Mindless Activity

If it could think.

If it could experience joy.

It would think it was happy now.

A pig; A whole pig.

What a feast!

But then, without warning, the pig is gone.

It should feel sadness.

But to feel, it would need a heart.

To understand, it would need a brain.

The Blob has neither.

Instead, it merely hungers once more.

And so, begins to move.

The Sword is Mightier than the Quill!

Rifkin hadn’t actually seen the unrelenting and seemingly unkillable slime creature, but he’d heard the panicked screams from the men below. Screams of true fear drawn from tested men; men of action. They'd all escaped, but somehow he just knows that the abhorrent creature is still silently searching for them, slowly oozing up the stone steps behind and below them.

Fortu, seeing Arowe, Liga Bur and Barbella examining the glass cabinet, moves straight over to the ornate metal door in the opposite corner of the spacious room.

It's large, heavy and definitely cast out of the same cold-iron that the outer doors and spears were made of. It also has a full-sized embossed image of an eyepatch wearing, crowned and bearded man, his stockinged legs planted wide with his right hand, palm out and fingers splayed. Fortu recognises the features but, beyond the eyepatch, can see some differences. The figure strongly resembles Sir Briefadel and is of a similar age, but is markedly stockier. His Father; Lord Urdurel perhaps? Something's wrong though, as the iron is weirdly discoloured and warped. It's as if the door had been super-heated and, while soft and pliant, forcibly pushed out of the way, before being wedged back into place. 

As Fortu gets to within touching distance, the iron moulding speaks... Or attempts to at least. It sounds like words but muffled and distorted through partially melted lips. The Gladiator scowls though and activates the magic mouth for a second time. Listening harder this time, he can just make it out, for as garbled as it is, it's still in the common tongue.

"Halt, whether you be friend or fiend. If you know the answer to this question, through you may go... What was my beloved Daughter's secret middle name?"

From behind the broad-shouldered Pit-Fighter, Rifkin's slightly arched, elven-ish eyebrows shoot up. After quickly rifling through his overstuffed knapsack, he starts to furiously flick through the tattered remains of the Gnome; Grimcrack’s diary. Despite the Bard not being able to actually read the Gnomish script, Arowe had underlined certain words and passages in the loose scraps that seemed, potentially important. Finally, finding the page he’d been searching for, Rifkin looks up to see the smiling Fortu cutting horizontally through the metal figure’s knees. The armoured Fighter's already more than halfway through slicing a large rectangular block out of the thick cold-iron door with his astonishing new sword. Sighing softly, and knowing it's too late to make any difference, the Bard doesn’t have the heart to announce what he’d found…

Instead, Rifkin just whispers the answer into the cool, still air around him…

“Lamenta Angela Urderal.”

‘Angela’. Clever. A secret name no witch, fiend or demon would even dare think, let alone say aloud.

Padrik’s Curse

Arowe finishes reading the engraved inscription at the base of the glass cabinet.

'... the worthless soldier, who abandoned his post and allowed my precious daughter to be slaughtered in her bed.'

So engrossed in his reading, Arowe barely notices the enchanted, mummified hand, tied around his neck, twitch and point, before a shadowy figure starts to coalesce within the glass cabinet. It's vaguely defined but it seems to be a young man kneeling. Kneeling but weeping, before gradually becoming aware of the Elf's presence.

"Go away!" It whispers.

"I failed in my duty to protect my charge but you must still leave this place!" It's voice getting slightly louder and more ardent.

Slowly rising to its translucent feet, the ethereal figure sways easily through the glass of the cabinet and brandishes what must be an afterimage of its sword. A ghostly weapon. Arowe though, has lived over a hundred years, recently faced an ethereal hag and heard enough ghost stories to be unafraid. Standing his ground against the pathetic spirit, it flinches back from the surrounding statues of the girl it failed to protect. Knowing the wretched creature has no power on the material plane, Arowe instead interrogates the tortured spirit.

