With the offer made to Danton, Niccan follows Quintus out the door and to Pia's.
In the midst of her own unsolicited griping, Kalig's ears prick at something Targas said.
"What has been going on that it couldn't have been worse?"
"You haven't noticed?"
The High Enumerator's brow climbed his broad head in surprise. It was an affable gesture, almost that of a patient patriarch making a show of a child's naive question. The longer the group conversed with him, the more clear it became that the man made an effort to be accommodating.
"No, why should you have? You are strangers to Belhaim. We cannot see the irregular if we aren't familiar with the regular. The good Sheriff Benhovy, the same who arrested you along the rest of that ignoble caravan - he left the village along with most of his constables yesterday."
Oh. That explained more than a few strange remarks they had heard in the village so far, like that young deputy complaining he had no one to report to. "Your Silas Gribb along with his crooks and contraband - it was apparently all too big a catch for little old Belhaim. The sheriff asked the next county over, Virnum, whether they'd be willing to take it all off his hands. Seeing as Gribb was wanted in every duchy from Star Bay to the Fog Peaks, they readily accepted. Always good to see the nation's offices cooperate!" The smile was just a bit ironic. Taldor's bureaucracy wasn't known for being efficient. "It will be some time before Benhovy and his men return from escorting those villains. And in that interim we must rely on such luminaries as deputy Varyl! Heh! I shouldn't speak to ill of the boy. He's a good sort, truly. And under normal circumstances I'm sure he alone would suffice in patrolling Belhaim. The village really is very peaceful. Any trouble we see here usually comes from the forest, and with autumn quickly upon us, even nature is calming her restless soul. Even should she see fit to send us one of her crueler outbursts now, the local hunting lodge manage these well enough. It takes a rare confluence of adversity to disturb Belhaim. I'm hoping that this Witch Tower trouble doesn't prove to be one such. Almost seems like fate it should happen now."
An unfortunate coincidence, certainly. Left unsaid was that this idea implied the group of ex-caravanners to be similarly fated heroes, here to protect a community when it needed them most. Well, assuming that anything other than age, inevitable and cruel, had pulled down the tower.
---
Back at the Wise Piper inn Pia was still dutifully waiting up for the group, even having lit a candle in the window as if worried they might have lost their way. No trace of the disorder left by the supposed 'earthquake' remained. She and her daughters had evidently busied themselves setting everything right. The matron was on them the second the group stepped in, curiosity and concern competing over which took precedence. "Are you all alright, pets? Oh, this is just horrid, isn't it? It's not true you found a kobold, is it? Mosley, the Hardglow boy, was here with my yeast and he said it was burnt to a crisp. I told him not to tell such fibs! But what was a kobold doing at that mean old Mr Hunclay's door? Oh, Quintus, you've torn your trouser leg. What have you been doing?"
Whether worry or nosiness, it was strong enough for the woman to fuss over even Star and Niccan without a hint of her earlier discomfort.
One quiet night's rest later the group was sitting together at Pia's largest table once more, this time enjoying breakfast. By all accounts they had a strenuous day's work ahead of them, so best to fill up when they could. Freshly baked bread with healthy smearings of butter, honey and sharp cheese, all washed down with watery mead. As wholesome a meal as was ever eaten.
"You be careful out there now, you hear? the proprietor warned them once they'd stepped into the crisp morning. "There's no telling if the tower crumbling set free those Canteclure ghosts or just made 'em mad, but either way you'd best be careful!"
---
"There we are. Rope, shovel and... Granddad, what are you looking for?"
"Wicks. The liver colored lady wants wicks for her lamp is what she said."
"A pick! She asked whether we had any picks!"
"I know, I know! That's what I said! I heard her! Just... checking our stock o' wicks afore I fetch anythin' else..."
Tymek's, the general store, was just a hop and a skip from the Wise Piper, but then everything was in small Belhaim. The place, essentially one cluttered warehouse, looked well stocked even if the eponymous Tymek was evidently going a bit deaf in his old age. Luckily his granddaughter seemed to have things well in hand. Family businesses were apparently the norm in the village.
Trying to calm Pia, Quintus tells her, "Not to worry Miss Pia. Yes there was a kobold but it was probably hiding out in the Witch Tower because it had nowhere else to live. Ack my trouser leg! I must've caught it on part of Hunclay's fence when I climbed over it. Hm I'll have to see if any of my fellow travelers has a spell to fix them. I'll need a sound pair of trousers when we go exploring the ruins of the Tower."
"Spell? Really now!"
Pia gave the Opparan that very particular sort of chastising look that philosophers claimed universal in the natural world whether mortal or monster, man or beast. It was the look mother ducks used to keep ducklings from straying; it was the look mother boars used to stop piglets dead.
"I suppose you'll need a charm to chew your food next! No, you'll hand those off to me and I'll have them patched first thing in the morning. Go on! Unless you need some hocus-pocus to magic them on and off too!" She shook her head. "Spell! Typical wizardly types. Forget how to walk because he can run!"
Apparently the proprietor believed there was no substitute for some good old needle & thread.
While he normally avoids interaction with others, Pia just seems so much friendlier than most 'big people'. "The kobold wasn't crisped. It looked like he was shocked by some magical trap on the door to the mansion. I hope word was spread to keep any curious types away. And if your wizard can be found he should be sternly told not to have dangerous magics out where children might be hurt by them!"
