Finlogan performs a short ritual to personally defy time a bit and live a few seconds in the future. He examines the smoothness of the tunnel to confirm that a giant spider could climb the wall. "If a giant spider can work, I've a saddle that I can someone with me."
"I think it is a good idea to search around this area before descending. Shouldn't take long if we all look. Maybe we'll find some clues as to what waits at the bottom of this chute".
Perception
"I'll use my winged boots to descend".
"I can take one other on my carpet." Tarns says trying to brush a spot free of cobweb and still slightly sticky peach juice which does little more than grind the two together even further creating a glue that is possibly even more effective than Bigby's Binding Goop.
Tearing his hand free from the sticky carpet, the goblin frowns for a moment at the offending mixture. The wheels turn in his head for a few more seconds before he begins rummaging around in his haversack. Eventually he pulls out a copy of an old broadsheet. A Waterdavian Chronicle plastered with headlines about gang wars and stolen gold. Slapping the paper over the sticky spot it quickly adheres to the carpet. Nodding with satisfaction, he creates a second 'papered' spot for himself.
"There good as new, or well, good enough." He says and then joins Daryl in searching the area around the Deep Dark Pit of Doom.
Szasa takes a look around as well.
Looking more closely about the detritus topside, you note the tattered and rotted supplies match those the Thayan's provided you...exactly. But more than just the same make -- as Falko ties off the climbing rope with his knot, you note the tattered one staked and anchored into the ice carries a knot which is the precisely the same...
The ropes and other supplies here however seem 100 years old or more, given the layers of ice and decay. There is a faint ring of magical energy in the air, harmonizing with the ice wind bellowing up from the chute...
The journey down is slow and steady, but cold from the constant updraft as air desperately tries to escape from below. But while the ice wall is slick and perfectly smooth, Falko finds his climbing crampons munch into it well enough...as does Finlogan's spidery tarsi. Those in flight have a few challenges to their progress as the stream counters their movements, but ultimately it proves little trouble for the experienced flyers.
Strangley, you touch down in sand, finding yourselves standing below the base of the shaft in a large dome. With the ice shaft high above the wind has subsided and the temperature here is actually quite mild. The sand beneath your feet is loose and a shade of red that looks like old crumbled blood scabs...still, there are no tracks or other disturbances in the top layer.
Your vision reaches out to its limit and finds only darkness...you've dropped into a very wide space with no obvious edges. There is however one distinguishing point of light far off to the north, swirling a bit like firelight...
Falko, the knot is even stranger when you consider only plainsmen of the Black-Bear used that knot, and even then only those who grew up with their traditions some century and a half ago would've been taught the same way...
"Pull yourself together man!" Tarn shouts at Falko adding a slap to the tall human's knee. "Something is clearly aging things faster than usual. Hopefully it only works on dead or inanimate objects."
"Clearly, hollering in fright doesn't prevent it from working, although it does let the hoard of undead beholders below know we're hear. So let's try a little quiet contemplation instead shall we?" He says with a wry smirk before slinking up the side of the tunnel to the ceiling and then moving offoff toward the light.
Tarn, as you draw nearer to the light, you realize its the reflected light from a pathbend inside another 8 ft wide horizontal shaft...this time leading into glossy black stone rather than ice. But here at the shaft's beginning is another camp: a pair of broken-down tents retain their stubborn posts, and a rickety old box holy with what looks like insect burrows stands between them.
They all display the sigil of the Zulkir.
Szasa hovered over the hole, then descended along with the others. At the bottom, she avoids landing on the Sand and instead touches Falko's weapon, the head of which glows with light. She then flies after Tarn, arriving a moment after he does at the new tunnel. Looking over the rotting remains of the camp, Szasa flies over the box, then opens it from behind.
Or she would, had the chest not crumbled at her touch. Reaching down, she plucks a metal tube off the ground, shakes off the dust, and opens it.
"It's another contract, similar to the one that we signed when we embarked from here."
