Donal frustrated, regains his composure and lifts his shield in an upward shove!
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The zombie falls to the pyramid point of the pile of bodies, and everyone instantly learns the truth of an old wives tale: northerners indeed don't wear undergarments beneath their kilts.
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"Oh confound a cartographer? Now that's just low. Whoever did this I hope they are burning in some really hot place.
Do you know how hard it is to find a guy that can get all those gophers into a single cart?"
Gorn solemnly raises Shellcracker, hoping to swiftly send him to the paradise that waits for all skilled cat-herders.
"The only thing harder than that would getting a bag of meerkats."
Mal pulls a THIRD dagger from his loot bag and gives it spin to learn its balance and lets it fly at the next zombie in melee.
Myl
or
For
Sacred Flame DC13
Will will try to start whittling away the zombies in the back.
The chef whips up a brain hemorrhage with special death sauce, but it is the cleric of Kelemvor that adds the cherry on top: a white hot column of flame burning a hole through the zombies skull. The arms that had been reaching for Donal's knees go limp and a 5th body piles up...one too many it seems as another fresh zombie rushes through the pile...
In a sudden lurch the mountain of bodies lose their stability and slip forward in an avalanche of limbs and intestines!
The combined attacks of Myl, Mal, and Tiberius whittle down the latest undead threat, but at the same time, from back near the flammable gas room, a smirking cultist rounds the corner and raises his crossbow...pinching the party between a rock and a hard place.
Round 7:
Myl, Mal
Zombies + Cultist <--UP
Gorn, Grim, Tib, Donal
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Once Gorn had been in a sweaty apprenticeship at The Smiling Gorgon. The place was a pigsty with a nasty clientele, but the owner didn't mind if you flexed his culinary muscles, and the waitresses did pay mind when he flexed his real muscles, so in all it was a winning experience.
Once he'd needed to get another flower barrel, and while levering one out, the entire wall of pickeled pigs feet, briny cucumbers, and preserved fish came barreling on top of him. He faced the whole thing down in the only way he knew how--like stone wall. He found if he just stood his ground, objects, like people, found ways to be somewhere else.
The zombie-corpse-wall was no different. He put up his left arm as a brace, planted his back foot, and let the tumbling mass come.
"Silly walls never learn," he rumbles, ""
The elven swordmaster is knocked prone.
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Remembering his practice in the shield wall, Donal sets his feet!
But a zombie skull collapses underfoot and causes his foot to slip!
The zombie sees the plate set before him and lunges on top Donal, teeth clapping at the thick blood vessel on the Tormtar's neck...
...but catches it with his shield as Mylivanni knocks its foot off balance, herself desperately struggling to stand in the drenched red covered meat bits.
A high pitched *zZzzzzzrr*!!
Something thwaps into the halfling's pauldron, a quarrel with bright crimson feathers.
Round 7:
Myl, Mal
Zombies + Cultist
Gorn, Grim, Tib, Donal <--UP
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Donal stands and says with a grin, Sorry about that, Gorn... I slipped up.
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Myl stands and goes back on the attack...
for
Again with the death of a thousand cuts school of swordsmanship...
Tibs turns to the cultist and directs a blast of lightning at them, running it through his staff before forming it into a ball in his hand to launch at the new threat. A single bolt from that weapon could prove deadly, and Tiberius was not in the mood to risk it.
Nice hit, Tiberius!
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Gorn wastes no time pulverizing the latest flesh-bag to patte, and finally the last zombie steps out of the chamber (just as dumb as all the rest, to what is surely a certain death). Donal introduces the newcomer to 64 ounces of lead-core iron quite cordially, as Myl continues her horribly misguided campaign to 'bleed out' the wickedness...obviously ignorant of zombie physiology.
The noble dragonborn doesn't bother raising an eyebrow at the flanking cultist, lobbing a tightly wound ball of pure lightning strikes down the hallway. The energetic orb strikes the woman directly in the face, and her eyeballs burst from the heat, running down her cheeks like nasty tears as she falls over dead.
Donal swings again!
Tibs lets out a snort, flame tickling past his nostrils. He turns to the remaining zombie and fires another bolt of flame.
The one-two punch of iron and fire finally stops the dark animus within the last corpse, and it slumps over motionlessly crackling and smelling horribly as it smoulders.
Donal looks at the pile of bodies, breathing heavier than you have seen in a long time, What do you all think? Move further or head back up and come back after a rest?
A short rest might prove useful, just to gather ourselves again though anything longer and I fear we may find nothing but empty ruins.
Whatever the group decides but my ability to tap into Kelemvors blessings is much limited until I have sufficient rest and prayer.