The next morning he really enjoys the 'healthy' breakfast, not knowing what or when his next meal will be. As Mia bids them good luck and warns against the dangers he wonders if the extra weight of his breakfast will make it harder to climb up to the entrance of the tower....
Danton gave a knowing nod, "I will stay here the night then. See you all in the morning after the first bells by the tower."
He gave them a goodbye and walked with his host for a while, "I was supposed to be on this caravan but it seems Abadar has other plans for me." He didn't want to bring his politics too into it but he continued, "And with that I'm somewhat at a loss. My journey was supposed to take me past here to another temple, but it seems for now I'm stuck." Danton backtracked slightly, "Not to say this hasn't been hospitable of course, nor the town friendly, but every moment I stay I worry that I stray further from the instructions laid out to me by my superiors."
He wasn't as strict as a Hell Knight but he knew that there was a cost for failure in his duties. If he wanted to maintain his position and his current trajectory, he needed to solve this issue and get on a new caravan soon.
"Perhaps I just need to find some place to count what I do have but I am concerned about tarrying here too long." He wanders over to the beds, "I will see you at sunrise. May the Master of Vaults shield you."
While he normally avoids interaction with others, Pia just seems so much friendlier than most 'big people'. "The kobold wasn't crisped. It looked like he was shocked by some magical trap on the door to the mansion. I hope word was spread to keep any curious types away. And if your wizard can be found he should be sternly told not to have dangerous magics out where children might be hurt by them!"
The next morning he really enjoys the 'healthy' breakfast, not knowing what or when his next meal will be. As Mia bids them good luck and warns against the dangers he wonders if the extra weight of his breakfast will make it harder to climb up to the entrance of the tower....
"My colleague here is underselling how lethal Hunclay's trap is. That kobold wasn't crispy - he was extra crispy like a chicken left in a frying pan for too long. Hunclay may be old and mean but a wizard like him will keep trouble away from Belhaim."
Sighing he adds, "I'll leave the trousers on the door for you to repair. It's not that magic is better but it is faster and I didn't want to trouble you any more than we already have Pia. You're a true gift to us."
After bidding those departing a good night, the High Enumerator listened patiently to his fellow cleric's concerns in walking the whitewashed corridors of the humble temple. He looked rather deep in thought in doing so which was why his reply came as a bit of a non sequitur.
"Underwriter, have you ever seen the innards of a timepiece?"
He went on undeterred. "Ms Delbin - of Delbin's Devices fame here - once showed me a longcase clock she had acquired. She's a craftsman of sorts, dabbling in all things mechanical. And what a mechanism! All these gears, pulleys and weights working together... I'm hardly the first to see a parallel between our Master's perfect order and the harmony of machinery. Everything in its place; all components playing their part; nothing extraneous, every piece indispensable; distinct units coming together to form a greater whole."
Not so few priests of the Wealthy Father had drawn comparisons between Abadar's perfect order and the applied sciences, machinery in particular. As it happened, a fair number of critics of the faith had made that same parallel in disparagement. It would seem that where one saw logic and organization, the other saw dogma and sterility.
"Heh. Of course, ever curious Delbin has no doubt dismantled the beauteous thing by now. Regardless, while I am no machinist, I was struck by the artistry of this clock and asked her to explain how it worked. She was only too happy to show me how this weight was attached to that chain, how one set of gears store the energy derived from the pulleys, the pendulum regulates time keeping, and so on and so forth... Until she wanted to show me the function of a particular lever and I realized there was no need to. By understanding the rest of the mechanism, I had already puzzled out this last part. Which is when it struck me: Is this the true nature of fate?"
Fate? For as big a leap as that of clockwork to destiny was, Targas merely continued in a voice as level as his footfalls. "Is this perhaps all fate is, people and events slotting into place? Is this how the future is best divined, not through one-eyed hags and toad guts, but rather the expert understanding of every part known enabling us to determine the part unknown? If there is a perfect governing order behind the universe as Abadar tells us - and I truly do believe so - then fate is not a matter of mysticism. It is gears slotting into place. And by understanding the larger mechanism, we understand the future and our parts in it."
This was certainly a perspective, one theologians could argue for days. Years, potentially, if given enough paper and ink. But not with the hour being so late. They had reached the sleeping hall, a communal affair. The so-called House of Abadar was too small a shrine to house individual rooms, at least not for the lowest members of the clergy. Three young men looked up as Danton entered with the head priest, still conversing.
"All of this is to say that, yes, I wonder whether our Father might not have 'plans' for you here as you say. If there is a perfect order to everything, perhaps you were meant to come here. Don't be too quick to leave. I believe that if Belhaim is to prosper, it will need guiding hands like ours."
This bit of encouragement was delivered through that fatherly smile of his, still as incongruous. Although not disingenuous as near as the young cleric could tell. "May your dreams peer into His vault," Targas answered him in kind.
Once he had left, however, one acolyte's remarked snidely from his seat upon a bed, "He likes talking." An assenting, though by no means meanspirited chuckle went through the room. "But he's a good man. Here, I'll help you find some bedsheets."
---
"I'll leave the trousers on the door for you to repair."
"Good," the matron smiled, her already not inconsiderable physique puffing up with pleasure. Victory! "Don't you worry, pet. I've raised four daughters, each more boisterous than the last. I'll have you looking fashionable again before you as much as glimpse the sun!"
