Her spear firmly lodged in the dead creature, Kata nods to Broccan and starts pulling the horror along the submerged room's floor. It is slow going; Kata kicks and pulls, pushes off the floor and drags. But, she needed to get a better look at the creature, somewhere not as murky.
As she enters the water, evidently belatedly, Alaïs spots Kata towing a dead something skewered on her spear, which must be what was causing the trouble.
Since she’s now soaked anyway, the elf continues, letting the weight of her armour anchor her to the floor of the flooded chamber. If she understood Artophanx correctly, which is admittedly open to question, these were some kind of baths, so presumably there must be some sort of clogged drains about? It would make it easier to search the place, certainly.
She peers through the water as best she can, doing a circuit of the room before returning to the surface to get more air, but holding her breath in a flooded, enclosed space deep underground is really, really, not a comfortable place for Alaïs, and all she can do to avoid panicking is to rush through.
Seeing Kata struggling with the body and Broccan going the other way, Edrukk reaches out to Rosella. Pointing to her, he gestures toward Broccan. Pointing to himself, he gestures toward Kata.
Putting the borrowed dagger in his shield hand, he grabs the creature’s body with the other gauntleted fist and hauls it along Kata.
Broccan and Rosella find the red lantern drifting through the water in the clenched fist of a corpse. The figure wears leather armor--though its color has faded, they think the leather might once have been dyed a faint purple hue.
The corpse's bones have been very badly gnawed, its armor torn apart and ruined as if by sharp claws.
They do find on the body a very fine-looking shortsword. In one of the lockers where Uluvant was, they also find a pouch containing 38 gold, 2 platinum, and 55 silver pieces, along with a small book whose pages have all long-since dissolved into uselessness in the water.
Broccan and Rosella return to the surface as Kata and Edrukk heft the creature's body from the muck. Seeker immediately hops up and perches upon Rosella's shoulder. With a closer inspection, Kata believes it to be a ghoul--an undead embodiment of pure sadistic hunger whose attacks can paralyze if they draw blood.
The ghoul's body bears a small tattoo on the back of its neck--a tattoo of a fluttering blackbird.
Seeing the body, Seeker shifts uneasily on her perch.
Broccan's attention is drawn to the fine-quality short sword.
"S'quite'eh bit nicer'n thi'sole thing," he says, comparing it to his rather mundane blade. He hefts it and gives a few practice swings, away from the rest of the group. He then realizes that he has no right to simply claim the blade, and sheepishly puts in back in its sheathe and sets it down with the other valuables.
"It's quite a bit nicer than this old thing."
Edrukk waves off the sword, ”Ah’ve n’ need fer th’ wee sword. Ye lads ‘n lasses decide.”
Alaïs’ nose scrunches as she uses one of her cantrips to dry herself off as best she can: since that mostly means impossible pressures squeezing its soaked padding out against her armour while she's wearing it, it is as effective and comfortable as that sounds. At least, that’s what she’d say if asked about the shivering that takes hold of her once she emerges from the flooded chamber.
Fortunately, the others seem to handle immersion much more handily than she does, and she’s happy to see another lantern turn up.
“It seems to fit your hand well,” she tells Broccan encouragingly, watching as he tests the shortsword out. “I think you should hold onto it. Shall we see what happens if we light all these lanterns, do you think? Try to see what that upper passage is hiding? I’d also be happy for us to talk to Allustan first about the elementals, but then again, if there’s any danger…”
It would be a poor way to repay his hospitality to lure him into a trapped cairn while there’s still gods only know what lurking in it, and for now Phasadriel seems to be – if hardly content, quietly ensconced disconsolately under this passage’s water, and Artophanx is still, er, condensed.
"Yes," Kata murmurs, her voice soft. "I agree with Alaïs. If it would be of use to you, Broccan, take it." The elegist's eyes pass over the sword, her voice comes distant, as if Kata's not totally present. "It does seem to be a fine sword, and all fine swords have names, don't they? What would you name this sword, Broccan?"
