The corpse is in a too far gone state for Kalig to bother with the particulars of its demise, but her scavenger's eye easily catches a glint amid the dessicated flesh. She pulls out a strange blade in a metal scabbard and a key.
"Odd things to leave on a torture victim," she muses, eying them carefully.
She pulls the blade out, examining it. She points out the notches on the back of it. "Nicely made, but these notches are weird. Also looks like a bit of a key itself."
She frowns, holding it up to Niccan's light. "If I'm not mistaken, cold iron too. Sensible thing to carry in a wood rumored to have fey inhabitants." Kalig holds both items out for the others to examine.
Quintus also noticed the items that were left behind, "Difficult to say why they let the person keep the dagger on their person when they were sentenced to death. Or perhaps done in a hurry? If it's cold iron then maybe it was one of the House members put inside the iron maiden."
Quintus will carefully begin collecting what's left of the remains for the Underwriter to perform his priestly duties and give the person a proper burial.
Star keeps his mouth shut and his lute quiet as the party investigates.
"I'm glad there isn't a spirit here. Let me give it some quick rites before we move onward."
He wasn't too focused on the dagger, he was sure that later on they will discuss it, but he had an obligation to this place and its people.
Danton didn't know who this person was, nor who they worshipped, but he made a small cairn with some rubble for the remains.
"Thank you Quintus."
The cleric gave a prayer for them, something stoic and curt, and with his aspergillum and holy symbol he concluded the brief rites.
It was detached and practical but they had a job to finish after all.
It was solemnity onto severity, building a burial mound in the dark, here in this ruinous cellar already so like some forgotten catacomb. Still, the priest was in no short supply of loose bricks and rubble to build this hapless soul their cairn, and so the work wasn't too arduous. The following prayer was similarly brief, efficient as only an Abadaran's could be. The accompanying moment of silence felt deafening in the dungeon's stillness.
And with this little digression complete, the group was ready to move on at the cleric's own prompting. It was a small labor, of course, giving the corpse some semblance of dignity. A very small part of setting right a world with far too many wrongs. But then that was the role of an Abadaran: to set things in order. Whether the departed's soul appreciated the effort was a matter of theological debate, but it felt right in Danton's own.
In stepping through the southern doorway, however, the group feared they might have a great deal more such efforts in store. Jail cells. The nature of this underground complex grew that bit clearer as Niccan's light revealed winding corridors, long abandoned and lined with what were readily identified as jail cells. Each of their solid iron doors hung ajar, including both a peephole at eye level - covered with a piece of sliding metal - and a smaller slot for food and water at floor level. Still carrying the key she had found, Kalig's keen eye immediately noticed a familiarity between it and these similarly hefty doors. She tested it. Yes, it fit, which brought about certain implications about the body they had just buried.
But it was with some relief that the ex-caravanners saw they had no more bodies to lay to rest. Every door hung open revealing that every cell was empty. A cursory jaunt through the hallways uncovered nothing of note, nothing beyond more rat droppings, and the cruelty of the jailors: two narrow cells in the eastern wing were notable for being smaller than broom closets, apparently designed to not allow their occupant to as much as sit. Being locked into one of these was plainly not a means of incarceration, but torture.
The other is the secret doors, plural. Both the eastern and western wing have a secret door built into the southern wall, doors that you suspect were once actually very well concealed. They blend into the stonework admirably. Unfortunately, their hinges have rusted over the centuries and the accompanying stains make them easier for the trained eye to spot.
A sound interrupted the group's search. It was a low sound, barely perceptible, yet any noise carried in these silent quarters. It was a scurrying, one made distinct and recognizable by their recent encounter. It was the sound of rats. Not the misshapen, gigantic beasts that now lay dead, but their accompanying normal-sized cousins made abnormal by their sheer number and hostility. The sound grew louder. Then louder still, a thousand tiny feet scurrying - stampeding, even. And yet none of the group could see hair nor tail of the vermin even as the sound grew ever more pervasive.