As for thanks, she would hear none of it. "Pish, pet! One Belhaimite righting another's wrong. Think nothing of it!" But if the triumph of common sense over high falutin magic had raised Mrs Orem's spirits, then the talk of oil fried corpses and lethal traps set her to worry again. "I'm inclined to agree with Mr Tol. It's good that lizardy scamp didn't reach further than the outskirts, of course, but trapping one's front door? It's just as you say, someone could have gotten hurt! That Mr Hunclay! Crabbier than the bottom of Star Bay, I swear! I don't care how much sorcery he's got up those sleeves of his; next time I see him, he'll be getting a piece of my mind!"
Oh dear. Pia puffed up further, this time with indignation. "Don't know who that old grump thinks he is... And he's not even local, did you know that? Don't know where he's from, really, but he has this funny accent. Used to hear it plenty with how he abused those poor builders back when he had that mansion of his made..."
Kalig, sitting quietly in the corner, whispers to Quintus, "I do have a mending orison, for future reference. But far be it from me to interfere with our host's offer." The druid keeps to herself to the rest of the evening, listening to the conversation, but keeping, for once, her thoughts to herself.
She gets up as soon as dawn breaks, and goes outside to first, commune with nature as she prepares her prayers, and then looks for berries to enchant for her goodberry spell.
She surveys the area, getting used to the lay of the land. While she keeps an eye out for anything unusual, she largely is seeking a moment of peace before the inevitable chaos of exploration looms. When the stores open she purchases her picks, smiling wryly at the duo running the store. Liver-colored is almost a compliment compared to some things I've been called. "Your grandfather has taught you well," he says to the younger woman. "I'd say so to him, but he might think I wanted you to go down a well."
She goes to reconvene with the party whenever they are ready to explore.
A slight bit unnerved by the overly-structured ways of the followers of Abbadar, Khavel keeps mostly to himself, offering a few suggestions to his companions regarding required adventuring equipment...only to discover most had already been suggested by someone else.
Rather than get miffed at some imagined affront to this pride, the dwarven warpriest of Torag takes in his companions and give a thoughtful nod. These were good, solid folk, for the most part. Facing the threats they were likely to be soon facing with such as these seemed to have a far better likelihood of success than he had originally thought.
Practical, he also makes his way with the others to Pia's, with her offer of lodging and breakfast when the time comes.
As for thanks, she would hear none of it. "Pish, pet! One Belhaimite righting another's wrong. Think nothing of it!" But if the triumph of common sense over high falutin magic had raised Mrs Orem's spirits, then the talk of oil fried corpses and lethal traps set her to worry again. "I'm inclined to agree with Mr Tol. It's good that lizardy scamp didn't reach further than the outskirts, of course, but trapping one's front door? It's just as you say, someone could have gotten hurt! That Mr Hunclay! Crabbier than the bottom of Star Bay, I swear! I don't care how much sorcery he's got up those sleeves of his; next time I see him, he'll be getting a piece of my mind!"
Oh dear. Pia puffed up further, this time with indignation. "Don't know who that old grump thinks he is... And he's not even local, did you know that? Don't know where he's from, really, but he has this funny accent. Used to hear it plenty with how he abused those poor builders back when he had that mansion of his made..."
Quintus raises an eyebrow at the information Hunclay isn't from around here.
"When you say 'funny accent' do you mean something like mine? From Taldor but not this area? Or do you think Hunclay isn't from Taldor at all? What was on the site before he built his mansion? It seems odd that someone who hated the Tower so much would choose to build near it."
When you say 'funny accent' do you mean something like mine? From Taldor but not this area?"
"Oh no, pet," Pia shook her round head in thought. "I mean proper funny. Hunclay's no more Taldan than I'm elven! Never heard a cadence like his before. Only... Well, fair's fair, he's clearly an educated man and his Taldane is perfectly fine. Just sounds funny, you know? Don't know where in the world he's from exactly. Not like he ever gives anyone the time of day, the ill-mannered old coot."
Were they to understand that a cantankerous, foreign wizard had settled in sleepy Belhaim of all places? With no prior connections? Just like that? "Just like that," the matron confirmed with a portentous nod. "'Course, there are all sorts of nasty stories about why he came to these parts. Some say he's some sort of villain, wanted in some foreign land and now in hiding here! But we shouldn't put too much stock in rumors. Still..."
She shook her head again, very seriously. Bless her generous soul, but the lady enjoyed her gossip just a bit too much. As for the site itself: "Oh, there was nothing up on the hill before he chose to build his manor there. After all, that's where Castle Canteclure once stood. People avoid it. You know, on account o' the ghosts."
Right. The ghosts.
"As for why there... Well, I wouldn't put it past a grouch like Hunclay to deliberately chose the one accursed place in town. So that people would stay away, you see! But in fairness, perhaps it was just practical. He has that lookout up on his roof, doesn't he? I can't claim to understand it, but perhaps settling up high on the hill let's him see farther or some such?"
The group had indeed seen something resembling a genuine observatory at the reclusive wizard's house.
---
"Your grandfather has taught you well," she says to the younger woman. "I'd say so to him, but he might think I wanted you to go down a well."
"He's a regular warhorse," the young shopkeeper smiled. "Just don't tell him you're in want of nails. He'll look at you funny and try to sell you salt."
With their errand at Tymek's complete, the group wandered on up the road to the village outskirts, back to the Witch Tower ruin. It was a crisp and cloudy morning, here to remind the mortal sphere that good king Summer had passed the throne to Autumn, as beautiful as she was precarious. And with the season came crop harvests. Being a rural village, Belhaim had already come alive at this early hour. People were walking its simple streets with purpose, and though small towns could be less than welcoming for outsiders, here the average villager was not so insular that they couldn't parcel a "Mornin'" to the group along with the requisite nod.
