"If anyone else has a Torch you might want to get one out."
Bonewright fights back the panic he feels at the dark, enclosed space. All too aware of how many horrors hide from the sun under the earth.
Desperately looking around for what might live this deep below the earth the Bonewright pauses when he notices the scratches. Crouching down carefully Bonewright brushes some more moss away.
Seeing what Bonewright is doing Caedmon moves to provide light for him.
Bonewright brushes away more of the moss. The scratches on the walls are ancient and crumbling, and difficult to see in the flickering torchlight. He peers closely...
The marks are not writing as such, more crude graffiti and pictograms. They show stick figures with spears standing around a tall structure. The stick figures fight various beasts, including other stick figures with tusks that may be orcs, but also some large winged creatures. After the battle the stick figures carry their dead back to the large structure, and descend some stairs beneath it
--
Meanwhile, the intrepid Wheatbeard descends the stairs, his ears sensitive to every movement. The breeze from outside cannot be felt any more, but it seems to keen through the structure like breath through a shaman's bone flute. The stairs descend another 20 feet or so, before leveling off at a small landing. Wheatbeard has the sense that they might continue down further, but the way is blocked by a wall of crudely fitted stones. At one time there may have been mortar between the stones, but centuries of dripping water has dissolved it away, and the wall bulges outwards slightly, as though it is unstable and might not need much encouragement to collapse.
While he would normally be hesitant to simply barge in and start toppling things, this place had seen many long years of disuse, it seemed. A good push towards the center of the bulge should make the wall give way - if he could manage it. Testing the instability first by using the hilt of his spear as a thrusting implement, Wheatbeard gave a shove with his hands to the crux in question if his tool wasn't strong enough.
A wall like this would've been used to keep someone or something out. Given its age, the question was simply: what?
Wheatbeard had received the usual training one of his race would get in masonry. But the things the dwarves build were not intended to fall down, and demolition was not simply a case of reversing the principles. It took Wheatbeard but a brief second to realise he had made a terrible mistake. With a groan, then a rumble, the top of the wall peeled away, collapsing on top of him like bark peeling from a tree.
The stones rained down on Wheatbeard, burying him under a pile of masonry.
--
The rest of the group is still waiting for Bonewright to examine the wall carvings when there is a groan of tortured rock which turns into the rumble of a rockslide, accompanied by a brief, yelped curseword in Dwarvish. A rush of dry, dusty air sweeps up the stairways and down the corridor, carrying scents of long-faded spices and a hint of rot.
"Some sort of underground race perhaps? Lived here? Buried their dead here? Hard to see..."
The sound of a rockslide gave Bonewright a new fear - that this old place would simply collapse, and leave him trapped below the earth as the light gave out.
"Wheatbeard!"
Caedmon is already heading towards where Wheatbeard was headed."Wheatbeard! Please answer us if you can!"
Moklik snarls as the wave of smells hit him and he coughs, then rushes forward to attempt to rescue the dwarf.
Bonewright follows, but more cautiously. If the floor has collapsed then running could be deadly.
Damnation!
Broken ribs, a bludgeoned head, and a sharp shock to his spine accompanied his fall, rocks tumbling on top of him. Barely keeping his consciousness, he attemped to push off the rocks enough to call upon nature's aid to at least set his bones.
1d20 + 6[/dice]
The blows to the head made listening more difficult, but the aroma of something locked away was clear to him. It didn't exactly make the experience more enjoyable. At least he was alive though - for now at least.
Thankfully the collapse of the wall does not seem to have brought down any more of the tunnel, and it is the work of a few moments for the others to clear the rough-hewn stones and free Wheatbeard. Drenched in chill water and muddy silt that had accumulated between the stones, the dwarf is in bad shape, with a deep cut to his head and the short, wheezing breath that indicates broken ribs.
As Caedmon shifts the last rock from his chest, Wheatbeard lets out a long, slow breath that seems to gather force even as it leaves his lips. The breath turns to a strong wind that swirls momentarily about the group, causing the torch to gutter and almost die. The wind centers on the fallen dwarf, moving visibly across him, just like a breeze moves in waves across a patch of tall grass. As it does, his wounds seem to knit, and colour returns to his muddy cheeks. He coughs, and attempts to stand.