Which was when they realized that the rats weren't in the hallways; they were in the walls. The walls were alive with nauseous sound, the verminous slithering of ravenous rodents. The stonework that had to be assumed solid must in fact be riddled with winding tunnels, veins now oscillating with the creatures. Such was the force of their riot that a definite direction could be ascribed them. Their migration was such as could scarcely be described in digits, but had to instead be compared to the forces of nature - this was an ocean surf, a wave of rats that passed the party.
The sound faded. This swarm, natural or unnatural, was headed west. And it so happened that the facility had a western corridor, one that ended in another iron door, the only one closed and solid.
As no one takes the items from her or asks to keep them, Kalig tucks the key in her belt pouch and hangs the dagger from her belt. If anyone would prefer to hold onto the things, they shall have to speak up.
The purpose of the key becomes obvious as they explore the jail cells, and Kalig wonders therefore if the person they found was in fact a jailer, not a prisoner. "Rebellion, perhaps? Or if a prisoner, perhaps he escaped and learned hiding in the maiden was a poor idea."
Her eyes fall along the walls as they pass, and she taps at the odd, curved stone ridge along the western hall. Not solid stone, but hollow. "A pipe? A passage?" She queries. She looks at Khavel, perhaps stereotyping, but figuring if anyone in their band understood the purpose of such underground architecture, it would probably be a dwarf.
At the end of the corridor she also points out the parallel stains on the wall. "That's not a natural stone coloration. From hinges, perhaps?" she says. "Something else beyond here. Likely same at the end of the matching corridor. Torture chambers and secret passages. These people used useful skills to build cruel things and hide."
The rumble of scurrying rats makes her look obviously disturbed. "Source of the stink down here, I expect. Massive rat nest. One or two rats, not a problem. This many... we could get eaten alive if we are not careful. So with that said... do we figure out how to open this door or not?"
"I would guess the prisoners decided to show the jailer how 'pleasant' the iron maiden was and stuffed him in there - key, dagger, and all. Rough justice."
Quintus nods at Kalig, "We were hired to examine the ruins so we should do our best to search what we can. I suspect the rats will be a problem in the future but no one said this would be easy. As for the doors I still have my opener."
Quintus hefts his crowbar and awaits knowledge if the doors are trapped in some way.
If tested, the secret doors opened readily enough, even if their weight required quite a bit of force and their hinges groaned like a dying horse. What lay beyond them was perhaps disappointing, however. A glance through the newly revealed portal saw only another hallway with yet more jail cells. Except there was one difference from those corridors the group had already walked: the cells were all closed here, peephole and all.
If tested, the secret doors opened readily enough, even if their weight required quite a bit of force and their hinges groaned like a dying horse. What lay beyond them was perhaps disappointing, however. A glance through the newly revealed portal saw only another hallway with yet more jail cells. Except there was one difference from those corridors the group had already walked: the cells were all closed here, peephole and all.
Quintus motions for Niccan to give a listen to the cells and determine if he can hear any...thing? still moving in the cells.
He then gestures with his crowbar at the doors and back at the group and shrugs his shoulders.
Seeing locked doors Niccan moves along, pausing at each to look over the locks and listen for any movements. Once he is about halfway he calls back. "Try the key? These might have been more important prisoners. Killers and such, or perhaps political. Either way if there are bodies they could also be causing haunts." He continues along unless he finds something interesting.
Danton didn't want to come off as ignorant but survival was more important right now, "If there is a swarm of rats Kalig, can you do anything about them?" He dreaded the thought of more of those things emerging from the walls, "I can summon up some energy but I would need some space as it may hurt some of us. Controlling such a power isn't fully in my grasp yet." He hated to admit it, but he wanted them to know what he was capable of.
He carefully moves with the party, keeping an eye on Niccan.
Kalig grimaces. "To my chagrin, I don't have much that would help. I assumed ordinary creatures who dwelled here would have fled during the collapse. Obviously I was wrong." She sighs, exasperated with herself.