Of course, the ex-caravanners had a job of their own to see to.
Star blinks a few times before turning to the others. "...so, who first?"
Niccan moves up and grabs the rope. "Let's go."
Niccan moves up and grabs the rope. "Let's go."
Quintus follows Niccan up the rope.
And takes the fast way back down.
Danton stays for a meal in the morning before waving off the Abadarans. He would return tomorrow, hopefully with more purpose. Targas' lesson from the night before still stuck with him. Like a timepiece. He was right of course, and he was also right in that Belhaim might need some guiding hands. The trade here was small, but from what he saw so far, it could become an excellent hub with the right leadership.
His thoughts eventually stilled, a mind like an inevitable as he reached the tower. Divine purpose must wait for now. Each piece must be found one at a time.
"It appears we are all ready? Good morning." He sees Niccan already scrambling up and Quintus climbing, "Lean slightly to the right and that should help, it seems this tower isn't exactly straight.
The words and insight came out of him, blessed by the Wealthy Father. He was dreading having to climb the rope to get up but perhaps if he helped enough of them reach the top, he wouldn't have to.
0th - Stabilize, Enhanced Diplomacy, Light
1st - Cure Light Wounds, Cure Light Wounds, [Bless]*
It was difficult not to draw comparisons to, well... rats as Niccan nimbly skittered up the prodigious pile of rubble forming a sort of ramp up to what remained of the Witch Tower's second storey. He made it look almost easy. Granted, the rope left behind by Star yesterday definitely helped, giving him something secure to hold on to. This was appreciated when the footing was anything but secure. As the Opparan soon discovered.
Following the ratfolk, Quintus grabs hold of the rope and tries to scale the slope. A treacherous piece of brickwork gives way beneath his foot almost immediately. Or rather it would have if the Abadaran, watching keenly from below, didn't warn him at the last second. Damn unstable debris. The ruin clearly hadn't settled yet. Navigating where it was safest to tread felt like tiptoeing through a pit of sleeping snakes! Nevertheless, with this collective effort Quintus too made it to what now passed for the top of the collapsed tower.
Now open to the sky above, this exposed second floor contained only some smashed timber - the remains of support beams? - and a mad sprinkling of rubble. There was nothing else to see, really. Nothing but a rather lovely view, of course. Cradled by the hill and the river, cozy Belhaim looked a piece of pastoral paradise from here, the rising sun bathing it in warm hues. It made one wonder at the vista offered by the Witch Tower in its original glory. Surely it had been something to behold when its current state could still act as essentially a cracked little observation platform.
On that note, Quintus could not help but gaze up into the clouded skies. Nope, no sign of a transmogrified bat-winged cow.
What was visible was an open portal set in the floor by one corner. It had an old ladder, weathered but whole, worked into the wall and leading down into darkness. With its limited surface area, it looked to have survived any falling wreckage. Clearly this was how one got from this storey to the ground floor back when the tower stood whole. Said ground floor was now all left that could be called vaguely whole, even if every of its four walls were terribly cracked. Being blessed with eyes accustomed to the dark, the ratfolk peered down the ladder.
And saw the same Star had seen yesterday. Another kobold. Another dead kobold to be exact. Looking down the hatch, Niccan had little trouble perceiving the floor below, darkness be damned. And there he saw that while its western half was largely whole, the eastern was completely collapsed, reduced to a chaotic jumble of broken masonry. The upper half of a body jutted out from this jumble. A kobold had apparently been caught in the crash, the hefty debris probably killing it instantly.
So there had been kobolds in the Witch Tower? This brought up more than a few questions, chief among them how the hateful little scamps had even gotten here. Because accursed or not, surely the townsfolk would have noticed kobolds moving into Belhaim's most prominent landmark?
Huh. On closer inspection, the ladder down didn't simply end at the ground floor. It ended at a trap door leading further down still. Did the Witch Tower have a basement?
As the rest of the group starts the climb up Niccan glances around for any 'audience'. Seeing that they are alone he asks, "I don't suppose anyone has any training with traps? Just to be clear, I don't. But it could be important."
Once the majority is up he carefully descends the ladder, testing each rung before moving down and applying his full weight on it. Once he reaches the floor he picks up some debris and casts Light on it, then carefully moves around the area searching for any soft areas, sharp objects, or other possible dangers before approaching the body.
After greeting his companions, Khavel joins them at the "base" of the tower, looking up at the rope as Quintus begins his ascent...and falls. The warpriest grimaces in a manner that can only mean That had to hurt.
As the rest of the group starts the climb up Niccan glances around for any 'audience'. Seeing that they are alone he asks, "I don't suppose anyone has any training with traps? Just to be clear, I don't. But it could be important."
While climbing, Khavel answers, "Sadly, Niccan, the only real experience I've had with traps was the other day when those townguards came out of nowhere and arrested us along with Gribbs." The dwarf shrugs, "Beyond that? No trainin' there, sorry."
And then the warpriest of Torag continues to climb upward.
Once there, the dwarf turns back to look down and does his best to help any of the others get up to the summit, whether by steadying the rope or even pulling them up if needbe.
Detect Magic, Guidance, Read Magic, Stabilize
1st: (2)
Divine Favor, Shield of Faith
Grimacing at the damage to his recently repaired trousers, and the forthcoming lecture from Pia, Quintus sighs and tells Niccan, "My formal training is in combat and the arcane arts."
