"To be fair, I thought he was still alive and faking it."
At Tarn's comment, Szasa says "I don't mind Goblins. They're a bit murdery, but so are basically any race. They have a healthy respect for fire that more "civilized" races lack."
"Basically, they're no better or worse than any other race. Anything else is just propaganda."
Undeterred by the scene before her, Scasa flips over the body to see if the worms exploded out the front, and also to see if there were any means of identifying this particular red wizard.
Szasa, as you rifle through the fallen wizards pocket's, you note a few are already turned inside out...someone has pilfered this corpse before you. Both his spellbook and component pouch are missing, and not a single coin or anything to help identify him remains. The worms seem to have come out the other side (the back), which might make sense...they would seek a clear path that way inside of driving through the stone floor.
The robe however is undeniably Thayan, and if memory serves this particular arrangement of brass rings signifies him as a specialist in the school of enchantment. You've heard in order to advance through the school, the enchanter must convince his superior in the hierarchy to willingly gift him such a ring. This wizard appears to have endured 12 such trials.
The stairs rise for what seems to be hundreds of feet, and your thighs burst into flame with every interminable step. The thumping from above merges with the thumping in your cranium's blood vessels putting you on the edge of a massive headache.
Then once you emerge from the narrow, stone-enclosed path, you can to your utter dismay hear that the thumping noise has actually gained in intensity. Peering around, you see another familiar cross between warehouse and library like the southern catalog...only this one is more dedicated to items themselves, and 10 times greater in size.
Huge display cases and shelving units rise from floor to ceiling and measure nearly 25 feet tall. Peering down the ten foot walkways, you can see hundreds of tables and small cabinets nearby. The shelves are stuffed full of deliberately placed pieces of odd gear and tactical or alchemical equipment, each sporting a namecard in Netherese.
It smells oddly of parchment and incense even though you see neither.
But the center of the chamber is dominated by a massive contraption of glass and metal tubes...tubes that run to a number of operating tables surrounding it. The thumping is definitely coming from this device, near where it intersects the ceiling.
Szasa pocketed the ring. You never know when such a thing would be useful.
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In the room above, Szasa has to shout to be heard over the din "LOOK FOR THOSE SAME SYMBOLS LIKE THE CRYSTAL ONES ON THE BOOKS. DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING HERE BUT IF YOU SEE ONE OF THOSE SYMBOLS COME AND GET ME."
Falko, it turns out this extensive collection of items is sorted by type and well...you find the maul section.
Blackened mauls. Golden mauls. Plasma-enshrouded mauls. Gravitational inversion mauls?
Your imagination runs wild with the possibilities. One maul in particular manages to stand out above all the rest however...seemingly carved from a single piece of red diamond, it bears a symbol that looks remarkably like the letter 'F' in common. This had to be destiny.
Tarn looks with amazement upon the long rows of display cases. He take a few moments to search among the display tags for the name Hazirawn or one of the others he saw listed within the big stone book.
Tarn, you begin gently putting a hand on the labeling placards, invoking the magic of your helmet to read...they seem to be a numerical designation followed by the schools and spells of magic used during creation. However, you are unable to completely read even one all the way through because the fragile metallic labels are apparently rusted beyond belief...even your gentle gambler's touch reduces it to dust after only an instant. You wonder if the same would be true for the items themselves...
The large apparatus in the center of the room however you do recognize from the giant book on the previous level. There, it was called 'The Harness' in your translation. An individual selected for the 'process' would be strapped into one of the tables, and connected to the various metal and glass tubes running up into the large assembly hanging from, and entering into, the ceiling...somehow this device enabled the creation of sentient items.
Finally, your keen eye for detail picks out a loose panel on the underside of one of the operating tables. Perhaps large enough for someone of your size to crawl into...
...destiny, or so it seemed.
To its credit, the F-Maul held up remarkably well. Even a freshly forged modern copy might split apart in the mighty barbarian's hands if not set correctly on the shaft. That this echo of 4000 years past lasted beyond the first swing was a triumph, despite it becoming immediately obvious all its enchantment dweomers had long ago deteriorated...not to mention the material itself.
