Several of those who saw its face, immediately fell back afraid, hair gone white with only a spark of torment in their hollow eyes. The being was a distortion of what must have once been a person--but the horror of its visage, the warping of the eyesockets and the sucking pit of a mouth caused the stomach to crawl as though it were full of worms. It turned about the inside of the tavern as people began to flee, glowing with a cold evil blue-white light except for its arm, where like a slave it was branded with a mark that glowed like the embers of the hells--the mark of the sign inverse of the Sacred of Quorat.
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"That can't be good..." said the guard as the door opened under the pressure of the traveler's knocks, releasing foul odors into the crisp winter air outside.
The group took in the scene at once, each of them becoming hyper-aware of their surroundings.
"You men take guard around me as I tend to the apprentice," instructed the druid as she moved towards the unconsious, yet still breathing, young man.
The druid went through the usual checks, looking into the eyes, flush of skin, checking for various poisons and ailments. "This one has a wounded soul, not really my area of expertise. At best I could instill in him the sacred gift of natures power, perhaps rage to consume his self loathing."
The traveler spent several moments to study the scene, taking in as many details as he could.
"He didn't appear to defend himself against his killer," he noted.
"It appears that he was concentrating on that amulet," said the bard, adding "possibly casting a spell," as he pointed out the burned remains of an erinyes' feather infused with a feather from a lillend.
Suddenly the young acolyte lurched bolt upright, though not a natural movement, but rather a quick forceful upward yanking that pulled his head first followed limply by his shoulders. The boy's eyes flicked open, blank and unfocused--filmy, his features drawn tight and coated in a sheen of sweat.
"The Master does not suffer the abomination to live, and those who side with the twice annihilated sect shall suffer forever..." the voice a rasping hiss--not the boy's own--and then as quickly as he rose he collapsed once more.
The traveler and the druid exchanged a glance, each of their faces showing concern.
"...shall suffer forever at the Gate of Horns under the hand of the Cleft-Ones," said the bard, completing the final stanza of the poem. "I've never before heard mention of The Scorned Plains this far removed from the Bronze Kingdom."
The gate captain, who had followed them to this scene of carnage stood slackjawed.
"What in the stinking armpit of the nine hells was...is he dead...should he be?" the captain stammered, twisting his hands on the handle of his overlarge cudgel hard enough to make the leather wrappings squeak.
He was a good impersonation, certainly good enough to withstand the scance attention the adventurers seemed to pay him--only the halfling, had he remained, would have noticed the disturbingly long interval between his eyeblinks and that when he did so it was by choice rather than necessity.
"To whom do you refer axeman?" said the Druid casting a cold eye forth; "All shapes are mutable as are souls and spirits. Is it your intention to incur the wrath of druids mocking our ability to change forms; or do you perhaps refer to something else". The druid prodded the foot of the unmoving form on the floor, "I wonder was this some triggered spell or a visitation."
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"Paugh," retorted the axman, "All this talk of wizardry makes my bile churn. Sorcery belongs best bound in runes, in metal, where it can be harnessed by ordered minds." He paced angrily, trying to work off the adrenaline pumping through his system, which was there to fuel fight-fury for a blade dance imminently not forthcoming.
The apprentice opened his eyes with a moan and groggily surveyed his surroundings. For being in a room with so many strangers--he attempted a smile and waved a hand at the traveler as he recognized him--he was amazed at how calm he felt.
"Can you tell us what happened?" asked the druid as she helped him to his feet.
The young apprentice groaned and ran his hand down his face, still shuddering from the shock and awfulness of what had befallen his poor master. His mind was wrenched back to that day so many years ago--many years to a youth like him anyway, when he had come into the service of the old mystic after failing at apprenticeship after apprenticeship.
He looked up and made as if to speak but the large chested axeman interposed himself holding forth his axe to silence him, an intimidating sour scowl crossed the burly man's face, which promised neither trust nor patience.
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Nor did the druid's half-elvish ears betray her, for she heard something stirring; muscles going bow string taut,fingers darting for mistletoe sprigs, her smooth skin writhing into oakhard bark. From the shadowy recesses of the stairwell at the back of the room came an ancient groaning of timbers as the heavy door to the cellar in the crawlspace under the stairs slid slowly open, as raspy breathing issued into the room. Out of the cellar something clawed came, and vaguely manlike, but with fangs meant for naught but ripping flesh.