"My name is... Was Padrik. I was assigned guard duty for the Lady Lamenta but I failed on my first night's watch. Seven days I was meant to protect her, just seven days... But I failed. Failed on my first night!"

Emboldened by his Elven teammates obvious lack of fear, the Halfling; Liga Bur also listens in to the ghostly tale of woe.

"Although only sixteen, she was already renowned for her kindness and beauty. Despite being a member of the castle guard, I'd never actually seen her up close, so I crept away from my post to sneak a peak through the window of her bed-chamber door. It was just for a moment and I knew there were a score of other guards outside protecting her.”

 

The ghost of Padrik pauses and his vaguely human outline sags in shame. 

"I was somehow caught by surprise and stabbed in the back. I never even saw the face of my killer. It was only when Lord Urdurel summoned my spirit back, that I learned what the consequences of my 'dereliction of duty' were. The guards outside had already been slaughtered by assassins before they'd come for me... And then sweet, innocent Lamenta. My Captain pleaded my case and begged for leniency. He argued that I’d only been eighteen years old myself and should never have been tasked with such responsibility. Lord Urderel would hear none of it though. He swore that he'd find the culprits and punish them in the worst ways imaginable... Starting with me." 

Unimpressed, Arowe yawns and turns away from the ghost’s mewing self pity, to see what Fortu is doing but Liga Bur senses something more in this bound spirit than just regret. Gesturing around the room full of statues, The Halfling squints.

"And this was your punishment? You’re just another inmate in this vertical prison?”

The ghost of Padrik fades further back into his display box of ignominy.

"I can't escape this place. My spirit is bound to my bones, cursed to witness the terror and pain in Lamenta's eyes for all eternity. Tethered to my own decaying skeleton until I've somehow fulfilled my oath to stand seven nights watch."

Marble Statues, Glass cabinets and Cold-Iron Doors

Vaulting easily up the steep stone steps before skidding to a halt, the athletic Arowe arrives at the new landing to find yet another surprisingly unbarred doorway. Despite the tower's revised purpose of being a prison, the only actual door they'd encountered, locked or otherwise, had been the huge cold-iron one leading to the grim outside. Odd to leave the levels so open for anyone or anything to move unimpeded up and down... Looking in to this floor though, he finally spots the second one, looming large on the opposite corner of the room. Like the first, it’s made of solid, Fey repelling cold-iron and ornate, but rather than traditional swirling, geometric patterns, this one represents a full sized man standing proud, both in posture and in its embossed design.

The previous two levels were booby-trapped and dark but this one is clearly lit by some, slightly disturbing, ambient light. Without stepping through the threshold, the atypically tall Elf takes in the strange tableau presented to him. A few terrified rats scurrying out of the way, draw Arowe's attention, but inadvertently lead his eyes to a large glass cabinet. It's about five-foot tall, standing atop a stone platform at the centre of the large room, surrounded by seven marble statues. Inside the glass cabinet lie the broken armour, weapons and bones of what looks like a Human soldier. Having read hundreds of adventure/horror stories in his youth, he’s immediately, and justifiably, suspicious of the statues. After Arowe watches them for a moment, he realises that their faces are indeed moving... Not alive but animated somehow by some sort of illusion projected directly from the glass cabinet itself. All of the statues are of the same young woman, frozen in various poses of fear or pleading. The beautiful teenager's seven faces wince and cringe and plead, as if about to be beaten or killed.

Still safe in the arched doorway, Arowe waits and watches the tortured expressions loop repeatedly, while his teammates catch up. The darkly stubbled Barbella and the astute Halfling; Liga Bur are the first to reach him, and the three of them enter the eerie chamber together. The light from the room almost prevents Liga Bur from noticing his fiery companion, Dijonn instantly shrink back down to a gently burning torch. At this low intensity, it’d be almost impossible to distinguish him from a normal flame on a regular torch… The Halfling shrugs, perhaps it's just to save the remains of his, already mostly used up, tar-soaked bracken torch? 

