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Hey gang, after some consideration, and looking at the lack of posts and overall activity, I am pulling the plug on this game. Thank you all for joining in and giving it a try. See you all around the boards! (I will set this one to inactive within a day or two)
Temerith's best guess is that a predator can make prey fall silent, when it approaches. Apart from that, he is unsure...
Definitely rodents, but maybe something else, something bigger... Jacq's assessment is confirmed as a louder screech is heard, followed by several others in quick succession. Suddenly, everything is silent again - the skittering and chittering completely stopped.
With some elbow grease, Silvash manages to force the door open — it groans and creaks loudly in protest, the sound echoing down the stone corridors. The chamber beyond lies empty and lightless, home only to rat droppings, crumbled flagstone, and nameless dark stains sunk into the floor.
More concerning, though, is the sound from the northern passage: faint chittering, skittering, as if something has stirred at the racket — and is now on the move. Actions?!
Silvash finds no traps on the door - it seems to be unlocked, but stuck.
I am really sorry to hear it OSW :/
No worries. I am also still traveling and semi absent as DM. Should get back to it over the weekend. Thank you all for hanging in there!
Silvash's keen eyes spot the footprints of three or four humanoid figures wearing boots that have passed through this area heading North. Mixed among them are many smaller tracks, too indistinct for him to identify their origin.
Apologies for the delayed posting - swamped with work.
"Go through passage, or through door" - Meepo replies - "Meepo does not know which way, never be in this part of tunnels"
All good for me.
The last skeleton crumbles to the ground, returning the chamber to silence. Meepo peeks from the adjacent area and grins. What do you do next, gang?
I had read it as if you were grabbing it by the blade - if not, then all good, no damage. I am not sure I would let the gloves mitigate the damage, but it is irrelevant anyway. It makes more sense to use it as you described of course ;) Though if you are ‘pommel hitting’ with the sword, I am going to say it only does half damage (1d3). Simply because the hilt is not really a weapon, the balance is off, etc. I think a penalty to hit and decreased damage makes sense.
-- Round 2 -- Silvash moves in to attack, but misses.
The evil dead however prove exceedingly resistant to the power of the Light, and only one of them crumbles, the others continuing their assault. Until Nee literally whirls back into the fray that is, shattering the two closest skeletons with a well aimed combination kick low / punch high. Jacq grabs the opportunity to move around and assist Dorian, using her blade as an improvised weapon, and bludgeoning yet another of the skeletons into a motionless pile of bones.
Dorian swings his hammer hard, to no avail.
Only one creature remains, and it mindlessly attacks the dwarf.
But misses completely, no muscle behind its swing :) -- Round 3 --
Sorry to hear it Dorian - hope you feel better soon!
-- Round 1 -- Silvash receives the spell from Lanliss and gets out of the room! Lanliss follows suit just as Temerith chants an encouragement to his companions. Nee bravely steps in, attacking in a flurry of misses. (Not sure if you can move and flurry though :P) Dorian wades in the room, standing next to Nee. (he does not have enough move to also attack) Likewise Jacq moves inside to stand on the other side of Nee, drawing steel as she goes and attacking the skeleton.
The creatures surround the heroes with syncopated movements, attacking with their broken scimitars.
-- Round 2 --
"Please keep quiet friends - no screaming..." - Meepo urges his companions, keeping watch toward the north passage.
As Silvash takes the items from the altar, the stone lids of the standing sarcophagi grind open with a low, echoing scrape. From within, five skeletons step forward, their movements jerky yet deliberate. The gentle elvish light once in their eyes gutters out, replaced by a baleful red shimmer. Their tattered garments cling to their frames - shreds of what might once have been fine elven craftsmanship, now little more than rags draped over ancient bone. They reach for you!
Lanliss detects no poison.
Hope the s$$% gets promptly removed DQ. All the best.
Jacq steps closer to observe the sarcophagi and statues but finds no further relevant information. Taking a second look at the shrine, she does notice the whistle seems to be made of glass or a similar material - it has an inscription of the Dwarven word 'Azan-gund' (translation: Night Caller), and its design resembles a small dragon curled up like a snail.
Lanliss notices the shrine is carved with dragons. Its shelf holds a candle which still burns, but gives off no heat. Next to the candle are two items - a small whistle and a potion flask
"Elfs be lords, yes? Maybe Lords of Dragons?" - Meepo answers with hesitation.