"If they attack en masse, trying to hit them with a weapon is pointless; there's too many for that to be effective. If we have torches, we can burn them, but I didn't bring any as I didn't need a light source. If anyone has something like alchemist's fire that will be effective. But we need to be careful we don't choke ourselves out with fire either. So... yes, if you have magic that can hurt them all at once, it could be our best option. Give us the word and we can back off as far as we can get."
"I don't have a spell that can harm them but I do have torches and a couple lamp oils we could use to set them on fire."
Kalig thought on the rats. And she didn't particularly like her own conclusions. Druid that she was, the half-orc had a healthy respect for the manifold threads that formed Nature's tapestry, but suspected there was something wholly unnatural at play in this grim dungeon. The rats - their behavior was off. While different rodent colonies could certainly be of different temperaments, the screeching hostility they had displayed when first encountered was still out of the ordinary, especially for their kind. Such shows of willful animosity were not often found in animals. Animals followed their survival instinct to either fight or flee, and in a simple rat's case, more often than not survival meant fleeing. For rats to buck this trend and engage in intimidation... Kalig could only compare it to other, typically far more dangerous, beasts such as wolves protecting their territory, mates and offspring. It didn't fit rats, especially as their warrens were well hidden affairs usually inaccessible to lumbering giants such as humans and their ilk. In fact, any such lair was probably entombed in the winding tunnels the group now knew riddled the facility, far beyond the ex-caravanners. Which posed the question: what else could rodents have worth fighting for down here?
This was to say nothing of how they fought. A multitude only strong in numbers withdrawing whilst three exemplars of their kind, strong individually, acted as rear guard for their retreat? It was hardly Kalig's area of expertise, and yet she couldn't help but compare it to military tactics - as if they behaved less like animals and more like army units. If so, how was she to interpret the great migration they had all just felt in the walls coming alive? Were the rats fleeing? Or gathering their forces?
It reminded the druid of stories about rodent colonies that acted as one, how extraordinary circumstances led to a sort of melding of minds between the vermin, empowering their intellect exponentially. The resulting hivemind was supposedly as alien as it was hostile, and in addition to being a legion under one will, also had stranger powers. If these rats belonged to one such, the group might be in considerable danger.
Yet it was the deformities that kept rearing up in her pondering. Everything else they had seen in this place might be dismissed as paranoia or tricks of the dark. Not so the deformities. A human ear growing from the back; an enlarged eye alive with something more than animal cunning; paws elongated into the simian, if not humanoid. All uncanny, all grotesque. How in the world were these explained? Were the rodents afflicted by some corrupting force, some perversion of magic or even the great beyond? Kalig couldn't say. All she could say for certain was that something was very wrong in this dungeon.
That, and how Danton was right; his ability to channel bursts of pure negative energy was probably their best recourse should they face a swarm. Granted, rats were not so small that plain old steel was entirely ineffective. A broad swipe of the flail should crush some of the vermin. But any attack capable of targeting the entire horde over its constituent parts would always prove superior. Especially as Torag himself was yet to invent any armor that could defend a warrior wading into melee combat with swarm of rats. They wouldn't just find their way through the slightest gap to bite at you; all practice and nerve could very well go out the window with so much vermin skittering over you. Druids had reduced many a wizard to a crying wreck with a summoned swarm of wasps, the poor victim completely unable to concentrate on lofty spells whilst enduring lowly insect bites.
Whilst the others discussed this and more, someone not unfamiliar to being compared to rats scouted ahead. Niccan traipsed down the newly uncovered hallway - this secretive prison wing - carefully. It appeared largely like the rest of the jail, all dreary stone walls and dusty floors. It clearly wasn't a secret to the basement's inhabitants, however; said floors were littered with more rat droppings. Really, the only difference here was that while every other cell the group had seen stood open and empty, these were all securely closed. Which brought to mind the uncomfortable question of whether anyone still remained inside.
Nary had the ratfolk finished the thought before it turned reality.