Oh, that bottom rung was broken. Hopping down the short distance from the ladder to the gritty floor, Niccan inspected the tower's ground level. It was, to put it succinctly, in bad shape. With one wall entirely collapsed, half of the space was covered in rubble, some of it piled all the way up to the ceiling. It was frankly a wonder that this ceiling - the same floor the ratfolk's companions now wandered on - still stood. The jumble made it difficult to ascertain exactly what this room had once been used for. What had the Witch Tower originally been, anyway? A guard tower attached to the larger Castle Canteclure? A residence for a member of that disreputable family? Or even a lair for some actual witchy consort to the house? Local lore, at least as told by Pia, painted the Canteclures as the vilest of villains. Mayhap the modern moniker of Witch Tower was entirely literal.
Or perhaps the centuries had exaggerated the family's sins like a game of whispers. Time had a way of distorting fact. Then again, their betrayal of the crown was factual enough. Danton had read of it, certainly.
For now Niccan could only trust his eyes and these saw little of real note among the debris and dust. Some shattered pieces of wood - the remains of furniture, he guessed - peaked out here and there. Not unexpected. What drew his attention was what shouldn't be here. He took another few steps into the wrecked chamber, dust softening his already gentle paws.
The simple cantrip's light shone down on the dead kobold - what he could reach of it, anyway. It had been crushed to death by a veritable landslide as the eastern wall came down; only its upper body remained free. The scales of its scrawny form almost gleamed beneath the light: iridescent green. It had been ready for battle. A piecemeal leather armor and spear - all rough, even shoddy - lay where they had been dropped, now covered in gray. And the kobold hadn't died alone. Now that he was closer, the ratfolk could see another scaled hand, also green, sticking out of the rubble. How many of the little devils were buried under that mound, he now wondered? No way to know beyond digging the whole thing up, a monstrous task and one that would probably collapse what little of the tower remained.
Which left only one other thing of real interest here on the ground floor. Niccan looked to the trap door set in the floor. It was solid iron, which was just as well. Because in addition to some scattered bricks, a hefty log - probably a ceiling beam - had crashed on top of it. Nothing a few of his brawnier companions couldn't shift if necessary. And it might prove necessary. While the Witch Tower that reached into the sky was gone, it apparently had hidden depths below.
Whether there is any truth to kobolds' claim that they hail from dragons is a matter of debate. But the incongruity between their own lofty self-image and the reality of their mediocrity seems to have affected the entire species with a terrible sort of inferiority complex. Left on their own, the average kobold is an utter coward. In groups, however, they will spur each other on in the desperate need to prove themselves, to prove that they truly are superior to all other races. Because the ultimate goal of kobold-kind is to subjugate everyone not them. Only then will their deep-seated insecurity be sated.
This cowardice coupled with their natural cooperation has resulted in a curious mode of combat where they rely on hit-and-run tactics and traps, primarily traps. Kobolds vastly prefer defeating their enemies without ever engaging in direct fighting. Wherever kobolds are, tread carefully. Traps are plentiful and inevitable.
"Kobolds typically aren't a threat unless they're found in numbers and even then they aren't formidable opponents."
As the group starts coming down Niccan warns about the missing bottom rung.
"There's at least two dead here. Only a hand visible of the second one, but more could be buried there. And a trap door goes down. Maybe there's storage below the tower? But there's that big beam blocking it. Too big for me to move."
"They may not be formidable as warriors. But they're sneaky. They set traps. We need to be careful and everyone watch out. They'll wait 'til we hit their trap and then sneak in to attack."
Kalig somehow manages just to carry her newly purchased items unbalancing her backpack without falling backwards and clambers to the top, with a sigh of relief.
At the sight of the dead kobold, she nods. "So they were in here first. Then ran to the wizard's next door. I have a feeling the little lizards have been victim to several bad choices."
She keeps an eye out for trouble while the others figure out anything else out they need to figure.
Niccan looks again at the visible parts of the kobold bodies. "Hmm.... Well, the body at the house was too badly charred to tell the original color of the scales. But I don't think they'd be from a different tribe. ??"
"Could a couple of you big, strong types move that beam? Then we could try and open that trap door and see what sort of cellar this place had. We are supposed to be sure it's safe, and possibly figure out why it collapsed. Dead bodies killed in the collapse 'might' point to a cause. But they aren't evidence. I don't see tools or anything like that used to collapse a building. It looks more like they were in the wrong place at the wrong time."
The timber thunked to the floor, throwing fine mortar dust into the air. Together, Khavel and Quintus had managed to toss the thing aside with a heave-ho. This let the group examine what lay below: the trapdoor. So the Witch Tower had a basement? Then that was where they had to search next because Niccan was quite right: although the ground floor had suffered from the spire's collapse, it showed no real signs of why it had collapsed. Perhaps the answer was to be found further below, in the tower's foundation.
As soon as someone managed to open the portal, anyway. What with the crash shaking the very earth and the beam denting the iron, the trapdoor was caught in its warped frame. Nothing another mighty tug from one of the group's stouter members couldn't solve, however. Though once wrenched open, no one was eager to crawl down the newly revealed shaft.
Hells below, as if the dust wasn't bad enough. A cursory whiff revealed the air in this pitch-black passage to be most unwholesome. It wasn't a stink, exactly. It was more so how one might imagine the morning breath of one of those Osirian mummy lords: stale, dry and dead. This was the reek of air itself gone bad, of a space forgotten by the world, stagnancy made olfactory. It was - in a word - unpleasant. But not immediately harmful. Well, probably not.
