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Tiberius will keep on look out, having no real need for resting.
Gorn, set up some of those skulls along the wall if you would. I'd love some target practice.
Mal limps into the barracks and curls up underneath a bed. He rests in pain to catch his second wind. After an hour, he replaces the bandage of his dagger wound. He signals that he's ready to go, but prowling down to the secret door to see if anything has changed in an hour.
Donal picks up his shield and mace, readying for Mal to return with news.
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"No problem, Tibs. Imma be busy in here anyways," Gorn says, setting up the skulls and his own preparations.
Gorn came prepared. That, combined with his cuisine-minded talents, made for some odd dishes in the darnedest places.
The bonemeal was exactly what he needed, because it was not easy to find, normally. I mean, true, it wasn't canabalism in the same way that some of those balmy vegitinarians ate his jello, even when it came from horse hoofs. But this was going to be better!
He sets a pot to boil and adds to it some handfuls of ground up dried fruit from the iron rations in his sack. After the mixture has dissolved fully he adds a few spices, some sugar, and a generous helping of crushed bone. This he stirs vigorously and takes off the heat.
Now to let it cool...oh no! This dish usually takes hours to cool, and they have not that kind of time! What to do, what to do.
In vexation and sadness he kneels before the still-hot pot and gives out a great sigh of impotence. Then something strange happens. His breath is cold. Ice cold, freezing cold, cold as a banker's heart. Like a sleeting gale it rams against the kettle and brings the whole mixture down to the temperature of a WinterFest morning. He tentatively prods the dish and finds it soft and yielding. "Done!" he cheerily exclaims, not really understanding how the magic welled out of him, but certainly welcome of it.
He doles out generous helpings of his fruit jello to any and all. After he's happy to see that there is still plenty left, certainly enough to sustain him for the future.
Mal, you return to the concealed trick of masonry that set a fake plaster partition into the limestone wall. It would appear much the same. An avalanche of rubble just behind you paused in time almost, throwing itself towards the door. All at the landing of 2 staircases, from higher on east and west simultaneously. Deception seemed to be a adept-level tool of these cultists; only a dark-hearted artisan could so cleverly set a secret door in such a precarious place...a place others would want nothing more than to rush through.
Mal returns to the barracks and concludes, "the secret door doesn't look disturbed. So, we're ready to tackle it now."
Mal will allow another Fister to open that secret door unless it needs thieves tools.
After a precursory inspection, Malaric determines there is no real mechanism that might lock or bar the hidden panel...instead it seems to rely solely on camouflage. The subtle imitation of nature in the bumps and fossils of the false limestone was likely created by an artist, not a locksmith.
Fine work Mal. I would not have expected that... I'd look for some sort of trap mechanism too.
Having already eaten the snack by the time Gorn starts with grinding the bonemeal, Donal pales, I am going to be sick... Gorn, what was in the snack that I just ate?
Good as his word, the priest does a search for traps.
Doomguides were no stranger to traps. Many an over-eager relative sought to protect their departed loved ones from grave robbers by any manner of hidden blade, pneumatic dart, rusty spike, or outright curse...the priests of Kelemvor would encounter all in their pursuit of ritual, and the circumvention of such obstacles proved their holy path.
Here however, was no trickery...just a damned heavy pile of dried plaster. It would seem in places the plaster is caked upon a substrate of woven cloth, yet nonetheless the thing has the inertia of a boulder. It will take 2 strong men to move this thing...without damaging it, that is. One clever man could probably just tip it over and let its own weight shatter itself to bits.
Grim moves up to help Gorn.
A few grunts and an awkward knee-pop later, the annoyingly heavy plaster barrier is out of the way...
Only a short 6 six inch lip curb extends beyond before plunging once more into flooded murk water. A long and wide corridor rushes north, supported by 3 bracing columns...yet here they seem more architecturally sound than the ramshackle ones encountered elsewhere in this strange dungeon. Some modicum of thought was actually applied to their design; a thick tar lining on the base to make the things last. However lacking in those protections is a closed door lingering on the eastern wall, swollen in its frame from taking on water.
Far ahead and from around the corner to the west, you see the flickering of torchlight and the sound of a tremendous melee. You hear a crash like a falling tree, then the sound no veteran ever forgets: the smash crackle pop of a human skull. More crashes, grunting, screaming...people are getting killed. The bloody smack of a face on stone. Mercy is not being given...somewhere a legend is being born.
Mal learned his lesson and prowled behind his beefy Fisters.
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Gorn needs no great urging to leave the heavy thing where it lay and surge onward. Just because he _can_ lift heavy things doesn't mean he always likes it.