Brought back to the present by Seeker rustling on Rosella's shoulder, Kata notes her uneasiness, but elects to remain silent, for the moment. Kata had little trust for the strange creature and they both knew it; perhaps someone else could coax the reason for Seeker's agitation from her.
Sighing, Kata stands and wrings a some water from her hair. "Chilly. Lighting the lanterns would be welcome. And hopefully fruitful."
The dwarf looks at the strange bird, then at the body, and back.
”Wha’s this, then? D’ye know this one, bird? Friend o’ yers?” He points a stubby digit at the bird tattoo. ”Is that ye?”
Alaïs is a bit distracted ; she hadn’t really thought about it, but Kata is right, isn’t she? She wonders, if a suitable weapon ever comes into her own hand, what she would name it, though she guesses it would probably depend on the nature of the blade, her own abilities, and what they might have done together. On a tangentially related note, she’ll have to take another look at Moriel when she’s had a chance to sleep on the question.
Her butterfly thoughts are brought abruptly into focus as Edrukk asks a rather pointed question of Seeker. Alaïs vaguely recalls, in another brief flash, that there is a particular tradition of magical tattoos among some Varisian mages, and she wonders if that’s relevant. For now, though, she’s quiet, waiting expectantly for the exchange she is sure is about to come in a way that betrays her upbringing in various aristocratic households.
At the others' prompting, Broccan retrieves the weapon from the loot pile. He draws the blade and examines the weapon from pommel to point, looking for any features of the weapon's design that would serve as inspiration for a name. He also considers the circumstances in which it was found: in a submerged dungeon room, in the possession of an undead creature.
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The dwarf looks at the strange bird, then at the body, and back.
”Wha’s this, then? D’ye know this one, bird? Friend o’ yers?” He points a stubby digit at the bird tattoo. ”Is that ye?”
"Ah. No. That is not me. Seeker preens uneasily, its eye-tentacles darting between the body and Edrukk. "I am a magpie, as you can see."
The blade of the shortsword bears an inscription running along it in Dwarven.
Briar also notes the bird’s hesitance, though she does not take the direct route of questioning her yet. Better to keep observing and see if any patterns of deception develop. Harder to explain away a pattern than a single instance. She notes that the bird does not answer the question of whether she knows the person.
Briar uses the discussion of the mark to take a closer look herself, wondering whether the bird mark matches any she is familiar with.
”I’ve been practicing, so let me take a look at that dagger, eh?”
The shortsword has had enchantments of slumber and repose woven thick over it like webbing, forming a magical mesh that prevents it from truly injuring anyone--though anyone brought down by it will appear dead to cursory examination.
”Yer n’ answerin’ th’ question, are ye? Didja know this one afore he died th’ first time?”
Briar hands the short sword to Broc. ”Fancy sword there. Enchanted so strikes are not deadly—even do a bit extra—but you’ll have to turn it off if you’re fighting something that can’t take a bruising. Also seems to be good for faking murders. Whoever you knock out with it won’t look alive unless someone takes a close look and knows what they are looking for.”
"S' handy," Broccan remarks, taking the sword back. "Don' much lie'kill'n folk'n less' I 'ave to."
"That's handy. I don't much like killing folk unless I have to."
Turning to Edrukk he asks, "Whas't say on'eh blade?"
"What does it say on the blade?"
”Yer n’ answerin’ th’ question, are ye? Didja know this one afore he died th’ first time?”
Seeker rustles her feathers and keeps preening, her eyes now on the floor. She takes a long time to respond. "I'm sorry, I can't say I did."
”I’ve been practicing, so let me take a look at that dagger, eh?”
Alaïs rummages for the knife from earlier, eyebrows raising at Briar’s findings about the new discovery as she hands it over.
“Agreed,” she says, acknowledging Broccan’s comment, “though why one would go to such trouble to make it more difficult to tell that it’s a less lethal weapon is somewhat unsettling.”
It might buy more time, of course, with no apparent witnesses left behind, but despite herself the ways it could go wrong or be exploited to further, more nefarious purposes spring to Alaïs’ mind readily.