Dorian, Temerith and Nee all can see the wide corridor is actually a passage into another, mostly crumbling room, apparently devoid of any interesting features apart from rubble. From there, a closed door leads to the West, and another passage similar to the southern one leads to the North. As Lanliss approaches the door, he can immediately feel unnatural cold coming from it. Unfazed, the elven cleric summons the power of Good to wash over from him and bathe the surrounding area.
The door seems to absorb some of this benevolent magic, momentarily glowing ghostly blue and swinging open silently. Inside Lanliss can see five dusty sarcophagi which stand on end in the silent chamber - three stand on the north wall, and two stand on the south. The carved stone sarcophagi each resemble a noble elflike humanoid in ceremonial robes. A shrine carved of obsidian is set in the center of the west wall, on which a single candle yet burns.
A large, wide corridor yes. Meepo does not know what the carvings are about - "Dragons and magic stuff?" - he grins back.
Jacq notices the same day-old rat tracks, but also month-old tracks as might have been made by three or four humanoids moving across the area to the north. A more careful observation shows her also that several Medium-size, booted humanoids moved through here within the last six months. Temerith's detection spell reveals that the fountain emits a mild magical aura of the Alteration school. The door shows no signs of magic.
With a shrug, Meepo answers Nee’s questions, explaining that he isn’t very familiar with this part of the tunnels - it’s a “disputed” area between the kobolds and the goblins, as he puts it. Jacq suspects there are likely more rats nearby, both the common and oversized varieties. She also notices some recent tracks - rat prints no more than a day old - disappearing into the dark. Silvash finds no traps on the door, and with a nod, Dorian steps forward and pushes it open with a low groan of ancient hinges. Dust and odd bits of stony debris and rubble lie scattered on the floor. An ornate fountain is built into the eastern wall. Though cracked, tainted, and dry, the fountain's carving of a diving dragon retains its beauty. A relief-carved stone door stands on the western wall. The carvings show skeletal dragons, and inscriptions above the door read 'Tana Aman Heka Men'. Draconic:
'Channel good, open the way' To the North looms an opening, leading into the darkness. Actions?
I am back from vacation, so let's get this show back on the road ;)
As Meepo pushes open the northeast door, a blast of cold, stale air washes over you from the deeper tunnels. The passage beyond is unlit, plunging quickly into darkness beyond the meagre light filtering from the room you just left. The air grows heavy, carrying the faint, earthy scent of damp stone and a subtle undercurrent of decay that seems to cling to the very rock. Meepo, true to his word, scuttles with surprising agility into the gloom, his whispers guiding your path. "This way, yes, this way," he murmurs in a reedy voice, his eyes darting from side to side, constantly on alert for goblins The passage is uneven and rough-hewn, a stark contrast to some of the more worked stone you've encountered elsewhere in the citadel. Your footsteps, even muffled, seem to echo unnaturally in the confined space. After navigating a short stretch of this dim tunnel and through an open door, the faint light you carry reveals a rectangular chamber. The air here is colder, emptier. There is no light source apart from the one you carry, and the silence here is broken only by the drip of unseen water somewhere in the distance. The floor beneath your feet is gritty with rat droppings, crumbled flagstone, and nameless stains. It's a lonely chamber, clearly uninhabited for some time, yet bearing the unmistakable signs of past occupation. A single closed door looms before you. Any actions?
Hey everyone, just to let you know I will be traveling for vacation from the 10th July, so you will probably notice a decrease in my posting rate this week as the family prepares, and a quasi-total absence from the 10th until the 25th :)
Meepo scurries ahead, stubby legs pattering with urgent energy as he leads you back the way you came. The crimson light of Yusdrayl’s chamber fades behind, and with it, the illusion of hospitality. The stone corridors feel closer now. Tighter. At each junction, at every turn of carved rock or worn masonry, you sense the eyes. Meepo’s kin is trailing you - skittering in your periphery, disappearing when glanced at too directly. A high yipping laugh echoes once through a nearby hall, quickly cut off. Something answers it. You can’t tell how far. Back in the chamber where you first found Meepo - the broken cages, the scattered bones - he turns to face you. His claws fidget with the edge of his belt. His wide eyes search your faces, nervous and eager in equal measure. “Meepo friends ready?” he asks. He points with one claw toward the northeast door. “This way. Goblins this way. Calcryx too, maybe. We sneak, yes?” He tilts his head, looking hopeful. Or fearful. Or both.