Further on he sees the water-logged door and is already sizing it up for an introduction to Shellcracker, the Universal Key, when the sounds of combat fill the air.
His first instinct is to rush ahead and let fate decide what side he lands on, but he sees Donal's hesitation, and, ever admiring the Seeker's caution, listens himself to see if it's even close. (He doesn't mind sticking his civilized and discerning nose where it doesn't belong, he just doesn't wanna walk into a slaughter.)
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There are too many unknowns, and one of them is that when they see who is fighting, they are just as likely to want to join the winning side as not.
Come to think of it, if they -don't- want to join the winning side and want to -fight- the winning side, isn't it a better idea to do it while some non-zero amount of common enemy is still standing?
"Ah screw it," Gorn states as he starts his lumbering body jogging ahead. "You guys wanna live forever?"
Already he's starting to limber up his shoulders as his hands grip and twist his hammer's haft, anticipating great slaughter.
Could be future allies, or at least assets. Let us help, Donal readies his shield, drawing his weapon and heads off for the sounds of battle, Those that are tapped, stay in the back ranks and let Gorn and I clear the way.
He wasn't used to taking the leadership role, that was Myl's job. She wasn't here now, he was.
Evendur says nothing as the others psych themselves for battle, but just scans for traps. The sounds could be real or illusions... in which case, the way ahead is trapped for sure.
Have a care for where you put your feet and keep your shield up.
Donal nods in affirmation to Grim's advice and continues forward carefully...
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Tibs makes constant use of Prestidigitation to keep somewhat of the smell from his nostrils.
I intend to live for a long time, that said, whatever is beyond will not stop that plan.
Beyond the hall, a flooded chamber opens up with rough-hewn steps climbing to the south, north, and northeast. The floor buckles up above the water line in the middle of the room, forming a small island. Corpses (with their brains bashed in) and oddly shaped doused torches float in the water around the island, atop which two men circle each other with weapons bared. One of the men — a tall, unarmored brute with a greatclub and a scarred face — towers above his opponent but is gravely wounded. The smaller figure is muscular and bare-chested. He clutches a bloody dagger in one hand and a torch in the other, and (perhaps more interestingly) has no flesh covering his skull.
I am guessing so, Donal says matter-of-factly before stepping up and shoving the skullfaced man prone!
Evendur, from the cautious rear guard drops sacred flame on the skeletor cosplayer.
Mal advances into the room, cautious of any threats using the melee as a distraction. He turns his crystal in his pocket with his left hand while pointing his shortsword in his right.
Donal, while no religiously inspired or otherwise symbolic jewelry is easily visible, the exposed skull does remind you of the skulls throughout the dungeon. Bhaal's encircled skull of murder, Myrkul's glazed flail skulls...
Inits
Mal circles the area cautiously as Donal and Gorn charge directly forward...
...it was like striking 250 lbs of pure muscle, but nonetheless the mass went down. Torch sputtering and finally extinguishing as he hit the water, throwing the area into dim light. Only Evendur's cantrip, from far back down the hall, was lighting the area now.
It was enough for Skullcracker, finding its mark in the shadows...or did it? The mighty hammer head struck the skull straight on, yet there was not the slightest crack nor scuff. Just a skull in the murk with its eternal grin.
Round 1:
Ugly
Mal, Donal, Gorn
Death's Head <--UP
Grim, Tib
The grinning skull's eyes (which, oddly, are actual eyeballs somehow inside the sockets) pierce into the wielder of Skullcracker. Gorn mentally feels himself begin to slide down a very steep incline, his focus about to shatter into a billion pieces...
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Gorn was surprised when his great hammer made not the slightest mark on the grim-faced foeman. But it made little impact on his internal direction, he had hit people before, and they had not rent their clothing and gnashed their teeth at the first blow, so he was not overly put-out now.
As the thing draws its death-marked gaze upon him and tries to delve into his skull, he just chuckles. It is a deep, low sound, it is the sound a star makes as it grabs yet another eon-old comet in its inexorable graviton field.
"Careful there, chummer," he half whispers, mockingly, tapping his temple,"you don't know where that thing has been."
The Death's Head flips himself back up on to his feet acrobatically, flourishing his dagger and soggy-torch in a confusing display. Just as you think you see the pattern in the movements, the sharp blade strikes backwards...
...tearing a gash in Gorn's side. Again, there seems to be a dark aura of murder that follows the blade, weakening its victim in eager anticipation of death.
