasy that clouded Kalisuel's features just heartbeats earlier.
And like Scramsax, and the carpet floats over the mist, one of several silver and yellow threads swirls and whirls its way through the mist. You watch as the worm like thread ripples toward one of the goblins. When it gets within a few handspan, the thing, for it is certainly no benign shirt string lashes out and drives one tip into the goblins ear and shortly out the other. You watch with growing concern, the slow bursting eruption of blood and tissue from the goblins head even as the thread rapidly elongates and wraps itself around the hapless victim until it is fully cocooned. Moments later whatever held it aloft ceases to do so and it plummets away into the brighter depths sprouting several new limbs.
Scramsax points out the two tunnels. One appearing blocked by the damage from the explosive removal of the top of the mound. The other seems intact. All can also see the remnants of the runes of power that once lined the entire dome.
”These were the runes sealing the entity in its prison. There seemed to have been a magic nullifying field as well as a physical barrier. We should proceed quickly—either to pull the creatures out of the cloud or move along to combat the source of this corrupting magic,” says Gunnar.
Luthael hovers the carpet surveying the scene for threats. ”The magic is like a siren’s song drawing living beings into becoming food. We need to find and destroy the source of those death threads and mist. Do we think those captured creatures can recover?” He had never heard of anything like this before.
At the mention of recovery "Ever see a kid born with an extra finger or toe? Nurse'll tie a string round tight, till the blood can't flow anymore. The extra digit blackens, dies, and sloughs off." gazing down at the 5-armed creatures in their slow motion dance "...think its too late for that."
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"I can't believe I'm saying this but I agree with Scram, here," Aterro states. "At least, I think I do. Given what Gunnar has divined, I'd say that each creature here, save for ourselves, has been touched by some other-worldly force beyond our ken and quite beyond salvation. For every creature we give the final mercy to is a piece of goodness we've done, and a pain we don't have to deal with later.
Since one tunnel seams still traversable, I propose we try that when we can."
"It's already hot in here, but I can bring the searing fire of Khors to burn these captured creatures out of their misery, possibly before they are transformed into something useful to the creatures who were originally imprisoned here."
"We should get out of the way of the conflagration. Maybe, the mist might interfere with the divine magic of Khors. Maybe, the siren song will become stronger, if we destroy its food. We'll see."
Scram dismounted the radical rug and lingered on the edge of the open tunnel, wringing the cat piss out of his favorite handkerchief. It was the second time in his life he had flown, and the score was settled firmly on Gunnar being the superior vessel. For while both the carpet and Gunnar both had their odd scents and relatively equal levels of comfort, the latter's in-flight snack selection tilted the analysis firmly in the dwarf's favor.
As the divinely inspired evoker selected his target, Scram decided to pull his weight by taking a glimpse at what lurked deeper. Thumbing down the way "I'll cast a glance down there..."
You all take a more careful and considered look at the size of this haunting place as you ponder possible solutions. The opening at the top of the dome is a good thirty feet in diameter. No one is certain how deep the pit goes, but Scramsax was nearing the end of his fifty feet of rope by the time he reached the thicker depths of the mist. Judging from the sound of the lightstones hitting below and their dim filtered light, it would be at least another fifty feet to the bottom. Possibly closer to a hundred. The mist fills the entirety of the sixty foot diameter shaft, so Gunnar is unable to find any suitable angle to try and push free those creatures trapped in the depths of the magical trap.
While some discuss potential solutions above, Luthael pilots the carpet back up and over to the intact tunnel entrance. Taking the opportunity to get free of the cat scent for a few minutes, Scramsax nimbly leaps the small gap from carpet to tunnel and quickly disappears down the dark corridor.
Although long decayed, the remaining bones indicate those entombed here were once very likely some type of fae themselves. Light bone structure, the presence of wing supports, skull shape. All point to such a nature.
You ready yourself to examine the remains a bit closer when you here the shifting of a stone further down the main tunnel. A few heartbeats later, another noise just a few paces closer. Because of the curve of the tunnel you can only see twenty paces ahead, the sounds are further away than that, but not be much.
Absent any rings or amulets, Scramsax quickly snatched the biggest skull he could get ahold of, and hustled double time back to the others (cursing himself for not having parchment and charcoal to get a rubbing of an inscription).
Back at the end of the tunnel he yelled "Incoming!" before turning his feet on a dime and dropping the odd sparkling energy blades into his palms, clinging to him like raindrops as they coursed and spun.
While waiting for Scramsax, Luthael prays that Khors would light their way and then starts to plan the optimal epicenter of a Fireball to destroy the food.
Gunnar turns to the tunnel as Scramsax rushes past, peering into the darkness with the acute vision inherited from his ancestors, pointing that new eldritch staff down the tunnel and looking for the incoming foes the rogue has predicted.