Nothing to do but brave the fumes. And so the group descended the wall-mounted ladder into the dark one by one. The shaft stretched fairly far, some fifteen feet, too far for anything resembling sunlight to reach. And with every step on the creaky rungs, the fetid air felt like submerging oneself further into a stagnant pond. Gods, this air. It was so thick it had to be gulped down, only for it to settle in the lungs like lead. At the very least they were not without light. The ratfolk's cantrip reached the rough stone floor before the ex-caravanners did. It was curious, this underground chamber they now found themselves in.
It was fairly large, almost a hundred feet across, yet made cramped - even claustrophobic - by its low ceiling and how it seemed to be separated into two wings. The clutter didn't help either. Dry-rotted frames of plain beds were shoved up against the walls, broken and abandoned. A disorderly mess of only half-recognizable odds & ends surrounded these. And on the topic of said walls, these had clearly felt the collapse of the tower above: the walls of the chamber had buckled precariously in several places, with masonry and dirt adding to the mess across the floor. Worst off was the eastern wall. It looked to have collapsed entirely, although as with the ground floor overhead there seemed no immediate danger of the whole room crumbling. Most incongruous of all, however, was a tall, rusted, grinning iron statue standing in an alcove in the wall dividing the two wings of the chamber.
Except this was where the space went from the curious to the macabre. For a second glance told all that this was no statue. It was an iron maiden, an execution device.
Mayhap all those stories about the dastardly Canteclures spoke true. If so, hopefully no remnant of their villainy haunted this basement. Especially as there was more to the space than this one chamber. Opposite the gruesome device was an old iron door, yawning open and revealing a dark corridor beyond. A corridor from which a thousand black eyes regarded the group unblinkingly.
It happened too quickly for any of them to react, for any of them to comprehend what it was they saw. The group had only just cast their respective gazes about the room when they noticed how the rough stone floor stopped by the iron door, replaced by what initially looked like a inky pool. No, a mass, a rippling black mass whose wet peaks glistened in the light of Niccan's cantrip. Except the peaks were beady little eyes and the mass a myriad. Rats. A swarm of rats, a cascade, suddenly screeched at the ex-caravanners in hostility, the confluence of what should be simple animalistic animosity coming together into a chorus of maddened hate. Distorted by the cramped quarters and elevated by sheer numbers, it sounded like the overlapping wails of the asylum. How many of them were there? A hundred? A thousand? In the dark they seemed infinite, the musty gloom made manifest, something part of and begotten by the darkness.
And yet they withdrew. In a great tarry wave of tooth and fang, the rats scurried off into the black corridor beyond. But they left behind something of their own. It was like watching a dark ocean wave retreat, previously submerged stones being revealed, slick and black. Only the evil red eyes on these told the group that the danger hadn't passed. They were rats as well, except exemplars of their kind, big as dogs. They stayed where the others fled, almost as if to act as rearguard to a retreating army. This was a function they fulfilled right until the last naked tail had passed them. Then the beasts pounced.
With a shriek so high it cut at the group's ears, three of these oversized vermin darted forward, ready to repel the invaders.
Quintus draws his falcata and prepares for battle!
Kalig, being a creature of extremely acute observation skills and common sense (), is decidedly not the type of person who smells stale, potentially poisonous air and decides, "Oh, no choice but to walk into that." Especially when there is a perfectly valid choice to simply report back to the Lady Devy that there's poisonous air underground that nobody should walk into and the guards should cordon off the area, which in Kalig's mind, at least, counts as exploring the area for danger as requested.
As the party wants to press forward, she issues a verbal caution that the party should go slowly and turn around immediately if anyone struggles for breath or passes out.
She then takes a cautious whiff to see if she can figure out the nature of the air: is it a poison gas or is it just stale? If they leave the hatch open and wait an hour, will it disperse/freshen as the old gases rise out of the hatch and fresh air can enter? Would it help if they made a big paper fan or borrowed the blacksmith's bellows to flush in cleaner air or something?
Then their movements stir up the rats, and it is a matter of more immediate survival before she can report to the party her pontifications.
Sighing, she pulls out her flail and marches forward as far as she can go.
---
Danton manages to make it down with little effort, a full night's rest in the church seemed to have helped. He didn't know much about kobolds, but he did appreciate that Niccan did, and armed with that knowledge he was wary of any forward movement through the fallen tower's basement.
Seeing Kalig smell the air, Danton wondered if the druid was onto something. His lack of experience in the world did leave his body fairly vulnerable to disease and sickness so he covered his mouth with a handkerchief, hoping it would stop anything.
Before he has a chance to speak with half-orc he sees the beady eyes come out of the darkness.
"What the---?"
He moves forward but it's too close quarters for him to use his divine energy and not hurt his allies.
"Quintus, support is coming, hold the line." It comes off cold and matter-of-fact, but the Abadaran's magic fills the words with something else.
Quintus moves forward and draws his falcata, preparing for combat!
Star narrows his eyes, unslings his lute and starts playing an angry-sounding song.
Emulating his Opparan companion, Khavel barreled forward to join in the fray, drawing his warhammer in the process. However, while dwarvenkind had humanity beaten in many respects, long-distance running was not among these; his stout legs could not match Quintus's. So it was that the hideous rats converged on the human, their nearest target.
But not all felt the need face one's opponents head on.