A scraping altered him of something ahead. It was a feeble, faltering sound, not something to cause alarm. And yet the grim circumstances were such that every whisker on Niccan's snout rose. It only took another few steps for his eyes, so accustomed to the dark, to find the cause. One of the cell doors wasn't entirely closed. Which was to say that it was firmly locked, but its food slot at floor level was open. From this small slot a naked arm reached out, searching. It was morbidly thin, obviously weak from atrophy, and so pale as to be almost glowing in the total darkness.
"Water... Please..." its owner pleaded behind the door. "Please, sir, I beg you... Something to eat..."
The voice was so weak and shaky Niccan could discern nothing more about the speaker than that they were in the most pitiable of states.
"Please, I don't understand..." it went on. "Why do you starve us? We haven't eaten in days. The water is gone. Please, if I have offended you, sir, tell me how... I repent. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry... Tell the Baron, please... I swear we'd give back the deer if we could, but we ate it. Please understand, we had nothin'. We didn’t even know it was the baron’s land, didn’t know we were poachin’... Tell him. I beg you tell him I understand. 'He prospers who labors.' I know now... I've suffered... I understand... We'll work. We'll labor. We'll do as told... Please, tell me why you're starving us... Please, just some water..."
Niccan moves up to the door, confused. How could a person be alive here?
"Sir! Who are you. Nevermind. We have food and water. You need water first, can't live more than a couple of days...." He slings his pack off and pulls his waterskin out and puts it in the hand. "I've got food too. Just a minute. Who locked you up for poaching? What Baron?" He digs for his rations.
He calls out, "Guys! There's a prisoner. Somehow alive? Bring that crowbar!"
Danton hears Niccan's cry and moves over, carefully lifting his long robes not to get them in the dank murk beneath.
"A prisoner?!"
He sees the closed cell and the emaciated arm from under the door.
"Quintus we need some help!"
Danton hears Niccan's cry and moves over, carefully lifting his long robes not to get them in the dank murk beneath.
"A prisoner?!"
He sees the closed cell and the emaciated arm from under the door.
[dice=Perception]1d20+8
"Quintus we need some help!"
Quintus hurries to Niccan and Danton but not for the reason they think. He tells the pair, "Remember Danton you told us the Cantleclures crimes were two hundred years ago? How could a prisoner be living all that time with no food or water?"
He stressed the word 'living' to suggest that the 'prisoner' was undead. Instead of the crowbar Quintus had his falcata out and ready.
Danton shakes his head in disbelief.
"You're right." He was clearly distressed. Seeing all the bodies buried down here made him hope that there was some life in this place. He had spent a lot of his life in studying and academics, and while he knew the rites and prayers, he never thought he'd be exploring a mass grave.
Niccan is handing a ratfolk ration to the emaciated hand when Quintus makes his comment. He stares at the hand/arm for a second.....
"I've got food too. Just a minute. Who locked you up for poaching? What Baron?" He digs for his rations.
"Water! Food! Please, sir!"
Whoever - whatever? - the incarcerated was, they ignored Niccan's questions entirely. Instead the weary voice took on a new fervor at his promise of help, a desperation that sounded all the more pitiable given the speaker's state. It begged as animals beg for scraps, without pride or conceit. Starvation was a madness of its own, and it appeared as if this unknown prisoner was in its grip. The emaciated arm grasped along the stone floor, searching for anything - anything at all - that might be offered it. Hells below, it really was practically skeletal.
"'He prospers who labors...' Please..."
"There's something wrong here... with the rats... with..." she gives a pointed nod to the arm reaching out of the door. "Everything."
Kalig considers carefully. If the person was a person and needed help, what she was about to do would help tremendously. If it was unnatural... it would do nothing, or perhaps have an unfortunate result. "I have something better even than water or rations," she says. She pulls out one of the goodberries she created this morning and presses it into the outstretched hand. "Eat this. It's a druid's berry. You should feel much better if you eat it. And if you haven't eaten much, it won't hurt your stomach."