Yusdrayl’s claw taps once against the worn arm of her throne as Temerith speaks, and then again, slower. Her eyes half-narrow - measuring. “Mm. Words, words, so many words,” she murmurs, not quite to herself. “You would make a fine priest, little one. Or a nuisance.” But after a moment, she inclines her head ever so slightly. “Still, the point lands. And the Dragon Throne hears it.” She shifts again, robes rustling like dry leaves. Her gaze moves now to Nee - “The others - yes. Four pink-skins. Young. Too bold. Too loud.” Her snout wrinkles in faint disapproval. “They passed this way. Meepo remembers. They fought the goblins. Then… nothing. They did not return.” - she raises both hands slightly, as if to signal the limits of her knowledge. “We do not go much beyond the lower chasm. Not in numbers. Not now.” Meepo nods rapidly, eager to support her claim. “T-true! Goblins grow bold, too bold. They creep up, raid, kill. Take Calcryx. Too many for us.” The guards remain still, but their stillness is predator-quiet. Not relaxed... Ready? Nee’s eyes sweep the room - the ceremonial armor of the guards is mismatched - scraps of bone, twisted bits of metal, smoothed scales. One bears a necklace strung with what looks like small teeth, filed and darkened with age. Their harnesses are decorated, but more than decorative: the way one tightens their grip on a spear at the mention of the children suggests practice, not nerves. One kobold has faint, reddish stains at the corner of his mouth. Old. Dried. Not blood, necessarily - but the detail lingers. Yusdrayl speaks again, oblivious or uncaring. “Go with Meepo. Seek the wyrmling. Seek your lost ones, if they still have breath. But remember - your welcome ends when your task does.” Meepo practically leaps to his feet, scurrying to the party’s side with a breathless, “This way! This way!”
The silence stretches a beat longer. The kobold guards twitch slightly, their clawed feet scraping softly on the stone, glances flitting from Yusdrayl to Meepo and back again. The air smells faintly of sulfur and dust. Yusdrayl regards Temerith for a long, unreadable moment - "You speak... more wisely than most your size," she says at last. "So few remember that strength is not the only way forward." She shifts on her crumbled throne, her red robes rustling. One clawed hand gestures lazily at Meepo, who straightens with visible effort, eyes wide and hopeful - "Meepo has claimed you as allies. That is no small thing. I allow you to proceed - on one condition." She leans forward now, voice rising slightly as she addresses the room, clearly speaking for the benefit of all present. "The dragon wyrmling - Calcryx, blood of frost and fang - was stolen by the goblins, vermin who defile the sacred stones beneath us. Return our dragon to us, and your passage through our domain will be unchallenged." She raises a claw again before any can speak - "Meepo shall go with you, of course." The guards shift again, almost imperceptibly, as if released from some silent tension. "And when your business here is done, you will leave us be. These halls are ours. The Dragon Throne has spoken." Yusdrayl straightens, regal once more atop her fractured dais. Meepo glances back toward the party, tail twitching nervously. "What say you, would-be dragon-friends?"
The narrow hall slopes gently upward, ancient soot-stained carvings of dragons flickering in the lantern light. At the far end, a pair of guards part with ceremonial precision, revealing a chamber just beyond. The room itself is hushed - temple and throne room all at once. At the far wall, atop a low dais of crumbled masonry and mortared altar-stone, a small figure sits in crooked majesty. Her red-dyed robes are stiff with age and grime, patched carefully but proudly. Tiny, curling horns crown her scaled brow, and her eyes gleam like chips of obsidian. Behind her, the altar rises into a broken relief of a rearing dragon, mouth agape - and clutched in its jaws, unmistakable even at a distance, is a glint of metallic silver: a key, wedged in the dragon’s fanged mouth. Around the throne, six armed kobolds stand silent and still. These are not the rough guards of the entry hall - these wear polished scraps of armor, ceremonial harnesses, and etched bone rings on their claws. Their eyes track every movement. The figure on the throne lifts a clawed hand, and the air itself seems to hush. “So…” she hisses, voice crisp and heavy with ritual. “These are the outsiders Meepo dares guide through sacred halls. Bold trespassers. Or bold supplicants?” Her black eyes scan each of you, resting last on Meepo. He flinches under her gaze. “You walk our halls. You speak to our guards. You live still. Speak, then - who seeks audience with Yusdrayl, heir of the flame, Keeper of the Dragon Throne?”