Indeed it happened that whatever last jinx holding the weapon together crumbled to dust in Falko's hands, sending the maul's head flying...directly into the machine...
It struck like a carnival milk bottle game, shattering about 29 different glass tubules with a high pitched sound that bordered on the melodic. But the red-weapon-head didn't stop there, charging forth through to its vital supports. It tore through the rusty copper cylinders holding the thing aloft, and with a sudden almost comical *pttt-twaaang* the entire ancient device known only as the 'harness' came crashing down to rubble.
Reduced, like the weapon Falko held, to mere dust after its millennia of vigil. There was a stunned silence momentarily, but the rhythmic thumping continued.
"Don't touch anything?" The hierophant repeated the human storm's advice as a question, when the din of the destruction decrescendoed.
"NO....DON'T..." Szasa sighed as he started swinging the hammer around, then silent as the head of said hammer smashed through the ancient machine.
After a moment, she just started laughing "F.....FOR FALKO...AND THEN THE....SMASHED INTO..." she was laughing so hard her sides hurt.
Leaping away from the remains of the machine and the access panel as the big mechanism collapses, Tarn gives Falko a withering look. "Are you finished?" He asks in a flat controlled voice. He points to a few still standing tubes. "I think you missed some so..." The area he's pointing to collapses with a glass shattering crash. Wincing at the sound the goblin simply shakes his head and moves back over to the crawlspace.
"Try not to send the rest of it crashing down on me..." He adds crawling into the tunnel.
As Tarn escapes into the panel, the light of the Mythal reveals to others that it is more of a compartment or large box than a passage. A very messy compartment -- as the goblin prods forward through the shifting footholds and masses of tangled wires, he recalls a game of cards once that ended with the enraged loser taking a handaxe to a brand new harpsichord. The clutter here is similar in nature.
But there, hidden in the greyscale until he brushed aside some of the wires, was a quite different form lying under the operating table as well. Something akin to a metallic body, dark crystalline metal like smoked glassteel or obsidian. It was humanoid in form but was missing head, arms, and hands...it might be possible to drag it out for closer inspection.
Chuckling softly at the picture of that musician elf's face when he looked upon the ruin of his precious harpsichord after Dasim had completely obliterated the offending instrument. To be fair, the elf had cheated and Dasim has never been able to tolerate the Umaran Polkas the band had been playing all night. The mere thought of those jarring minors on the harpsichord cause the goblin to stop and shiver for a moment. The world was definitely better for having ended that particular musicians carrier early on. He was just awful enough, that it's possible he could have taken off and become popular at some point. Suppressing one last shiver at the thought, Tarn returns to the task at hand.
"Found something!" He shouts from inside the small space.
Pulling out his dagger and trusty wire cutters Tarn gradually clears the way for him to drag out the curious metal torso and legs. After much grunting, cursing, a variety of metallic bangs and clatters followed by the occasional wad of wire flying out of the crawlspace opening, a gritty, dust covered goblin reemerges dragging the bulky crystalline form free of its storage place.
"Thought this might be worth a closer look." He says bending the feather of his now dust-coated hat back into place and plucking a bit of wire from the tatters of his shirt sleeve.
As the others crowd around the strange find, it slowly becomes apparent the humanoid without head, arms, and feet is actually a masterfully craft suit of armor. Somehow, unlike the rest of the items on display here, it seems to have avoided the tests of time.
It was hard to notice the sound at first, the thumping rhythm of the place slowly (not suddenly) increasing in tempo. The change in sound manifested in the mind only as a hunch, a sense that something was wrong...only when the beat broke into a furious, chaotic rumble did the heroes realize...they were not alone.
Finlogan and Lindaer were the first to see the black forms emerge from behind...shapes like men cloaked in black, with a curious white mask covering the face...a hiss like the rustle of winter's dead leaves underneath...
Szasa was still laughing at the irony of the situation when the enemies appeared, and she failed to notice them immediately.
Finlogan turns at the noise and starts shifting into his beloved gargantuan brontosaurus. He roars and tries to STOMP the bad guy.