"Be at peace my children for I have awakened from my slumber as Guardian of this Ancient Evil and have returned with Lore of the cause, yet I thirst and hunger and must gain the aid of those in faith who will stand against this coming scourge of Evil" said an unnaturally peaceful, yet hissing voice coming from the most scarey of monsterous vistages. "Ah, you turn away from my vistage, hearts trembling. Know yea that part of me is a mirror of expectation which draws forth the most terrible thoughts of those nearby and gives them form and as you fear what mightst crawl out of this pit as each of you sees me in your minds eye as something terrible for yea of full of fear and weakness, have you no worthy Paladins in your midst to lift your hearts and see my true form?
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"Ymir's bones," retorted the axeman. "Blame not thy spawning fiendish lineage for thy hideous visage, but blame one mote in all our eyes; or mayhap it is a trick of the light!" The axwielding northman stayed his hand long enough to try and parley with this puzzling fiend, but he did decide to try and taunt the beast to fury and perhaps make it show its true nature.
"It can't be," said the apprentice, "I sealed that door myself."
As the apprentice said his words, the form of their visitor became slightly transparent, revealing the illusion for what it was.
"But if this is just a figment," said the druid scanning the room once more, "then the caster must be nearby."
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The bard unshouldered his lute and started riffing a twangy threnody. The axman put a finger to his lips, but the druid grabbed his arm, shook her head; and handspoke to him, "noise is cover is good." A look of enlightenment twinkled in his icy eyes; he took up a position with his back to the wall to the side of the door opposite the hinges.
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A thoop sound echoed from the cellar chamber, and a rune-covered grenadoe of clanging metal bounced into the room. It burst into a cloud of noxious sulphur with blinking strobing motes, blinding motes, in the yellowish vapour that seemed to scour the eyes of all in the room. A shadow-cowled form flashed quickly into the cellar door, seeking an affable target with a glistening silvery rod from amongst the doubled over and the retching; the robed form jerked from the recoil of the rod from which purple lightning, burning ozone, spat at the druid.
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His eyes felt like they were burning out of his skull, and it felt as if the contents of his head were oozing out of his nose. The axman let out a mighty bellow and hewed at the robed shadow, catching him in the midriff. A blow from that axe should have felled a decade old oak, but pain jolted from the axman's wrists to his forearms, and it felt like he just hit an anvil with all his might.
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The halfling waited a few tense seconds, then proceded cautiously back up the stairway in the same direction as the wraith. He peeked out of the opening; all around the tavern was utter chaos. The glittening, gossamer cadaver of etherstuff lunged to and fro amongst the panicked patrons, clawing into their bodies with chilling talons, shredding and feasting on their souls' energies with every scything sweep of its arms.
As Hakiem dodged the diving halfling, he noticed the cadaver stop his gruesome feast and turn toward the speedy tumbler, then he made eye contact. A foul cold chine ran through his body as each of his muscles began to lock up in rigid response to the creatures gaze. Suddenly, he was looking into the face of the smiling halfling who retorted "better move that well fed butt if you want to see how this story ends", with the trance broken, move he did.
Not to far away in the shadows lurked another evil of the undead world. The ghastly creature was Nul'ulac Tik Tak Al'ucula and he was king of boneclaws. Necromantic power coarsed over his skeleton frame of blackened bone and shriveled flesh, which filled the air with the smell of rotting flesh cooking.
The shadows filled the room and all warmth left their bodies as the hideous undead creature appeared before them. Long clawing arms stretched out with blackened fingers drenched blood. The unholy creature screamed forth a shriek of deafing sound and a smell most foul and sicking a green mist poured from it's gaping maw.
It was the evil bunny rabbit. And the gerbil!!! AAAAAH!
It swung. He dodged. He thrusted.
Look! Silence. Boom...
Thread necromancy was then performed. This did nothing for the crowd that died of boredom while waiting. Then, suddenly, there appeared a most horrific sight.