A few loose chains lazily clinking was all that could be heard from the east, as the party panted and planned in the hall. Although the zombie horde was somewhat expected and adequately prepared for, the fight was no less physically and mentally taxing. These were normal citizens of Baldur's Gate the cultists of the Dead Three had not only murdered, but raised as horrors. You are beginning to see the disgusting power of dark gods united: a tyrant's torture in life, a psychotic's slow murder to death, and the unholy transformation into undeath. Apparently this triple blessing was awaiting all, from this cult's perspective.
Mylivanni looked frustrated. Though you were all complicit in an attempt to overthrow the Fist, the elf always believed that once fully scoured it could be restructured and given a new life. But face to face with these ignored threats that crept into her city, a fresh criticism of the organization came about rapidly...manifesting as a wall-punch. *clang* "Why have they let this go on so long down here...and meanwhile they're off chasing paladin...refugees? What is the logic of that. Why are those lords of Elturel such a threat..." she asked, annoyed, not expecting an answer.
She knelt looking for any clues or anything that might help, but it seemed as if the bodies had been already been quite picked over. Some of their wounds were even stitched with fine brass wire...but the curved, almost dancing, wounds from the murderer's knife were still clear and a deep black, like a tattoo on the undead flesh.
Mal recovers all of his and Donal’s dagger. He returns the dagger to Donal.
While everyone decides what to do, the halfling tries to fit six more blades on his person.
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"Well don't mind if I do," Gorn says, plopping down and starting to relax.
"Oh, before I forget, here everyone. I keep these for just such an emergency."
To everyone Gorn passes out rice balls stuck together with rice syrup and passes around a small flask of rice wine. "Basically rice is good for getting energy back fast, is what I'm saying," he clarifies.
Oh, I do love rice. Honestly, its better with some meat, but, it looks good.
Not hungry, thank you, he says to the offer of food, even though he was normally a fan of Gorns creations.
Donal shakes his head, Save it, Gorn. I may need it later.
During the rest, the acolyte of the Protector leans against the wall nearest their next destination, listening for trouble...
With Malaric dozing perhaps a few too many extra winks during the brief respite, Donal takes up the role of scout and minds the eastern door. He hears only the occasional ringing of chains...and no sign of trouble.
Sure, I don't mind...
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"Sounds quiet, eh Donal? Right, one perfectly-safe-open door coming UP!" Gorn punctuates his last word with a MIGHTY SWING of Shellcracker into the door, aiming to explode it open. If it's safe, then no harm done. (Well, the door might take umbrage, but they usually don't say much when they do. They're good sports that way.)
And if there was something laying in wait? Well what better way to kick off the party?
Donal follows the big man into the room, ready for a quick clearing...
The shattered door scatters splinters and long dead termite husks tickling the nosehairs of the intruding party. A chamber of horrors greets you. The white limestone of the walls and floor is streaked and splashed with a thick layer of dark dried blood...well, half-dried anyways. It sticks to your boots as you enter with a smacky tacky sound. Meanwhile, loud buzzy horseflies fight to the death in aerial combat over small chunks of human flesh stuck to the ceiling...at times ramming long dangling chains and setting them tinkling.
But two dangling, emaciated, bodies are shackled by wrists and ankles to the east and south walls. The stench is horrible--those tiny loincloths long since overflowing with nightsoils, urine, and blood. The cleanest part of the bodies (are they alive or dead?) is near the eyes, where their tears have washed clean streaks down their cheeks.
One is an elderly human male: tanned dark from the sun and perhaps strong once. The other a young female tiefling: pretty in that devilish way, but scarred now...it appears her earrings and nose stud were ripped out forcefully sometime ago, and her horns hand-drilled to their bloody marrow core. Both are covered with wet gashes, stab wounds, and lashes...not to mention the long circuitous cuts of an insane torturer. Neither is moving.
Curiously (at least for those of good nature) there is a bucket half-filled with finely ground salt nearby.
Have a care... they've already sprung one trap on us.
That said he casts Spare The Dying on the two fresh torture victims...
Grim, you channel the divine energies of Kelemvor into the elderly man...but its like trying to pass your hand through 3 ft of solid lead. The man is quite dead. However, not to be discouraged, you continue to the tiefling woman and find that (though on the very knife's edge of death) some spark of life still flutters within and reaches out quite eagerly to embrace the light of your god.
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"Oh this is gross," Gorn exclaims, heading back into the hallway to spew some rice-scented chunks onto the floor. "Don't touch that salt! Imma be needing that!" he calls between dry heaves.
After a few moments he wanders back to the shattered doorway, thankful that he opened it so definitively as the charnel room needs all the air it can get.
He still stays in the relatively fresh air outside the room, keeping an eye inside, just in case, but otherwise he's just waiting for the smell to die down enough to the point where he can taste the quality of the salt.
Good salt is hard to find.
Tiberius does not enter the room, rather he stands, mouth slightly agape with disgust.
Leave it to the common rabble to come up with such... wretchedness.
Donal passes a discerning eye around the room, to spot any possible traps...