He hisses "...ssso the proud and mighty Mortlock cries to the Fist for help. No matter. You've been marked for death, and so it will be." before strategically routing to the north. His feet almost seem to run atop the water, for the tremendous speed he takes.
Grim's burst of divine radiance cuts wide as he flees.
Round 1:
Ugly
Mal, Donal, Gorn
Death's Head
Grim, Tib <--UP
We may need to put in some overtime on this one.
You prat! Donal runs after the Death's Head assassin.
From the comfort of distance, Mal squeezes his crystal and sends thoughts of the void toward the fleeing Death’s Head.
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"Grrrrrr. You sniveling cur, I'll have your head as a drinking cup!" Gorn yells as the man reposts unto him and rips a bloddy gash acros his torso.
"Cowards die in shame!" the barbarian yells, sweeping across the enemy with a back-handed swing as he seeks safety.
"Bastards that start fights and then run away make me FURIOUS!" Gorn shouts in a barbaric yop, letting the red-tinged rage flow through him like a volcano of power.
Now beyond the reach of mere reason, he is more animal than man. He plunges head-long at the retreating foe, his human-mind retaining only enough control to pop another skillfully-prepared tidbit into his mouth, but even this move is only to keep the fight going longer.
At last catching up to the running death-thing, he uses his forward momentum in a massive overhead swing.
Tibs chases after the skull masked man, lightning crackling over and down his arm. He had been conserving his strength until now, with a dangerous foe before them, he was determined to make good use of it. His eyes crackle with the fury of a storm as He hurls a ball of electricity at their foe. Its tendrils of lightning arcing towards and into the walls and floor.
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Gorn felt a solid connection as the skull crowned cultist routed, but it wasn't enough to stop his venture north.
The hulk of a man, who by a glance at the bodies surrounding the small island seemingly killed at least 3 or 4 other cultists just like this one, dropped to a knee...his massive greatclub now a mere aid to his balance. He was bleeding badly...numerous slash wounds, some down to the bone, simply gave and gave of their red nectar (almost miraculously). He hurriedly stripped a few robes into makeshift bandages, cutting off the worst of it. Still, the man was beyond bloodied and not eager to continue the fight. His gaze rested on the emblem of the Fist momentarily, confused and cautious.
Then the low fog resting off the murk began to move of its own accord, swirling and rising into a tight pattern...all focused on the dragonborn's fingertip. The pattern tightens like a knot and the mists seem to combust in a scintillating radiance, flashing every color of the rainbow before settling on a hot blue. The undulating orb swells and grows until the sorcerer divines its path...straight into the back of the routing cultist.
*FFffumph* *cRackle* *craCKle*
Skully staggers on the steps as the electricity takes control of his muscular contractions, only to turn briefly noting Gorn and Donal hard on his heels. But he didn't notice the halfling off in the shadows, hard at work infiltrating his corrupt psyche from a distance...
For a moment Mal glimpsed the mind of a predator, this one motivated to kill by a lust for blood. As you burrow deeper beyond the veil of his subconscious, you witness innocents being toyed with and slaughtered in the name of god: Bhaal. But as you begin to manipulate the synaptic pathways to cause pain, something slaps at your astral wrist...a skeleton waggling a bony finger back and forth mockingly. *tsk tsk tsk*
Donal bounds up the steps, again forgoing his weapon...his entire body was a blunt weapon.
The Tormtar crashes into the cultist and immediately sets his stance into a solid waist lock, but a slip from Skully dodges the grasp before it can set. Not deterred, Donal morphs his handle into a nearly perfect figure-four armlock, but again the faceless killer stumbles on the steps and the weight of his body pulls him free. Finally however, after a quick jab to the throat and bootheel stab to the calf, the Champion dominates with a scissored armbar crossface maneuver, and the death's head cant take another step...
Gorn was completely unaware of the skillful wrestling maneuvers of his companion, and in his current state of mind saw only a humble nail ready to be driven down.
*CruNCH*
The massive buttered head passing mere inches from Donal's face as he maintained grip.
Round 2:
Ugly
Mal, Donal, Gorn
Death's Head <--UP
Grim, Tib
As Donal pressed his full strength into the grip, trying to establish a final hold, he felt the neckbones of his victim twist and snap sickly of their own accord...the skull turned a full 180 to look him directly in the eyes, pressing fully into the Tormtar's face, crushing nose to nose and screaming the wail of the damned...
The priest, seeing the foe grappling on the floor, rushes in to start stabbing with HD sword.
The priest feels inspired by his god and stabs again...
His stab, hampered by not wanting to hit his ally, are mere hestitant digs...