In the guttering torchlight, the stairs can be seen to continue down another 20 feet, where they seem to open into some sort of chamber.
"Thank you much for my freedom," manages Wheatbeard as he still regains his breath."That was no pile of rubble - used to be a wall, but time made it weak with age. This is much more than a hole in the ground." Somewhat embarrassed by his mishap, he prodded one of the others to take point.[b]"Mayhaps one of you could lead for a bit?"
The Dwarf rubbed his throbbing head as his eyes looked past the wall. What was this place?
Speaking quietly Bonewright informs Wheatbeard "More than a hole in the ground? There were carvings back there. It seems something that walks like a man lived here. Fought orcs - and something winged - here. Put their dead here."
He considers and adds "This would be a bad place to be an orc."
"Winged?" That was the most troubling bit of information. Coming from the depths himself, there were only two possibilities. Either the cavernous reaches below were quite expansive ... or this place was where such creatures were kept. A prison. Wheatbeard did not like the feeling of this. "Best be on our guard.
"I hurt bad too. We rest soon. Maybe there." Tupilek says, pointing to the chamber ahead.
Caedmon stabilizes the Torch's Flames as best he can."It might be good to rest. Though could the winged things be some type of Dragon from the Stories?"
"I do not know," responded Wheatbeard to Caedmon. "Only such things would have no natural purpose within here with no room to fly."
Wheatbeard looked to the chamber ahead. "I wouldn't turn down a rest either."
Bonewright hesitates
"I seem the least effected. Should I go first?"
The order disdains the use of personal terms like "I" and "me". It is a mark of Bonewright's discomfort that he used two in a single breath.
Caedmon stabilizes the Torch's Flames as best he can."It might be good to rest. Though could the winged things be some type of Dragon from the Stories?"
Asheru trails towards the back of the band, distracted by memories gotten at second-hand. He runs his hands across the rough-hewn glyphs cut into the wall, tracing the grooves.
"Fire and terror..." he murmurs.
Asheru quickly runs his mind over the Stories that might be relevant, but nothing new comes to mind.
Bonewright descends the stairs, threading his way through the scattered rocks that now litter them. Caedmon's flickering torch casts a long shadow before him.
As he advances, Bonewright recognises that the air is changing. The air here is dry, and has none of the scent of earth and mould of the tunnel above. He catches stray scents of sweet spices and dry dust, and the unmistakable odour of old bones left to crumble.
The room at the bottom of the stairs has been squared off, cut deep into the rock with some skill. It is difficult to tell in the gloom, but it seems to be about 30' square, with the stairs entering in the middle of one wall. Many niches are cut in the walls, and each contains a yellowed, grinning skull and a pile of crumbling bone.
On the side of the room opposite the stairs, a rough archway leads into another chamber.
"A burial chamber, it would seem." Eerie was it were, it oddly reminded him of home. Might this be how we are remembered in the future? "Old, untouched ... we should be alone." Wheatbeard couldn't shake the feeling this wasn't the case though.
"Lets sleep here. Need your wind to make us whole Wheatbeard."
"Sleep here? Why not sleep above ground, under the stars?"
Bonewright advances on one of the niches, looking to see what he can identify of these dead.
"No one see us down here? I don't care where, need sleep now!" He insists pointing to the two deep and still bleeding bite wounds in his torso.
The bones in the niches are ancient and crumbling, and useless for any of Bonewright's crafts. Deep cuts in some of the skulls shows that their owners died of violence.
In some of the niches, Bonewright finds corroded green lumps that may once have been bronze, and even a few red, flaky patches that may indicate that iron once lay there.
Nothing else catches his attention.
"Resting isn't the issue. Resting down here is. Let's take the stairs up, kill that last spider if we see it and rest. That gives us an opportunity to look for something to use as a torch. Is that good with you, Tupilek?"
Tupilek nods.
The clansman was perceptive, and Wheatbeard could not disagree with them; they were quite injured. Out of immedaite fatal range himself, he took a glance around the group.
"I don't have the energy left to work that power until I rest," says Wheatbeard to Tupilek, which was essentially true. He could summon a fog yet, but that would do them little good here. "If it is up we must go, then let us go, but quickly. My feet drag more with each step."