Barbella calls the Elf and Halfling over and points to an engraved bronze plaque he'd spotted at the base of the glass cabinet:

'Here lies the bones, armour and sword of the worthless soldier, who abandoned his post and allowed my precious daughter to be slaughtered in her bed.'

Finally catching up, Fortu and the others cautiously enter the room.

Fool's Gold / Fool's Potions / Fool’s Pile of Magical Loot

After avoiding the pitfalls and cleaving a safe path through the spear traps, the heavily armoured Fortu assumes the lead. Clanking up the echoey stone stairwell, he holds his magically illuminated bastard-sword high in front, lantern-like, to guide their way. 

Gazing around at the top of the steps, the ex-gladiator wonders at the obvious but unnecessary thickness of the stone walls either side. They form a roughly hewn, narrow corridor, allowing only a single-file marching order, but his teammates stay close behind. The sensitive-nosed Mir Hundur and ever-alert Liga Bur, with the fiery Dijonn back in his Halfling-hand, guard the rear.

Advancing crab-like along the left hand wall to maximise his shield defence, Fortu turns a corner to see an invitingly soft light pour from one side of the T-junction ahead… And he feels a subtle pull in the back of his mind. Inching forward, the arena Fighter peers around the edge to spot, about twenty-feet back from the junction, a huge pile of gold coins. Thousands! Hundreds of thousands! More than he can even guess at!

Fortu feels that tug again, but what use does he have for gold? Warning everyone behind, he turns left and keeps moving. The others shuffle pass until Barbella’s face is lit by the sparkling pile of illuminated gold. He pauses, licking his lips for a moment, before being rudely shoved forward by Henshaw.

"Don't be fooled. It's just an illusion to trick the weak minded."

Henshaw stops abruptly as he finishes his sentence and, suddenly worried, glances back over his shoulder.

“Doberman! Put your hand on Rifkin’s shoulder and keep your eyes squeezed tight shut 'til me or the Bard tells you otherwise!”

The next junction Fortu comes to, offers a stack of brightly coloured potion bottles. Blue, red, green; there must be hundreds of them and again, the Warrior feels a stronger tug of desire, but potions are just temporary solutions and he pushes on. This time it’s Henshaw who buckles and Barbella who roughly yanks his straw-thatched friend out of trouble.

"Who’s the weak minded fool now?”

The last junction is just before the stone steps up to the next level and the enchantment is strongest here. Strewn about fifteen-feet from the corridor entrance are glowing swords, shields, rings, wands and armour. All of them are patently magical and just waiting to be plucked from the ground! 

Fortu can’t help but stop this time and stare. It takes all the will he can muster not to hustle down that corridor and scoop the items up, but some part of him, the more rational side holds sway. He can almost hear a powerful but strangely gentle voice warning him not to give in to his base desires. Instead, using his body as a literal wall to block sight and entrance, he ushers Arowe and then the others up the stone steps to his right. It's only when Liga Bur rides past him with a questioning look, does Fortu manage to fully drag himself away from temptation and up the steps after his teammates.

The Wetness Below

As the sharp, triangular, stone slabs of the trap-door slam back into place, everyone reacts at once. Fortu, with a bitter glance toward the now-within-reach exit, instead rolls to his feet and heads back to where Doberman fell through. He knows another iron spear will be coming but, shield raised, prepares himself for it. The Elven Arowe, currently safe under the stone arch at the entrance, anticipates what his Human friend is planning and unhooks the remaining forty-foot of acid-burned rope he's still carrying. Everyone else though, other than the trembling Rifkin, rushes back down the stone steps.