Finlogan suddenly erupts in a burst of growth, 1000 flowers worth of spring blossomings, but instead of pink and purple tulips its thick rich pink and purple bronto-muscles and a long Chultan dino-tail some have only heard stories of. He squishes one of the suddenly appearing forms easily, but it only partially collapses and immediately seems to regenerate...the mask however falls to the floor shattering revealing nothing but a mass of worms behind.
Beneath the undulating mass, some stronger specimens dig their way to the forefront, seemingly ready to leap down the nostrils of any nearby...
The elephant figurine seems to soar across the way in slow motion, finally hitting the laboratory floor with a surprisingly hard *boom*. It rapidly becomes clear why: it is the first step of a mighty elephant in trample!
In just a few more booming steps the barbarian's toy has grown exponentially, finally hammering into the worms with might tusks. An entire splatter of worms goes flying like an exploding pinata...yet almost just as many rapidly work their way back to the surface, reconstituting the lost limb. If you can call a writhing bundle of stinkworms a 'limb', anyways.
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At the first sight of the worms, Tarn immediately makes sure his mask is secure and covering his nose and mouth. Having seen to that small precaution, he quickly runs up the side of the nearest bookcase to the top. Drawing his hand crossbow he lurks in the shadow at the top of the bookcase, waiting for his opportunity to strike.
Finlogan in his bronto form and Falko's summoned wooly mammoth hold the flanks as swarms of worms and and the strange bodies made of worms () assault them endlessly...
There are moments when the worms on the surface straighten erect, and fire like arrows into their belly-button holes, ear canals, and nostrils...springing into them to burrow deep and hold...
The mass of cloaked worms rears upwards like a dust devil, its undulating mass becoming a great scythe of solid worms, cutting into the bronto-flesh like butter.
On the opposite flank, Falko's mighty northern mammoth is nearly consumed instantly to his horror...
The other humanoid worm spawns quickly converge on the party, but the swarms on the other hand seem much slower in their movements.
One of them reaches Lindaer, and another slithers through the shelves to reach Falko!
Both adventurers are overcome by the mass of stinky grubs, as tiny maggots threaten to enter every little orifice they can!
Szasa stepped directly south gestures and a pair of beams streak out, one at purple and one at green
Green and purple will also then get hit by thunder damage as Szasa's body unleashes a thunderclap.
The brontosaurus shakes its long neck and sneezes the worms out of its nostrils with slight trumpet.
The Chultan dinosaur roars again and tries to STOMP the bad guy.
One of the challengers to the south is suddenly minus about 1000 worms, as Szasa quickly negates the matter they are constituted of.
Red Spawn untouched (despite elephant's successful Gore attack...it simply had no effect whatsoever...non-magical weapon immunity)
Red Swarm untouched
Yellow Spawn 106/166 (regenerating, prone)
Yellow Swarm untouched
Purple Spawn 90/166
Purple Swarm untouched
Green Spawn untouched
Green Swarm untouched
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The dweomer of the thin Zakharan blade has good effect on the worms-that-walk, by appearances destabilizing its own spells that hold and shape its torso in that mockery of humanity. The magical rapier bores straight through, blackening the maggots its touches in a fist sized hole...but the dead are quickly consumed and fresh white squirming soon emerges to fill the gap.
Daryl preps for the combat this round, and casts "Shield of Faith". He then activates his "Winged Boots" and rises up to survey the battleground.
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The worms burrowed into his skin, and Lindaer desperately tried to brush them off. Failing to do so, he desperately clawed at his skin, rushing to Daryl’s side as he was slowly eaten alive. He didn’t think rationally about it, and rather ran to the Paladin on pure instinct. As if was, the situation looked grim.
Lindaer just barely scraped the burrowing worm out of his bellybutton-hole as Daryl rose off the ground...
The mammoth takes a page from bronto-Fins book, ejecting the invading burrowing worm from its trunk nostrils. However it can do little against the swarm now crawling all over its hind legs...one of which was able to pierce its thick hide previously...
Suddenly, the walking worm engaged with Falko sloughs off its four limbs and quickly grows new ones...while the fallen limbs become fresh new masses of worms themselves!
The wave of worms washes over the party like a cold tide...
...only the woolly mammoth seems to offer the swarms a large enough opening to invade, as it falls deeper and deeper into sure doom.