She watches to see if he takes it and how he reacts. She has the jail cell key in her hand.
Niccan sees Kalig give the man one of the magical berries. "I gave him my waterskin and rations...." He looks at the man's hands, looking for what he had given to him.
"Then he should not need your supplies. You shouldn't act surprised. I have had these with me every day we have been with the caravan. They provide a day's nourishment in one bite. Useful, if you are weak and may have soft teeth." She gives Niccan and the others a meaningful look. "We shall see if it helps."
Even as ratfolk and half-orc convened before the increasingly frenetic hand, the unknown prisoner appeared oblivious to their words, merely continuing their pleading for food and water. They seemed insensate in hunger, and even muffled as their voice was through the iron door, it sounded on the verge of tears if they just had tears to spare.
All of which changed the second Kalig reached down to place the enchanted berry into their pale palm. From searching the dusty floor like some emaciated, blind animal, the arm froze, going utterly still where before it had trembled with weakness. More unnatural yet, the druid nearly recoiled at touching it. For the hand was cold, colder than the dark side of a tombstone in winter.
Quick as a whip, it suddenly withdrew out of sight back into the cell, prize in tow. The begging had ceased. Everything had ceased, in fact. The prison corridor was quiet again, and even when prompted there was no reply from behind the sturdy door. As if the whole group had shared a mass hallucination, nothing stirred.
Niccan holds his light to the door. "Kalig? The key?"
Kalig nods and hands the key to Niccan. "What was it you said about haunting?"
Star hangs in the back and tries his best to not feel like a useless lump.
Danton notices Star constantly hanging back and decided to offer an olive branch to the tiefling, "You know, we could use your talents. I'm sure you're quite worldly. No one learns the music you do staying in one place." He approaches slowly, "I won't be so arrogant as to act the judge, you have my word."
For what that's worth to him.
Niccan hears Kalig's question and freezes in place, thinking. "Haunts. Well, you see, I only know a little. But stories you know. When someone dies with something important unfinished. Especially a strong personality, frequently evil but not certainly. Evil tends to stain the place of the death that ends their plans, and sometimes.... I've heard that it's like a ghost, but not free-willed. It's almost like a programmed response."
"Perhaps Danton or Khavel would know more? Being from a structured religion?" He shrugs and turns again to the door and tries the key in the lock.
Quintus takes a position next to Niccan with falcata at the ready.
The hefty key caught in the lock. For a second Niccan thought it broken and that this strange encounter with the starved man would remain an enigma for them all. Then the door's bolt relented with a heavy clunk, the centuries merely rendering it stubborn. The cell opened on groaning hinges, but what the group saw within didn't provide much in the way of answers.
A skeleton lay at their feet. It was curled up into the fetal position and pressed up against the iron door. Somehow, bizarrely, the sight brought to mind the image of a cat rubbing against their master in begging for scraps. The naked bones told little else. At a glance, they had belonged to an adult once, someone human or at the very least human-adjacent. Their only modesty were some long rotted scraps and a thick coating of dust. And that was all. There was nothing else to see in the dismal cell. No starving prisoner, either grateful or long gone mad. Just four stone walls forming this grey casket of a pen, and the remains of the miserable wretch who had died here.
And no goodberry either. The little fruit was nowhere to be found, seemingly having vanished into the ether.
A haunt? The ratfolk thought on his hypothesis. Was it possible that the arm they had all seen - pale, emaciated and poking at the ground like a blind dog - had not belonged to a person at all, but rather been an unearthly manifestation of horrors past? Yes, perhaps. The mortal mind, the soul, whatever one called it... It was a funny thing, after all. Nothing quite so brittle, nor precious, nor horrible in the right - or indeed wrong - circumstances. Through it, sufficient pain, anguish and despair felt could echo across ages, bleeding into places of suffering and leaving them - in layman's terms - cursed. Was this what the group had witnessed here? The spiritual reverberation of a starving prisoner's trauma?