Meepo hears Nee's words and peers up at Jacq, eyes wide and uncertain. At her encouraging words, he shifts slightly - but instead of bolstering, he just… wilts. The little kobold shakes his head slowly, frills drooping. “Meepo… not good with words,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Only good with Calcryx…” The standoff stretches - tense and brittle - between two species separated by blades and blood and generations of mistrust. Then, at last, the side door creaks open. The kobold with the notched ear reemerges, flanked now by the broad-shouldered male from before. She gives a sharp click of her tongue and gestures toward the party. “You come,” she says curtly. “Yusdrayl will speak. No weapons raised. No tricks.” The guards shift to either side of the carved hall, spears still in hand but no longer aimed directly at the adventurers. Behind the party, the watching kobolds narrow their eyes but do not advance further. The corridor ahead - past the columns of dragons - now beckons. Meepo straightens slightly, clutching his moldy satchel to his chest like a holy relic. “This way,” he murmurs, then scampers forward, blanket flapping behind him like a bedraggled banner.
The six guards tighten formation slightly after listening to Nee and Temerith, spears still leveled and eyes narrowed with suspicion. One hisses and jabs a clawed finger at the cowering Meepo. “You brought outsiders through the Hall? Are you mad?” snaps a broad-shouldered kobold with a ragged crest. “You’ll answer to Yusdrayl for this, whelp!” Meepo cowers behind Jacq’s leg, clutching his spear like a child might cling to a toy. “Meepo help!” he pleads. “They find Calcryx! Not smash!” The guards bark and chatter amongst themselves, voices sharp and overlapping. Eventually, one of them - a wiry female with a notched ear - grunts and steps back. “Wait here. Yusdrayl will decide if you're liars.” She turns on her heel and vanishes through a side door, tail lashing once in irritation. The others remain still, watching the party like a nest of wary snakes. Then, from the corridor behind, faint footsteps echo - slow, deliberate. Turning, the adventurers glimpse new figures in the gloom: more kobolds, partially obscured by shadow, weapons at the ready. The group is no longer alone on either side.
Gang, I'll be travelling all day on the 27th, and will be unable to post, most likely. Once I get to my destination, I expect to be able to post as normal or close to it. No worries ;)
We can gloss over that, to keep things moving. And assume they spoke in broken Common.
No worries!
Blanket still draped across his shoulders like a war-cloak, Meepo leads the way. The corridor is narrow, the flagstones uneven beneath the party’s feet. Faint torchlight flickers from somewhere ahead, casting the kobold’s shadow long and spindly across the walls. He turns right at an intersection, and the space suddenly opens into a wide chamber - vaulted and echoing. A double row of marble columns runs the length of the hall, each carved with the winding forms of dragons entwined in ancient battle or dance. Time has worn their edges smooth and dulled the artistry, but the reverence remains palpable. Even before the group fully enters, movement draws their eyes - six small, horned figures in scavenged armor stalk the room in a loose formation. Kobolds - each clutching a spear and watching the shadows intently. As soon as they spot the intruders, the patrol reacts with sharp hisses and raised weapons. “Stop! Stop there!” one snarls in Draconic, leveling his spear at Temerith.
Meepo flinches visibly, nearly dropping his spear. He opens his mouth, stammers once, then steps back behind the party, wide eyes darting between his tribe and the adventurers.