An arrow whizzed by the dwarf's shoulder, Niccan having hurriedly retrieved his bow. The missile, practically invisible in the near-darkness, grazed one of the giant rodents, it emitting another furious high-pitched squeal. But no matter the fury, its animal mind did not waver. An intruder - all warm flesh and nourishing blood - stood right before it. Its bestial appetite had to be sated, its kin protected. These were the instincts driving all three giant rodents to pounce upon Quintus in a flurry of filthy fur and gnashing teeth.
Quick footwork saw the young magus manage to evade two of the rats. The third managed to lock its foul-smelling mouth about his ankle, incisors digging deep. And gods, it really did smell. Even in the rank air of the underground chamber, the quick breaths of the creatures carried with it every suggestion of the foul lives they were known for, carrion eating and all.
And yet this was not the man's first concern. No, for in coming face-to-snout with the vermin he saw something the darkness had evilly - mercifully? - obscured from him earlier. A sight that might have shocked those of lesser constitution. The rat that had bitten him - it had a human ear growing from its back.
They were all like this. All three of the giant rats were misshapen, all in this most bizarre - almost deliberate - manner. One had the most curious paws, hairy and long-fingered, that seemed as if they should belong on one of Garund's many simians. Or even a human. The last rodent initially appeared thankfully normal, as normal as any such elephantine creature could be. Until one noticed how one of its malevolent red eyes was larger than the other and unblinking. Worse still, something crueler than the purely animalistic glimmered there.
The rest of the group noticed this too in what little light was afforded them by Niccan's cantrip. As for the ratfolk himself, he was at a loss for how to describe what he was seeing. What he had initially taken for giant rats - exemplars of their kind, but otherwise not so different from their smaller cousins - were clearly something more. Perhaps even something lesser. What had befallen them to be transformed so? No answer come to him, not in the heat of battle. What he did know was that the bite dealt the Opparan was potentially quite bad. Rats such as these often carried the disease so aptly named filth fever. Quintus could well be bed-confined within the next few days.
Wincing at the pain from the bite Quintus realizes these aren't typical rats. They've been changed by something for some reason. Sensing the trouble the group might be in he channels his arcane power into his falcata!
Quintus strikes at the rat in the middle and then shifts back a bit to get closer to his companions.
But misses his attack!
Rats. The bane of civilization.
The Abadaran quickly surveilled the area and realized that he wouldn't be able to let his energy burst out, not with so many people close by.
He had to do something, and pulled from his god's portfolio to bless the party.
Niccan calls out "Rats. Disease. Clean any wounds." then uses his ability to call a monster to fight right behind the rats.
Sparks briefly illuminated the gloom as Quintus's sword struck the stone floor, missing the agile rodent skidding backwards in response. It gave another high-pitched screech and reared back, preparing to lunge at this intruder, to make him regret his misstep. But something stirred further back still. Out of the darkness swooped an eagle, as wholly out of place as it was majestic. It struck the rat from behind, raking its talons and beak over the stupefied rat's back. The grotesque ear-like growth there was nearly torn clean off. The wild cries of bird and rodent now echoed off the chamber's rock walls, the misshapen beasts growing increasingly erratic and aggressive.
Good then that the dwarf stood ready to end this.
Bold as anything, he strode forward to draw the creatures' attention to himself, and in so doing arced his warhammer in a mighty overhead swing. The resulting crash was forceful enough to draw some loose plaster from the ceiling, not to mention caving in one rat's skull, killing it instantly. And the group's offense didn't stop there. Typically so quiet Star dashed to the fore with his spear first as if he'd been fired from a bow.
The rodent never knew what hit it. One moment it stood ready to leap for Khavel, the next it was impaled on the tiefling's weapon from one end to the other. The beast was so thoroughly speared that were it not for its unsavory nature, it looked ready for roasting - rat on a spit. So sudden was its death that nearby Kalig, in position and ready with her flail, found herself without a target. Ever pragmatic, though, she just managed to dance about the last remaining miscreation to attack this now thoroughly outnumbered and miserable thing.
A sound like the snapping of dry twigs rang out. The half-orc's flail had caught it in the ribs. Sure enough, the last of the rats now lay dying.
Niccan moves forward to examine the huge rats. "I had thought dire rats. But these things.... What are these strange growths. Never-the-less, have one of the healers that knows a bit of disease look at your bite wound Quintus. This place.... even the air smells diseased."
He glances around then starts walking along the walls slowly walking the perimeter. "Let's be sure we're not leaving anything dangerous behind us. If we have to leave we don't want to fight our way out."
Quintus nods at Niccan, "Thank you for the advice. They didn't teach the healing arts where I went to learn about the arcane. I agree we should check the area thoroughly before proceeding."
Sticking close to a light source Quintus joins Niccan in examining the area.
A wondrous moment, that stillness after battle where one's senses were still alert for an enemy felled, one's heart still beating hard to prepare for a danger passed. This fight-or-flight condition - it made you realize how one's everyday state was strangely like sleepwalking: a body not operating at its peak capacity. Being in a hyperaware state in a situation that didn't call for it made the world stand out that much sharper.
Unfortunately, what that world had to offer in this drab basement wasn't overly palatable. Ratfolk and human gave the chamber a quick once-over, the former focusing on the origins of the rodents. The rough stone floor looked entirely solid, although these certainly bore signs of the little vermin: dried rat droppings, a lot of them. The walls, on the other hand... The walls were in a bad state, bulging outwards in displaced brick and dirt. Presumably they had buckled under the Witch Tower's collapse. Still, they seemed to have settled. They were stable enough. For now.