If it’s not a plant, preferably a fruiting one, or, to a much lesser extent, a sporting animal, the elvish lady’s knowledge of biology is comparatively limited, so Seeker’s demurral sounds reasonable to her. It doesn’t help that – with the exception of arcane lore – she finds the idea of tattoos rather difficult to wrap her head around. Certainly the thought of an imprecise, or worse, inaccurate marking on her body for an indefinite period of time is a maddening prospect.
While Briar goes through the other unidentified objects from earlier to limited success, she listens to Seeker’s answers begins putting some thoughts together. ”Perhaps there is a whole organization a’ bird-themed ne’er-do-wells, Ed, and Seeker here is from a different division.” She keeps her tone light and joking, but she keeps an eye on Seeker for a read on her reaction.
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"Well, I'm a quite-quite good citizen, so I can't see why I would be any kind of never-do-well. You humans were the ones that named bird gatherings to sound so menacing. Murders, treacheries, conspiracies--we magpies can't so much as drop by the bird bath without being called a tiding. Very paranoid, you wingless lot, very-very paranoid." Seeker doesn't seem too offended, but seems happy enough to banter and prattle.
It's possible that the eyes would actually be able to animate a new body of earth if placed down on the ground outside, but taking the eyes out of the bowl might also simply, well, kill Artophanx.
Briar laughs, keeping the mood light. ”Oh I didn’t mean it as a criticism! The Lady loves murders, treacheries, conspiracies, and even the occasional tiding.”
When there is a lull on the conversation, she describes the properties of the bowl.
Seeker rustles her feathers and keeps preening, her eyes now on the floor. She takes a long time to respond. "I'm sorry, I can't say I did."
”Yer n’ answerin’ th’ question, are ye? Didja know this one afore he died th’ first time?”
”Yer a clever one, bird. So ye can’t say. Why can’t ye? Somethin’ ’bout th’ body bothers ye, plain as th’ beak yer wearing’. Not blamin’ ye fer nothin’, still plannin’ t’ find yer way out wit’ us, but ye know somethin’. Help an old dwarf figure it out.”
"Sow'ere t'now?" Broccan asks. "Back t'th' win'face? Back t'town t' see Allust'n?"
"So where to now? Back to the Wind Face? Back to town to see Allustan?"
"Well, I'm a quite-quite good citizen, so I can't see why I would be any kind of never-do-well. You humans were the ones that named bird gatherings to sound so menacing. Murders, treacheries, conspiracies--we magpies can't so much as drop by the bird bath without being called a tiding. Very paranoid, you wingless lot, very-very paranoid." Seeker doesn't seem too offended, but seems happy enough to banter and prattle.
“Is it all that bad, really? Although it does seem like the starlings have been quite lucky, to say nothing of owls and larks,” Alaïs plays along, her thoughts drifting back homeward. A murmuration of courtiers also seems fairly apt, and goodness knows she’s spent her share of evenings gossiping. “I’m afraid I can’t seem to recall at the moment how wrens gather, though as I said in the hall with the statues of the Ten Magic Warriors, I think that might have been my mask if I were raised in that tradition.”
”Yer a clever one, bird. So ye can’t say. Why can’t ye? Somethin’ ’bout th’ body bothers ye, plain as th’ beak yer wearing’. Not blamin’ ye fer nothin’, still plannin’ t’ find yer way out wit’ us, but ye know somethin’. Help an old dwarf figure it out.”
“She might just be unnerved by the poor fellow’s fate, Edrukk. Can you imagine, being turned into a ghoul?” she muses, trying to lead Seeker out gently, if she can. Not exactly hoping to catch her out if she's hiding something, but she certainly wouldn't be heart-broken at the possibility. “Whatever we call a group of various feathers – a choir? – perhaps our flock can continue to chatter on the wing.”
Nodding at Broccan’s question, Alaïs suggests, “Let’s see if we can get past that trap after another look. Artophanx seems to think that his counterparts in air, and possibly fire, were released, but if there’s any hope of confirming that before we see Allustan, that might be nice. I imagine it might be relevant, or at least good to know for strictly numerical purposes.”
