NPC: Lann's page

Lann takes Kala's admonishment solemnly. "Yes ma'am," he replies, intent on learning the proper care for his heirloom weapon.

Lann shows Kala a cold iron bastard sword which has seen better days. The blade is dull and rusted, and has not seen regular maintenance in around a century. It will need about a day's work to fix, as the damage is luckily not very extensive.

Everyone:
Neatholm is a small town, numbering only a few dozen residents at most, though empty houses hint at a larger population frequently traveling far afield of the settlement throughout the tunnels. Upon the subterranean island, then, it is hard to miss the booming voice of Zaigan extolling the virtues of the Angel of Vengeance, preaching the ways of his deity to a slowly-growing crowd of mongrels. A glowing holy symbol floats above the young aasimar's head as he speaks.

This all happens after a night's rest. You guys came to Neatholm about an hour before the village settled down for what passes for "nighttime" in an eternally dark cavern, and you were all exhausted from the travel.

Decide what you want to do with the bodies, who will carry the loot, and what you would like to do with the unholy symbol.

The mongrelmen were anxious to keep moving so they could determine if their city survived the earth tremors. "Our Chieftain knows ways to the surface, so let us get to Neathholm quickly." Lann said. "As for these," he pointed to the corpses, "We've had conflicts with surfacemen carrying weapons and trinkets like those in the past. Some of our own people have even turned traitor, leaving the city and turning to the worship of their false gods." He had a pained look on his face as he related this. "We are a spiritual people, but some... especially the young... feel forsaken by the gods of our fathers, and turn to dark powers."

Continuing onward through the sole tunnel leading upward, the group traveled what must be at least another mile before ending in what seemed to be a more artificial cavern 20 feet across, with a large stone door on the far side. Four mongrelmen stood guard, carrying spears, clubs, and shortbows. Lann warned the group to stay back while he explained the situation, and approached. The guards seemed suspicious of the group, but Lann convinced them to open the door and let the group into a large cavern.

The crusaders follow the mongrels' lead deeper into the tunnels. The stone here quickly grows slick with moisture, and trickles of water can be spotted along the walls. About twenty minutes later, Crel signals for the party to halt as he creeps forward, scouting ahead. A few moments later, Crel returns, signing frantically at Lann.

"Crel says he can see the spore-cougher ahead, but it looks wounded, and unmoving. He also says..." he hesitates, looking at the crusaders around him. "There are two bodies, bearing crusader heraldry, beside it. They may be dead."

The mongrelwoman Dyra nods apologetically, and continues to watch the strange orange-tinged spirit as she walked.

"Ragathiel," Lann tried the feel of the unfamiliar name on his tongue. "He must be a fine god. Many of my people carry similar trinkets - relics of our righteous ancestors. We have a few clerics, so the faiths of Pharasma and Iomedae live on in our tribe, but we know little of the other gods our forefathers once followed."

Crel, who had been scouting ahead of the group, returned at this point, moving over to Lann and making some hand-gestures which seemed to be a form of sign language. Lann frowned, and addressed the group. "It seems my fears were realized - the tunnel ahead is collapsed." He looked around, scratching the half of his head which actually bore hair as he thought. "There is another passage, but it is a dangerous one. It passes through the lair of a plant-creature called a spore-cougher. The tunnel used to be well-traveled, but since the creature moved there, we have had to use other roads."

I am going to assume the group has exchanged names before continuing onward.

As the group sets off into the tunnels beyond, the mongrels' curiosity about the surface-dwellers quickly comes to the fore. Dyra seems fascinated with Arngir in particular, gazing in awe at his ghostly form for several minutes before boldly shuffling up to gently prod the phantom's shoulder.

Lann, walking quietly beside Zaigan, seems to be staring at the young man's pendant, seemingly transfixed by the holy symbol it bears. Eventually, he speaks. "Zaigan, forgive me for asking - that symbol you bear. I know it represents the god of my fathers, from before our people came to these caverns." From within his rough-spun clothes he produces a similar symbol, battered and aged but still unmistakably bearing the wing and bastard sword of Ragathiel. "This belonged to my father's grandfather, first of our family. He fought in the Great Crusade, on the mighty battlefields above. I carry it in his honor, but I know little of the god it represents. I have often wondered about my family's faith. Can you tell me of it?"

Again, Amyrtaeus is astonished by the ease with which the scale's magic responds to his command. The familiar silvery mist from the scale's magic formed once again beneath the boulder. The mongrelfolk jumped back, startled by the sudden magic, but stared in awe as the massive boulder rose in the air as if held aloft by a puff of cloud. The mongrel trapped beneath wasted no time, clambering out from under it and scurrying away from the slowly-rotating boulder, still rising lazily from where it had fallen among the rest of the tower's rubble.

The strange, misbegotten creatures marveled for a moment at the display of power before composing themselves. The one who had spoken before introduces himself. "You have our gratitude, strangers. I am called Lann, and this is Dyra," he says, indicating the female mongrel beside him, "and Crel," he points to the crab-clawed man rescued from beneath the rock, whose insect-like mandibles part in what must be the mongrel's attempt at a smile. "You said you needed a way to the sky?" Lann continued, looking at Garlok. "We can show you the way to our home, the city of Neatholm. Our Chieftain there may know of such a path - he is wise, and has a long memory." He grimaces, looking at the collapsed tower. "Though who knows if any passages still survive. There have been many quakes in the past days." Turning back to the group, he concludes. "Regardless, he will wish to reward you for saving one of our own. We know the importance of honor."

The mongrel who spoke before collapses against the boulder, breath coming in gasps from exertion. "Perhaps... it is too much for us. There must be a way!" he exclaims desperately.

As they approach, the keen-eyed Amyrtaeus and Garlok spot what seem to be animal body parts sticking out of the rubble, seemingly crushed when it fell. One looks like a lobster claw; another looks like a hoofed mammal. Before they can investigate closer, however, a figure steps into view from around the side of the rubble, standing at the very edge of the light cast by the group's spells. Garlok, Kala, and Zaigan can make out details, but to the others his features are lost in shadow. One side of his face was darker than the other and a coiled horn extended from the right side of his head, but not the left. He was armed with a scimitar at his waist, but had no weapon in either hand. He addressed the group in common, his voice raspy with an unusual accent.

"Who are you and why are you here? If your intentions are ill, we ask you to move on and leave us in peace. If they are good, then perhaps you can help. Misfortune has befallen us, and one of our comrades has been trapped by the fallen tower."