Meepo's thin frame seems to relax slightly at Temerith's words, a hopeful twitch flickering across his frills as Nee offers more food. He huddles the tattered blanket tighter about his shoulders, nodding vigorously - "Yes, yes! No smash, no yell!" he repeats, visibly relieved. "Meepo likes friends. You not like goblins, yes? Goblins are bad. Wretched goblins!" His voice sharpens at the word, teeth flashing for a moment - too many and too sharp for such a small, trembling creature. Then he straightens his shoulders - “If you find Calcryx,” he says to Nee, “and bring her back… Yusdrayl will give reward. She will listen to Meepo again. Meepo show you to Yusdrayl now, if you promise. Find Calcryx. Make it right.” When Lanliss asks who gifted the tribe with Calcryx, Meepo tilts his head slightly. “Calcryx was gift to tribe,” he says again, with quiet reverence. “Not from person. Not trade. From dragons themselves. We kobolds are... heirs. Of dragons. This place, this old place - ” he taps one claw against the stone floor “ - is holy. Colony gift. Calcryx came to us. Small, but powerful. For us.” His eyes drift slightly out of focus, his voice taking on a dreamy, half-chanted tone. “Old Yusdrayl… she knows about the forever-dragons. Their breath still lingers in the stones, she says. Meepo… Meepo just Keeper of Dragons. Just… Calcryx.” He seems to shrink a little, the fire gone from his voice. Jacq's direct questions bring him blinking back to the moment. "Smaller!" he says, quickly. "Much smaller than you, big one." He holds his claws a couple of feet apart. "Calcryx is wyrmling. Baby dragon. Tiny. But sharp teeth. Cold breath. Angry." When Nee gestures to the cluttered workbench and asks about the scattered items there, Meepo throws a quick glance at them - “Just things,” he says flatly, his voice tight. “Old things. Not important.” “Meepo cares only for Calcryx,” he mutters. “And maybe... maybe warm floor, not cold.” For a moment, something feral flashes behind his eyes. Then it vanishes, shuttered behind brittle energy as he straightens and clutches his tattered blanket to his chest like armor. “Come!” he says, voice cracking with sudden urgency. Meepo scurries to the side of the chamber, where a few pitiful belongings are heaped near a torn sleeping mat. With ritual precision, he shrugs on a battered set of leather armor - stiff with age, repaired poorly in places with bits of wire and sinew. It hangs awkwardly on his wiry frame but seems to offer him a sense of ceremony. He slings a crude spear over one shoulder, then hooks a sling to his belt and grabs a moldy satchel, its shape sagging oddly as though it carries mismatched odds and ends. He pauses for just a heartbeat to cast one last look back at the workbench, then turns away without a word.
"Can big ones get through the safe way?" He points at Dorian and the humans. "They can" - Meepo seemed confident.
Meepo tilts his head at Jacq’s question, his eyes narrowing slightly - "Nothing keep her from it" - he admits, voice low but matter-of-fact - "If you problem... maybe she make you problem. But..." - he pauses, squinting at Jacq with an almost hopeful flick of his frills - "Are you problem? If you not problem, maybe she not problem. If you help... maybe friends. Probably. For sure!" - he nods once, as if that settles it. He glances sideways at Nee, then around at the group as she names them one by one. He blinks at each face, committing names to memory. At the mention of Silvash, his tail gives a twitch. At “happy Lanliss” his eyes linger on the healer just a heartbeat longer. Then he nods solemnly - "Meepo likes Nee. You feed Meepo, you talk true. Not yell" - he gives Dorian a quick look. But the warmth in his expression falters at her last question. He shifts uneasily on his feet, claws curling into his palms - "Calcryx was ours" - he says, with quiet conviction - "Gift to tribe. White dragon - small, but strong. Meepo's job to guard him. Goblins came, broke cage. Took Calcryx. Meepo failed..." - he trails off again, voice hitching. A beat passes before he squares his thin shoulders - "Yusdrayl not like failure. Sent Meepo here. Alone. But maybe... maybe if bring helpers. Bring you" - he straightens, clutching his tattered blanket like a badge - "Maybe Yusdrayl listen again. You come?" - he looks up - "Meepo show safe way. Goblins not use that path. But you promise - no smash, no yell" - he eyes Dorian again - "Yes?"
The kobold stiffens as Lanliss speaks, still hunched defensively in his bedroll, but his eyes flick uncertainly toward the elf. "Meepo... Meepo not hurt" - he mutters, voice hoarse. His claws twitch anxiously in his lap, curling around the ratty blanket - "Just dreams. Dreams and bad smells. Hurts inside..." - he trails off, blinking rapidly, tail twitching behind him like a nervous cat. His gaze flits to Dorian next, and his lips peel back in a sour grimace - "Big hammer dwarf mean. All dwarves mean. Smash first, talk later" - he hisses, with a sidelong glance at the weapon. But when Nee steps forward and offers food, the shift is immediate. His nostrils flare at the scent, and his eyes widen - not with fear, but hunger - "Food? You bring food?" He scrambles awkwardly to his feet - still only waist-height to most of you - and approaches Nee warily, hands outstretched - "You not trick, yes?" - then, emboldened by the sight of a dried fruit or crust of bread, he snatches it eagerly and retreats to a crouch near the bench, gnawing quickly. After a few frantic bites, he glances up again as Temerith speaks - "Enemies? Oh, yes! The goblins! They are bad! They took Calcryx!" - he clutches at the threadbare green cloth, shaking his head - "Stupid guards. Let them take our dragon" He glances around again, less suspicious now, more desperate. "You say looking for humans. Meepo not see humans. But maybe Yusdrayl knows... She clever. Leader. Sits on dragon throne" - his voice drops reverently as he adds - "If you not hurt Meepo... if you promise... Meepo take you. Safe way. Maybe she help. Maybe you find your humans..." Then, looking up sharply, clutching the scrap of cloth to his chest - "You promise?"