The same tendrils of that unidentifiable school of magic dance about the ruins of this camp...
Finlogan chitters waiting for the group to move.
"Indeed it is another contract." Tarn nods as he scans the writing. "But many more signatures. Twenty-four it looks like it." He frowns, his ears twitching slightly.
"Interesting....while we've been tasked with several things. This earlier group was only supposed to remove something simply referred to here as 'The Battery.'" He sighs, shaking his head. "Seems this battery was going to be transported via a teleportation circle hidden in the Thayan embassy in Mulmaster."
"Curiously, there was also an added stipulation denying any sentient weapons, armor or other such objects on the expedition or within the lab."
Continuing forward, the tunnel weaves and twists to the north...the firelight gleaming on the turns a bit disorienting. After what feels like an hour or so of this interminable plodding, you reach a flagstone path rising directly out of the sand. The stones are cleanly cut and free of the scab-like sand and debris...appearing actually to be newly made.
Another damn hour passes trekking through this idiotic tunnel.
Finally, it opens up into a much larger, and much more bizarre chamber. A series of stone obelisks flank the path with braziers atop them...the flames casting a light without heat. A bit of scouting in the chamber reveals its immense size, nearly half-mile across and almost as wide.
But the one structure that punctuates the strangeness of it all is the massive inverted pyramid. Its base rests quite freely in the air and its downward point is inserted into a black stone dome...one that seems carved of a single piece.
The flagstone walkway leads directly from the tunnel towards the structure, but then splits leading to large double doors 10 ft tall in each direction at the base of the dome.
The ceiling of the chamber is covered in what seems like real clouds, wispy and grey at the edges, but dark and rippling in the center...hovering over the wide top of the pyramid.
The exterior of the pierced black dome is covered with what looks like holy symbols...
You also know that only one of those deities ever exists at one time. It is a common belief that they are merely different faces of the same god, though this is unconfirmed.
Upon closer inspection, again it is plain to see that indeed all the available surfaces here are covered in repeated holy symbols of these deities throughout the ages, some large and some small, all nested together. But contrarily, the carvings all look brand new however, as if the smith only finished in the last few days...
Finally, at the junction in the path, there is a crudely-carved arrow pointing to the right hand set of doors and a parcel that is identical to one of the packs of rations Szasa keeps in her handy hole. However, inside the wrapper, the food has long since dried away and become inedible.
Tarn gazes in wonder at the site of the pyramid with the churning clouds above and the great black dome below. With a soft whistle he pushes his battered feathered hat back on his head.
"That's not something you see every day." He says. "I can't help but think there's an awful lot of bad sorcery keeping that whole structure in place."
Looking closer at the symbols on the dome, he nods and grunts softly. "Lathandar and Amanaunator?" He says a bit puzzled. "And symbols for those two from ages long past as well as present. Most curious."
"Netherese is a good guess. They pioneered the whole 'make a mountain float' thing."
Szasa stopped and said "there's something odd with the weave here. Nobody move further in."
Szasa, thinking more on the Netherese, it strikes you -- what you are feeling could very well be a Mythal. In ancient times, the elves and Netherese used these powerful enchantments to protect their homes and lands. They often had no visual clue they even existed, but most arcane casters could sense them. Mythals often had very specific effects, and the combination of those effects would be engineered to benefit the location where it was anchored. These were great feats of magic and required regular maintenance and upkeep lest their protections begin to unraval and lose potency...if this is truly a Mythal, it is surely but a shadow of its former glory.
1. They were keyed to only allow specific races to perform certain types of magic.
2. They could completely prevent entire schools of magic from working.
3. They heightened, extended, or otherwise modified entire schools of magic.
4. Required identify to be cast dozens and dozens of times to discover their full range of powers.
"This is a Mythal, or one in decline at least. I'd guess that this Mythal is a Netherese Mythal, which likely means that it's related to the shadow realm."
"Correct. Mythals have their own rules when it comes to magic."