If so, the offering of food may have placated it. Although nominally related, haunts were not 'ghosts' exactly. They had little if any true agency, more so representing a psychic scar onto a location just as surely as the Witch Tower had scarred the hill above them in its collapse. Just an ouroboros of agony, endlessly repeating itself. This fit with how the supposed prisoner couldn't answer Niccan's questions earlier; there was no real mind left to answer them. The goodberry might have appeased this loop for a while, but he doubted it had closed it. Spiritual residue such as this was not so easily dispelled. It would be back. He didn't know whether it would take hours, days or weeks, but it would be back.
Still, the offering had definitely been the right call. The ratfolk had heard of haunts visiting their own trauma onto those who could not give them some relief...
A notion struck him. Haunts - and undeads for that matter - typically did not manifest spontaneously except for those particularly strong of will. Quantity could substitute for quality, however. What if this ghostly arm hadn't belonged to any singular prisoner? What if it was an amalgamation of a shared experience? He looked through the prison corridor with a sinking feeling. One, two, three... Nine. Nine cells. Had nine people starved to death down here in the dark?
A sobering thought. At least what danger their spirits posed had probably passed for now. As for whether said danger could be dealt with permanently... Few hard and fast rules governed the esoteric, but haunts could supposedly be laid to rest by resolving the trauma that generated them. This could mean a great many things, but perhaps simply giving these poor souls a proper burial would be a good start?
Quintus shakes his head, "Please open the other cells. If Niccan is correct I suspect the other cells are also occupied."
Turning to Danton, "It looks like more of your prayers will be needed.
He then sets to gathering loose stones for more makeshift burials.
It wasn't much in the way of silver linings, but at least not all the cells proved to be occupied. As the group went from one cell-made-tomb to another, opening them one by one, they found four more remains, all in a similar state to the first. Of course, five people starving to death - alone in the dark - under circumstances the ex-caravanners could only guess at was fully horrid enough. That their numbers weren't quite as high as first suspected was a small blessing indeed.
But then there weren't actually nine cells in this secret wing of the prison. As they discovered, there were only eight. For the central door was different, having neither peephole nor food slot. It was, however, locked and yielded to the key as all the others. It opened not into another cell, but a larger room, one littered with crates and weapon racks, dry rotted and in dubious condition. This was an armory.
Had this space been meant for the jailers or Canteclure soldiers more generally? Had there been a distinction? It was difficult to say as a quick perusal found the racks occupied by both plain spears and those curious implements of cruel wardens everywhere, mancatchers. The spiked prongs of the latter looked particularly sinister in the limited light provided by Niccan. There were also swords, shields and armor, though little of it looked fit to guard against a raindrop. Most of it was terribly rusted. A leather sack hanging off a stand, almost beckoning, proved less disappointing, however. In it were two small flasks, helpfully labeled with just legible writing. These read 'liquid fire' and 'curative' respectively.
Niccan moves around the area, helping with the final rest for the poor souls that they'd found. To starve to death, alone except for the other prisoners, in the dark. Their voices failing....
Once the work is done he checks the not-so-secret door for a key hole and tries the key in it. "Another hidden door. We really need some oil for the hinges." Once he is done he hands the key back to Kalig. "I don't want to claim this...."
To the effort with putting the dead to rest: "If we find loose enough dirt in a safe place to dig, I can dig a pit with a spell. It will only be about five cubic feet which isn't much for all those people but it will be something, and we can top it with another cairn to cover them over."
She looks around, and at the remains of the fallen. "Rats finished off what little was left of these poor folk. There's been something off about them... the rats, I mean. Not just that there were big ones, but the look of them, twisted, mutated. Just the fact that they're here is off--there is little to feed on here when a nearby town would offer better pickings. They should have run, too, when the place collapsed." She shakes her head. "If the dead have been restless enough to haunt the place, and the rats have been eating them, they too may be afflicted by the unnatural darkness of this place."