As the group drifts into the chamber, they notice further details. Nee can see the objects on the bench more clearly - a small, cracked ceramic bowl streaked with dry red pigment; a figurine of a stylized white dragon, carved crudely from soft stone; a broken reed flute, snapped in two; a few scattered berries, dried but still faintly fragrant; a folded scrap of green cloth that smells faintly of lizard musk. After Nee calls out, then Lanliss, the soft whimpering from the bedroll shifts, deepening into a ragged sniff. Then the figure stirs - a faint twitch beneath the thin blanket, followed by a sharp, sudden inhale. With a wheezy gasp, the bundle lurches upright. From under the ratty wool emerges a scrawny kobold, blinking madly in the light. His scales are a dirty, off-white mottled with gray, and one horn is cracked halfway through. His face is all twitching nerves and wet eyes, and the ridge of scars down his arms and throat tells a story of repeated burns and bites. He bares his tiny fangs, more reflexively than threateningly - "Y-you stay BACK!" - he hisses, voice wavering with fear but still sharp-edged with a natural snarl - "Meepo bites... Huh... Meepo shrieks... Meepo brings the guards and you regret..!" - as he speaks, Nee notices the creature glancing toward the northwesterly door. Then his eyes dart from one of you to another, lingering especially on Dorian’s hammer and Nee’s soft expression, as if unsure which is more dangerous. As Silvash breaks off to scout the nearby passage, he peers into the hall just beyond the arch. It's narrow and dark, walls slumped with age - but no movement stirs within. The corridor appears empty.
Having found no traps, Silvash pushes the door open. He can see crudely executed symbols and glyphs, scribed in bright green dye, decorating a large and irregularly shaped crumbling chamber. A large pit in the chamber's center shows evidence of a recent bonfire. A metallic cage in the center of the southern wall contains a gaping hole and stands empty. A small wooden bench draped with green cloth stands before the cage, and upon it sit several small objects. A bedroll lies near the wooden bench, from which the sound of whimpering is plainly audible.
Jacq scans the floor and rubble, but finds no sign of recent passage. Dorian examines the stonework along the walls and ceiling. The masonry is aged but sound. He believes there is no risk of imminent collapse.
Silvash opens the door, to find a ruined chamber - empty of all but a litter of rocky debris.
As Temerith finishes his incantation, his eyes shimmer faintly with arcane sight. He turns his attention toward the sealed stone door and begins to concentrate. A flicker - a definite magical presence beyond the stone. Something active, not residual. Whatever lies behind that door still pulses with arcane energy. He senses at least two distinct auras behind the door. One is stronger - moderate in strength - while the other is fainter, more diffuse. He can’t determine their exact nature or source through the barrier, but they’re not lingering effects. This is present, active magic. The spell reveals the rough locations of the auras - both behind the door, one stronger and seemingly centralized, the other more ambient. The stone obscures further detail; without line of sight, he cannot identify the schools of magic or the exact nature of the sources.
Silvash crouches beside the wooden door to the right, hands running lightly over the swollen grain and corroded hinges. His sharp ears strain for any sign of movement or sound beyond - but there is nothing. He presses his fingers gently along the frame and latch. No tripwires. No seams of pressure. No hidden mechanisms. Just a door, damp and silent. As he straightens, Nee shifts to let her lantern’s glow spill across the opposite wall, revealing more of the heavy stone door set directly across from them. The carved relief becomes clearer now: a creature, long and sinuous, its body scaled like a dragon’s, but with the unmistakable form of a fish. It swims through stylized waves, surrounded by curling aquatic plants and what might be shellfish or coral. The artistry is old - worn, but masterfully done. When tested, the stone door does not budge. The edges are sealed flush into the wall, and a faint greenish - blue patina coats the seams, almost like copper left long in the sea air. It’s clear this door is locked - and likely meant to stay that way. Perhaps more unsettling is its craftsmanship: precise, deliberate, and far older than anything goblins would bother with.
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