They were, however, pockmarked with more tunnels than the dwarves' own Five Kings Mountains. A tiny, tiny burrow could be found in almost every vulnerable space where stone met packed earth, the rodents having dug through to who knew where. Through these the rats likely had free reign of this whole underground complex, whatever it was. And a complex it surely was; that one iron door to the south led somewhere.
As for the nature of this place, Niccan and Quintus's search gave them a guess as to the purpose of this particular room. The detritus by the simple beds turned out to be the broken remains of clothes chests, long rotted bed sheets, shattered water jugs, and perhaps personal effects too far gone to identify. All the basics of communal living. Had this maybe been a barracks for Canteclure soldiers?
While the two looked about like so, Kalig looked inwards. Specifically, she was trying to ascertain whether the stale air down here was having any detrimental effect on her. Her pulse seemed stable enough. Similarly, her vision was neither dimming nor blurry. As near as the half-orc could tell the air was at the very least not immediately harmful. Granted, every breath tasted like a mouthful of sour hay, but then bad air wasn't entirely unexpected with an enclosed underground space over centuries. Especially if said space was infested by an entire colony of rats. Like a fetid swamp, this place wasn't to be recommended for children, the elderly or those expecting. Beyond that, though? Probably harmless.
Niccan and Quintus ended their search at the eastern wall, and not without reason. For it alone hadn't just buckled under the Witch Tower's fall, but entirely collapsed. It was nothing but a jumble of stone chunks, loose earth and broken bricks. A mess to be sure, although perhaps no coincidence. The ground floor upstairs - there too the eastern wall had collapsed. And the tower itself... Had it not fallen in the same direction?
Quintus tells the group, "It looks like the iron maiden had an occupant at one time; there's dried blood on the floor. Someone who ran afoul of the Canteclures no doubt. Should we open it?"
"I don't like how stale it is down here, but it doesn't seem to be harmful. If you feel dizzy, though, say something, and we can go back up to rest. And Quintus, that goes double for you. Any sign of fever, we stop."
She squints at the iron maiden. "Seems awful waste of workmanship when you could just peel off a few fingernails." She shrugs. "Can you see magic auras? Does it radiate magic? If there's a dead thing in there, we don't want it coming out swinging."
Following the half-orc's cue, Quintus twirled his fingers in a practiced arcane gesture, invoking the familiar cantrip that opened his senses to the supernatural. Nothing. The iron maiden radiated nothing but malevolence, rust having turned the smile of its decorative 'face' twisted and sinister.
Quintus checks the iron maiden for traps or locks in case the group decides it should be opened. He tells Kalig, "There are no magical auras I can see. That doesn't mean there isn't an undead creature inside though."
The iron maiden made the Abadaran nervous.
"It may be undead but it could also very well be a body in need of a proper burial." He eyed it warily, "With what happened to the Cantleclures and the talks of ghosts in the tower, I think we need to open it to confirm for sure. We cannot allow such a uncivilized and barbaric thing to just sit and we do nothing."
Danton steps forward, "If no one wishes to open it I shall."
The iron maiden made the Abadaran nervous.
"It may be undead but it could also very well be a body in need of a proper burial." He eyed it warily, "With what happened to the Cantleclures and the talks of ghosts in the tower, I think we need to open it to confirm for sure. We cannot allow such a uncivilized and barbaric thing to just sit and we do nothing."
Danton steps forward, "If no one wishes to open it I shall."
"Worry not good Underwriter we shall open the iron maiden. I'd just like to know if it has been trapped or locked and the best way to open it. Although I did come prepared for opening things but I never expected something like this."
Quintus retrieves his crowbar from a sack.
Niccan watches from a distance, disturbed by the device. "This has the look of a barracks room. Why would they have a torture device in it? If this place is actually haunted maybe we should gather any remains that we find and take them out to be properly buried?"
He moves over to the door and examines it for traps. "I'm no expert but I don't see any traps on this door. Once everyone is ready to continue?" He backs off to let the group get back in order. Not knowing how much time is left on the light spell he refreshes it.
Quintus wedged his crowbar into what little gap could be found between the horrid device's two halves. It wasn't locked in any way as near as he could tell, but the hinges were terribly rusted. It would have to be forced open. And after making sure his companions stood ready in case a restless dead really waited within, the Opparan did just that.
It took a few mighty tugs - Quintus having to lean into the crowbar - before the thing suddenly gave way. In dramatic fashion, at that. Its front sprang open with a wail. Something moved inside, and for a second Danton feared that his particular skillset might indeed be called for. He then realized that any danger had long since passed. For the wail was merely that of protesting metal hinges, and the movement that of a purely inanimate form shifting at the jostle. A corpse, long ago degraded into nothing more than bones and tatters, rested inside the iron maiden. It remained suspended on the interior's vicious spikes, the same spikes that had presumably been its end. Not the most pleasant of fates - to be entombed in the same contraption that acted as your means of execution.
The eponymous 'maiden' glared from above with its rust-red grin.
More curious still is the knife still secure in its metal scabbard. Why one wouldn't draw such a weapon when you're being forced into an execution device is a headscratcher all on its own. But the blade itself is also rather strange. Once cleared of dried blood, it sits well in the hand, clearly being of superior craftsmanship. Yet the perfectly straight, single-edged blade has a series of notches carved into its spine. These vary in size and shape, almost as they're supposed to form some pattern you can't discern. Bit odd.