Asheru gives the carvings a final glance over his shoulder before rejoining the group.
"If we're going to rest," he says as he looks around the burial chamber. "We should return to the surface. This place belongs to the dead."
The burial traditions of those who were interred here are different from those with which Asheru is familiar, but one things the shamans always stressed was that once buried, it was best to let the dead rest in peace. Disturbing the bones of the Ancestors rarely ended well.
Moklik shivers at the idea of disturbing the dead spirits and awakening their wrath. He heads back upstairs.
Caedmon sets up toward the front of the band to lead the way out. His Torch in his Left Hand and his Axe in his Right Hand.
Tupilek follows, wincing as his armor rubs against his wounds.
Bonewright gestures for the others to lead, but hesitates a moment and opens his inner sight.
quick Detect Magic then up to the surface I think. Hey - I'll be able to fill my new spell slots!
His battered body not wanting to take any more, Wheatbeard did his best to bit his tongue about the pain. If the trek was much longer though, he wouldn't last...
Asheru put a comforting hand on Wheatbeard's shoulder.
"Just a little farther friend," he said. "Soon we'll be able to rest beside a fire."
Bonewright shifts his sight to detect any lingering magical auras, and takes a brief look around. The preservation effects he detected deep in to the stones of the surface are present here too, slightly stronger and less stressed by the decay of years, but he detects nothing more powerful...
except...
A cold shiver passes over his form. He cannot detect anything specific, but he can't shake the feeling that he is being...watched. There is a presence, not in this room, but through the archway into the next room that the group has not entered yet. It is not happy at his presence.
---
The rest of the group ascends the stairs again to the landing where Wheatbeard collapsed the wall.
With Caedmon in the lead, the group ascends the stairs from the landing. Small splashes of spider ichor can be seen on the wet steps. As he ascends, the hunter can feel the breeze on his face, and the keening of the wind increases in volume.
The stair makes a slow quarter turn to the left, and then ends at a large, irregular, probably natural chamber in the rock that climbs up to quite a height. It is difficult to tell quite how high, as multiple layers of webbing hang across the room. However, a crack high in the ceiling allows some daylight to filter through.
This pale light shows the injured spider, desperately trying to cram itself into a niche in the rock, away from the hateful light and the hated dwarf. Numerous smaller spiders, the largest a handsbreath across, scuttle and dodge across the walls and webbing.
Hanging from threads attached to the ceiling are a number of body-sized, web-wrapped bundles. Some are obviously ancient and dessicated, nothing remaining but bone and parchment skin. Four are more recent. A green, muscled arm protrudes from one. Another thrashes and twitches, as though its occupant were trying to escape. Muffled shouting and cursing can be heard from within.
Forgetting his worn state in anger, Wheatbread drew his spear. "Damned things are everywhere! Let's at least get rid of any big enough to give us a chomp."
The body yet moving was a horrifying sight. That could have been us. After dispatching of the last large spider, they would have to see who lay within. Gruesome.
Moklik snarls and moves forward to dispatch the remaining large spider.
Bonewright looks for a rock to throw.
Caedmon allow the rest to dispatch the spider as he looks to the Cocoon that is still thrashing.
Following Moklik's lead, Wheatbeard also approaches the creature and gives it a jab.
The injured spider is in no mood to stand its ground. Under a hail of missiles, it abandons its lair, heading for the crack in the ceiling and squeezing its bloated body through, leaving a trail of ichor.
Wheatbeard jabs his spear at a few of the larger remaining spaiders, leaving them wriggling on its tip, before crushing them against the wall.
Caedmon approaches the thrashing cocoon. There is muffled shouting from within, in a language he does not understand. Whoever is trapped inside is very angry indeed.
A fenébe te szemét, Somone vigyen ki innen! Most, te szemét fiai az emberek! Vágja ki innen, vagy én levágom a herék és tálaljuk őket Bampfwick a leves!
Bonewright shudders as he enters the lair, staff ready to crack any small spider in reach.
"Do you speak human?" he asks clearly when he reaches the cocoon.
"Him say Bampfwick?" Tupilek asks in a low growl. Walking over to the cocoon he cuts the face of the orc inside free. Punching it straight in the face he grabs it by the throat and shouts, "Where is Bampfwick!? WHERE!?"