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As the scout shuffled off to search the darkened blackness of the tunnel, WarCleric copies LightCleric and casts a new Light. Now his shield glows with a glowing warm warmness, and he allows all previous lights to go out now that this is the only one needed.
He stood patiently for his part, used to waiting if only for the privilege of hurrying up. As if in answer to his expectations, Scram comes racing down the tunnel with some new-but-dead body part in hand.
"By the word 'Incoming' do you mean to say that foemen are now advancing against us, or that some other hazard, say a large rock or a unforeseen mudslide, is now coming down upon us.
From you martial stance I deduce the former more than the latter, but in the future feel free to be more verbose about what is terrorizing us now."
In preparation of the fisticuffs sure to ensue, Aterro clambers off the carpet, preferring to be on solid ground.
Shaken by the intrusion into her mind and just barely being pulled from the precipice, Kalisuel clings to the Thorspear and focuses on drowning out the incessant siren-song.
Scram barely heard Aterro whining, electing instead to rapidly put the Cleric's mass between him and the advancing foes...
Luthael places the Lights of Khors on the 'front' corners of the flying carpet while Aterro adds the Light of Thor to his shield. The godly illumination brightens the interior of the upper portion of the burial mound and further illuminates the mist and the ancient broken runes of the partially broken dome.
Below, another goblin succumbs to another floating thread and then drops down into the depths of the pit.
In the tunnel where Scramsax stands with his readied pink knives along with Gunnar and Aterro. The thorspear crackles with excitement even as Kalisuel still recovers from her near leap into the abyss. For the moment she remains on the carpet, eyes peering toward the tunnel entrance.
Several seconds tick past and some can't help but wonder if this isn't yet another of the halfling's strange hallucinations. But at the moment of peak questioning, a rush of air pushes forth from the tunnel. The wind smells of a peculiar blend of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves all blended with raw fish and rotting seaweed. The wave washes past the end of the tunnel and out into the central pit.
The wind is followed by the sound of silk slithering across stone. It grows closer and closer. Finally rounding the natural arc of the tunnel you each see a mass of at least a dozen creatures crawling rapidly up the tunnel. Bizarre looking things seemingly composed of the silk and threads from the mist, each a mummified version of some twisted creature caught within the honey trap of the pit. All have four arms and four legs. Some are as large as a deer or elk and even sport ragged horns protruding from silk wrapped heads. Others sport goblin or rabbit ears that poke from beneath the silk wrapping. Thin skeletal fairy wings flitter from the backs of another. These are smaller creatures compared to those initial two in the lead, but they move quicker and crawl upon the ceiling or walls rather than the floor.
The mass rushes forward, the sound of silk slithering across stone growing closer and closer until finally the first forms appear from around the natural arc of the tunnel thirty feet away.
With little question of the deadly intentions, Scramsax unleashes his psychic attack against the closest foe. The pink blades rush forward perfectly inserting themselves in the thick thread layer surrounding the head of one of the antlered creatures. The blow causes it to stumble for a moment, but they it continues forward in its mindless charge.
Antlered Lunarchidna 1: 21/39
There on the edge of the tunnel (his fingers through the fae-skulls eye sockets like a glove), Scramsax was feeling a bit like the cork on the edge of a bottle of champagne. Time for a toast, the churning mass of bubbling monsters was ready to blow him away. Thus, despite its soiled and inhospitable fibers, the halfling leaped back to the meow-meow begrimed carpet and the safety of flight...he would launch his next attack from this filthy, mobile battlestation.
From the perspective of the others, should they dare take their eyes off the advancing mob, Scram seemed to leap directly into Luthael's mouth and vanish instantly. How the duo pulled off such a bizarre magic trick, no one will ever know.
Luthael's eyes widen when the creatures follow the halfling into his field of vision. "Scramsax, what did you do?" The prophet asks rhetorically.
With his free hand, he completes the prayer to Khor. "Fire in the hole!" He shouts before releasing the ball of holy fire. A bead of white hot fire streaks from his fingertip down the tunnel where Scramsax came dashing.
A coruscating ray of eldritch power leaps from the tip of Gunnar's staff as the first creature rounds the corner. Many more spill forward down the tunnel, and the arcane dwarf positions himself for a lightning bolt strike down the center of the approaching mass of creatures.
, DC 15 Dexterity Save for half, 100' long bolt
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Aterro readied himself to bring the pain against the un-natural tide of mummythings that charged unto them. At least he did, until a great fury CANNON AND THUNDERED behind him. He smiled grimly, and thought of an ancient phrase he'd heard as an acolyte.
'Say yer prayers an' take yer vitamins, boys, but Thor fights on the side with the most artillery.'
While lacking in the fire and fury of Luthael and Gunnar, Kalisuel's bow is no less lethal as an arrow streaks into one of the enemies not turned to ash by the arcane lightning and divine fire from just moments earlier.
"This trip is not fun anymore," she mutters as she remembers a time not too long ago where she relished the thought of coming out into the wilds to see what lay in the north.