Lindaer, you muse for a moment the significance of Amaunator's symbolism here considering (for the sake of argument) that this is indeed a Mythal. Amaunator was one of the few gods always concerned with the protection of mortals...these wards and guards perhaps were keeping something dangerous at bay. Interspersed in these alien tendrils of magic is also the curious element of decay -- perhaps these wards are likewise in decay...
Spiderfin chitters seeming to agree.
Tarn reaches for his waterskin only to find it half empty. Frowning, he checks the skin for leaks. Seeing none, his scowl deepens. But before he can puzzle on it further, a button pops off of his shirt, the thread suddenly warn and frayed.
"What the..?!" He stammers. "Is anyone else suddenly short of water or finding their clothes more...weathered than they should be?
"We should keep moving."
No one bothers to investigate the magic any further, after all Mythals were so unique and complicated...it would likely just raise more questions than answers.
Szasa suggests moving and pushes gently on the 10 ft tall stone door, and unexpectedly it opens quite easily. The interior of the dome is hollow, but 'empty' wouldn't quite be the right way to describe it...
The tip of the inverted pyramid from outside has pierced the dome, and hangs overhead without any support. Immediately below the tip is a raised stone dais, matching the height of Tarn but circular in shape and maybe 12 feet in circular diameter. The same holy symbols of outside are repeated here.
Between the two sets of doors you entered are one more Thayan camp, again decayed beyond what a rational mind would expect. There surviving the ravages of time sits a large metal box, resembling the sort a travelling merchant might employ for his wares.
The dais meanwhile has a number of metal channels carved into the top: 12 in all. They feed into a central, shiny, grey metal bowl (silver maybe). The dais also has an engraving in an unknown language that repeats 3 times.
Spiderfin explores the walls climbing them for a different perspective if he can.
From Finlogan's elevated perspective, he unfortunately doesn't gain any new insights, other than a killer spot to plant a cobweb.
Daryl listens with concern, as the group discusses things aging quickly. His hand absentmindedly rubs the potion of longevity in his pouch. My worst fear... the advance of time...
He steps in and walks around the dais, looking at the bowl from several different angles.
Perception. He also uses Divine Sense to see if he detects anything fiendish about the place.
Undeterred by Falko's nervous smile, Tarn walks over to the writing, leans forward and touches the dais to see if he can decipher the mysterious writing.
"Interesting....it seems this says 'From the gift of life, knowledge.' repeated in all three lines." He says. Tilting his head to the side, he draws his dagger and runs it quickly across his hand. Holding his hand over the bowl, he lets his blood drip for a short time into the silver dish to see if anything happens.
...were it only zombies.
As soon as Tarn's tender green flesh is nicked the slightest bit, his blood is pulled out of the vein in a thin line, it flows upward bizarrely...up and over the bowl in a curly-cue to land finally in one of the 12 channels in the dais. There, the blood seems to change into a more energetic form of pink light...purified? Corrupted? Who knows, but it is certainly being collected.
At the same moment, his limb feels completely locked in place, and a weak feedback loop of the energy travels back into him from the blood. A thunderbolt cracks from the clouds above...
"Wait, don't do anything" says Szasa as Tarn cuts his finger "rash. Well, now you're a ritual component. Is it everything you dreamed of?"
Szasa, obviously Tarn has begun some sort of ritual. 'From the gift of life, knowledge' the dais had informed, and so had the gift of life been given (blood, in Tarn's interpretation). But what was the knowledge that would come from this offering? Only 1 of the 12 channels in the dais had been filled...perhaps all 12 needed the same gruesome offering to find out. Hmm, 12 channels...6 of you...that would mean each person would need 2 such 'gifts'...
The distorted energies that surge through the alien tendrils of magic are not wholly unrecognizable to someone with your experience in spontaneous arcane manifestations. The boom of thunder from above reminds you of the Knock spell, and observing some of the patterns here your gut tells you this might be a primitive or alternate form of such a spell...