Kalig frowns, thinking. "We need to be careful. There's a reason the lady asked outsiders to investigate this place. I'd like to think it's just because she wants to spare people she knows the horror. But I've no desired to be a sacrifice, witting or unwitting, to the twisted madness under here. We were asked to gather information, not cleanse the ruin. Let us explore further, but let's not go too deep. If we get in over our heads or things seem too dangerous, I say we report back with what we know before getting to the bottom of things, literally and figuratively. If she is well-intended, she might offer more pay or reinforcements. If she isn't then... well, we'll know."
To Kalig, "I don't recall suggesting we fight to our deaths down here. I merely said we need to do the best we can to fulfill our agreement. If the situation is too dire for us to handle of course we'll evacuate and confer with the leaders of Belhaim on the next steps."
Quintus shakes his head, "Please open the other cells. If Niccan is correct I suspect the other cells are also occupied."
Turning to Danton, "It looks like more of your prayers will be needed.
He then sets to gathering loose stones for more makeshift burials.
"I agree. Right now though we should ensure that none of the living can be hurt, and that includes us and the village. A proper burial would take far too long right now."
It was pragmatic, but the Abadaran steeled himself for what needed to be said and done, "We will be back for them though." Hearing that the druid had magic for it, Danton smiled, "If you could help Kalig, I would appreciate that." The priest internally had a difference in opinion with the half-orc, but they could agree on this and that was an important bridge.
"This place is dangerous and I would trust Kalig's instincts here." He strokes his chin thoughtfully, "Despite that, the rats worry me and the Master of the First Vault would not be happy if I let such abominations live without knowing their origin."
To Kalig, "I don't recall suggesting we fight to our deaths down here. I merely said we need to do the best we can to fulfill our agreement. If the situation is too dire for us to handle of course we'll evacuate and confer with the leaders of Belhaim on the next steps."
Kalig furrows her brow, genuinely perplexed, at Quintus. "What are you going on about? Who said you suggested anything? I... Perhaps you'll take this as an insult, and it's not intended, but I don't even remember you saying anything on the subject, and I certainly wasn't just talking to you. I was looking at this corpse and thought everyone should know that something's really not right. I don't think there's anything we disagree on here."
"This place is dangerous and I would trust Kalig's instincts here." He strokes his chin thoughtfully, "Despite that, the rats worry me and the Master of the First Vault would not be happy if I let such abominations live without knowing their origin."
She nods at Danton. "This place is an abomination to nature as it is to civilization. I wouldn't abandon it, just seek help if we are out of our depths."
Danton gives a solemn nod and a sound of affirmation.
Niccan listens to the group's comments about the rats. He adds. "Ratfolk aren't of similar species to rats. However, a couple of my family have learned to communicate with them. Back home, we don't fear them and they and they don't fear us. Some ship captains have even contracted with us to remove the rats from their ships. They never ask how, or where they go...."
"I only mention this because I happen to agree. These rats are afflicted. I don't know if it is related to the dead here, or some curse or poison. If we find the warrens of the rats, perhaps we can identify what is wrong, and whether or not it is a danger to the people of the town."
"As to risking our lives in this investigation? We are well supplied, and we have plenty of healing magics. If we are careful there is no reason for any of us to risk death. If we use our magics for the day, we can return to the town to rest and recover. We have no reason to rush this investigation."
To Kalig, "I don't recall suggesting we fight to our deaths down here. I merely said we need to do the best we can to fulfill our agreement. If the situation is too dire for us to handle of course we'll evacuate and confer with the leaders of Belhaim on the next steps."
Kalig furrows her brow, genuinely perplexed, at Quintus. "What are you going on about? Who said you suggested anything? I... Perhaps you'll take this as an insult, and it's not intended, but I don't even remember you saying anything on the subject, and I certainly wasn't just talking to you. I was looking at this corpse and thought everyone should know that something's really not right. I don't think there's anything we disagree on here."
Arching his eyebrow Quintus says, "Very well then."