The long limbed Henshaw leads the way, bounding downward but he's soon passed by the smaller but swifter Barbella. Finally Liga Bur, atop Mir Hunder follows them both down but slows when he reaches the whirling, damp vapours of the ground floor. Quick-witted as he is, the grim outrider's already realised that fat Doberman has fallen down through the hollow, wide pillars to the basement level below. The 'certain death' level that flaming Dijonn had previously warned him about. Barbella and Henshaw barge on regardless though, down the second flight of stone steps, disappearing into the dank mist and darkness. Only their shouts and the magical light from Barbella's silver sickle confirming their continued existence.

Although it's only been seconds, Doberman's fingers are already cramping up from the effort of supporting his own impressive weight and fear grips the rotund mercenary. He's a simple man of simple pleasures; eating being his favourite, followed closely by drinking and murdering. He's not often experienced personal terror before, but now, hanging in the darkness, he's mightily relieved to see a small triangle of light reappear at the top of the pipe. His relief is cut short though, as a heavy wedge of stone crashes past, just missing his fleshy shoulder and landing twenty-odd feet below him with an ominous 'splosh'!

Two levels up, Arowe and Fortu work furiously together, disabling the spear traps around them, but not before the armoured Gladiator is caught a glancing blow to his thigh. Despite the keen edge of the cold-iron spear, it's thankfully not sharp enough to pierce his enchanted armour, but he still feels the bruise forming, even through his padded gambeson. Once secure, Arowe beckons Rifkin over to prevent the next slab from falling, but they both underestimate the stone segment's weight whilst vastly overestimating the slender Bard's strength. As Fortu's incredible magical sword cuts, spade-like through the second segment, the kneeling Rifkin tries to grab the falling triangular rock section, but instead, the Bard is pulled over in place, smacking his chin on the stone edge and fumbling the second piece of masonry down the dark shaft.

Coming to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the basement steps, Barbella and Henshaw arrive just in time to see two chunks of rock, smash into the cursing Doberman, breaking his grip and knocking him off of the funnel lip. It's pitch-black down here but Barbella's glowing, silver sickle casts enough light to see their broad-beamed friend land in a wide pool of stagnant, green water. Henshaw grips Barbella's shoulder however, when he notices the 'water' reach up to intercept the falling Doberman.

"It's alive! That slime's alive!"

Screaming up at Liga Bur, the Halfling, unable to pass through the damp mist while holding the flaming Dijonn, passes on their call.

"Rifkin! I need you!"

Their plan an abject failure, Rifkin, followed by the slower Fortu, runs down the stairs behind them, where Liga Bur passes the already-half-used-up torch fueling Dijonn to Rifkin and takes his place, still ahead of Fortu. With Fortu's Bastard sword adding its light to Barbella's, the room becomes much clearer. It's basically a massive, empty cellar, with a double dropped level in the centre making up a large pool about five to ten feet deep. The green, slimy 'pool' though, seems to be actively, if sluggishly, pursuing the three guards. 

Doberman is already caught inside the translucent creature's glistening outer membrane, while Henshaw and Barbella are trying to pull him out without being dragged in themselves. Liga Bur can't help but laugh at their incompetence. He forgets sometimes that they're just... Out-of-their-depth, town guards. Fortu though, does as his instincts command. Slicing through the slime feels little different to slicing through stone with his new sword, but rather than seem hurt or damaged, the separated blob of goo slithers across and up Fortu's steel-plated legs...

And they burn!

At his comrade's yell, Liga Bur's smile evaporates and he quickly reassesses the situation. The slime's alive but not intelligent. It's just pursuing food and, thanks to the training he received from his tribe’s Orc Shaman, he immediately knows what to do. With a few guttural chants and secret gestures, a large boar appears out of thin air between Henshaw and Barbella, just as they manage to heave the acid-burned Doberman out of the living gloop.

The entire Party escape back up the stone steps while the greenish ooze is distracted, enveloping and consuming the poor, screeching, summoned pig. As everyone rushes, wide-eyed past Rifkin, the barely Elven Bard can't help but ask...

"Dear God; What was that thing?!"