She wonders whether having all four elements present or not would make things easier, or the reverse, but that’s mage-y sort of speculation that she’s not sure anyone else would really enjoy, so she doesn’t pursue it.
"...I think that might have been my mask if I were raised in that tradition.”
Seeker ruffles her feathers, one eye on Alais and one on Edrukk. Edrukk's gentle bluntness, coupled with Alaïs's innocent words, seem to finally draw something out of her, and as the adventurers return to the elevator and begin to rise in pairs, Seeker begins to speak--indeed, practically to babble. "I was... a part of me. A part of me, yes, I was a part of me, and that me was a part of him. Matched his movements, dogged his footsteps. Felt his sickness. A part of me was a part of him. Both parts parts of others, both others gone, one dragged into a dark place, neck wrung like a chicken's, one stomach turned inside-out with hunger so it could eat the rest of him." The magpie's voice is a hollow croak. Her alien gaze is far away. "No more others, only me, only us, only their pieces. Only me, only us, eating each other to stay awake, years and years and years. Years and years and years as just pieces. Just pieces, now. Yes, I can imagine. The poor fellow, and the poor part of me that was a part of him. Poor fellow. Poor us."
The party has returned to the lantern room, their sunrod's glow once again flooding the chamber with dancing, shimmering lights. Seeker goes quiet at last as they reach the place of the red lantern.
Edrukk’s discomfort is clear as he clears his throat. ”Ah see, many years long past, ye ‘ave ‘ad a long time o’ pain. Sorry t’ make ye think back on it.”
"Sorry to be made to." Seeker ruffles her feathers again, and after a moment, hops onto Edrukk's shoulder. The magpie nibbles at a strand of his hair. "But the two pieces are still here to keep the tales, and soon we will see the sky again--and maybe more secrets to take from this place. We are having a very good day."
Broccan avoids eye contact with Seeker, either the bird's or the other pair dangling around its neck. Instead he focuses on the task at hand. He lowers the chain for the red lantern and affixes it. "Wha'twe go't light'it? Will'eh sunrod do?" he asks the others.
"What have we got to light it? Will a sunrod do?"
"...I think that might have been my mask if I were raised in that tradition.”
... The magpie's voice is a hollow croak. Her alien gaze is far away. "No more others, only me, only us, only their pieces. Only me, only us, eating each other to stay awake, years and years and years. Years and years and years as just pieces. Just pieces, now. Yes, I can imagine. The poor fellow, and the poor part of me that was a part of him. Poor fellow. Poor us."
The party has returned to the lantern room, their sunrod's glow once again flooding the chamber with dancing, shimmering lights. Seeker goes quiet at last as they reach the place of the red lantern.
As Seeker, after some gentle encouragement, finally opens up a bit more, Alaïs listens attentively, and finds more sympathy taking root in light of the horrors revealed. It rather sounds like Seeker was something like the familiar of whoever the ghoul used to be, and also saw someone – could that be how she knew about the thing lurking in the privy? That is, it seems there was an earlier, disastrous exploration of the cairn by some other parties unknown.
She decides not to pry further for now, and offers a small sympathetic smile as the magpie settles on Edrukk's shoulder, before focusing on the lanterns as the group emerges in the central chamber again. “Well, I hope the day only gets better.”
After checking her pack again, the aesthete murmurs, “Remind me to get some more oil, in town. As it is, I have my cantrip, which will do for one, and … yes, three candles, looks like. A sunrod should also do, I think.”
Briar feels a rush in her belly as her prodding yields something she can use. She will have to be patient, though.
”That sounds like a great loss, Seeker. Glad ya are in good spirits, though. Always gotta keep an eye to the future.”
She stands back as they ready to place the red lantern, hand on her dagger. ”Let’s see if these lanterns can light the way, eh?”
As each lantern in turn is filled with oil and lit, the glass and metal chips embedded in the ceiling begin to cast eerie reflections about the room. By the time Alais casts her light spell on the indigo lantern, the effect is dazzling, and it's almost a relief as the party scales the rope and enters the Passage of the Face.