Strange and unsavory as hated Qadira's cuisine. Whilst the group discussed the macabre happenings encountered so far in the Witch Tower dungeons, Niccan tested the secret armory door he had found. It was similar to the secret doors that had led them to this hidden prison wing, a wall that wasn't a wall. It was well concealed, blending into the brick near seamlessly if not for the rusted hinges. Their corrosion had bled over the stone, the stains outlining the frame and making it rather obvious. Awfully heavy, though, especially for a little rat-man. It took a collective effort to push the thing open.
What was revealed was a short, curiously narrow passage, only just wide enough for a grown man. A deliberate design for reasons unknown? Or simply a necessity given how this hidden nook must be crammed into what limited space was left between the other hallways down here? It was too difficult to say. Just as difficult as ascertaining what in the world the contraption at the dead end of the corridor was. Niccan held aloft his light. The passage terminated in a little room dominated by a large metallic contraption of sorts, a square in grey iron with gears and chains coming out of it. A sturdy central chain, taut with tension, rose from the machine into the ceiling where it disappeared into a curved stone ridge - a pipe of sorts - travelling along the loft into the eastern wall... Hold on.
Hold on just a second. Kalig looked to the ridge above. Was this the beginning of the same peculiar ridge she had seen outside in the prison hallway with the open cells? Did it start here and travel through walls along the ceiling to whatever destination with a chain threaded through it? It surely seemed so. 'For what purpose' then became the question.
On that note, the contraption had a large, conspicuous lever extended out at a forty-five-degree angle from the front of it.
"Eccentric or devious? I don't recall reading this in all those stories at the Kith."
Quintus will help Niccan searching the area for anything trapped.
"There's that weird line of stone again," Kalig says, pointing to the ridge. "Anyone know what it's for? Anyone who's lived underground?" She looks around. "If it's to do with this machine, why does it stretch through the earlier part of the hall..."
Niccan scurries around the room, searching for anything that looks dangerous.
He considers the contraption, and Kalig's comment. "Maybe it lifts a gateway? A portcullis trapping some dangerous creature? Or it might collapse the roof of a tunnel? It could activate, or de-activate a trap? Who knows? The creator of it is probably long dead. At least it's mechanical rather than magical or spiritual, undead or such. I think we should leave it alone until we figure out what it might do. We can return here if we figure out what it does and want to activate it."
What was the saying? Discretion is the better part of valor? It certainly sounded like advice to live by. Conversely, fiddling with unknown doodads found in deep, dark dungeons sounded like it could very well cut one's life short, and so Niccan decided against this. Especially as there was something funny about the apparatus. Something about it made the ratfolk's whiskers stand on end, even if it took him a while to recognize exactly why. And when he did, he also realized why it had been said whiskers that were so piqued: it was the smell. There was the most curious smell about the thing. Not that of oil or grease as might be expected with machinery. No, it was quite the opposite - a strangely clean, even antiseptic, scent lingered about it.
Frustratingly, Niccan was quite sure he knew this smell yet couldn't place it for the life of him. It wasn't anything like soap. Something alchemical, perhaps? It was in trying to figure this out that he inched ever closer to the machine, staring at it in thought. Which was when he saw it. The open slot in its surface necessitated by the lever allowed one a limited view into its mechanical bowels, of its gears and chains. And there the briefest blue flicker of a spark arced between the metal.
Lightning. It was the smell of air rent asunder by a lightning strike. What was it alchemists had dubbed that particular gas? Ozone? It didn't matter. What did matter was that while this contraption might be mechanical, Niccan wondered whether its power source wasn't something more exotic than mere weights or windup springs. Was it electrified? If so, its dynamo seemed to have sprung a leak or whatever the terminology was with these things: the whole apparatus was electrically charged!
It was fortunate they had all been too cautious to pull the lever. The iron rod might have fried them just like that poor wretch of a kobold with Hunclay's door. Still, the primary mechanism didn't seem broken. And there were ways to avoid electricity. Perhaps this was something they could return to. But with this little passage a dead-end, that left only one route unexplored down here: the western door they had passed earlier. West, the direction the rats had seemingly been headed.