The long hallway is still as they make their way down it, discovering that the stone comprising the interior of the ghastly face has vanished, at last allowing passage to the chamber beyond.
Broccan keeps his sunrod in one hand, and his shiny new sword in the other.
"Lem'me go firs," he says to the others, moving cautiously into the hallway.
”Nay, lad. Lemme dwarven eyes go first. Ah got th’ ring.”
The trap does not activate as the party approaches. The party has solved the lantern puzzle.
Through the gaping mouth at the end of the hallway, Edrukk sees, is a long, dark room with no floor. A three-foot-wide beam of petrified wood spans the chasm, leading straight ahead into darkness. About ten feet below the beam, countless iron spheres the size of large oranges form an irregular floor, but it's impossible to tell if they represent a wholly solid surface. The northwest and southeast walls are covered in a honeycomb of geometric patterns. The featureless stone ceiling extends about twenty feet above the beam.
"Can'ye see wa'son th'other side o'th' bridge?" Broccan asks Edrukk, peering into the darkness.
"Can you see what's on the other side of the bridge?"
A towering black door bars the way, glinting in the distant torchlight as though made of metal.
Briar scans over the whole room with her detect magic cantrip to try to get a sense of what to expect in here.
Briar detects no magic in the room.
Just to err on the side of caution, in an effort to discourage anything from trying to pick off the less armoured explorers, as Broccan and Edrukk offer to take the lead, Alaïs falls back to provide a rearguard.
Once she's in a position to get a better view of what's behind the trapped stone face, though, it makes very little sense to her.
"What on earth? That just seems pointless, unless it's ... some sort of repository of tokens or offerings or some such?" Alaïs speculates, peering down at the spheres in an attempt to see if the spheres are marked with anything that would indicate a particular purpose. Surely they can't just be featureless balls of iron, can they?
She piques herself on her openness to avant-garde art, for someone with decided Findeladlaran leanings, and the carvings on the walls are moderately interesting, visually, and maybe a certain number of spheres would be too, but from what she can estimate of their numbers, this is rather gilding the lily, whatever the desired effect.
”Smacks o’ a trap. Anyone got ‘n eye fer traps?”
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"I... I felt something back there, when we entered," Kata whispers, her voice thick. "An ear-piercing headache, almost a scream. Could this be where Caith..."
The elegist casts her eyes downward, looking for detrius; pebbles, sticks, anything that is the kind of thing that tends to wash up in abandoned places. Grabbing a rock, she picks it up, testing the weight in her hand. "We called them puzzles," Kata muses, conjuring bauble of light that seems as if erupts from the stone. And the she drops it onto the iron spheres below them, cocking her head and looking and listening intently. "The traps I mean. Puzzles."
And then again, another lighted rock, and another this time thrown into each honeycombed wall.
Taking a hesitant step forward, Kata puts another in front of that, and then another, slowly making her way across the wooden beam.
”’ere, lemme tie th’ rope t’ ye. ‘N case ol’ Windy catches ‘is breath while yer ‘n th’ beam.”
Edrukk holds up the length of rope, intent clear even if the words are not. Can’t have you falling, lass.
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"Maybe," Broccan says in response to Kata. "I wa'safraid tha'tlong arm'd bast'rd'n th'latrine got'er. Cann'eh thin'of'eh worse way'r place t'die alone." His voice carries a sad and somber tone.
"Maybe. I was afraid that long armed bastard in the latrine got her. I cannot think of a worse way, or place, to die alone."
"Old windy... I bet you're right, Eddruk. Nasty puzzle, if that is the case." Kata nods and takes the rope, tying it around her waist. She didn't know much about knots, so the result is... jumbled, but giving it a tug, Kata is satisfied. It would hold.
Kata turns to Broccan, her voice flat. "I fear the place she died was much worse."
Taking a hesitant step forward, Kata puts another in front of that, and then another, slowly making her way across the wooden beam.